In the Northern Hemisphere January is a month for hibernation and patience. It can feel endless: 31 long, grey days of minimal daylight and
single-digit temperatures.

That fresh-year energy is hard to hold onto. What begins with optimism can quickly turn into a mental endurance test.

This year, I didn’t accept the challenge. I flew like a swallow toward the sun.

Impatience is one of my inherent traits. My actions often verge on knee-jerk, but at times that serves me well. I’m restless by nature, shaped by life lessons that have worked their way into my DNA—how I walk (quickly), talk (fast), and respond (instantly). It’s not easy to unlearn something so ingrained.

And do I even want to?

That question marked the beginning of a shift in my mindset. As I realised that at times, yes—I do want to soften those edges. To notice when it’s too much, too fast. I was starting to understand that movement alone wasn’t the answer.

Leaving for the Southern Hemisphere is, of course, a luxury, and one I don’t take for granted. The seed that made this possible was planted many moons ago, without me fully realising what I was building at the time. In hindsight, I accidentally created a life that suits my restless spirit—and for that I’m deeply grateful.

However, my impatience, while it keeps me moving, also stops me from pausing and exhaling. Once you recognise a personality trait, it’s worth asking whether everything that comes with it is actually serving you.

This haste seeps into all areas of my life, especially my work. I feel the cost of that restlessness shows itself clearest there. Last year, there were moments when I questioned the pace at which I was operating and how quickly I responded to everything. Leaving London’s winter felt wise, but stepping away from the routine I’d built felt necessary. I knew I needed to recalibrate—head, heart, pencil—and sketch out a clearer plan for 2026. This wasn’t about running from a cold January in London,  leaving wasn’t avoidance—it was intention.

When the familiar is removed, clarity follows. Without the white noise of daily routines, it’s easier to see and feel what’s really going on. This is where I chose to push against my impatience. And for me that isn’t easy. My impatience pushes back.

I feel the itch to do. I’m prolific. I create, experiment, try things, make messes, learn from them. What I’m less comfortable with is pausing long enough to understand what my head and heart are actually saying—and whether they’re aligned. To ask if the work has been fully digested, fully explored.

Sometimes my pace propels me forward. Other times—especially toward the end of last year—it leaves me confused and depleted. This is why I wanted to approach January differently. And, in turn, approach 2026 with a plan. I needed refinement. Purpose. A quiet recalibration. More of this, less of that.

Such thoughts and questions need time. What do I want my work and my life to look and feel like? A year often feels like a chapter, and I’m always keen (there’s that impatience again) for each one to shift, grow, move forward.

There’s a gift in giving yourself grace. In allowing time to reveal what’s been simmering beneath the surface. Time is limited, yes—but we also waste plenty of it. I can lose a good 30 or more minutes daily to reality TV without blinking.

Everyone relates to time differently. I wanted to challenge my own perception of it—to give myself a little more than I’m comfortable with. Space to reflect. To look back in order to move forward with clarity. Like most things, it’s a choice in how you use it.

I think what I was really renegotiating wasn’t productivity—it was permission. I can’t be the only one who feels a flicker of guilt sitting in a coffee shop with a notebook, a pen, and a mess of half-formed thoughts and plans. Will caffeine hold the answers? No. But a new space and a new rhythm might help nudge any mental blockages aside.

Momentum only matters if it’s moving in the right direction. I still crave a life full of momentum and moments—but with age (and, I hope, awareness) comes the understanding that reflection and pause points are essential. And they don’t need to be wrapped in guilt.

This January I realised I wanted to build a softer relationship with time, momentum, and the guilt I battle when I slow down to reflect. 

Time under blue skies, with heartfelt goodbyes till next time—  was important and of use.

So January, I’ll see you next year. In the sunshine.