January Is A Liar

It’s been almost a month since you’ve heard from me—my last blog post went out December 15th, and here we are on January 12th. I hope your holidays were relaxing, but let’s be honest, they were probably exhausting. For me though, I actually managed to stop working on the business side of things. I took on two personal projects instead, and one of them is almost finished (I think). But more than catching you up on my life, I want to welcome you to a new and improved Maria’s Corner. This year, the content is going to look a bit different. Each month will have a theme, and each blog post in that month will explore that theme from different angles. Some arcs will focus on the reader’s perspective (because that’s where I see patterns most clearly), and others will dig into the areas of life where creative people tend to find the most friction. Think of it as going deeper instead of wider—we’re building something more cohesive this year.

Alright, now that housekeeping is done, let’s talk about January.

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Every year I tell myself the same thing: This January, I’ll start the year right. I’ll restart my exercise routine from years ago. I’ll finally start writing my book. I’ll begin anew.

And every year, January laughs at me.

Because here’s what actually happens: I set myself up for disappointment. I build this narrative that January 1st is some magical reset button, that the flip of a calendar page will somehow transform me into the person who has their life together, who writes every day, who meal preps and exercises and never hits snooze.

But think about it. When does anything important in your life actually start in January?

Schools start in August. New jobs start whenever you’re hired, not when the calendar tells you it’s acceptable. Relationships begin when two people meet, not when the ball drops on New Year’s Eve. Creative projects take root when an idea catches fire in your brain, whether that’s March or October or a random Tuesday in July.

So why do we put so much pressure on January to be the month that changes everything?

The Cultural Con

We’ve been sold a lie that January is the fresh start month. That it’s the time for new beginnings, for reinvention, for finally becoming the person we’ve been trying to be all year.

But January is actually one of the worst times to start anything new.

You’re recovering from the holidays, which means you’re probably exhausted. Your bank account might still be recovering from gift-giving. Your house is still full of leftover cookies and that weird cheese log someone brought to the party. The weather is terrible (at least in most places). And your brain is still trying to remember what year it is when you write the date.

This is the month we’ve collectively decided is perfect for starting ambitious new routines?

It’s absurd.

And yet, every January, millions of writers sit down with fresh notebooks and grand plans. They set word count goals that would make NaNoWriMo look gentle. They promise themselves they’ll write every single day, no exceptions. They buy expensive courses and new software and ergonomic keyboards, convinced that this year will be different.

When January Becomes a Weapon

Here’s the thing that really gets me: January doesn’t just fail to deliver on its promise of fresh starts. It actively sabotages us.

Because when you set these massive January goals based on who you wish you were instead of who you actually are, what happens when February rolls around and you’ve already missed days? When you haven’t touched that exercise routine in two weeks? When your manuscript is still sitting at zero words?

You don’t think, “Well, January was a bad time to start this.” You think, “I failed. Again. Just like last year.”

And that shame, that sense of failure, becomes one more weight on your shoulders. One more piece of evidence that you’re not disciplined enough, not motivated enough, not serious enough about your writing.

But what if the problem isn’t you? What if the problem is January?

The Truth About Starting

I have ADHD. I also nearly failed high school math before I figured out how to work with my brain instead of against it. I know what it’s like to start things with intense enthusiasm and then watch that enthusiasm evaporate like morning fog.

And here’s what I’ve learned: The timing of when you start something matters so much less than whether you’re actually ready to start it.

Not ready in the sense of having all your ducks in a row. Not ready in the sense of feeling confident or prepared or like you know what you’re doing.

Ready in the sense of having the capacity for it. The mental bandwidth. The emotional space. The energy.

Starting something new takes energy. A lot of it. You’re building a new habit, learning a new skill, fighting against the inertia of your current routine. That requires resources.

And if January isn’t a time when you have those resources, then January is a terrible time to start.

What Actually Works

So if January isn’t the magic month we’ve been told it is, what do we do instead?

First, give yourself permission to not start anything in January. Seriously. If you’re exhausted, if you’re still recovering from the holidays, if you’re in the middle of seasonal depression or fighting off your third cold in two months, you do not have to launch a brand new writing routine right now.

The year doesn’t end in January. You have 11 more months.

Second, if you really want to start something new, ask yourself: Do I have the energy for this right now? Not in a motivational poster way. In a practical, honest assessment way.

What else is competing for your energy? What’s already on your plate? What’s your mental bandwidth actually looking like?

If the answer is “I’m barely keeping up with what I already have,” then starting something new isn’t a January problem or a you problem. It’s a capacity problem. And the solution isn’t to force yourself to do it anyway. It’s to wait until you have the space for it.

Third, when you do start, start small. Not “I’m going to write 2000 words every day” small. Actually small. Like “I’m going to open my manuscript twice this week” small.

Because here’s what I’ve learned from working with my own messy brain: Sustainable change happens in tiny increments. Not in massive January declarations.

A Different Approach

What if instead of treating January like a starting line, we treated it like a recovery month?

What if January was the month where we gave ourselves permission to ease back into things? To assess what we actually want from our writing this year without the pressure of immediately launching into action?

What if we used January to ask questions instead of make declarations:

• What did I learn about myself as a writer last year?
• What worked for me and what didn’t?
• What do I want to feel when I write?
• What pace actually feels sustainable?
• When do I have energy for creative work?

These questions won’t get you social media engagement. They won’t make for inspiring Instagram posts. They won’t give you that rush of New Year’s Resolution energy.

But they might actually help you build something that lasts longer than February.

The Permission You’re Waiting For

If you’re reading this and feeling relieved, like someone finally said what you’ve been thinking but felt guilty about, here’s your permission slip:

You don’t have to start anything in January. You don’t have to have your writing life figured out by the end of this month. You don’t have to hit the ground running just because everyone else seems to be.

You can wait until March. Or June. Or whenever your brain and your life and your energy align enough to actually support something new.

Starting later doesn’t make you less serious about your writing. It makes you someone who understands that sustainable progress requires working with yourself, not against yourself.

January is just a month. It’s not magic. It’s not a referendum on your commitment or your discipline or your worth as a writer.

It’s just January. And January is a liar.