The Year I Burned It Down (On Purpose)

Burning it Down

2025 was the year I decided to tear my personal life apart and start over.

School. Friendships. A four-year relationship. Even the interests and identities I thought defined me — by the end of the year, I barely recognized who I had been.

And honestly, that was intentional.

Sometimes you don’t renovate.

Sometimes you burn it down.

The Breakup

The most glaring change of 2025 was ending a relationship that had shaped my entire early twenties. Four years is long enough to build routines around someone. Long enough to confuse comfort with compatibility. Long enough to believe that love alone can hold everything together.

It can’t.

A few months after the breakup, I went to a sad movie alone. I remember sitting in the dark theater and crying without inhibition. No subtle tear wiping. No pretending to be fine. Just fully feeling it.

It was freeing.

No one cared.

No one stared.

And even if they had — I didn’t care.

That was one of the first moments I realized something in me was being stripped back. Parts of me built around fear, performance, and being chosen instead of choosing were quietly collapsing. Throughout the heartbreak process, I leaned into conversations with people who had survived difficult losses. Grief became communal. And from that, I learned:

• Love fades; it doesn’t end.

• Resentment is a beautifully ugly emotion

• My biggest mistake in dating has been falling in love with myself second.

• Successful relationships require work — and sometimes that work is exhausting.

• People in their 20s are, objectively, a little stupid (myself very much included). But that experimentation is part of the joy.

• I have to stop running toward or away from something. Growth isn’t escape.

  
  

The breakup hurt. But it burned away parts of me that no longer fit.

I’m reluctantly grateful for that fire.

The Rebuild

When the smoke cleared, there was space.

Space to build differently.

I realized I’m actually an extrovert. I had insulated myself with comfort and fear. Turns out, when I step into rooms instead of hovering at the edges, I expand.

I proved that to myself the first time I walked into a bar alone and left with new friends. No blueprint. Just eye contact, a compliment, and the willingness to risk awkwardness.

Making friends as an adult is terrifying — and wildly empowering.

Joining Stonewall Sports felt like laying the foundation for something sturdier. Community didn’t just “happen.” I chose it. I showed up. And people showed up back.

Brick by brick, I started building differently.

Friends who challenge you are worth your limited time. Easy isn’t always growth. The ones who call you out — kindly — are reinforcing beams, not wrecking balls.

Risk isn’t escape. It’s expansion.

My mindset is malleable. The rooms I enter shape me. The conversations I entertain shape me. Perspective is architecture.

I need stronger boundaries. Less over-explaining. More “no” without attaching a thesis.

My self-esteem is my foundation. If I’m obsessing over what someone thinks of me, the crack is mine to repair.

Solo dates are maintenance. Loud dinners with friends are exhilarating. Saying yes when I’m scared is reinforcement.

Growth isn’t constant construction. Sometimes it’s renovation. Sometimes its moving. Sometimes its burning it down. Sometimes it’s realizing a beam is crooked and choosing to straighten it.

Literally everything and nothing matters. That’s not nihilism — it’s agency. If nothing is permanent, then I get to design what stays.

Compliment strangers — they light up.

Elderly people can teach you more than you expect.

Trust my gut.

If I think something is a red flag, it is.

My time is precious. Wasting it is a crime.

What Died. What Came Back

If I’m honest, something did die in 2025.

The version of me that negotiated my worth. The one who over-explained and over-analyzed. The one who confused anxiety with intuition. The one who believed being chosen mattered more than choosing himself.

That version didn’t disappear overnight. He unraveled slowly — in that movie theater, in quiet drives, in long walks home.

And in his place, something older — and truer — came back.

The part of me that was curious instead of cautious. The part that talked to strangers without rehearsing first. The part that believed life was meant to be experienced, not managed.

I didn’t become braver in 2025.

I stopped shrinking.

I burned down what no longer fit.

Now I get to build something that does.

And I’m not done taking risks.