About once a year, I scroll through the last few weeks of emails, maybe a month’s worth if I’m feeling ambitious, and then: delete all. Thousands of unread, unimportant, outdated messages vanish with one click. Is it a permanent solution? No. I’ll still try to unsubscribe. I’ll still promise myself I’ll do better next time. But deep down I know: I won’t. And that’s okay. Not everything demands a response. Some things just need to go.
Other resets are gentler. I’m borrowing an idea from my friend Jean: a list of 50 things to do this year. Not resolutions, not even goals. Just things I want to try, notice, and feel more of. Projects, big and small. Ideas for date nights. Things to do with my kids, together and one-on-one. A few items on the list: Write more paper letters to the people I love, near and far. Bake more cookies for lunchboxes. Make time to write, daily, if possible, not because I
need to, but because I want to. To pause, be present, and enjoy noise and silence. The chaos of two boys playing (too roughly for my tastes) won’t last forever. All too soon, quiet will stretch across these rooms, and they’ll be off to college and beyond. In silence, I sit, meditate, and revel in stillness. So for now: Kiss my family every day. Give long, lingering hugs. Remember that stuff is just stuff. Less of it is probably better. But also? Sometimes new stuff is fun too. Forgive my greedy heart and embrace small pleasures.
And I’m renewing a few vows to myself. For health, for peace of mind. Like most of us, I had the best of intentions for workouts and healthy snacks during the holidays. But they gave way to naps and couch-surfing and endless cookies (all of which, to be fair, are good for you in their own way). Now, I’m easing back into less coffee, more water. Time for meditation and stillness. Reminders that exercise is self-care, and that strength is for now an investment in my future self for decades to come. Reading real paper books instead of scrolling. Spending less time on social media. My Instagram algorithm used to be a joyful, cozy place. Now it’s chaotic and stressful. And while I won’t ignore the dangerous antics of the ridiculous man in the Oval Office and his fascist brigade of miscreants, I also can’t start and end my days bathing in their squalor. That’s not resistance; that’s erosion.
So this is my January ritual. Unplug. Reset. Reboot.
This year, rising doesn’t mean soaring. It means showing up. It means letting go of the inbox full of expectations. It means naming what matters and making space for it, not in a grand way, but in small, daily acts. A note. A hug. A glass of water. A good book. The sound, finally, is coming back on.