Still Standing: A Brutally Honest Year-End Reckoning

Still Standing: A Brutally Honest Year-End Reckoning

Author’s Note

This post is a year-end reflection, written honestly and without polish. It contains references to incarceration, deportation, family estrangement, grief, and depression. I’m not writing this to shock or to seek sympathy. I’m writing it because truth matters — especially when faith is tested rather than rewarded.

This year has forced me to learn what faith looks like when there is no quick relief and no clean resolution. The Apostle Paul writes, “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). I’ve lived inside

As the year comes to a close, I want to look back on 2025 — not to celebrate it, and not to wrap it in a neat bow, but to tell the truth about it.

This was not a comeback year.
It was a survival year.
Some days, survival was the only win available.

It was a year of waiting rooms, loss, humiliation, faith tested to the breaking point, and progress so small it was often invisible unless I forced myself to look for it.

Here’s what it actually looked like.  Note: To make this more convenient for my readers, I have linked to relevant posts in each area, where applicable.

January — Everything falls apart

The year started in confusion and emotional free fall. I was coming to terms with the fact that I was not going home to my family. My marriage was ending. The life I had been holding onto in my mind was already gone — I just hadn’t caught up to that reality yet.

On January 28th, I completed my U.S. sentence three days early and was immediately transferred to ICE custody. Freedom didn’t arrive. It just changed uniforms.

February — Trapped in limbo

February was one long stretch of waiting.

I had my first and only immigration court appearance and was granted expedited removal. After that, time lost its shape. Days blurred together inside ICE detention.

I helped other detainees with their immigration cases — partly to be useful, partly because being alone with my thoughts was dangerous.

Getting my Emergency Travel Document turned into a nightmare. I had no access to contact information, and my ex-wife refused to ask our friends for help out of embarrassment. That was the moment I realized how completely on my own I really was.

March — Back in Canada, with nothing

On March 1st, I was escorted back to Canada. I landed in Ottawa just after 10 p.m. and was driven straight to the Ottawa Mission for Men.

I had no phone.
No ID.
No money.
No job.
No income.

I didn’t know if I would be allowed to see my kids. I didn’t know where I would land. Everything felt unreal, like I was watching my life happen to someone else.

On my first full day back, I had a surreal encounter with a young family on the train — one that still hasn’t left me.

That same day, I went to church for the first time. It wasn’t the right church. But God redirected me the following week.

I saw my kids early in the month for one of their birthdays. My ex-wife had not been told I was returning to Canada. I applied for Ontario Works. I found what would become my home church. And I started this blog because I needed somewhere to put the weight of all this.

April — Small wins, fragile hope

April was quieter, but not easy.

I started working with Employment Ontario. I completed my MTO medical, passed the AZ written tests, and got my commercial driver’s license back — something I thought I’d lost for good.

I began group therapy for male survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I worked a one-day contract with Elections Canada — the first money I’d earned in nearly three years.

I started attending Whitestone. At the time, I didn’t realize how important that would become.

May — Reality punches back

With ID finally in hand, I started seriously looking for work and housing.

The driver’s license win didn’t last. I was involved in a highway collision after being cut off at high speed. Just like that, driving as a career option was effectively over.

Housing was no better. The idea of priority placement turned out to be mostly fiction. The requirements were brutal — including accepting whatever was offered, even unsafe or degrading situations.

By the end of the month, with help from Whitestone and New Connections Ministries, I secured a place to live starting in June. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a door that opened.

June — A roof, finally

In June, I moved into my home with New Connections Ministries.

I bought an electric bike — after learning the hard way that the first one was a lemon. I started serving at church where I could. I began the painfully slow process of onboarding with Uber Eats, which dragged on far longer than it should have.

Still, for the first time in a long time, I had a roof and a little stability.

July — Fireworks and grief

July gave me both joy and heartbreak.

I took my kids to the fireworks downtown. It was the last time my oldest would speak to me on their own terms.

I started individual counselling to address childhood trauma. I finally began delivering with Uber Eats, though the money barely trickled in at first.

Then my mother died.

I handled her cremation arrangements. Our relationship was complicated and painful, and her death brought grief tangled up with unfinished business and things that will never be said.

August — Stuck and afraid

By August, it was obvious that truck driving wasn’t going to happen.

I explored alternative careers. I applied everywhere. I didn’t even get interviews — not for entry-level work, not for jobs I was overqualified for.

I lived in constant fear of being recognized, judged, and written off before I ever had a chance to explain who I am now.

Near the end of the month, Uber Eats finally started to bring in real money — not much, but enough to breathe.

September — Life moves on without me

September came, and my kids went back to school. One of them started school for the first time.

My oldest still wasn’t talking to me.

I raised concerns with Employment Ontario about my case management. That conversation finally opened the door to the idea of retraining and going back to school.

October — Forty years old, still rebuilding

October was heavy and practical.

I kept delivering food, knowing winter would shut that down. I pushed harder for entry-level work. We started the Better Jobs Ontario application.

I turned 40.

It was better than my last birthday — but that’s a low bar. My oldest still wasn’t speaking to me, and celebration felt forced and hollow.

November — Waiting and minimum wage

In November, we finalized my Better Jobs Ontario application and waited.

I didn’t see my kids at all this month. Schedules didn’t line up. Distance felt permanent.

I started working at a Wendy’s. It wasn’t where I imagined myself at 40, but it was honest work. I also wrote to people I left behind in the U.S., tying off loose ends that had been haunting me.

December — Not joyful, but not nothing

December wasn’t festive.

I received provisional approval for retraining through Better Jobs Ontario and signed an agreement with the province. I saw my kids on December 22nd for the first time in two months.

I cooked Christmas dinner for our house. I did something uncomfortable and asked someone for her number.

I’ll be honest — I’m still battling depression. I have been for months. Optimism exists, but it’s cautious and fragile.

Closing

I’m not ending this year on a high note.
I’m ending it tired, changed, and still standing.

2025 took almost everything I thought defined me. What it left behind wasn’t confidence or clarity — it was endurance. Faith that shows up even when joy doesn’t. And the hard understanding that rebuilding a life isn’t dramatic — it’s slow, humiliating, and painfully quiet.

This blog has helped keep me grounded. Writing has been a way to tell the truth when pretending would have been easier. If you’ve read along, thank you. If something here helped you feel less alone, then this year wasn’t wasted.

I don’t know what 2026 holds. I’m not claiming victory. I’m just still here — still trying, still learning, still refusing to disappear.

That has to count for something — even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.

I wish you a safe and steady New Year. Take care of yourself, and take care of each other. And please — if you’re planning to drink, don’t drive.