As a new year kicks into gear once again, I found myself engaging in the same activity I often tend as one year passes into the next. I’ve always liked to tell myself that I’m immune from the trappings of the whole “New Year New Me” notion. Surely there’s nothing special in a year. It’s just a combination of numbers devised by humans to measure time. Much like December 31st, January 1st is just another day, right? In the grand scheme of things, the calendars we use as reference points will be all but redundant someday. The thing is, that isn’t entirely true, at least not when it comes to a human mind living in the current era. The New Year is just as symbolic to me as it is to a significant portion of people on this planet. We humans are symbolic creatures, after all. Give us a whiff of a narrative, and we’ll fill it with a fable. Sure, 2026 might mean nothing to some extra-terrestrial archaeologist droids scanning the ruins of Earth 1.0 several billion years down the road, but on a damp Monday night in the world of today, it’s the start of a shiny new series for 8.2 billion souls currently working as humanity’s extras.

New Years do hold meaning for me, despite how much I like to pretend I’m above it all. In actuality, it’s an opportunity to tell a story about the 365 days that have just passed from lived experience to that of memory. It’s a reflection of what’s been, as much as it is an opening to what’s to come. So as we all found ourselves stepping into January 2026, I found myself casting an eye back at the year that’s just come to a close. As far as 12 months go, what did I think of the dozen that I’ve just lived through?

But before I dive into that, I’m going to take a quick Segway into something that might sound pessimistic on the surface, but please bear with me. Because you see, the quality of my years in general have ranged from mid to poor throughout much of my adult life. Things got a little pants after I graduated from University. I’d spent much of my twenties trying to make sense of my gender dysphoria, both petrified and confused as to what my life would look like after I’d finally confronted that particular hurdle. There was quite a lot of intoxication during that period too. Far too much cider and wine for my liking. This meant that the years from 2012 to 2020 were rough going.

They weren’t terrible, of course, but they weren’t exactly belters. They sure as heck weren’t what I’d envisioned my twenties being like. I used to think about my future a lot, back in the olden days. Throughout college and university, I pictured myself working my way up the ranks of the BBC. Perhaps I’d start as a camera operator. Eventually I’d become a runner, then a script editor, then perhaps I could find myself in a position where I could run my own show. I had so many ideas knocking about my brain. The sitcoms, the dramas, the Doctor Who episodes. It was all oh-so-exciting.

But then my twenties arrived, and life was just a bit of a mess. My brain wasn’t working how I’d hoped it would. With the dysphoria and undiagnosed autism, I found myself ploughing on through. I’m not trying to make out that my life was awful. It wasn’t, and I was extremely lucky to have an incredible social network and family to support me. But I was distracted and confused. I didn’t know what I was doing. I stopped being creative.

And that was the biggest loss, I feel. The lack of creativity is what made those years feel like missed opportunities. 2013 onward felt like time chipping away my dreams, one cycle at a time. I didn’t write the scripts, I didn’t crystallise the concepts in my head. Sure, I made a couple of attempts here and there, but I just couldn’t quite stick with it. I’d make progress, then I’d panic and stop. Or worse, I’d forget about the thing I was working on.

In some respects, I have valid reasons for this. Like I say, my twenties were a whirlwind of confusion and fear. I was distracted because I had a lot of big things to focus on. But as my 30s arrived, those big things were said and done. I’d successfully transitioned, finding myself accepted in all corners of my life. I’d also got my autism diagnosis, providing context to all the awkward exchanges and periods of overwhelm that dominated much of my life. I even managed to give up the cider and wine on a permanent basis! I’d taken up running and found a community of people I loved. Life was going somewhere.

Yet the art still wasn’t there.

Sure, I’d make attempts here and there. I’ve documented much of them throughout this series. I’d write down ideas, get cracking on an early draft, and even write a handful of screenplay pilots. The desire still lingered. I’d get excited at the prospect of finally making progress, only for it all to come tumbling down yet again.

But 2025 was different. It wasn’t just a year with an occasional handful of false starts. My creativity became something it hadn’t been in the best part of a decade and a half…

It became consistent.

Suddenly, I was creating on an almost constant basis. Weekly blog posts, monthly newsletters, bi-monthly podcast shows, and regular film reviews, and even daily contributions to my Synthetic Empires novel. It was like I was a teenager yet again, not preoccupied by the terror and uncertainty of how my unconventional mind would operate in a hostile world. I felt free again. Liberated to create and explore ideas.

Suddenly, the world became fun and exciting again. I could dive headfirst into projects, write about how those projects made me feel in this very series, and actually see my digital footprint grow with projects I was proud of. I even recall beaming with pride as I told my therapist how if you searched my name, links to all my podcast episodes, Spotlight Indie contributions and film reviews dominated the front page.

2025 felt like something of a watershed moment. It was the turning point in my life where my brain was finally working in my favour. I was building something wonderful; something that transcended beyond anything I’d done before. I could finally call myself an author and a creator without feeling as though I was just trying to impress myself (and others). Those titles felt earned. They felt tangible and real.

What’s more is I had found a new community too. For years, I’d always dreamt of chatting to other writers and creators. It wasn’t until my 30s when I’d met an actual author. Before then, people who wrote books were these mystical people who only appeared on television panels or occasionally at Waterstones events. The idea of meeting an author sounded like a far away fantasy to me.

Then, in 2025, not only had I met a significant number of them, but I was having actual conversations with them too! The amazing folks over at Spotlight Indie, the variety of indie authors I’d reached out to for interviews over email, and the hugely talented souls I’d spoken with for the Spotlight Indie YouTube channel. They were real people. Wonderful, funny, real humans who had hopes and dreams and fears.

I’d come away from those conversations feeling alive. I’d tell my family and friends about these conversations, beaming with pride. It felt like I’d slipped into a parallel universe where things might well be working out after all.

So, as far as years go, 2025 was something of an astonishing one in that respect. I’d gone from a dreamer to a creator. Sure, it wasn’t the year where I’d written a whole book or got it published, but it felt like I’d finally taken flight. I was actually moving somewhere new and interesting. The turning point had arrived. It was here. I was succeeding on some level.

Yet now were are 19 days into the new year. Reflecting on the good times is great and all that, but there’s only so much you can do before you get trapped in a loop. As the days moved forward and February grew evermore closer, I had to start contemplating something that filled me with a similar anxiety to that which I felt all those year prior, back when the dysphoria and neurodiversity were lingering at the forefront of my mind.

What comes next?

To Be Continued