Dear 2025,

Whew.
You drained me.

I am not even going to lie. I still don’t quite know how I made it through you.

I began the year full of hope, the kind of hope that only comes when you think you’ve finally turned a corner. I had just returned from six weeks of bliss in South Africa. Drinking wine in Franschhoek. Vibing in Jozi. Breathing again. After two long years and 85 rejections, I had finally found two potential investors for my business. For the first time in a long time, the vision felt tangible. I felt seen.

And then January arrived.
Donald Trump was inaugurated.
And the world shifted.

Almost overnight, the climate for anyone Black, female, African, and outspoken became colder, harsher, more hostile. The investors disappeared. Conversations stalled. Doors quietly closed. What I had spent years building began to unravel, not because the work wasn’t good enough, but because the world decided it no longer wanted to take the risk.

Reflecting on the sacrifices I made: I went to Ireland. To Los Angeles. To San Francisco. To Berlin. I poured nearly £25,000 of my own money into building my app, believing that if I just worked harder, if I just showed up louder, something would give. By April, it all came crashing down. The business model I had laboured over, refined, defended, and believed in simply could not survive the moment we were in.

What people don’t tell you about entrepreneurship is that sometimes the failure isn’t personal, but it still feels like a personal betrayal.

In the middle of all of this, I launched a senior women’s community in Berlin. It was beautiful. Intentional. Deep. Everyone loved it until it was time to pay. And that broke something in me. How are you expected to show up every single day for a community that enjoys your labour but does not value it? That moment forced me to confront a painful truth many Black women know too well: visibility does not always translate into respect, and admiration does not always come with compensation.

By summer, I stopped.

I slept.
I rested.
I glowed up physically.
I partied.
I dated.
I did nothing.

And in that stillness, things became clearer.

I surrendered to the fact that 2025 was not a year of growth. It was a year of survival. This is entrepreneurship. Some years you build, and other years you simply stay alive. 2025 was survival.

November surprised me.

I put proper value on my work again, and something shifted. I found my people. My tribe. Women who were willing to fly as far as the Caribbean to attend my work. Women who paid, showed up, and poured back into me. For the first time in years, I felt seen. Truly seen.

Afterwards, I went to Mexico. What was supposed to be rest turned into something else entirely. I was in an accident and almost lost my life. That moment changed me. It was the universe physically forcing me to stop, because I clearly was not listening. Even injured, even in pain, I was still working to meet a client’s demands. I was exhausted beyond repair.

By the final weeks of the year, my body gave up before my mind did. I caught a viral infection. Then deep, unshakeable fatigue. And for the first time, I truly paused. I allowed myself to do nothing. To sit. To breathe. To be still. I finally understood that rest is not laziness, and pausing is not failure.

2025 became the year I shed everyone else’s expectations. The year I learned that not everyone is meant to come with you. Some friendships drift. Some relationships end. And that is okay. My boundaries are tighter now. Anyone who does not value me is out. In work. In love. In play. In friendship.

I leaned into my own strength. I put myself first. I stopped apologising for choosing myself.

2025, you were cruel. You were relentless. You broke me in ways I didn’t know I could be broken.

But I am still here and ready to live life on my terms.

Best wishes

Vanessa

@vanessasanyauke