Between Hope and Miracles

On every New Year’s Eve, I tell myself, this year will be my year. And every time, the universe seems to smile and unfold a different plan altogether. This year, too, I believed it would be no different from the ones before.

What’s the worst that could happen? I remember thinking that—silently. Out loud, to my family, I said, this too shall pass. Every night, I carried a small hope for dawn in my heart, fragile yet persistent—like candles woven in a way that they are never meant to burn out.

And then, the universe showed me something far beyond what I had imagined as “the worst.”

This is my 2025.

I find myself holding both fear and hope for the year ahead. A girl who did not bother remembering a single road, now remembers hospital corridors—the echo of footsteps, the cries and shrieks of babies, infants, strangers, and her own family. Some memories imprint themselves quietly, yet forever.

This year made me meet my resilient side. It taught me responsibility. And once again, it reminded me of kindness—because everything else can wear off, but not kindness. Not the way you make another person feel.

Here is something which I wrote:

I hear the second hand run

Louder in hospital halls

Between unfinished prayers
And flickering screens

Cries slip through white walls
Some whispered
Some breaking
Reports take time
Too much time

Paper holds verdicts
Hearts are not ready for
Anxiety settles in the chest
In the silence
In the waiting

Hope waits on plastic chairs

When one of us trembles

Another becomes still
I become strong
Because someone has to
I speak gently

While fear claws inside
The storm rages here
In beeping monitors
And tired eyes

But storms do not stay

Hope is quiet
But it works
It sits
It waits
It believes
And sometimes

Hope becomes a miracle
This will pass
The storm will soften
The halls will breathe again