2025 didn’t break me with one big moment.
It wore me down in a thousand small ways.
A thousand paper cuts the kind you barely notice at first. The ones that sting for a second, then you carry on. Until you realise you’ve been bleeding slowly the whole time. Quietly. Consistently. Somewhere between the “just push through” days, you stop asking how you are and start surviving on autopilot.
That’s what 2025 felt like for me.
Until one cold June morning in Mossel Bay, God met me at a coffee bar.
I ordered two coffees.
One for myself… and one for a stranger.
I’d noticed him from the corner of my eye an elderly gentleman sitting on a green community bench that looked like it had held more stories than paint. He was reading a book. His clothes had lived a long life. His shoes were worn in the honest way that says, I’ve walked more roads than you can imagine.
His beard was grey and full the kind of grey that doesn’t feel old, just seasoned. His face carried lines like maps: creases, roads, detours, years. But his eye, his eyes were calm. Not empty-calm. Not pretending. A real, steady calm.
The kind I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
The ocean air was sharp and clean, weaving through us like it had somewhere important to be. It was cold, not stormy. Mossel Bay winters can do that, bite at your skin while the sky stays blue and quiet. I stood there in my puffy jacket and bulky sunglasses, hiding more than my eyes.
My face looked fine. Inside, I felt broken.
I walked over slowly, coffee in hand, and offered it with a small smile the kind you give when you don’t want to intrude, but you also don’t want to look away.
He blinked, surprised. Then he nodded, thankful and just like that, a simple cup of coffee became a doorway to a beautiful, unexpected conversation
I thought that would be the end of it.
A small kindness. A passing moment.
But then I felt him near me standing close enough to step into my “bubble,” gently, without force. Worn-out shoes. A walking stick that looked like it had defended him from more than uneven pavements. He introduced himself and before I knew it, we were talking.
Not the kind of conversation that’s packed with advice or dramatic revelations. The opposite. It was simple. Unhurried. Real. Honest. Pure.
He didn’t try to fix my life. He didn’t ask for my story. He didn’t preach. He just spoke like someone who had been through storms and didn’t fear them anymore because he’d learned where to place his heart when the wind picked up.
Something in me cracked open.
I cried. Right there. Not loud, not messy but real. Tears that had been waiting for months. Tears that didn’t come from one thing but from everything. From being tired of being strong. From carrying decisions that had consequences. From doing the right thing when it cost more than I had. From waking up to another day of pushing through when my soul was begging for rest.
I remember thinking, This was supposed to be the year of new hope. But by June, I felt dread and exhaustion where hope should have lived. Then, in the middle of that moment, the words of Scripture flowed, warmly out of his mouth. Tender. Without judgement.
Philippians 4:6–7 (ESV):
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
I’d read those verses before.
But that day, I heard them.
A lifeline.
Because peace isn’t the absence of storms it’s what God gives you inside them. Peace is what stands guard when your mind wants to spiral. Peace is what stays when life keeps cutting, little by little, and you realise you can’t afford to bleed out emotionally.
This man, this pilgrim of life reminded me of something I had forgotten: you don’t chase peace. You return to it. Peace is not a finish line. It’s a gift. Freely given. Constantly available. Often abandoned by people like me who think surviving equals strength.
When he walked away, the world didn’t suddenly change. My problems didn’t evaporate. My year didn’t magically soften. But something shifted. The “chase mode” inside me the constant pursuit of control, answers, outcomes, quietened. Not because I had it all figured out but because I realised I’d been running without resting in God’s presence. I didn’t need a new strategy.
I needed my peace back.
Now here we are staring into 2026.
If 2025 was a thousand paper cuts for you too, You’re tired in ways you can’t explain. You’ve carried things you didn’t ask for, if you’re standing at a new year wondering how you’ll do it again.
This is what I want to leave you with:
Storms will come. They always do. Life will weather us. That isn’t failure it’s humanity. But you don’t have to live anxious. You don’t have to live braced for impact. You don’t have to keep bleeding quietly.
You can pray. You can ask. You can exhale. You can give thanks even with trembling hands. The peace of God the kind that makes no logical sense will stand guard over your heart and mind.
Not because the year will be easy.
But because you won’t be carrying it alone.
My first prayer for 2026
May you stop chasing what God is already offering.
May you take your peace back.
May you stand still long enough to feel Him near.
And may you become the kind of person who buys the extra coffee.
