There’s something quietly powerful about standing between what has been and what is still becoming. Yesterday sits behind us like a patient teacher. Tomorrow waits ahead like an open door. And right here—right now—we get to choose how we carry both.
2025 taught me more than I expected. Not in loud, dramatic ways, but in the steady, everyday moments that slowly shape you if you’re paying attention. It taught me that effort doesn’t always show results immediately, and that doesn’t mean it was wasted. Some work is underground for a while, growing roots before anything breaks the surface. I learned that consistency matters more than intensity, and that showing up—especially on ordinary days—is a kind of quiet courage.
Yesterday also taught me about limits. About energy. About how saying yes to everything eventually means saying no to yourself. There were moments when slowing down felt uncomfortable, even irresponsible, but looking back, rest wasn’t the enemy of progress. It was part of it. I learned that burnout doesn’t announce itself loudly; it sneaks in when you ignore the small signals for too long. Listening sooner would have saved time, not lost it.
I learned about people too. About who stays when things are inconvenient. About who celebrates your growth without feeling threatened by it. About how relationships don’t thrive on perfection, but on honesty, patience, and the willingness to keep choosing each other. I learned that it’s okay to outgrow certain spaces, even if they once felt like home. Gratitude and release can exist at the same time.
There were wins in 2025—some visible, some deeply personal. There were also disappointments that didn’t make sense when they happened. But distance has a way of adding clarity. What felt like delay was often protection. What felt like loss sometimes created room for something better suited to who I was becoming. Yesterday taught me that not everything needs to work out the way I planned for it to work out well.
And now, 2026 stands in front of me—not as a promise, but as an invitation.
Tomorrow inspires me because it hasn’t been edited yet. It doesn’t know my mistakes or my fears unless I carry them forward unchanged. It offers possibility without guarantees, which is both terrifying and freeing. Tomorrow doesn’t ask me to be flawless; it asks me to be present. To try again with a little more wisdom than last time. To take what I’ve learned and apply it gently, not harshly.
What inspires me most about tomorrow is the chance to move with more intention. To build slowly and thoughtfully. To choose depth over noise. To create space for what truly matters instead of filling every gap with urgency. Tomorrow inspires me to trust that small, aligned steps taken daily can lead to places that big, rushed leaps never could.
It inspires me to believe that growth doesn’t always look like doing more. Sometimes it looks like doing less, but better. Listening more closely. Responding instead of reacting. Being rooted enough to bend without breaking. Tomorrow invites me to become someone who measures success not just by outcomes, but by peace.
There’s a quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’ve survived your yesterdays. Not perfectly. Not without scars. But with lessons intact. Yesterday taught me. Tomorrow inspires me. And today—today is where the real work happens. Today is where learning turns into living, and inspiration turns into action.
I don’t need tomorrow to be extraordinary. I just need it to be honest. If I can carry forward what yesterday taught me, and step into tomorrow with curiosity instead of fear, that feels like progress. That feels like enough.
Kenrick Vaz 