A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

January arrives pretending
something was wiped clean.

The calendar flips.
The clock keeps its secrets.
My body wakes up carrying
everything it had yesterday.

The world calls this a beginning.
Fresh page.
Clean slate.
A chance to be better
than I was allowed to be last year.

But nothing packed its bags overnight.
The worries followed me across midnight.
The grief didn’t miss the countdown.
The habits didn’t loosen their grip
just because a number changed.

There’s no ceremony to this morning—
just light through the same window,
the same floor under my feet,
the same quiet inventory of things
that still need tending.

I don’t feel defeated.
I don’t feel renewed.
I feel awake.

Some years don’t ask for reinvention.
They ask for honesty.
For showing up without speeches.
For carrying what remains
and calling that enough.

Today isn’t a beginning.
It’s a continuation.
And I’m still here
to continue it.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
I don’t make promises to the new year.
I meet it where I already am.
That feels truer than pretending the past didn’t come with me.

🕯️ For a new light every Thursday, subscribe to the Lantern.