I took exactly one month off from this little adventure of mine, this blog. It was a deliberate pause—a choice to enjoy family, friendships, travel, and the quiet work of getting everyone back into a rhythm after the holidays. I missed the outlet, yet, here I am, still not quite back.
Usually by now, I have something to show for a new year: goals or resolutions, a vision board taped together with hope, journal pages full of self-exploration and plans for who I’m becoming. This year, though, I’ve collected only a few questions—unfinished reflections I haven’t even fully read yet. For a moment, I wondered if something was wrong with me.
The answer, gently and clearly, is no.
I’m not disappointed in myself. I was overwhelmed—by life, by love, by responsibility, by transition. Last year required far more holding and has left this one to start with far less imagining.
My youngest son’s struggles led us into a partial homeschool reality I never planned for. My oldest is learning how to navigate friendships, expectations, and the very real consequences of procrastination as he works to avoid failing classes this semester. My middle son—brilliant and tender—has a rigidity that has made me come to despise the word “no“, simply because of how often it is spoken to me and absorbed.
Layered into all of this is a growing relationship with my partner—one that was buried beneath parenting and survival for a long time and is only now beginning to breathe again.
So no, the vision board didn’t happen (yet). The deep journaling didn’t happen. The big reset didn’t happen. Because life happened.
And maybe that’s the point.
What I’m realizing is that this season isn’t asking me for clarity or ambition. It’s asking me for re-entry. Not a leap forward. Not a full immersion. Just a gentle orientation back toward myself.
I didn’t lose myself last year. I protected myself. I adapted. I carried. I showed up.
After long stretches of emotional triage and hyper-responsibility, the soul doesn’t rush back into productivity. It asks for integration first.
So instead of asking, What should I accomplish now? I’m asking a quieter, kinder question: What little start can I commit to today? Not a jump in with both feet—just a toe-dip.
Here’s what that looks like for me right now, and maybe for you too.
One option is ten minutes of listening. Set a timer. Sit somewhere neutral. Write or voice-note just this: If nothing had to be fixed right now, what would my inner world want me to notice? Stop when the timer ends. No conclusions required.
Another option is to carry one living question instead of goals. Something like: What am I no longer willing to force? Or, Where do I feel most like myself—even briefly? Or, What is asking to slow down in me? You don’t have to answer it. Just let it walk with you.
A third option is two sentences a day. One sentence about what drained you. One sentence about what gave even a little back. That’s it—no expansion, no fixing.
This isn’t about getting back on track. It’s about remembering that rest, fog, and unfinished thoughts are not signs of failure. They’re signs of transition.
I’m not behind. I’m between—between who I needed to be to get everyone through and who I’m becoming now that there’s a little more air.
So this post—this small return—is my toe in the water.
If you’re here too, unsure why the new year feels quieter or heavier than expected, know this: you don’t need to find yourself again. You’re still here. And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is begin softly—and let that be enough.
This year begins not with answers, but with listening.
Well-Stirred & Wondering 
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