I felt like 2025 was an extension of 2024. It didn’t arrive gently or cleanly—it arrived already heavy, already demanding. It was one of the most emotionally challenging years I’ve experienced, because it forced me to look honestly at what no longer serves me and where real adjustments were unavoidable.
2025 was the year that verified who I am, what I stand for, and where I am going. Time and time again, it placed me in deep water and silently expected me to swim. And I did. Every single time. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t kind. It felt as though the universe deliberately placed me into the very situations I feared most. And yet—each time—I survived. I adapted. I swam.
That’s why I can’t call 2025 a bad year. It was difficult—undeniably so—but it was also profoundly necessary. It brought clarity on levels I didn’t even know were still foggy. And despite the emotional baggage that came with it, I achieved more than I allowed myself to recognize at the time.
A Year That Began Quietly—and Decisively
The year started slowly, but with one big decision: I would restructure my entire company. I committed to making massive changes. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what that decision would demand of me—but I knew, deep down, that change was already in motion.
In March, I completed one of the most expensive and impactful business programs with Tony Robbins. It was truly an extraordinary experience. I learned not only about strategy and leadership, but about my role as a businesswoman—what is expected of me as a CEO, what skills I must embody, and how responsibility truly feels when it’s lived rather than theorized.
The rest of the year became an intense initiation: theory transformed into practice, again and again.
Recognition—and the Courage to Say No
Later that same month, my clinic was nominated for Best Mental Health Clinic in Ireland. Only four years into running my own company. On the surface, it was an incredible achievement. I had poured my heart into that place.
But something inside me paused.
Does this feel right? Do I truly believe this—yet?
My heart answered quietly but clearly: no, not yet.
And that was enough.
From a business perspective, accepting such a title would have looked incredible. But it would have been hollow. I didn’t believe it—not fully. And this wasn’t about perfectionism, although I am still learning to soften my high standards and my tendency to overgive. This was about values—my values as a person and as a psychotherapist.
How could I accept something I didn’t stand behind internally? How could I speak about integrity to my clients if I compromised my own? Even if no one else ever knew—I would. And that mattered.
Accepting that title would have felt like a betrayal. Of myself. And of my patients, whom I respect too deeply to perform success instead of living it.
If I am going to lead, I must lead myself first.
If I am going to teach future therapists, I must be honest with myself before anyone else.
My husband understood immediately. I didn’t even have to explain. He simply said, “Of course you rejected it. I’m not surprised. That’s why I love you so much.”
Leadership, Distance, and Difficult Decisions
Another unfamiliar practice emerged this year: observation.
I began watching the dynamics within my company more closely—how people showed up, how I felt around them, what was being said beneath the words. I spoke less. I listened more. I supported where necessary, but I intentionally stepped back.
From what may have looked like a backseat, I quietly introduced new rules and watched how people responded. That clarity eventually led to one of the hardest leadership decisions: letting go of two people from the company.
Academic Milestones and Conscious Timing
Amidst the stress, there was also deep pride. I passed my exams and earned a new professional title: Traumatologist. A significant achievement.
And yes—I enrolled in another two-year postgraduate program in Advanced Traumatology, which will prepare me for a PhD in the coming years. But another decision followed: I chose to postpone the PhD itself.
I have two teenagers at home. They need their mother present—not stretched thin, not absent in pursuit of titles. This was not a step back. It was a conscious act of alignment.
Saying No—Again, With Integrity
2025 continued its theme of verification. As a lecturer, I was offered an incredible role: managing and monitoring students’ development throughout their four-year psychotherapy training.
After careful reflection, I declined.
Not because I wasn’t capable—but because I wouldn’t be able to give 100%. And my values do not allow me to do things halfway. Respect—for myself and for others—means doing something fully, or not at all. Half-hearted commitment is not service; it’s noise.
Relationships Repaired, Revisited, and Released
Some relationships were repaired this year—deepened even—becoming more authentic, mature, and less judgmental. Reconnecting after a two-year break reminded me that sometimes distance is not abandonment, but preparation.
Other relationships demanded closer inspection. Were our values aligned? Were we still growing in the same direction? At times, this was terrifying. I feared losing people I loved.
But relationships evolved. Boundaries shifted. Conversations changed. I was reminded how essential love is—and how difficult it can be to receive it. Allowing others to love us requires trust, and trust often asks us to release control.
And yes—some relationships dissolved quickly when I stopped playing roles, meeting expectations, or staying silent. Boundaries—even expressed as honest opinions—can be threatening to those invested in your compliance.
No regrets.
Losing—and Finding—Myself Again
This year also forced me to confront my inner balance. Somewhere along the way, I had lost myself—again. I confused roles with identity.
My roles are responsibilities I chose. They are not who I am.
Admitting that I had lost parts of myself was painful. Holding things together externally while internally planning major change was exhausting. Staying loyal to my own needs felt almost impossible beneath the weight of expectations—most of which I had willingly taken on.
There were moments when things fell apart and I could do nothing but endure. Moments when resilience felt distant. When plans dissolved. When strength had to be remembered, not felt.
The Weight of Being “The Strong One”
In 2025, I heard two nearly identical statements—from the two most important men in my life.
From my husband:
“I have never known anyone stronger than you.”
From my brother:
“Sylwia, you can’t give up. You’re the strongest out of all of us. If you give up, there’s no hope for the rest of us.”
At first, it felt affirming. Then it felt heavy. Strength, when constantly expected, becomes responsibility. A burden—or a reminder. I had to choose how to carry it.
When the Body Finally Speaks
2025 showed me—clearly and without gentleness—where my life was out of balance.
And eventually, my body spoke in a way I could no longer ignore.
As I began listening more deeply, it responded like a wounded child finally feeling safe enough to speak. Childhood trauma surfaced—not as a surprise, but as a release. This is what happens when the body exits survival mode.
I knew this intellectually. I work with trauma daily. But knowledge does not make vulnerability painless.
This time, however, I didn’t fight it. I listened. I trusted my intuition. I chose to heal on my own terms—while still consulting doctors to monitor and support the process.
I stayed active. I moved whenever I could. I lost 5kg—more than I intended—but my body feels honest, alive, and responsive again.
Looking Ahead: 2026 and Beyond
For 2026, my intentions are different: more joy, more freedom, more creativity. New projects. New energy. And the planting of seeds for the next ten years.
Because this year, I achieved everything I set out to accomplish six years ago—and more.
I have it all.
Now it’s time for new dreams.
Time for the new.
10 Lessons 2025 Taught Me
- Integrity is louder than recognition.
- Saying no is a form of leadership.
- Strength without self-care becomes self-abandonment.
- Your body remembers what your mind tries to manage.
- Roles are responsibilities—not identity.
- Boundaries reveal who was benefiting from your silence.
- Healing doesn’t require force—only listening.
- You can be capable and still choose timing.
- Letting go is sometimes the most ethical act.
- When a chapter completes, honor it—then begin again.