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New Year’s Eve arrives the way it always does: fireworks, dogs flipping out, neighbors shooting at the moon, sirens in the distance, a countdown and a kiss. Like a rowdy playmate, the New Year yells, “ready or not, here I come!”
The clock strikes 12:01 and the parents that made it to the finish line drag themselves to bed, the younger versions of themselves still out, hanging the last dog, shrouded in their elders’ prayers for safety, and a new year to figure “it” out. The babies have been asleep for hours now, obvious to the ritual of ending and beginning, even though they are the closest to remembering rebirth.
January is the season of reinvention, yet we forget that all things rest in winter. We imagine waking up and harnessing a mystical new year power that will give us the strength to transform by Monday. What a silly species we are to misinterpret rest for regimen.
These winter months are for recharging. Look at the plants, how deeply they slumber. Look at your animals, how unabashedly they nap before the fire. How does one expect to tackle the resolutions of a new year without the medicine of stillness and dreams?
Perhaps the problem is not the desire to change, but the pace at which we imagine it must happen. We treat the new year like a dramatic reset button, when in reality it behaves more like a dimmer switch. Life rarely transforms overnight. It adjusts, gradually, often unnoticed, through small decisions made on ordinary days.
Starting a new year does not require grand resolutions or public declarations. It can be as modest as going to bed a little earlier, calling someone you’ve been meaning to call, or allowing yourself to let go of something that clearly isn’t working anymore. It might mean continuing exactly as you are, but with a bit more patience and less self-criticism.
The new year is also a useful pause. It invites reflection—not just on what went wrong, but on what quietly went right. The problems are usually loud and memorable; the successes tend to whisper. Surviving a difficult season, showing up when it was hard, learning something the long way—these rarely make highlight reels, but they matter.
There is comfort, too, in remembering that January is not a finish line. It’s a beginning that will be revised many times over. You are allowed to change your mind in March. You are allowed to start again in July. Time is surprisingly generous that way.
As the year begins, maybe the most radical approach is a gentle one. Set fewer rules. Ask better questions. Pay attention to what gives you energy and what drains it. Trust that progress doesn’t always look impressive while it’s happening.
The calendar has turned, whether we feel ready or not. The invitation, as always, is simple: show up, do your best, and allow the year to unfold—one ordinary, imperfect day at a time.
