THE SANTABLOG SERIES, DAY 7. (The Year You Survived, Even When You Didn’t Realise You Were Surviving It)

ok, a little message before I start today’s blog… I hope you read this over a nice cuppa, be prepared to make 2, maybe stay in bed while you read it. It’s a long one today, I went all out. I hope you don’t fall asleep or get bored. This blog does have a few hidden messages. If you see them please use them and help the world become a better place, even if it’s just for one person. I would also appreciate a like or even a subscription (at the bottom of every blog) and if you could spare 1 minute of your time to help a small wannabe author out and share my work with your friends or family or socials… I’d be eternally grateful because the algoriths are a little fucked up at the moment on all social media, and us writers aren’t getting the views we used to… share buttons are below. Thank you for your time.

Ok on with the show.

_{Press play before you scroll. Let’s get into that Christmas spirit. Let’s go ho ho}

There is something different about a cold December morning when the world has not fully woken yet. It is not just quiet, it is a kind of silence that feels intentional, like the day is giving you a moment before everything speeds up again. You step outside and the air bites your cheeks, sharp enough to pull you fully into the present. Your breath floats in small white clouds, drifting away faster than you can watch them, mixing with the dull glow of the early sky. It is still dark enough that the streetlights look tired, but light enough that the day feels close. It is that in-between time where nothing is expected of you yet. You are allowed to just stand there for a few minutes and exist.

And maybe that is the first time in a long while you have actually stopped. Not for work. Not for other people. Not to catch up. Just stopped. For you.

The thing is, most of the year you move without thinking. From the bed to the kettle. From the car to the job. From one task to another. You live on autopilot more often than anyone realises, including yourself. You get so used to functioning, to pushing through, to dealing with what comes at you, that you forget what stillness feels like. So when a morning like this one turns up, with the air crisp and the noise muted and the sky washed with that soft winter blue, something inside you stirs. Something you have ignored for months.

You feel the year.

Not the days or the calendar. The year itself. Everything it carried. Everything it dropped on your shoulders. Everything it took from you without permission. Everything it asked of you when you were already stretched. You feel all of that in the cold air as you stand there without meaning to. You feel the weight of the days you dragged yourself through. You feel the moments where you kept going even though you had nothing left in the tank. You feel the truth you do not say out loud, the truth you bury under routine and distraction. You feel that this year took more out of you than you wanted to admit.

You stand there in the cold and realise you never truly processed anything. You simply absorbed it. You absorbed the stress, the tiredness, the worry, the uncertainty. You absorbed the news that felt heavier than usual. You absorbed the arguments that lingered longer than they should. You absorbed the moments of loneliness you brushed off. You absorbed the responsibilities that piled up. You absorbed the fear of letting people down. You absorbed all the parts of life that kept coming even when you begged for a break.

No wonder your chest feels tight sometimes.
No wonder your shoulders ache.
No wonder the year felt long even though it moved quickly.

The world keeps spinning, and you keep moving with it, and there is never a sign that tells you to pause. But here, in this early December cold, with no noise and no demands, it is like the weight of everything finally has space to breathe.

And maybe you feel something else too. Not sadness, not panic, just a quiet heaviness. A kind of emotional echo left behind by months of pushing through. You feel the moments you pretended were small even though they were not. You feel the things you brushed aside because you did not want to burden anyone. You feel the exhaustion from carrying emotions that never belonged entirely to you.

This is the part of the year people rarely talk about.
The moment when the world slows just enough for you to feel everything you outran.

You look around at the empty street and realise how strange life is. You can live a whole year surrounded by noise and people and responsibilities, yet still feel alone with the things you struggle with. You can laugh with friends and still go home with thoughts you never voice. You can work hard and still feel behind. You can keep your head above water and still feel like you are sinking. You can be surrounded and still feel unseen.

But when you stand in the cold like this, something shifts. The world looks clearer. Your thoughts look louder. Your feelings look real instead of abstract. You see that you made it through days you did not think you could. You made decisions when you felt unprepared. You held it together when you felt fragile. You supported others when you barely had the emotional space to support yourself.

And the morning air witnesses all of that without judgement.

That is the strange beauty of these December mornings.
They show you the truth without hurting you.
They let you feel without breaking.

They let you finally exhale in a way you did not know you needed.

Standing there in the cold, you start thinking about the past twelve months in a way you never let yourself during the busier parts of the year. You think about how strange it is that life can be so full and so heavy at the same time. You think about how people expect you to keep your head up, keep working, keep smiling, keep functioning, even when the world feels like it is cracking at the edges. And maybe you did what everyone else did. You got through the year by focusing on the next task, the next shift, the next bill, the next conversation. Because looking at the whole picture at once would have been too much.

But the cold morning makes you look anyway.

It reminds you that the world did not exactly make things easy this year. Every time you turned on the news, it felt like the world was breaking somewhere else. You saw cities underwater after storms ripped through them. You saw families huddled together at borders trying to escape war. You saw people crying on camera as they searched through what used to be their homes. You saw protests erupt in different parts of the world because people had reached their limit. You saw debates getting louder. You saw divisions getting wider. It felt like every week there was another headline reminding you how fragile life can be.

And even if you tried to ignore it, the heaviness seeped in.
You carried it without noticing.

Then there were the smaller things closer to home. The cost of everything climbing while wages stayed still. People working overtime just to keep the lights on. Friends telling you they were worn down but trying to make the best of it. Families choosing which bill to prioritise. People queueing for food banks who never thought they would be in that position. Everyone pretending they were coping. Everyone exhausted but pushing through because life demands it.

You lived through that.
You felt that pressure too.

Even if you did not say it out loud.

And what makes it worse is that you still had to deal with your own personal storms on top of everything happening in the world. Your own worries. Your own losses. Your own tiredness. Your own fears that you tried to hide even from yourself. It is easy to feel small when the world’s problems loom so large. It is easy to feel like your own struggles do not count because someone, somewhere, has it worse. But pain does not work like that. Stress does not work like that. Life does not work like that.

Your experience is still real.
Your exhaustion still matters.
Your year still took something from you.

And you know what hits hardest? The fact that you managed to keep going even when the world made it incredibly difficult. You turned up when you were worn out. You got things done when your head felt foggy. You supported people who needed you. You found moments of warmth even on the cold days. You tried your best to keep yourself together. You tried your best to stay hopeful even when hope felt thin.

And as you stand there in the December cold, you realise something important.
Most people around you were fighting their own battles in silence too.
You never truly saw the full picture of anyone else’s year.

That cashier who handed you your shopping might have been dealing with a sick parent.
That bloke who cut you off in traffic might have been rushing to a second job.
That kid crying in the supermarket might have been overwhelmed because their house is freezing.
That woman who looked confident walking down the street might have cried in her car before stepping out.
That grumpy old man might have just lost someone he loved.

You do not see these stories play out.
You only see brief moments.
Flashes of people.
But each person carries a whole year inside them too.

And it makes you think differently.
It softens you a little.

You start to realise that life is a collection of invisible battles that people push through every day. You start to see that everyone has felt the heaviness of the year in their own way. You notice that even the strongest people in your life were not as unshakeable as they pretended. You notice that the world has more fragile hearts than loud voices. More tired souls than brave faces. More people who just want a bit of kindness than people who want a fight.

And there is something strangely comforting in knowing that.
Not because others are suffering.
But because it means you were never alone in your struggle.
It means your silent battles were shared by millions of people who also kept waking up and trying again.

The world can be brutal.
Relentless.
Unfair.
But even with all that, there is still beauty in how people keep going.

You see it in the way strangers help each other during floods.
You see it in how communities rebuild after storms.
You see it in how ordinary people send blankets or food to war zones.
You see it in the way neighbours check on each other.
You see it when someone shares their last fiver with a homeless person.
You see it in the way people still find reasons to smile.
You see it in the small gestures that make you believe the world is not completely broken.

And you realise something else.
This month, more than any other month of the year, makes people soften.
It makes people notice things they overlooked.
It makes people feel things they buried.
It makes people reflect, even if they hate reflecting.
It makes people reconnect with the part of themselves that the long year tried to dull.

December does that.
It holds a mirror up to you and says,
“Look at everything you lived through.
Look at everything you survived.”
Not with judgement.
With honesty.

And as you breathe in that cold air, you begin to see the year not as a failure, not as a blur, but as something you actually made it through. A year that challenged you in ways you were not prepared for, yet here you are, standing in the cold, still breathing, still trying, still open to the world, even after everything it threw at you.

The more you think about the year, the more you realise that everything you went through sits alongside everything everyone else faced. And when you understand that, something shifts in the way you look at people. Not in a dramatic way. Not like a film where a character has a sudden epiphany and their life changes overnight. It is quieter than that. A gentler sort of understanding. The kind that settles in slowly, like warm air drifting into a cold room.

You begin noticing the little things people do without knowing anyone is paying attention. Someone in the queue picks up a dropped glove for an old woman who did not even realise she lost it. Someone slows down so a dad pushing a pram can cross the road safely. Someone reaches out and catches a stranger’s shopping when it spills in the car park. Someone gives an apologetic smile when they accidentally bump into you and you can tell they genuinely mean it. These moments arrive quickly and disappear just as fast, but they stay with you. They remind you that even in a tough year, people still choose to be decent.

And sometimes you notice the moments where kindness is not loud enough to be seen but you feel it anyway. The way someone lets you speak even when you are struggling to find the words. The way someone sends you a message out of nowhere just to check in. The way a colleague quietly does a small job for you without asking for thanks. The way someone makes space for you in a conversation when you feel invisible. The way your friend remembers something tiny you said months ago and brings it up like it mattered. These things sound small when you try to explain them, but they are not small at all. They are the reasons people keep going.

Every person you walked past this year had their own version of these moments. Their own challenges. Their own days that felt too heavy. Their own nights where they stayed awake thinking about things they would never say out loud. Their own attempts to keep it together even when they felt like they were splitting at the seams. And it makes you realise that you are surrounded by millions of quiet battles every single day.

Think about the woman at the bus stop you saw last week. She stood there wrapped in her coat, staring at nothing in particular. You saw her for ten seconds, maybe twelve. You would never guess she might have just left a difficult appointment. Or that she might have been worrying about a hospital result. Or that she might have been working two jobs to keep her home warm. You do not know her story. You only know your version of her, which was barely a moment.

Or the man who walked past you in the shopping centre carrying bags that looked heavier than they should have been. He looked tired but he smiled at his kid. You did not know that he had been saving for months to afford those gifts. You did not know he went without things so his child did not have to. You only saw the smile, not the sacrifice behind it.

Or the teenager on the bench wearing headphones and staring at their shoes. You might have thought they were just passing time. But maybe they were escaping a house that did not feel safe. Maybe they were overwhelmed. Maybe they were avoiding a conversation they were not ready for. You would never know. People rarely show the truth of what they are carrying.

And that is the strange thing about this time of year. December makes you more aware of the hidden stories behind people. It makes you look twice instead of once. It makes you notice that the smile on someone’s face might be held together by threads. It makes you think about the courage it takes for people to show up in a world that exhausts them.

You realise that even people who seem strong have moments where they crumble. Even people who laugh loudly have nights where they cry quietly. Even people who appear confident doubt themselves in ways you would never imagine. And even people who inspire others sometimes feel like they are failing.

That is why small acts matter more than people think. A smile. A nod. A moment of patience. A gentle tone instead of a harsh one. A willingness to give someone a bit of your warmth even when you are tired. You never know who needs that softness. You never know whose day you might be saving without realising it.

And maybe this year softened you in ways you did not expect. Not in weakness, but in awareness. The kind of awareness that comes from surviving your own storms. You start to see people not through judgement but through experience. You recognise their exhaustion because you felt it too. You recognise their frustration because you carried your own. You recognise their fear because you had your moments of uncertainty as well.

It does not mean you will fix the world. It does not mean you have to be the answer to someone else’s struggle. It just means you understand the value of gentleness now. You understand the power of not adding more weight to someone who might already be close to collapsing. You understand that sometimes the best thing you can give another person is not advice or solutions. It is simply not making their life harder.

And maybe that is one of the quiet victories of this year.
You learned to be kinder because you learned how easily people break.
You learned to be softer because you learned how heavy life can be.
You learned to be patient because you realised everyone is carrying something.

December mornings bring those truths out of you.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But honestly.

The more you think about the year and the people in it, the more you realise that kindness has never been about grand gestures. It is rarely about big moments with big crowds watching. It is the quiet things that leave the biggest mark. The things done in passing. The things that are not even meant to be heroic. The things that feel natural to the person doing them but feel like a lifeline to the one receiving them.

You start remembering moments from this year that you might have forgotten. Moments so small they slipped past you at the time but rise to the surface when you finally slow down. Someone holding a train for a stranger sprinting across the platform. Someone patiently listening to the same story from an elderly neighbour who repeated themselves without realising. Someone returning a lost wallet with every coin untouched. Someone buying a coffee for a bloke in the cold without expecting a thank you. Someone stepping in when a teenager was being shouted at by a drunk man at the bus station. Someone leaving a basket of food outside a community centre with no name on it.

These moments were everywhere, scattered across the year, happening quietly while the loudness of the world tried to drown everything out. And they mattered. They mattered because they came from people who were tired too. People who were stressed too. People who had their own storms but chose not to throw lightning into someone else’s.

And then there were the moments even closer to home. Moments where you surprised yourself. Moments you pushed through even when you felt fragile. You might not have noticed them at the time, but they happened whether you remember them or not. You were patient when someone else was short-tempered. You were gentle in a conversation that could have exploded. You showed up to help someone even though you were exhausted. You offered comfort without bragging. You stayed when it would have been easier to walk away. You cared on days when caring felt heavy.

Those moments count.
Those moments say something about the kind of person you are.
Those moments carry meaning even if no one ever acknowledges them out loud.

The world often tells you that only big achievements matter. Big goals. Big milestones. Big wins. But the truth is, a lot of people survive on small mercies. A kind word at the right time. A bit of understanding. A break when they feel on the edge. A reminder that life still has good people in it. And maybe you provided those things this year without realising. Maybe you gave someone exactly what they needed in a moment you don’t even remember anymore.

It makes you see the year differently.
It makes you see yourself differently.
It makes you see the world differently.

Because for every ugly moment that made headlines, there were hundreds of quiet moments where someone helped a stranger simply because they could. For every unfair situation that left people angry, there were quieter stories of people lifting one another. For every moment the world looked bleak, there were smaller moments that kept hope alive.

You think about the days you felt low.
The days where your chest felt heavy for no obvious reason.
The days where you felt isolated even though people were around.
The days where you questioned your purpose.
The days where nothing made sense.
The days where you wanted someone to notice you were struggling even if you could not find the words to tell them.

And you realise that if you felt that, others did too. You realise that a smile from a stranger might have been the thing that stopped someone else from spiralling. You realise that patience changed someone’s day. You realise that kindness is not about being perfect. It is about refusing to make the world colder.

You think about the world and how easy it is to feel overwhelmed by everything happening. But then you remember the moments that warmed you. The unexpected laugh with a mate. The person who let you into the lane during traffic. The stranger who complimented your hair in passing. The friend who said they were proud of you out of nowhere. The person who sent you a memory they found that made them think of you. You realise the world is not just harsh. It is layered. It is complex. It is full of both hurt and healing, often happening at the same time.

You start to understand that the world feels better when you make it better. Not through huge acts, but through the ripple of small ones. You do not have to solve anyone’s problems. You do not have to carry their burdens. You just have to avoid adding weight. You just have to be someone who makes the room lighter, even for a moment.

And maybe this year, without planning it, you did exactly that.
You were tired but you stayed kind.
You were stressed but you stayed thoughtful.
You were overwhelmed but you did not harden.
You cared.
You kept your heart open even when closing it would have been easier.

That is not weakness.
That is not naivety.
That is courage.

Quiet courage.
Human courage.
The kind that does not shout.
The kind that lives in actions, not words.
The kind that shapes the world more than people realise.

And as you stand in this December morning, with the cold filling your lungs and the sky slowly brightening, you feel a strange mixture of heaviness and hope. You feel the truth of the year settling into place. You feel the ache of everything you carried. But you also feel the soft understanding that you did not walk through the year alone. You lived your life surrounded by people who were doing the same. You lived in a world that, even in its hardest moments, still had people reaching out in small ways.

And that is something worth recognising.
Something worth holding onto.
Something worth valuing as you step into the rest of the month.

As the morning brightens and the world slowly wakes, something inside you starts to settle. The heaviness does not vanish. It does not magically disappear because you took a moment to reflect. But it softens. It shifts into a shape you can hold without feeling crushed by it. You breathe in the cold again and it feels cleaner this time, like your lungs have more room than they did a few minutes ago. The air still stings your cheeks but it no longer bites in the same way. You have stepped out of your rushing mind long enough to see the year for what it really was, not what you told yourself it should have been.

And that is when a small realisation forms. It is not loud. It does not arrive with fireworks or fanfare. It appears gently, like a soft glow stretching across the horizon.

You made it.
Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.
Not without struggle.
But you made it.

And there is something powerful in acknowledging that. Something grounding. Something honest. Because you know exactly how hard some days were. You know the mornings where getting out of bed felt like carrying a rucksack full of wet sand. You know the evenings where your mind would not stop replaying things you wanted to forget. You know the times you bit your tongue instead of saying something you would regret. You know the silent battles you fought, the long nights where you stared at the ceiling, the moments where you felt lost in your own life. You know how much effort it took not to fall apart.

But you did not fall apart.
You kept moving.
You kept caring.
You kept living your life even when the weight was heavy.

You did not give up on yourself even when days felt pointless. And that matters more than you have ever let yourself believe. People underestimate the strength it takes to simply endure. To stay alive to your own story. To keep walking through a year that demanded more than it gave back. There is no medal for that. No applause. But it is one of the strongest things a person can do.

As the world brightens around you, you can almost feel the year loosening its grip. The memories do not sting as sharply. The stress does not feel as suffocating. There is a strange sense of gratitude growing somewhere inside you. Not for the pain itself, but for the fact you survived it. For the fact that even when life tried to harden you, something soft stayed alive within you.

And that softness is something you should be proud of.
Not everyone manages to keep theirs.

You think back to the moments that carried you. The laugh you did not expect on a day that felt heavy. The message from someone you did not realise was paying attention. The warmth of a simple conversation. The beauty of a sunset that made you pause for just five seconds. The joy of a song you had forgotten you loved. The feeling of someone holding the door when your hands were full. The quiet comfort of knowing that even in a world full of noise, small kindnesses still exist.

Those moments did not fix everything, but they kept you going.
They kept something good alive in you.
They reminded you that the world is harsh but not hopeless.

And maybe that is the real meaning of reaching this point in December. It is not about pretending the year was perfect. It is not about forcing yourself to feel festive when your heart is tired. It is about acknowledging the truth. You are here. You are standing in the cold. You are breathing. You are carrying the story of a year that was complicated and difficult, but you are still moving forward with it.

And you are not doing it alone.
Everyone you pass is doing the same.
Everyone around you is carrying a story.
Everyone has lived through something this year.
Everyone has moments they regret, moments they cherish, moments they survived without knowing how.
Everyone has a heart that has been bruised at least once this year.
Everyone has a version of this morning moment.
Everyone is trying.

That is the thread that connects us.
Not perfection.
Not success.
Not achievement.
Trying.

Trying to stay soft.
Trying to stay hopeful.
Trying to stay kind in a world that often feels cold.
Trying to be better to ourselves.
Trying to make life easier for others.
Trying to not add to the pain already out there.
Trying to keep going even when the weight feels heavy.

And when you see yourself through that lens, when you look at your year with honest eyes, you realise something else too. You did not waste your year. You did not fail your year. You lived it as best as you could. You learned things about yourself. You endured things you never expected. You showed strength in moments where you felt weak. You kept putting one foot in front of the other.

That is what survival looks like.
Not dramatic.
Not glamorous.
Human.

You stand there in the cold and let the last pieces of this morning sink in. Everything you went through. Everything you witnessed. Everything you carried. Everything you gave. Everything you lost. Everything you held onto. You let it exist without trying to fight it. You let it breathe. You let it settle.

And somewhere inside you, something releases.
Not all of it.
Not everything.
But enough.

Enough to feel lighter.
Enough to feel steadier.
Enough to step into the day without dragging the entire year behind you.
Enough to know you did your best.
Enough to believe that your best was good enough.

As you go back inside and the warmth hits your skin, you carry a quiet truth with you. A truth not many people stop long enough to realise.

You made it through a year that asked more of you than anyone will ever know.
And you should feel proud of that.
Even if you only feel it quietly.
Even if no one else sees it.
You survived something heavy.
And you did it with a heart that is still capable of kindness.

That is something worth carrying with you through the rest of December.
That is something to honour.
That is something to hold close.

Because you may not feel strong all the time.
You may not feel put together.
You may not feel like you have everything under control.
But you are still here.
Still breathing.
Still trying.

And that is more than enough.

🎅THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY🎅

THANK YOU FOR READING PEEPS, MAKE SURE TO FOLLOW OR SUBSCRIBE TO THE EMAILS. LIKE, COMMENT AND SHARE WHEREVER YOU CAN, INTRODUCE YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS AND HAVE A WANDER AROUND MY WEBSITE, CHECK OUT MY OTHER BLOGS AND PAGES, AND PLEASE I BEG YOU KEEP COMING BACK.

👉BUY ME A COFFEE/DONATE👈

Thank you

To get in contact (either just for a chat or to discuss a guest blog, one off or a regular thing) contact me at any of the below links.

IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY, PLEASE SUBSCRIBE (BELOW) TO GET AN EMAIL EVERYTIME I POST A NEW BLOG, JUST SO YOU DON’T MISS ANYTHING.