Woman Lying with Feet Against the Wall January always arrives with noise. Even when the world itself is cold and bare, the language around this month is loud. Promises. Declarations. Reinvention. Becoming. There is an expectation that something dramatic should happen simply because a calendar has turned. That we should rise immediately into clarity and momentum. That we should know who we are about to be. But I have never entered a new year that way. I do not arrive sharpened. I arrive quiet. And this year, more than any other, I am letting that be enough. I am not interested in transforming myself. I am interested in listening. Listening to mornings before they harden into schedules. To the kettle before the world begins asking questions. To the small interior voice that only speaks when nothing is rushing it. Slow, for me, does not mean doing nothing. It means doing fewer things with more presence. It means leaving space around my days. It means not treating res...