2026

January is a lie we all agree to believe in.

My goals grow louder,

my motivation grows quieter,

and in the end

everything stays the same.

But I don’t need a new year,

I need a new nervous system.

One that fits into expectations,

one that works normally,

not against myself.

I write goals like prayers,

knowing they won’t save me.

Maybe nothing can.

I want change, but I’m too tired to fight myself all the time.

I’ve done it my whole life.

The calendar changed.

My patterns didn’t.

I’m still the old me,

just with more wounds that refuse to heal.

A battlefield of wars I didn’t start.

But the year gave me a person

who let hope burn again —

a small flame,

but at least it burns

after years of drought.

She is the kindest soul I’ve ever met,

an angel in disguise.

I’m deeply grateful

that we connected

in ways I can’t explain.

My plans burn with the paper,

but they stay in my heart,

even though I know

they won’t become real,

no matter how hard I try.

I’m too weak to carry them,

too empty to move on.

The year ended.

I didn’t.

Not finished. Not healed.

So welcome, 2026:

New year,

old wounds,