New Year and the New Me Is Still MIA

A few days into the new year and the new me is still missing in action.

No glittery entrance. No dramatic reveal. No sudden urge to wake up at 5 a.m., drink celery juice, forgive everyone, and become a woman who owns matching pajama sets and inner peace.

Instead, it’s me.

Still healing.

Still tired.

Still squinting at the calendar like, Are you sure we’re doing this already?

January arrived loud. Bold. Full of expectations.

Everyone online seems to have upgraded—new routines, new bodies, new mindsets, new lives. Meanwhile, I’m negotiating with my body like it’s a hostile landlord.

“Just a little more patience,” it says.

“Just a little more rest.”

“Just one more appointment.”

The thing no one tells you about reinvention is that sometimes it looks exactly like survival.

No fireworks. No captions worth posting. Just quiet endurance and a whole lot of invisible work.

And maybe that’s why the new me is MIA.

Because she’s not new.

She’s becoming.

She’s under construction.

She’s healing in places no one can see.

She’s learning how to exist in a body that has changed the rules without asking permission.

I used to think January was about arrival.

Now I think it’s about honesty.

Honesty about where you actually are.

Honesty about what you can carry.

Honesty about the fact that growth doesn’t always look productive—it sometimes looks like saying no, lying down, canceling plans, and choosing yourself without explaining.

The old version of me chased timelines.

The newer version—wherever she is—understands seasons.

This season is slow.

This season is tender.

This season doesn’t need a rebrand.

So if your “new you” hasn’t shown up yet either, maybe she’s not late.

Maybe she’s just taking the long way because she’s carrying more wisdom this time.

I’ll meet her when she’s ready.

In sneakers, probably.

Still limping.

Still hopeful.

Still here.

And honestly?

That’s enough for now.