Why I'm Setting Intentions Instead of Resolutions in 2026

I've always been a resolution person. Every January, I'd sit down with my notebook and create elaborate lists: read 104 books, post 100 poems, complete 12 online courses. I'd track everything in checkboxes and spreadsheets, counting and calculating, always measuring whether I was "on track."

And every year, somewhere around March or April, I'd fall behind. Miss a week. Skip a few days. And suddenly the whole thing would feel like failure. The joy of reading would become anxiety about hitting my number. Writing would turn into another checkbox to stress over. Self-care would become just another task I was failing at.

I'm done with that.

This year, I'm not making resolutions. I'm setting intentions.

What's the Difference?

Resolutions are rigid. They're about numbers, metrics, perfect consistency. They're pass/fail. You either hit 52 books or you didn't. You either saved $8,000 or you failed.

Intentions are about direction. They're flexible, forgiving, human. They acknowledge that life is messy, that some weeks are harder than others, that progress isn't always linear. Intentions ask "am I moving toward the life I want?" instead of "did I hit my number this week?"

I realized something recently: I was so busy counting and tracking that I forgot why I wanted to do these things in the first place. I wanted to read because I love stories, not because I needed to hit 104 books. I wanted to move my body because it makes me feel good, not because I had to check a box. I wanted to create doll dioramas because they bring me joy, not because I needed 52 of them to feel successful.

The numbers were stealing the meaning.

My Intentions for 2026

So here's what I'm doing instead. These are my intentions—the things I want to focus on, the direction I want to move, the life I want to build. No numbers. No tracking sheets. Just honest commitments to myself about how I want to live.

1)  Connect with Myself Daily

I intend to journal regularly, writing by hand, processing my thoughts and emotions on real paper. Not every single day, but as often as I need to. Some days that might be three pages of processing heavy feelings. Some days it might be a gratitude list. Some days I might skip it entirely because I'm exhausted, and that's okay too.

2)  Move My Body with Kindness

I intend to move my body in ways that feel good—working out, yoga, tai chi, even just cleaning the house. Movement is medicine, and my body deserves care. But I'm not going to beat myself up if I rest when I need to rest. Honoring my body means listening to it, not forcing it to perform.

3)  Deepen My Spiritual Practice

I'm studying Wicca, building altars, working with my grimoire, connecting with deities like Hecate. I intend to engage with this practice authentically—not because I have to do a ritual every single day, but because I want to build a genuine spiritual life that grounds and nourishes me.

4)  Learn and Grow

I love taking online courses. I love learning new things, expanding my knowledge, challenging myself. So I intend to keep learning—taking courses when they interest me, diving deep into subjects that call to me. Not 12 courses because that's the number I set, but as many as feel right.

5)  Share My Creative Work

I'm a writer. I make art. I create things. And I intend to share that work—posting poetry and essays to my blog, putting my voice out into the world, contributing to the creative community. Not because I have to hit 100 posts, but because I have things to say and stories to tell.

6)  Build Miniature Worlds

I love my doll dioramas. Creating tiny rooms, arranging furniture, building stories in miniature. It brings me so much joy. So I intend to keep doing it—working on projects when inspiration strikes, letting my imagination play in tangible, physical spaces.

7)  Read Voraciously

I want to read. Not 104 books. Not 2 per week. Just... read. Dive into stories that call to me. Get lost in books. Build a rich inner library of narratives and knowledge. Read for pleasure, not for metrics.

8)  Experiment in the Kitchen

I'm working on a 90-day cooking challenge where I'm learning techniques and trying new recipes. I intend to keep exploring food, learning to cook real meals from scratch, nourishing myself and my family with care. Not 52 new recipes, necessarily.  Just growth in the kitchen, at whatever pace feels right.

9)  Finish My Writing Projects

I have novellas and short story collections sitting unfinished. I intend to work on them steadily, posting sections to Wattpad, making real progress on the stories I want to tell. Not on a strict weekly schedule, but consistently, meaningfully, until they're done.

10)  Practice Self-Care

I intend to make time for things that restore me—baths, rituals, quiet moments, whatever my body and spirit need. Not once per week on schedule, but whenever I need it. Self-care isn't a checkbox. It's listening to myself and responding with compassion.

11)  Spend Time in Nature

I've been watching the sunset in the evenings lately. It grounds me, connects me to something bigger, reminds me that I'm part of the natural world. I intend to keep doing this—getting outside, feeling the seasons, being present with the earth.

12)  Treat My Body with Respect

I want to move toward a healthier weight, not through punishment or rigid dieting, but through sustainable, loving choices. I intend to honor my body, feed it well, move it kindly, and trust that health comes from compassion, not shame.

13)  Honor My Financial Boundaries

I've been know to splurge. So, I intend to be mindful about spending, living within my means, making intentional purchases that align with my values. Not because I have to save exactly $100 per week, but because financial peace matters to me.

14)  Protect My Peace

I'm staying off public social media. I'm done with the toxicity, the drama, the fake friendships, the algorithm-driven anxiety. I intend to protect my mental and emotional space, refusing to let platforms steal my attention and peace.

15)  Be Gentle with Myself

Depression is real. Hard days happen. I intend to practice self-compassion, especially when things are difficult. Allow rest without guilt. Know that healing isn't linear. Be kind to myself the way I'd be kind to someone I love.

16)  Explore Divination and Spiritual Tools

I want to learn new divination methods—tarot, pendulum, runes, scrying. I intend to explore these tools when I'm drawn to them, deepening my intuitive practice in ways that feel authentic.

17)  Honor the Moon and Seasons

I intend to perform full moon rituals, create seasonal altars for solstices and equinoxes, mark time in sacred ways. Not perfectly, not every single time, but meaningfully, connecting with lunar and seasonal cycles.

18)  Deepen My Relationship with the Divine

I'm working with Hecate right now. I intend to build authentic connections with her and other deities or spirit guides throughout the year—listening, learning, growing in relationship with the spiritual forces that call to me.

19)  Play and Create Without Pressure

I intend to play Sims challenges, participate in NaPoWriMo and NaNoWriMo, blog regularly, create resources for others. But I'm doing these things because they inspire me, not because I have to hit specific numbers.

20)  Try New Things

I intend to experiment with new creative mediums, grow an herb garden, establish morning and evening routines that support my wellbeing. I'm staying open to growth, following curiosity, allowing myself to be a beginner.

21)  Give Myself Permission to Just Enjoy Things

I intend to color in coloring books when I feel like it. Make doll clothes when inspiration strikes. Binge watch TV shows when I need to zone out. Paint rocks. Play games purely for fun. Rest and play without needing to justify it.

The Heart of It All

These intentions aren't about perfection. They're not about hitting numbers or tracking metrics or proving anything to anyone.

They're about who I want to be and how I want to live.

Some weeks I'll be incredibly productive and creative. Some weeks I'll barely survive. Some days I'll journal and work out and cook a beautiful meal and work on my writing and tend my altar. Some days I'll just watch TV and rest.

All of it counts. All of it matters.

Because I'm not chasing metrics anymore. I'm building a life—a real, messy, beautiful, imperfect life where I'm present, intentional, and kind to myself.

I'm done performing for checklists. I'm done feeling like a failure because I missed a week or didn't hit my number.

I'm choosing intentions over resolutions. Direction over perfection. Growth over guilt.

And honestly? It already feels so much lighter.

---

Living softly. Creating mindfully. Growing gently.

Welcome to 2026.

Finding Wisdom in Daily Rituals

This isn't your typical book review—though I have journeyed through these pages before.

I've curated a small collection of books to accompany me through the year. The kind with daily entries, one for each morning that unfolds. Among them sits Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach.

This book has woven itself into the fabric of my mornings. Coffee steaming beside me, I turn to these pages for a gentle dose of inspiration. Then comes the quiet work: reflecting, contemplating, letting pen meet journal as thoughts crystallize into words.

Today's passage struck something deep within me. For context—I spent a decade immersed in the Psychology of Happiness, eventually earning my MA in Mental Health along with postgraduate certifications in Professional Counseling and Addiction Counseling. Understanding happiness became more than academic pursuit; it was personal excavation. Perhaps that's what happens when you're searching for something within yourself.

Something about today's reading compelled me to share. Because here's what I've discovered after all that study, all those years of seeking, the answer to happiness is disarmingly simple:

It is difficult to experience happiness if we are not aware of what it is we genuinely love.  We must learn to savor small, authentic moments that bring us contentment.  Experiment with a new cookie recipe.  Take the time to slowly arrange a bouquet of flowers in order to appreciate their colors, fragrance, and beauty.  Sip a cup of tea on the stoop in the sunshine.  Pause for five minutes to pet a purring cat.  Simple pleasures waiting to be enjoyed.  Simple pleasures often overlooked.

...she delighted in red shoes, good food, sudden bursts of laughter, reading in French, answering letters, loitering in  crowd at the fair and 'a new idea when first it is grasped.'

Let us each grasp a new idea this year.  Let us grasp the awareness of what it is that makes use truly happy.  Let us consider our personal preferences and learn how to recognize, then embrace, moments of happiness that are uniquely our own. ~Susan Ban Breathnach

Today's passage drew from a book that captured Breathnach's attention—A Life of One's Own by Joana Field, published way back in 1934. Naturally, I tracked down a copy for myself and I'm currently working my way through it.

Now I find myself facing the same inquiry that echoes through both books. The question sits before me, simple yet profound: What actually makes me happy?

Good coffee.  Reading poetry.  A book I can't put down.  Old black and white movies.  A homecooked meal.  Watching the sunset.  Costume jewelry.  Bubble baths.  Strawberry and peach wine coolers.  Assembling a diorama.  Dolls.  My art journal.  Sitting on the porch swing doing nothing.  Rearranging my altar.  Writing in my journal.  Candles.  Laughing with my daughter.  Petting my cats.  City lights at night.  The moon.  Looking at the night sky.  Yoga.  Vintage books.  Making jewelry.  Old gothic romance novels.  Dressing up for a night out.  Movie theatres.  Music.  Black high heeled shoes.  Deep philosophical debate with a friend.  Laying in the grass watching the clouds.  Walking barefoot on the shore (any shore with sand and waves will do).  Cuddling a reborn doll.  Painting my toenails.  Handwritten letters.  Making something for someone else (food, a card, a piece of art, jewelry, etc).  A long walk.  Sitting on a bench people-watching.

I could probably come up with a lot more.  But what about you?  What makes you happy?

"The Boyfriend" by Freida McFadden

 

When Swiping Right Leads to Everything Wrong

I dove into this one craving the sharp thrill of suspense, but instead found myself wading through something closer to tedium. Sydney, our protagonist, navigates the treacherous waters of online dating only to encounter a catfish—some oddball who barely offers to cover his half of the check, then proceeds to haunt her steps like a bad dream that won't fade come morning. But fear not! Enter the mysterious savior, stage left, and Sydney is instantly smitten based purely on his face. Delusion, meet desperation.

Reading Sydney's chapters felt like watching someone walk deliberately into traffic while I stood helpless on the sidewalk. Every warning bell clanging, every alarm screaming—she missed them all. I kept wondering: was this intentional characterization, or did the obliviousness just happen organically?

The characters exist as hollow shells rather than breathing humans. One-dimensional cutouts with no substance beneath the surface. We're given mere crumbs when what we desperately need is the whole meal. How am I supposed to understand anyone's motivations when there's nothing there to grasp?

The pacing in the first half limps along uncomfortably. You sense the destination but the journey feels disjointed—chapters that seem to exist independently rather than building toward something cohesive. Does that resonate?

Tom's timeline unfolds separately, taking us back to his teenage years and his obsession with Daisy, the golden girl. He carries his own darkness, secrets tucked away in shadowy corners. Given Daisy's choices, their connection feels inevitable—predictable, even.

Once Sydney's initial encounter with Tom concludes, Daisy's unraveling romance finally gains momentum. By then, though, I'm swimming in confusion and frustration, clutching at fragments of half-formed personalities with nowhere solid to land (except perhaps watching Daisy's spectacular implosion).

And that ending. Lord, that ending. It mirrors the two previous McFadden novels I've experienced—so wildly implausible it defies belief. Flat. Deflating. Bizarre in ways that don't satisfy.

The technical writing ability exists, certainly. But something essential is absent from this narrative, especially in that peculiar conclusion.

I keep attempting to embrace contemporary mainstream fiction, but letdowns like this remind me why I retreat to vintage gothic romance. Those stories wear their silliness openly, their endings sometimes perfect in their impossibility. You know what you're getting, so disappointment rarely finds you.

My Rating:  3/5 stars

"The First Day of Winter" by Laura Lush

 

This book was never just about winter—it was an entire ecosystem of longing. Familial knots tied and untied. The architecture of romantic love, how it builds rooms inside you then burns them down. Nature as witness, as mirror, as the thing that holds us when nothing else will.

I found summer hiding in the margins. Found love threaded through the white spaces between stanzas. Found myself—or versions of myself I'd forgotten, versions I'm still becoming—reflected back in someone else's careful arrangement of words.

Maybe that's what good poetry does: it leaves room for you to walk inside it. To see your own face in the water of someone else's grief, your own heartbeat in their line breaks. Parallels that aren't coincidence but recognition. The shock of reading a stranger's words and thinking yes, exactly that, I've lived that, I know that particular shade of ache.

Winter on the page. Summer in my chest. The poet's life and mine, overlapping like Venn diagrams of memory and longing, separate experiences that somehow touch in the middle, in that sacred space where all our human hurts and hungers meet.

A type of homage to two of my favorite things.

These passages are gold, my favorites from the entire book:

My favorite poem from the collection:

I Do It With Teeth

Self Portrait, 2026

I was born with a fist in my throat

and a howl in my spine.

The doctors said girl but what they meant was

weapon, disguised as soft thing.

My mother knit me from her own unraveling,

thread pulled from wounds she never named.

I came out fighting—

cord wrapped twice around my neck

like I was trying to hang myself

before I even took a breath.

That should have been the first clue.

My cells know how to multiply in the dark.

My blood knows how to clot around betrayal.

My bones? They've broken and reset so many times

they're more callus than calcium,

more scar than structure.

I am built from the architecture of aftermath.

They keep trying to drown me—

those small people with their small cruelties,

their gossip like stones in pockets,

their judgment like rope.

But here's what they don't know:

I have gills they can't see.

I breathe in rooms with no oxygen.

I photosynthesize shame into strength.

Some people inherit money.

Some people inherit good bone structure.

I inherited the ability to not die

when dying would be easier.

I inherited my grandmother's jaw—

set like concrete, like a door that only opens from the inside.

I inherited my mother's hands—

always doing, always making, always building something

from the rubble of whatever just exploded.

I inherited my father's stubbornness—

that refusal to quit even when quitting is the rational choice.

I am a cocktail of resilience and rage,

mixed with a twist of watch me.

They want me soft.

They want me grateful.

They want me to say thank you

for the bare minimum of human decency,

to perform gratitude for being abandoned

at the exact moment I needed someone to stay.

But I am done shrinking.

Done apologizing for taking up space.

Done pretending their comfort

is more important than my truth.

I have been polite through my own crucifixion.

I have said please and thank you

to people nailing my hands to wood.

I have smiled with blood in my teeth.

No more.

This year, I am the flood.

This year, I am the forest fire that clears the dead wood.

This year, I am the earthquake that reminds you

the ground was never as solid as you thought.

I am leaving people in the past

like snake skin,

like old names,

like versions of myself that believed

I needed anyone's permission to exist.

And to those who showed their true faces

while my father was dying,

who chose cruelty when they could have chosen silence,

who weaponized my grief for their own small purposes—

The universe is keeping receipts.

Karma doesn't forget.

And neither do I.

But this isn't about them.

This is about me.

About the woman I'm becoming

in the margins of catastrophe,

in the spaces between heartbeats,

in the quiet morning hours when I decide,

again,

to live.

Not just exist.

Not just endure.

But live.

To plant flowers in my own ruins.

To build cathedrals from my broken parts.

To alchemize every betrayal into something

that looks suspiciously like power.

I am my own religion now.

I worship at the altar of my own becoming.

I pray to the god of my own survival.

I genuflect to no one.

So here I am:

unkillable thing,

ungovernable woman,

unbreakable force of nature

disguised as soft thing.

They keep mistaking me for a victim.

They keep forgetting I have teeth.

Watch me grow.

Watch me rise.

Watch me turn their poison into fertilizer

and bloom anyway.

Watch me survive

because survival isn't my talent—

it's my entire fucking biology.

And baby,

business is good.

-Artwork created in Photoshop and additional image-painting programs

-Poetry written by me

-both copyright to ©Stacy Stephens

January (2026): An Inventory

 January 4th

January arrives like a creditor at the door, demanding accounting. So here: the ledger of last year's losses, written in the cold morning light that makes everything honest, makes everything cruel.

I have learned not to trust the translated word.  From now on: action. Only action. Words are cheap as breath, and I've spent too many hours trying to extract meaning from the meaningless, trying to find truth in the testimony of liars.

The year ahead spreads before me like fresh snow, unmarked. I intend to keep it that way—pristine, untracked by the footprints of those I'm leaving behind. And there are many. So many. A whole procession of the disappointed, the disappointing, the ones who thought I'd be easier to break than I am. They're already receding in the rearview mirror, already becoming small and distant and irrelevant.

My father is dying. Still dying. The cancer doesn't care about calendars, about resolutions, about the meaningless marking of time into years. It eats him slowly, a black flower blooming in reverse, unmaking him cell by cell. And in this—in this most fundamental grief—I have witnessed such grotesque displays of human smallness. People who should have offered hands offered knives instead. People who should have understood offered judgment. Deception dressed up as concern. Cruelty masquerading as care.

There's a particular circle of hell for them. I don't need to believe in God to believe in that. Karma isn't mystical—it's mechanical. What you put into the world comes back, always, with interest. They've made their deposits. They'll collect what's owed.

But I—I'm growing. Despite them. In spite of them. Growing like something forced to root in concrete, the way weeds split sidewalks, the way mushrooms digest rot and transform it into something new. They wanted me to drown. Pushed my head under, held it there, waited for the bubbles to stop. But survival isn't my talent—it's my entire fucking biology.

I am built of scar tissue and stubbornness. I am made of every winter I've endured, every small death I've died and walked away from. They don't understand this. They look at me and see someone to patronize, to help them feel bigger than their small lives. They don't see the teeth.

This year, I move forward. Not because I'm healed—healing is a luxury reserved for those who haven't spent their lives in crisis—but because forward is the only direction that makes sense. The past is a tomb. I've spent enough time decorating it, arranging the flowers, tending the graves of dead relationships and deader dreams. Let it rot. Let them all rot in it.

I think of my father, his body betraying him in the most pedestrian way—cells refusing their instructions, multiplying into catastrophe. I think of how unfair it is, how arbitrary, how the universe doesn't care about good men or bad timing or daughters who aren't done needing their fathers. And then I think of the people who've used this—his dying, my grief—as an opportunity for their own small cruelties, and I feel something hard and bright and absolutely unforgiving crystallize in my chest.

They will answer for it. Not to me—I don't need their confessions, their apologies, their desperate attempts at redemption. They'll answer to themselves.  One day when the tables have turned and they are at their lowest point, they will remember what they did, what they said, how they failed at the most basic requirement of being human: showing up for someone in pain. And they'll have to live with that. They'll have to live with being the kind of person who kicks someone while they're watching their father die.

That's punishment enough.

But I—I refuse to let them make me small. Refuse to let their poison take root. I'm larger than their narratives, more complex than their assessments, more durable than they ever imagined. I've survived things that would have destroyed softer people. I've walked through fires they can't even conceive of and come out still myself, still intact, still here.

So here's to January. To new beginnings that aren't perfect, although I'm still optimistic. To moving forward not because the path is clear but because staying still means death. To trusting actions over words, truth over gossip, my own judgment over the collective delusion.

To surviving, because that's what I do. That's what I've always done.

And to the people I'm leaving behind: may you get exactly what you deserve. May the universe be as kind to you as you were to me.

May you answer for every small cruelty you thought went unnoticed.

May you choke on it.

But for me—for me, there's something else. Something I barely dare to name. Hope. Not the naive kind, not the kind that ignores reality or pretends the past can be erased. But the hard-won kind. The kind that grows in scorched earth. The kind that says: I've survived worse, and I'll survive this, and maybe—just maybe—there's something good waiting on the other side.

I'm going into this year with my eyes open and my expectations big.  And my heart? My heart is tentatively, carefully, defiantly optimistic about what I might build for myself. About who I might become when I'm not spending all my energy on people who don't deserve it.

This year is mine. My life is mine. And I'm ready to claim it.

Living an Analogue Life in 2026

 

We live in a hyperconnected world where everything is streamed, scrolled, and consumed through glowing screens. Notifications ping constantly, algorithms decide what we see, and genuine human connection has been replaced by shallow interactions on social media platforms that profit from our attention and misery.

I'm done with it.

In 2026, I'm choosing to live a more analogue life. Not because I'm rejecting technology entirely, but because I'm reclaiming my time, my attention, and my peace from the digital noise that has taken over everything.

Why Analogue?

Digital life promised us connection, but delivered isolation. It promised us convenience, but stole our ability to be present. It promised us the world at our fingertips, but gave us anxiety, comparison, and endless scrolling that leaves us feeling empty.

I've watched people I thought were friends exist only as profiles and posts. I've seen relationships reduced to who liked what and who commented on whose drama. I've felt the pull of the screen, the compulsion to check just one more thing, refresh just one more time.

Enough.

An analogue life isn't about going backwards. It's about being intentional. It's about choosing quality over convenience. It's about owning physical things that can't be taken away by a corporation, deleted by an algorithm, or lost when a streaming service removes content.

Let me be clear: This isn't about total technology deprivation. I'm not throwing my computer out the window or going completely off-grid. I'll still use my PC for writing—it's practical and necessary for my projects. I'll play my Sims games because they're mentally and creatively stimulating, offering a different kind of creative outlet. I'll use my Kindle for books I don't own in physical form yet or can't find easily.  Open Library requires a browser and internet connection for all the out-of-print books I can't find anywhere else.  And yes, I'll use the internet for posting my blog and staying connected in meaningful ways.

The difference is intention. I'm using technology as a tool when it serves me, not letting it consume me. I'm choosing when and how I engage with screens, not defaulting to them for everything. Technology isn't the enemy—mindless, constant, algorithm-driven consumption is.

My Analogue Plan for 2026

Here's how I'm taking my life back:

Limit Screen Time

No more mindless scrolling. No more falling into the black hole of social media or endless streaming queues. I'm setting strict boundaries on when and how I use screens. Phones stay out of the bedroom. No screens during meals. Designated times for checking anything online, not all day every day.

Physical Books Over E-Readers (Not exclusively, but as much as possible)

There's something irreplaceable about holding a real book. The weight of it, the smell of the pages, the satisfaction of turning each page and seeing your progress. You own it. No company can delete it from your device. No subscription required. No screen glare. Just you and the story.  Plus, it's easy to annotate a physical book, I enjoy writing notes and underlining my favorite passages.  I also have many ebooks on my Kindle, I don't intend to just abandon them because they are in a screen.  The point is to be mindful, to read as many physical books as possible.

DVDs Over Streaming

I'm buying a DVD player. Yes, in 2026. Because I'm tired of paying monthly fees to rent access to content that disappears whenever a licensing deal expires. I want to own movies I love, watch them without internet, without ads, without the service deciding what's "available in my region." I want a physical collection I can revisit whenever I want.

CDs and Vinyl for Music

Real music, not algorithm-curated playlists. Physical albums you can hold, with liner notes and artwork. Music you own, not music you rent through a subscription that can pull songs at any time. Building a collection that reflects my actual taste, not what Spotify thinks I should listen to.

Physical Media: Magazines and Newspapers

Real paper in my hands. No clickbait headlines designed to manipulate me. No comment sections full of strangers arguing. No ads tracking my every move. Just well-written articles, thoughtful journalism, and the simple pleasure of sitting down with something tangible to read.

Writing by Hand

Journals, letters, notes. Pen and paper. The act of writing by hand slows you down, makes you think, connects your thoughts to your words in a way typing never does. No autocorrect, no backspace, just you and your thoughts.

Physical Journals for Everything

Depending on physical journals as much as possible—daily journaling, planning, tracking goals, recording memories, processing emotions. Writing things down by hand instead of typing notes on a phone or computer. Keeping a journal beside my bed, on my desk, in my bag. Making handwritten journaling a daily practice, a grounding ritual that doesn't require batteries or WiFi.

Wiccan Study and Altar Building

Studying Wicca through physical books, handwritten notes, and personal grimoires. Building and tending a physical altar with real objects—crystals, candles, herbs, statues, tools. Creating sacred space in the tangible world, not just through apps or online rituals but as a supplement to what I learn and do online. Creating a binder and journals of my own personal Grimoire. Connecting with spirituality through touch, scent, and presence. Writing spells and intentions by hand, learning from books I can annotate and return to, practicing rituals that exist in real time and space.

Board Games and Puzzles

Entertainment that doesn't require electricity or WiFi. Games you play face-to-face with real people. Puzzles that require patience and presence. Hobbies that exist in the physical world, not behind a screen.

Film Photography

Taking photos that matter, not 500 shots you'll never look at again. Learning to compose a shot carefully because film costs money and you can't just delete and reshoot endlessly. Waiting to develop the film, experiencing the anticipation, holding actual photographs in your hand.

Physical Maps and Calendars

A paper calendar on the wall where you can see the whole month at a glance. Maps you unfold and trace routes with your finger. No GPS telling you where to go every second. Learning to navigate, to plan, to be self-reliant.

Cooking from Cookbooks

Real recipe books with stained pages and handwritten notes in the margins. Not scrolling through a recipe blog with 47 ads and a life story before you get to the ingredients. A collection of trusted recipes you return to again and again.

Letter Writing and Thank You Cards

Actual mail. Written by hand, sent through the postal service, arriving in someone's mailbox as a tangible expression of care. Not a text, not an email, but something they can hold and keep.

Adult Coloring Books

Meditative, creative, hands-on art that requires nothing but colored pencils and time. No screen, no apps, no digital drawing tools. Just the simple satisfaction of filling in intricate designs, choosing colors, creating something beautiful with your own hands. It's calming, mindful, and completely offline.

Reborn Dolls

Collecting and caring for reborn dolls—realistic, handcrafted art dolls that require patience, attention, and creativity. There's something grounding about working with tangible, three-dimensional objects. Dressing them, styling them, arranging them. It's a hobby that exists entirely in the physical world, a creative outlet that can't be reduced to pixels on a screen.

Barbie Dioramas

Building miniature worlds with my hands. Creating scenes, arranging furniture, designing spaces. It's creative problem-solving, storytelling, and craftsmanship all in one. Each diorama is a project—something I can touch, rearrange, photograph, and display. It's art that takes up physical space, that I can walk past and appreciate every day.

Jewelry Crafting

Making jewelry by hand—beading, wire wrapping, designing pieces I can actually wear or give as gifts. There's something deeply satisfying about creating something beautiful and functional from raw materials. Learning techniques, experimenting with colors and patterns, holding finished pieces in my hand. It's creative work with immediate, tangible results.

Art Journaling

Creating art journals with physical paper, glue, scissors, paints, and collage materials. Not a digital journal app, but actual mixed media pages where I can layer textures, experiment with techniques, and create something uniquely mine. Each page is an original piece of art that exists only in this one journal, nowhere else.

ATC Cards and Greeting Cards

Making Artist Trading Cards and handmade greeting cards. Small, intricate art pieces I can trade, collect, or send to people. Every card is handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, made with care and intention. No mass-produced Hallmark cards, no digital e-cards—just real art made by hand.

Patio Garden

Growing my own herbs, flowers, or vegetables in containers on the patio. Getting my hands in the soil, watering plants, watching things grow from seeds or cuttings. Connecting with nature, learning what plants need, creating something living and beautiful right outside my door.

Learning to Sew Doll Clothes

Sewing tiny outfits for my reborn dolls and Barbies. Learning pattern-making, hand-stitching, working with miniature fabrics. It's detailed, precise work that requires focus and patience. Each finished piece is wearable art for my collection.

Jigsaw Puzzles

The ultimate slow, meditative activity. Spending hours fitting pieces together, watching an image gradually emerge. No timer, no score, no competition—just the quiet satisfaction of completing something tangible piece by piece.

One-Person Card Games

Solitaire, patience games, solo card challenges. Simple entertainment that requires nothing but a deck of cards and time. No app notifications, no in-game purchases, just me and the shuffle.

Collecting Postcards

Building a collection of vintage and contemporary postcards—images of places, art, memories. Something I can flip through, display, or send to people. Each postcard is a small piece of art and history I can hold in my hand.

Physical Photo Albums

Printing photos and organizing them in actual albums instead of letting thousands of digital images sit forgotten on a hard drive or phone. Creating tangible albums I can pull off the shelf and flip through—real memories I can hold, share with my family, and pass down. No scrolling through cloud storage, no worrying about file corruption or lost passwords. Just real photographs in real albums that will exist long after any digital platform shuts down!

What I'm Gaining

This isn't about deprivation. It's about richness.

I'm gaining:

• Presence. Being here, now, fully engaged with what's in front of me.
• Ownership. Actually owning things instead of renting access to everything.
• Peace. No more algorithm-driven anxiety and comparison.
• Quality. Choosing what I consume instead of letting corporations choose for me.
• Connection. Real relationships, not digital performance.
• Focus. Deep attention instead of fractured distraction.
• Independence. Not being dependent on internet access, subscriptions, or corporate platforms.

This is a Choice

I'm not saying everyone should do this. I'm not claiming moral superiority. I'm just saying I'm tired of living a life mediated through screens, tired of being the product that companies sell to advertisers, tired of relationships that exist only as notifications.

I want to read books that matter. I want to watch movies I chose, not what an algorithm recommended. I want to listen to music I love, own it, hold it. I want to cook real food, write real words, build real skills.

I want a life that's mine.

2026 is the year I take it back.

I will create additional posts as the year progresses, showing how I've incorporated these things into my daily life.

---

This is my commitment to myself: to live more slowly, more intentionally, more present. To choose quality over convenience. To build a life that exists in the real world, not just the digital one.

Welcome to my analogue year.