Liminal January
On lingering in the in-between
I’m writing this in the car as we’re crossing the 1500km that separate us from home. I barely want to check my emails, let alone my Substack homepage. I know everyone is busy setting soulful goals, intentions and plans whilst I only have capacity for breathing at the moment. Breathing and noticing. I suppose it’s already a lot. At least it should be enough.
I used to feel guilty about my January slumps, but this year, I was prepared and I’m welcoming the haze with a more gentle awareness. I’m allowing the tiredness, the hints of frustration, witnessing how letting go unravels with an open curiosity.
As the landscape changes from the lovely hills of Dorset to the wide plains of Northern France, the sun rises and I turn reflective. I think about the year in review I didn’t have time for over the holidays. The sketching kit that stayed in my suitcase, the writing prompts I couldn’t find it in myself to sit for. The car that needs replacing and everything that needs fixing in my home when I get back. I think about what to write next, the final stages of my mindfulness training, what to teach, how I want to work and what to change and adjust.
The sun shines bright now but the temperatures are still in the negative. This is exactly how I feel. Add the noise from the radio and the picture is complete. I need to rest, let myself be covered in sparkly frost and refrain from burgeoning just yet. However, it’s one thing to know this and another to allow myself to actually do it.
I started to read Katherine May’s Wintering this week and the book is of tremendous support through this process. I find it incredibly soothing and the fact that I just want to curl up under a blanket and read it is probably going to help me find my own way to a deeper rest.
I’m thinking I can use this day-long car ride as a slow entrance into my liminal January, but I still want to put some of my thoughts for 2026 in a safe space, where I’ll be able to pick them up when I come out of my pause. One of the things that’s entered my awareness recently is this recurring fear of forgetting important things. The more pain flare-ups in my body, the more anxiety of becoming forgetful. The stronger the need to write things down and take notes.
Pain was the unexpected (and unwelcome) guest of 2025. Even though I’m now getting used to being in pain, I’m not adjusting to the level of rest my body needs and underestimate how often it needs it. Car rides are especially daunting and the twice 16-hour journey to and from Dorset will be hard to recover from.
The flare-ups are at the top of my List Of Things. I know I want to keep approaching my health kindly and mindfully and find ways to find relief when pain shows up. I’m still pushing through more often than I should. I’d like to increase the time I spend in my meditation practice as it opens a window of clarity not only on the pain itself but also on how I relate to it. On a very practical level, I have medical appointments to schedule. If I’m fully honest, this hasn’t been the priority it should have been. This isn’t how I want to model motherhood for my girls and yet, this is what I’ve kept doing.
And then, there are the projects.
I like the reframing of goals into projects, which encompasses the longer time frame, the sense of steps and scaled progress towards completion, and the hint of uncertainty that accompanies any quest worth pursuing. Projects feel more creative and less will-dependent. They allow mistakes, hurdles and enlightening experiments. Of course, the word project works perfectly for my artistic activities, but it’s a great fit for my entrepreneurial endeavours, too.
I plan to apply the insights of Tiny Experiments (from neuroscientist Anne Laure le Cunff) to my projects and will use my pause to finish the book and reflect on it. I’m only a few chapters in and I already like the experimental mindset. SMART1 goals never worked for me. I like quirky projects that aren’t too specific. I prefer to track what happens instead of measuring in anticipation. And I think the acronym doesn’t reflect the reality of what life is (at least the one I’m living): uncertain, unexpected and a bit wild.
As I’m getting older, my preferred modality leans towards open curiosity with a dash of mystery.
At this point of my reflection, I’m not sure what my projects are nor which shape they’ll take. I am only aware of upcoming obligations and strong desires. I need to design the practicum upon which my qualifying as a mindfulness teacher relies: a 4 to 6-week mindfulness course for beginners, which doesn’t feel so much like an obligation but rather a joyful opportunity to share a practice that changed my life. On the personal side of things, my third daughter will take flight in autumn and life will change again after many months of preparations and administrative maze.
Desires are abundant. They revolve around the quiet ambition that’s been inhabiting my heart lately. I also know I’ll have to choose. I have probably too many writing projects already, but I’m considering writing an essay this year. Then there’s my semi-abstract landscape collection, and the seeds of an inspiring teaching programme. I’ve been asked to start coaching again and I’m considering the invitation. This is already too long and yet, I probably could add to it if I let myself linger.
Lingering feels nice. I want to allow it. I can always reconsider and clear things up in spring.
We’re halfway through January and I have no vision board, no resolution, no new plan. I don’t feel behind though. I feel fine. Tired, but fine.
My personal new year, when I get to experience a sense of renewal, has always been September. It’s my birthday at the beginning of the month and it’s also back to school. Everything feels fresh for me in September, especially after the hot and moist summer, and we get to buy new stationery.
In January, I’m usually exhausted from my autumnal creative surge and I need more than the usual week off that we get (when we’re lucky, I know it’s a privilege) between Christmas and the New Year. The expected renewal feels more like a need for withdrawal followed by a desire to keep expanding on what I’ve been cultivating in the previous months.
Because I’ve been journaling for such a long time, I know that January is almost never about new goals for me. I’ve been working with my creative seasons since 2022, through Elin Lööw’s workbooks, and I’ve now fully integrated that January is a slow month for me, especially the first two weeks.
I usually jump to my feet energetically every morning, but this month, I’ve been lingering not only in bed, but in all the in-betweens life was kind enough to give me: a longer after lunch cup of tea, slower dog walks across the park, before bed time reading, and the return of my beloved Morning Pages whilst the whole house is still asleep.
I think I’ll keep cultivating this lingering for a while, lean into the not-knowing a bit longer. I’ll let my intentions emerge in their own time. It doesn’t feel like postponing but rather like pacing. I want to see how much can come to me if I let things unfold. I can see how the rush is impacting my children, my friends, my husband. Modern life is set in a way that ignores our internal rhythms, even for those of us who have some sort of control over our schedule. We still hear the call to rush, accomplish and plan ahead.
I love my liminal January. The renewal I feel most strongly in this space is that of the beginner’s mindset. Not because it’s the beginning of the year, but because I’m willingly leaning into the unknown, the space in between, the moment before the vision, the decision, the plan. I still act in this place. I’m still heading to the studio, still writing, painting, and dreaming but I’m resting in the dreamy form of the mystery of creating, tasting what creativity looks like when I experience it from the open space of possibility.
It’s not waiting, it’s a curious allowing.
What are you allowing to unfold? Let’s chat!
SMART stands for Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-bound—a popular goal-setting framework.
I love the idea of viewing life as a series of experiments 🥰 It's a beautiful metaphor to me.
Based on the findings of a current experiment my next project may change.
It reminds me of the unalome symbol. Life isn't a straight path. It often turns back on itself like a labyrinth. A spiritual journey.
I will practice embracing each experiment and the wisdom it brings, without being dismayed by perceived failure. - a tiny experiment of its own for me 😊