A Gentle Start

I woke this morning to my own inner clock instead of an outside force — aka the dreaded alarm — which already felt like a small, rebellious act of self-care. I puttered. Not in a productive, list-checking way, but in the gentle drifting from one thing to the next that only happens when time isn’t barking orders at you.

I started in the garage with a few old doors from Wyatt’s house, giving them a chemical peel to restore their natural beauty. As the layers of paint lifted away, I found myself wondering what Trev’s great-grandfather — the man who built that house — would think of my work.

And then it hit me: I was seeking the approval of a man who was dead long before I took my first breath.

That realization snapped me back into the present and made me wonder if other people’s brains, when left unattended, also wander off into these strange little side quests. Or if that’s just me.

I brought my focus back inside and started the kind of morning tidy that settles a wandering soul. Dishwasher loaded. Endless smudges wiped from “stainless” appliances (a word doing a lot of heavy lifting). With the Christmas décor slowly returning to storage, the house has room to breathe again.

Another load went down the stairs to be tucked under them for the next 10.5 months. The last of the colourful holiday mugs made it into the dishwasher. Once clean, they’ll be wrapped in newspaper and placed gently into the final plastic bin — like small, ceramic hibernators.

I have a love-hate relationship with the ending of holidays. I love the fresh, cleared-away feeling. But I miss the glow of the tree when all the lights are off and I’m heading upstairs to bed. That soft glance over my shoulder at the twinkle feels like such a kind way to end a day.

I also miss the chatter and connection that comes with entertaining. This year’s house guests were the gentlest kind — kind enough to carry on with outside plans and go easy on my introverted heart. Still, after a week of Christmas, I felt like I was trapped in an episode of Groundhog Day: wake up, have coffee, prepare food, clean up food, sit, have coffee, prepare food, clean up food. Rinse. Repeat.

Yesterday, when the last car pulled away, Trev and I sat in the quiet, having already said everything that needed saying. We ate cereal in the living room for supper — a clear sign the holidays were officially over. Once fed, I ran a bath heavy with Epsom salts, pulled on freshly laundered pajamas, and made a cup of tea. I watched the final episode of Stranger Things while Trev, who does not share my love of science fiction, happily puttered in the garage with his newest creation.

We were in bed well before midnight, fully confident the New Year could wait. It always does.

I haven’t made many plans for this fresh year. I do have a few squares filled in on my bingo card (more on that someday), but mostly my focus is on slowing down. On pausing long enough to weigh the pros against the cons. On remembering that life takes months — sometimes years — to twist itself into tight knots, and that unraveling them requires patience, clarity, and a gentler hand than we often allow ourselves.

I don’t know what 2026 holds. But I do know this: I’m determined to take care of this version of me.

And I think you should too.

We worked really hard to get here.