Some months arrive quietly and leave without much to say. January 2026 was not one of them. This January arrived carrying weight, asking questions before we had our footing, and demanding resilience when many of us were already tired. On a personal level, on a national level, and on a global level, it felt as though there was no pause between one difficult moment and the next. Sitting with my coffee, I find myself acknowledging something I think many of us feel but don’t always say out loud. January asked too much of us, and it is okay to admit that.
Since early January, my days have felt heavier, not just from headlines but from a deeper awareness of how precious each ordinary morning truly is. Teddy and Bear with their slow yawns, their careful sniffing of the air, and the way they insist I notice the sunlight on the floor remind me that life’s small rhythms matter even when the world feels overwhelmingly large. The possibility that Teddy may be facing a serious illness that I still do not fully name has stirred something in me I did not expect. I have found a fierce appreciation not just for more days but for this one now. It is a reminder that vulnerability carries a kind of clarity, an invitation to see what we can love and hold close. In the same January of too much loss, my heart breaks for others who should still be here. In Minneapolis, Renée Nicole Good and Alex Jeffrey Pretti were both killed, and their names are now part of the long, complicated conversation about justice, human dignity, and the cost of turning away from one another. Their deaths have shaken many Americans and stirred deep concern over how our country shows up for safety and fairness. This troubles deeply those of us who hope that America can uphold its better values even in the hardest hours.
Hope I am learning does not require denial. It does not ask us to pretend things are better than they are or to rush past grief in search of comfort. Real hope has weight to it. It sits beside the hurt and says I see you, and I am not leaving. In a month like this one, hope looks less like certainty and more like intention. It is choosing to stay present, to keep caring, to keep noticing what is good even while acknowledging what is broken. It is understood that love for our dogs, concern for our neighbors, and grief for lives lost are not distractions from what matters. They are proof that something in us is still awake.
And so this morning I sit with my coffee again. The steam rises, and the light softens on the table in a way that feels like an invitation rather than urgency. I think of the Buddhist monks walking for peace, putting one foot in front of the other with calm determination and quiet prayer for all of us who struggle to believe in goodness while living in a world that can feel so unkind. Their presence reminds me that peace is a practice that begins with each breath and continues with each choice to show up, however gently, to our everyday lives. As I lift my cup and watch the sun touch the edges of the day, I choose this morning. I chose this light. I choose to be here now, present with what is genuine and open to what is still possible.
