What Filling My Cup Looks Like Right Now

The pressure of a new year is everywhere. I scroll through Instagram and see endless lists of resolutions. Start a new diet. Start working out. Quit smoking. Reinvent yourself. The pressure to overhaul everything in January can be overwhelming, to say the least. It’s made me grateful that I chose a different approach this year. Instead of resolutions, I settled on a word, or in this year’s case, words, that I want to shape how I move through the months ahead. (If you want to read more about that, I shared it in last week’s post here: Romanticizing Life, Intentionally.) 2026 isn’t going to be about a dramatic reset for me. It’s about something quieter and kinder. Something I can actually live inside of. The first thing I did this year was turn my planner into a cozy place. A place I want to look at. A place where I want to document my days. After that, I created a loose time block for each day of the week. This is my first week trying that rotation, but the goal was never rigid structure. I wanted a schedule that gave me wiggle room, one that would be forgiving on days when my energy runs low, while still making space for things I’ve allowed to slip to the back burner. Reading. Writing. Gaming. Playing music. Working out. These are all things I’ve regrettably negotiated away over time. I realized I had been treating them like extras, when in reality they’re pieces of myself I’ve been compromising for the sake of productivity and obligation. Seeing them written into my days felt less like indulgence and more like honesty. Keeping my planner aesthetic and journal-like has been one small way I’ve been romanticizing my life lately. Waking up earlier on workdays to enjoy a cup of coffee is another. I may not be the world’s biggest coffee connoisseur, but there’s something nostalgic about it. Something grounding. And then there’s probably the silliest thing I’ve done. When I write, whether it’s for my book, my blog, or just practice, I use a keyboard I bought last year that looks and sounds a typewriter. It’s loud and clunky, but something about it makes me feel more present. The older style tricks my brain into taking my writing more seriously, as if I’ve stepped into a time when words were slower and mattered more. Add a wax burner and nostalgic music in the background. Whatever the setup looks like, I’m practicing slowing down and setting the mood. Romanticizing my life this year hasn’t been just about adding more joyful things to my plate. It’s been about noticing more. Especially the small things I would have rushed past before. As I work to balance joy and responsibility this year, I’m also learning to give myself grace. The schedules I’ve made have pockets of space built into them, room to shift things around when I need to. I’ve intentionally overlapped activities throughout the week so that if I miss something, which happens between life and living with a chronic illness, I don’t have to carry guilt until the next week rolls around. I know this is something I’ll continue to struggle with as the year goes on, but I’m trying to front-load myself with grace before I need it. The point is to let my routine guide my days, not govern them. Some days the list gets done. Some days it doesn’t. I’m learning that neither defines my worth. This intentional slowing hasn’t just changed how I structure my time. It’s changed how I show up for the people around me. While my sister and niece have moved out, leaving just me and my parents again, I’m making a conscious effort to enjoy our time together. One way we’ve been doing that is through our tiny homestead. Mostly my mom and I, with my dad’s occasional input, have been making plans. Mapping out the garden. Talking through how we want to offer farm-fresh produce. Figuring out how to be more present in that part of our lives. It’s been fun and exciting and a learning process all at once. It’s reminded me that I actually enjoy a challenge, especially one I’ve chosen for myself. It’s been a quiet adventure so far. Choosing to slow down. Choosing intention. Choosing to notice the little things that fill my cup.