2025: A Year That Asked Everything of Me

I don’t know how to wrap up 2025 neatly.

It wasn’t a year that fit into tidy lessons or pretty captions. It was a year that demanded honesty, softness, strength, and surrender—often all at once. This was a year of blood, sweat, tears, and choosing to keep going even when I wasn’t sure I could.

I welcomed 2025 in New York City, with my husband and kids on our first big family vacation, closing one year and stepping into another with hope. It felt symbolic—big, loud, alive—like a reminder that life keeps moving forward whether we’re ready or not. I didn’t know then how much this year would ask of me, or how deeply it would shape me.

Not long after, I threw myself fully into my work with the Collective. Over the span of 2025, our community grew to over 100 doulas. What started as an idea rooted in connection became something real, living, and deeply meaningful. We hosted monthly workshops and monthly debriefs—spaces where doulas could learn, unlearn, process, and be supported. We gathered for photoshoots and shared meals, sat across from one another at dinners, laughed, cried, and built trust.

I mentored many doulas throughout the year—sometimes formally, sometimes quietly behind the scenes. I supported families through some of their most vulnerable moments while holding space for others doing the same work. Turning the Collective into a business was not about growth for growth’s sake; it was about building something sustainable, supportive, and intentional. It is my passion. I believe in this work deeply. I want to see doulas flourish.

And still—there were moments where the weight of holding so much felt incredibly lonely.

In the midst of all of this, I poured everything I had into our first ever Collaborative Doula Conference. My heart, my time, my energy, my belief in what community could look like when we do things differently. I built it with intention, collaboration, and deep care. And while it became one of the things I am most proud of, it was also one of the most painful experiences of the year.

There were people who were angry—not because the conference existed, but because it wasn’t done their way. No matter how thoughtful I was, how transparent, how inclusive, how intentional… I couldn’t make everyone happy. And some people made sure I knew it.

There were awful things written about me on social media.

Comments made to mutual friends, that got back to me.

Accusations that I stole dreams.

And claims that I whitewashed everything I touched.

There were moments where all I could do was throw my hands up in the air, realizing that no amount of explaining, listening, or adjusting would change certain narratives. That grief hit deep—especially because my intention has always been community and supporting one another. .

And still… with the help of incredible friends and doulas, we created a three-day conference that left me in absolute awe. It was beautiful. Powerful. Real. It mattered. The connections made, the conversations held, the way people felt seen and inspired—it reminded me why I do this work in the first place.

Out of that experience came friendships and collaborations that changed me. People who helped make the Collective better, stronger, more intentional. People who now walk alongside me instead of just beside the idea.

All of this happened while I worked my full-time job.

While I supported doula clients.

While I mothered three children.

While I tried to be a present partner and a functioning human.

In the midst of the chaos, Kevin and I celebrated ten years of marriage.

The weekend before I was meant to go to Jamaica, we marked a decade married together. I had originally planned to do a vow renewal ceremony with him there—something intimate and meaningful—but life shifted, as it often does. He needed to stay home with the kids, so we planned something else.

The day after our anniversary, we held a small but beautiful ceremony at his parents’ house. This time, we wrote our own vows. When we first got married, we were married in the church and didn’t have that option. These vows were ours—honest, imperfect, deeply personal.

Our vows mirrored each other, they spoke to who we were ten years ago, what we’ve walked through together, who we hope to continue becoming.

It felt grounding. Anchoring. A quiet reminder that even in years that feel like survival, there is love holding steady underneath it all.

Earlier in the year, Kevin and I had traveled to Costa Rica—my dream trip, our first International trip together and the first time we had ever gone somewhere alone together for a big trip.

I thought that trip would be rest.

Instead, on my very first full day there, my grandmother died.

That morning, I video chatted with her. She couldn’t speak because of the tube in her throat, but she was there. Present. We had the same gold-ish nail polish on. I told her how much I loved her nails, how they matched mine, and I held my hands up to the screen so she could see.

An hour after I found out she passed, I stood on the whale’s tail with our guide. He spoke about his family, generations living in the mountains, and how that day was Mother’s Day in Costa Rica—a day to honour mothers and grandmothers, matriarchs and lineage.

I never told him about my grandmother.

Minutes later, kayaking, the ocean took me out. Two of my nails broke clean off. It felt strangely poetic—like a quiet, twisted sign that she was still with me. A reminder that love doesn’t disappear just because someone does.

Not long after, I traveled to Jamaica to co-host my first international retreat—something I’ve dreamed about for so long—alongside my friend and fellow doula, Erin Merelli. We curated a grief retreat that was humbling, beautiful, and intense in ways I never could have predicted.

I arrived on a Thursday.

By Saturday morning, I was on an early flight home—escaping a hurricane.

The day between getting there and leaving was filled with uncertainty. Information constantly changed. Do we leave? Do we stay? Do we move hotels? The emotional weight of making decisions that impacted others was immense.

Leaving Erin behind was one of the hardest moments of the year. I couldn’t force her to leave, and I would never want to—but hugging her goodbye, not knowing what would happen, carried so much guilt and fear.

On the plane home, I received a text from Christina with a link: I was on the last flight out of Jamaica before all flights were canceled. I sat in my seat, staring out the window, crying.

When I landed in Canada, my body was still in survival mode. I sat in my car for thirty minutes before I could drive. I cried the entire way home, almost getting into an accident, because I wasn’t okay, and I shouldn’t have been driving.

For days afterward, I watched the hurricane approach and tear through Jamaica. I texted Erin things like “please keep a life jacket on.” I lost communication with her for almost two days. When she finally sent photos and videos of the devastation, my heart broke all over again.

And still—despite all of that—we did meaningful work in the short time we were there. A sharing circle the night before we left will stay with me forever. Grief has a way of binding people together in sacred ways.

The year ended with losing our cat, Riley—and that loss broke, it took from me when I had nothing left to give. I am still reeling from this, crying randomly when I think about her.

On a Thursday night, I noticed she wasn’t herself. My son and I were standing in the kitchen talking when she began walking in a small circle, wobbling, for nearly forty seconds. By the next morning, she was under the couch, unable to walk or use her back legs.

My two oldest kids stayed home from school to keep an eye on her and spend one-on-one time with her. I told them honestly that this didn’t look good, that we were likely saying goodbye.

I spent the morning at work tying up loose ends and calling vets about euthanasia. When I came home early, I brought Riley to bed with me. She had lost control of her bladder. She couldn’t walk. Only once in the next 24 hours did she lick water from my finger.

We spent the next eighteen hours in my bed with her. She wanted to be tucked right into my neck, and she stayed there for hours while I held her, pet her, loved her. I cried and felt my heart break over and over again.

The kids all came and spent time with her. That night, while getting ready for bed, my youngest—who usually sleeps with us—was upset because Riley was lying between Kevin and me. We explained that Riley was sick and dying, and that we needed to keep her close.

She paused and said, very seriously, “Well, I’m sick too. I coughed at school today,” and then coughed dramatically.

It was a simple, comical moment—and a reminder that grief and joy often exist at the same time.

The next morning, before we left for the vet, I had the kids come down to spend time with her. Hearing their voices, Riley opened her eyes for the first time since the afternoon before. She stood. She struggled—but she walked to each child, one by one, snuggling with each of them for a few minutes before moving to the next.

I cried harder than I have in a long time. I knew she was saying goodbye.

Riley was there from the beginning. When Kevin and I started dating we got our dog Bella and a couple months later we got Riley because Bella needed a sister obviously. Riley was there through every pregnancy—I swear she knew before I did, sleeping on my stomach every day. She guarded the kids bath time. She would bite Kevin if a baby was crying and he wasn’t responding fast enough. She paced like a guard dog when people came to meet our newborns. She comforted our kids. Watched over them.

And in her final moments, we did the same for her.

Death is hard.

It’s heartbreaking.

But there is beauty in it too.

2025 took so much from me—emotionally, mentally, spiritually, physically. There were moments I simply stopped. I laid in bed. I cried. I slept. I gave my body and soul what they needed.

And then there is the hardships of being a Leader throughout all of this. The hard part of leadership, of community-building, is knowing you make an impact but not always feeling acknowledged. Sometimes credit is given quietly, privately—sometimes not at all. I believe in reciprocity. I believe in naming the people who shape us. I hope, moving forward, to be valued the way I value others.

2025 was a hard year.

It held deep lows and breathtaking highs.

It changed how I see myself and what I’m capable of.

Stepping into 2026 is hard—because it’s a reminder of the people, animals, family, and friends who aren’t coming with us.

My hopes for 2026 are simple: continued growth, personally and professionally. Making a difference. Supporting families. Creating meaningful offerings for doulas. Making memories with the people I love.

My words for 2026 are happiness and health.

And I hope this next year is beautiful—and gentle.

With Love and tenderness, Amy Silva <3