LITERARY | A List of Farewells

Every New Year begins with a list of beginnings.

This time, I’m writing my list of endings.

Music blasts through the house, doors keep opening and closing, and everyone is talking over everyone —because that’s the only volume we know. The spaghetti tastes sweeter, the laughter sounds lighter, and the night feels like it’s stretching itself wide open.

Little cousins chant 67 at the top of their lungs, titos are still butchering Touch by Touch on karaoke, my mom keeps shouting instructions from the kitchen, and the others are busy keeping the furbabies safe from the incoming noise.

Despite the beautiful chaos, I pause.

I think about the version of me that shed tears in silence—the one who kept showing up even when it hurt, who kept giving even when empty, who kept pretending everything was fine because it was easier than explaining.

Thirty seconds, and the truth arrives quietly:

I can’t take this with me into another year.

I knew what I had to do—

I had to let go.

One last goodbye to the hardships I’ve endured.

One last kiss to the good times that occurred.

One last breath before the world resets.

And then, the countdown starts.

10

Farewell to calendars filled with birthdays from people who never cared for mine.

I’ll replace it with people who left a space for me in their lives.

9

Farewell to shrinking so others can feel comfortable.

I no longer have to disappear to keep the peace.

8

Farewell to pleasing people until I forget myself.

Kindness will include me too.

7

Farewell to apologizing for existing, for resting, for wanting better.

I am done saying sorry for being human.

6

Farewell to endlessly searching for a place to belong.

I am my own home.

5

Farewell to believing that exhaustion is a form of achievement.

Rest has value.

4

Farewell to proving my worth to those who never cared to see it.

I don’t need evidence to matter.

3

Farewell to asking effort from those who never intended to give it.

I will keep the company of those who willingly meet me halfway.

2

Farewell to loving everyone except the person in the mirror.

I refuse to be a stranger in my own life.

1

Farewell to dying in a world I am still breathing in.

I know now that I must not survive;

I must live. I will thrive.

The clock strikes 12, midnight arrives…

Everyone shouts, “Happy New Year!”

Fireworks bloom in the sky.

Airhorns go wild.

Neighbors scream in joy.

My uncle chokes on laughter.

My cousin spills juice.

My phone erupts in forwarded greetings.

And I just breathe.

In the middle of torotots and the smell of root beer, I quietly chant:

Farewell, 2025.

Farewell, old me.

This may be my year.

This may not be my year.

But I know—this year will be filled with love.

Every New Year begins with a list of beginnings.

This time, I’m writing my list of endings.

Because sometimes, the only way to say hello again… is to say goodbye.