Last year, 2025, did not whisper its victories—it roared.
After eight relentless years, I submitted my doctoral thesis—the product of endless nights, unyielding revisions, and a deep, quiet conviction that the work mattered. When the conferral letter arrived, it felt like more than a degree: it was permission to stand taller, to breathe easier, to finally call myself Doctor with the same steady humility I had carried through every doubt. That milestone closed one long chapter and flung open the door to something wider, freer, more truly mine.
In the same surge of momentum, I registered, SoilChild, as a company in PNG (and Australia). What started as a heartbeat of an idea—to bring learning and nourishment to places where both soil and spirit hunger—now had legal roots, a name, a structure, a future. SoilChild is my promise made tangible: education, like fertile earth, can be revived and cultivated anywhere, even in the most exhausted ground.
And then the moment that still quickens my pulse: we raised the funds, secured generous sponsors, and filled—and shipped—a 40-foot container brimming with education resources. Books, learning tools, materials to spark curiosity—all packed with care and sent across oceans to children who may never know the hands that prepared them.
That container carried hope sealed in cardboard, and watching it depart felt like releasing a piece of my soul into the world—trusting it would find exactly where it was needed most.
Amid this whirlwind, I turned 50. Not with hesitation, but with deliberate, deep joy. We celebrated surrounded by love, laughter, and the brightest gift of all—my children, vibrant, in good health, and growing into themselves with a strength that humbles me daily. Their presence turned the milestone into something sacred: half a century of living, loving, and learning, witnessed and shared by the hearts I cherish most.
Yet 2025 also delivered quieter, more piercing lessons.
I noticed—sometimes with a sting—that certain friends, people I had poured into with loyalty, time, kind words, material support, and steady respect, rarely included me in their gratitude. Their thank-yous circled elsewhere; my name was often absent from the acknowledgments. It wasn’t cruelty—it was simply omission. And omission, when you have given so openly, can feel like being quietly erased.
That awareness cracked open something important: not resentment, but clarity.
True friendship is reciprocal recognition. I have spent years giving freely—heart wide, hands open—trusting generosity would echo back. But some connections are one-way mirrors. They receive abundantly yet reflect little.
So I am choosing differently now. I will give more slowly, more intentionally. Kind words will still come, but they will be reserved for those who return them. Resources—material, emotional, temporal—will flow with discernment. Respect remains my baseline—until it is not reciprocated.
I am not closing my heart; I am protecting its soil so it stays rich and capable of sustaining growth.
And in that same breath of boundary-setting, I turn toward gratitude for the friends who do fill the gaps when I need it most. The ones who show up without being asked, who name what I have given, who hold space in the quiet moments and celebrate in the loud ones. They are the living proof that mutual soil exists—nurturing, replenishing, alive.
2025 was the year I completed the doctorate, birthed SoilChild, sent a container of hope across the sea, celebrated 50 with my healthy, radiant children, and learned to honor my own worth as fiercely as I have honored others.
Here is my quiet vow for 2026: slower giving, wiser receiving, deeper presence with those who truly see me.
I stand at this new beginning—stronger, clearer, and ready.
I am enough.
And the best soil is still ahead.
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