The confetti has been swept up. The champagne glasses are back in the cabinet. Social media is loud with New Year, New Me energy—while I’m sitting here feeling… stuck.
I’ve never been a big New Year’s resolution person. They feel a little like setting yourself up for failure before the year has even had a chance to breathe. Grand promises made in the glow of a calendar flip don’t always translate well to real life—especially when real life is messy, exhausting, and unpredictable.
Last year, instead of resolutions, I tried something different.
The Year I Burned My Wishes
Some call this the 12 Magical Nights. Others refer to it as a Winter Solstice ritual. Call it whatever you’d like.
I wrote down thirteen wishes, folded each one carefully, and placed them into a wishing jar. For twelve consecutive nights, I burned one wish per night. The thirteenth was kept—left unburned—as a reminder that some things are meant to be carried forward rather than released.
A friend had gifted me this wishing jar years ago, and until then it had lived quietly as a decorative piece on a shelf. This felt like the right moment to put it to use. While the jar itself wasn’t necessary, it gave the ritual a sense of intention and direction—something tangible to anchor the process. A simple glass jar or heat-safe container works just as well; it’s the intention, not the vessel, that matters.
You can begin the ritual on the Winter Solstice, December 21, or start on Christmas night, with the final wish burned on January 6. Realtistically, you could do this ritual at any time. It’s not necessarily the timing that matters, but the intention behind the process. These weren’t goals exactly—but wishes. Some were tangible, some deeply emotional, and some vague enough that I didn’t need to define how they would come to fruition.
Then I burned them. Individually, intentionally, one by one.
It wasn’t dramatic in a bonfire-under-the-stars kind of way. It was quiet. Personal. A small ritual that felt more like releasing control than tightening my grip on it. The idea was simple: send the wishes out into the universe, trust the timing, and revisit them only a few times throughout the year.
The thirteenth wish—the one left unburned—is the wish you are responsible for. The universe takes the other twelve.
My thirteenth wish was simple, yet expansive: finding inner peace and accepting myself always.
And interestingly… some of the wishes did come to fruition.
Not all. But enough to make me pause.
As 2025 arrived with some unexpected upheavals in our life, I can’t say I’ve reached full inner peace. But I have become much better at accepting myself. I accept my strengths. I accept my weaknesses—while still working on them. I accept that I’m not the same person I was in my twenties (thank the good Lord).
I’m also learning to accept that I don’t have the physical body I had in my twenties, thirties, or even my early forties. That one is harder. But I’m working on it.
I’ve always been in tune with my body. I’ve always moved it. I lift weights. I walk. I ride my Peloton. I eat healthy 80% of the time, or more. None of this is new to me. What is new is how differently my body responds now. The results are harder to come by, and at times it feels like my body is quietly resisting me at every turn as I enter my fifties.
No amount of macro tracking, caloric deficit, carefully structured workout routines, or sheer willpower has fully cracked the code. And that realization has been both humbling and clarifying. So for 2026, I’m choosing to approach this from a different angle—one rooted in curiosity rather than control, and compassion rather than force. More on that soon.
What didn’t happen with the burned wishes, though, was the motivation I thought those wishes would spark. I assumed that by naming them—by releasing them into the universe—I would feel compelled to chase them. That clarity would turn into momentum.
Instead, life did what it always does: it unfolded on its own terms.
Releasing wishes doesn’t mean releasing responsibility. While the ritual asks you to trust the universe, it also quietly asks you to show up. To take the steps—small or significant—that move those wishes from possibility into reality. I did work toward them, just not always with the consistency or intention I imagined I would.
And maybe that’s part of the lesson, too. That wishing isn’t a substitute for action—but it is an invitation. One that doesn’t demand perfection, only participation.
Coming Into the New Year Sick and Still
This year didn’t begin with clarity or momentum. It began with a sore throat.
The Monday before Christmas, I woke up with that familiar tickle that tells you something’s coming. By Christmas Eve, it was worse. Christmas morning, it felt like I was swallowing broken glass. The Friday after Christmas, I woke up barely able to swallow and with almost no voice at all.
And yet—I still went to the Atlantis Spa that day with my niece. It was her birthday celebration, and we’d planned it for months for just the two of us. So I wrapped myself in a robe, had a gentle massage and lymphatic drainage with guasha, whispered when I needed to speak, and tried to enjoy the warmth and quiet while my body very clearly asked me to stop.
I was supposed to leave for Las Vegas that Saturday morning. There was no chance.
Saturday and Sunday were spent entirely in bed. Monday finally looked up. I managed to get to Vegas on Tuesday, but even then I wasn’t 100%. And now, a week later, I’m technically “better”—but still tethered to a box of Kleenex thanks to relentless sinus drainage.
Mostly, I’m just tired.
Knowing What Helps… and Not Doing It Anyway
I know the things that help me feel better.
A walk.
A workout.
Fresh air.
Movement.
I know that doing something would lift the fog. But knowing and doing are two very different things—especially when depression is already part of the equation. I’m medically treated for depression and anxiety, and still, there are seasons where everything feels heavier than it should.
Right now, I’m in one of those seasons. There’s this strange guilt that comes with stagnation. Like you should be able to muscle your way out of it. Like everyone else got the memo about January motivation, and you somehow missed it.
I miss my husband.
We’re fortunate to be one of those couples who genuinely enjoy each other’s company—the kind where being together feels easy, familiar, and grounding. He’s my person.
But running a business in Las Vegas while living in Reno has come with its own set of challenges. One of the hardest is that my husband essentially lives in Las Vegas while I’m up north. On a good month, we’re lucky to see each other five to seven days. Living this far apart has been harder than I expected, and being without my person has taken its toll.
I’ll share more later about our move from an apartment to a house in Vegas, but this is one of the biggest reasons behind that decision—we want to be together more often. A house gives us the space we need for everyone. Our oldest son lives in the apartment (it’s really his), and we’ve been using the spare room when we’re there. The house will give me a dedicated office where I can truly work, rather than feeling like a guest in my own life.
And just as important, it means I can bring Paddy—our English Bulldog—down with me when I go. Even though our youngest son lives at home in Reno and my cousin is staying with us for six months, leaving Paddy behind has proven hard. She’s deeply attached to me, and I know she’s lonely when I’m away. That weight adds up too.
But the truth is: I don’t feel inspired. I don’t feel fired up. I feel quiet. Flat. Stuck in neutral.
Maybe January Isn’t for Reinvention
What if January isn’t for becoming someone new?
What if it’s just for recovering?
From illness.
From December.
From expectations.
From the pressure to immediately know what’s next.
Next week, I head back to Vegas again—this time to move from our apartment into the rental house. That alone will give me a purpose. Boxes. Lists. Tasks. Forward motion. We will not only have a large bedroom, but a dedicated office space as well as our own living room. I’ve already purchased a rug and couch for the living room and new curtains for the bedroom. I’m excited to have this space. Not only because it’s “ours” but so I can spend more time with the love of my life.
I’m also back to teaching real estate classes, which started January 5. Structure has a way of gently pulling me back into myself. While I love the breaks I have in teaching, they often lead to me being a Grade A bedrotter. I try to use that time to reinvigorate myself, but find that I spend countless hours doom scrolling on social media when there are so many better things I could accomplish. Maybe I need to better plan for my time off so that I have a purpose, not just relaxation.
I don’t think I need a resolution.
I don’t think I need a perfectly mapped-out plan.
I think I need a spark—but maybe not a fire.
Maybe just an ember.
Something small enough to tend without burning myself out trying to force momentum that isn’t ready yet.
Letting This Be Enough—for Now
So if you’re feeling stagnant this January—unmotivated, uninspired, or quietly disappointed in yourself—I see you.
You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re not failing the year six days in.
Some seasons are loud and productive.
Some are quiet and restorative.
And some—like this one—are simply about getting back on your feet.
Maybe the goal right now isn’t to do more.
Maybe it’s to listen.
To rest.
To allow the fire to come back in its own time.
For now, I’ll keep the Kleenex nearby.
I’ll unpack boxes.
I’ll show up to teach.
And I’ll trust that movement—however small—counts.
Even in January.
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