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Reflecting on 2025, and Listening Forward Into 2026
I don’t experience writing as something I do alone.
At its best, writing feels like a conversation — not with an audience, and not even with a future reader, but with something quieter and deeper. Something that already knows what I’m ready to see, and what I’m not.
The unconscious doesn’t speak in bullet points or goals.
It speaks in fragments. Images. Repetition. Emotion.
And journalling is how I learn to listen.
Looking Back at 2025 Without Forcing a Narrative
As the year turns, there’s often an unspoken pressure to make sense of it all. To package the past twelve months into lessons, wins, or neat conclusions.
But when I sit down to journal about 2025, I don’t start with questions like What did I achieve? or Was it a good year?
Instead, I begin with curiosity.
I let the pen move before I decide what I think.
I notice what comes up first:
- The moments that still carry emotional charge
- The themes that repeat, even if I wish they wouldn’t
- The things I grieved quietly
- The things that surprised me by staying
Very often, what matters most wasn’t what I planned — it was what quietly reshaped me.
The unconscious remembers these things even when the conscious mind would prefer to move on.
Journalling as a Listening Practice
When I journal a year in review, I’m not trying to analyse myself.
I’m listening for tone.
Am I tired on the page, or spacious?
Defensive, or soft?
Hopeful, or cautiously open?
These signals tell me more than any list of accomplishments ever could.
The unconscious doesn’t argue.
It reveals.
And when I let writing be a conversation rather than a performance, I often discover that I already know what 2025 was really about — beneath the plans, beneath the effort, beneath the visible outcomes.
Dreaming Into 2026 Without Demanding It
When people talk about manifesting a new year, it often sounds loud. Declarative. Certain.
My experience is quieter.
I don’t ask, What do I want to make happen in 2026?
I ask, What wants to happen through me?
In journalling, this looks less like goal-setting and more like listening forward.
I write questions such as:
- What feels unfinished, but not wrong?
- What kind of energy do I want to live inside next year?
- What would feel like relief? Like expansion? Like truth?
Often, what emerges isn’t a plan, but a feeling. A direction. A tone.
And that’s enough.
The unconscious doesn’t need certainty to begin moving — it needs permission.
Writing as the Bridge Between Years
There’s something powerful about sitting between years with a blank page.
Not rushing to close one door or force another open. Just letting the conversation continue.
Writing becomes the bridge:
- Between who I was and who I’m becoming
- Between what I survived and what I’m ready to receive
- Between effort and allowing
In this space, manifestations don’t feel like demands placed on the future. They feel like invitations — whispered rather than shouted.
A Gentle Journalling Invitation
If you’d like to approach this season through writing, try this over two sittings:
First — Reflect
When I let go of the story I tell about 2025, what remains true underneath is…
Write without editing. Let repetition happen.
Then — Listen Forward
In 2026, I want to live inside a year that feels like…
Don’t fill in outcomes. Fill in sensations.
Trust that the unconscious knows how to move toward what feels aligned.
Writing doesn’t demand answers.
It opens conversations.
And sometimes, that’s exactly how one year hands us gently into the next.