What Did You Lose Between 2020 and 2025?

 

Today, I stumbled upon an Instagram post that simply asked, “What did you lose between 2020 and 2025?”

At first, I thought the answer would be easy. Time, maybe. A few opportunities.. But the longer I sat with the question, the more I realized I hadn’t really lost things. I had slowly let go of the life I thought I would have by now.

Somewhere between those years, I lost the certainty that life would unfold the way I imagined it would. I watched my dad become someone I barely recognized after his stroke. I watched my mom quietly rearrange her life around his, until caring for him became part of her everyday routine. I watched my brother stay home to help take care of our dad instead of leaving for college.

It wasn’t the life I had imagined for any of us..

I celebrated another wedding anniversary, realizing that some milestones arrive on time, while others don’t. And through it all, life kept asking me to keep going—to show up for work, to laugh with friends, to make plans, even when some parts of my heart were still waiting.

Looking back now, I don’t think those years only took things away. They also gave me a gentler way of looking at life. They taught me that not every unanswered prayer is a forgotten one, and not every delay is a sign that life has stopped moving. Hope looks different these days. It’s quieter than it used to be, but it’s still here. If you asked me again what I lost between 2020 and 2025, I’d probably say this: I lost the version of me who thought life had to happen on my timeline. I still miss her sometimes. But I think the person I’m becoming is learning to trust a different one.

A Quiet Kind of Grief

this morning, I came across a post from a colleague. She wrote about losing her baby.

I sat there for a while, reading every word. My heart broke for her. I can’t imagine the weight of carrying a life, only to have to say goodbye before ever getting the chance to know them.

And then, almost immediately, I felt sad for myself too..

It felt strange admitting that. Almost unfair.

Because how do you grieve for something you’ve never had?

I’ve never seen two lines on a pregnancy test. I’ve never heard a heartbeat through an ultrasound. I’ve never had a miscarriage. There isn’t a date on the calendar that marks a loss, because there was never a beginning to lose.

Yet somehow, there is still grief.

Not the grief of losing a child, because I know those are two different kinds of pain. I would never pretend they are the same.

This grief is quieter.

It lives in the months that begin with hope and end with another period. In the questions people ask without thinking. In the way I catch myself wondering what our child would have looked like whenever I see my husband laughing. In every birthday and anniversary that quietly reminds me that time keeps moving, even when a dream feels like it’s standing still.

This year, my husband and I are on our way to six years of marriage.

Six years isn’t a measure of how much we love each other. If anything, we’ve learned to love each other in ways we never expected. We’ve learned that marriage isn’t only about celebrating what comes easily. Sometimes it’s about learning how to carry what never arrives.

People often imagine waiting as something active…counting days, making plans, crossing off milestones.

But this kind of waiting is mostly invisible.

You still go to work. You answer emails. You laugh with friends over coffee. You celebrate other people’s babies because you genuinely are happy for them. And somehow, in the quiet moments between ordinary days, you carry a question that has no timeline.

Maybe that’s why my colleague’s words stayed with me.

Her grief had a name.

Mine is harder to explain.

But perhaps both were born from the same place: love. One from loving someone she had to let go of. The other from loving someone I haven’t had the chance to meet.

I don’t know if that someone will ever exist outside my imagination.

I only know that, somehow, I’ve been loving them for a long time.

the art of overthinking someone else’s footwear

 there’s this funny little system we all seem to agree on-see someone’s shoes, assign them a whole backstory. suddenly they’re “trying too hard,” “too curated,” or “a bit pretentious,” all from a two-second glance. no interview, no context, just confidence... We really out here making full personality conclusions in seconds.

and the wild part is, everyone kind of agrees. like yes, obviously, those are “mountain shoes”… being worn to a coffee shop (iykyk)

but then what about running shoes? are they training for a marathon or just grabbing lunch? what about those super technical-looking pairs people wear everywhere-are they exploring nature or just trying to survive the walk from the parking lot? the logic gets blurry real fast.

it’s lowkey impressive how we can turn something as simple as footwear into a full narrative arc-character development, setting, even assumed hobbies. all from a pair of shoes. honestly, the conclusions be jumping a little too fast..

but at the same time, you can’t even be mad at it. it’s just how people make quick sense of the world, filling in gaps with whatever stories feel familiar. still, it does make you wonder-how often are we completely off? how often is someone just… walking, not performing?

maybe the kinder (and slightly less dramatic) take is that most people aren’t trying to be anything. they’re just choosing what works, what feels right, what they can afford. not everything is a statement. sometimes it’s just… shoes doing their job, whether that’s climbing a mountain, sitting in a café, or navigating sidewalks that feel like an obstacle course.