There’s something about these weeks leading up to Christmas and the new year that always makes me pause. Maybe it’s the soft glow of the lights in the morning, the calm before the holiday busyness, or the comfort of sitting with a warm cup of coffee before my son wakes up. Either way, this season always nudges me to slow down and reflect.
Not in a “new year, new me” way. More like small, heart-level reflections — the ones that show up while decorating the tree, organizing my son’s winter things, or noticing how quickly another year has passed.
This year stretched me in ways I didn’t expect… and it softened me too. I’m learning to release the version of myself that always felt the need to do more, be more, prove more. Instead, I’m leaning into slow mornings, warm dinners, and the quiet magic hiding in everyday moments.
Motherhood continues to be the mirror that shows me who I’m becoming — tender and tired, yes, but also grounded and grateful. And somewhere in that grounding, I felt an urge to make space. Not a dramatic overhaul — just gentle, intentional clearing. A quiet preparation for what’s coming.
In the weeks leading up to the holidays, I started decluttering our home little by little. Toys tucked into bags for donation. Tiny clothes sorted and put away. Cupboards reorganized so the things we truly use and love are easier to reach. I even transformed our coat closet into a small, functional nook for my son’s school supplies and larger toys.
It felt right to create space before the new gifts, new routines, and fresh start of a new year — like setting the stage for calmer days. I’ll share the full process in another post, but for now I’ll just say this: making space—physically and emotionally—has helped me feel more grounded heading into a new year.
As I look ahead, I’m carrying a few things with me:
Gratitude — for the little moments. The unplanned laughter, the soft I love yous, the everyday ordinary that becomes extraordinary when you look back.
A gentler pace — choosing presence over pressure, enough over endlessness.
Trust — that I’m still growing, even on slow days.
Reflecting isn’t about fixing the past — it’s about honoring where we’ve been and preparing our hearts for what’s next. Maybe this is the year we stop chasing new versions of ourselves and simply return to who we already are.
a poem for 2026
may this new year be slow,
soft as morning light,
full of laughter that lingers
and peace that stays the night.
may our hands stay open
to all that’s meant to be,
and our hearts find home
in life’s simplicity.
As you read this, maybe pause for a moment. Notice your own quiet growth, your hidden strength, your gentle wins. You don’t need resolutions to begin again.
Sometimes reflection itself is enough.
