Don’t give up five minutes before the miracle happens.”
— Anonymous

And just like that, the year 2019 began to slip quietly into memory, not with fireworks or fanfare, but with a long, deep breath of both relief and reverence. As the final days of December melted into the promise of January, I found myself looking back—not just at what I had done, but at who I had become. It was the year that asked more of me than I thought I could give. A year that stripped me of comfort, challenged my confidence, and held up a mirror to my faith. But it was also the year that gave me new beginnings, unexpected blessings, and quiet victories no one else could see.

I’m saying goodbye to the heartbreaks and the hurdles—not because they didn’t matter, but because they were part of the process. I was still learning, still finding my rhythm in a life far from home. 2019 was a year of becoming—painfully, beautifully, slowly. I learned to stand on my own two feet in a new country, to build routines in unfamiliar spaces, to be brave not because I felt strong, but because I didn’t have another choice. I discovered that independence isn’t always glamorous—it’s sometimes a tear-streaked prayer whispered at midnight, or a meal cooked for one with trembling hands that still find their way.

God provides. Faith carries.

There were financial storms too—moments of uncertainty where the bank account and my spirit both felt stretched too thin. But somehow, always, a new sunrise came. And each morning felt like a soft reminder: recessions end. God provides. Faith carries. I became more aware of the little joys—the quiet, golden ones. The weight of sunlight after days of rain. The hush of autumn leaves under my boots. The way the city could feel lonely and alive all at once. I fell in love again with things that cost nothing but offered everything: peace, stillness, gratitude.

There was one shift this year—unexpected and deeply emotional—that nearly broke me. But as life often does, it used that breaking to make room for something higher. It reminded me that being shaken is not the same as being destroyed. I was being recalibrated, not erased.

And through it all—through the uncertainties and the unanswered prayers—I learned to recognize the beauty in detours. Barton Goldsmith once wrote that some of life’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers. I believe that now. What didn’t happen protected me. What I didn’t get pushed me toward what I didn’t know I needed.

London—a place I once only knew through postcards and dreams.

Perhaps my favorite part of this year happened on a quiet winter day: I walked the streets of London for the very first time. London—a place I once only knew through postcards and dreams. I stood by the Thames with my heart in my throat, knowing I had made it here not by chance, but by grace. That moment was a small miracle wrapped in layers of effort, faith, and longing.

So as the curtain falls on this chapter, I’m not clinging to what could have been—I’m holding onto what was. The lessons. The healing. The people who stayed. The strength I didn’t know I had. And most of all, the God who walked with me every step of the way.

Here’s to a new year. Not perfect, but full of possibility.
Not painless, but promising.
Not without storms, but always with hope.

(For more travel stories, visit my Instagram: @superanjventures)

With all my heart,
Anj 🤍