Gelato Mama Thinks January Gets a Bad Rap

The party is over. The tree comes down. Holiday cookies have disintegrated into a pile of crumbs at the bottom of the tin.

As exhausting as it was, a space that was once so full of list-writing, food-shopping and magic-making suddenly feels empty. And as January slips in, it’s easy to feel a little down—that feeling of “what now?” taking residence, tapping you on the shoulder. 

For some, I’m sure, January comes naturally as a relief—holidays not being equal in their distribution of making merry—and I have experienced that sense of relief myself in years past … a giant exhale as I box up ornaments, sweep pine needles from my floor a final time and stack the boxes back into the garage. As cozy as it is to have a lighted tree in the middle of the living room, once it’s gone the house feels fresh and reinvented—waiting for its New Year’s resolutions.

January used to hit me with a thud. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to appreciate January’s entrance with her days shrouded in silence, as if January herself put a finger to her lips and whispered a long “shush.” Rest, she says. Slow down. 

I’ve learned to appreciate this stillness, even as I mourn the passing of another year. Time itself we cannot stop as it hurls itself face-first downhill, but knowing how precious these days are, I try my best to almost sit inside time—let it wash over me—instead of grasping at its coattails.

January, with its days stretching into each evening just a bit longer than the one before, encourages in me a desire not necessarily to sit down and write out goals or aspirations for the new year but instead to sit with a quiet reflection of the here and the now. Because before I know it, I’ll be hauling the boxes back out of the garage, hoisting a tree up to the living room and gobbling peanut butter blossom cookies, leaving a trail of crumbs behind me.

For so many Januarys, I’ve entered the new year with a general idea of what’s to come. But 2025 hits differently because, come springtime, I’ll watch as my firstborn walks in cap and gown and graduates from high school. 

I find myself almost resentfully entering this new year. How dare you come now, sir? How dare you sneak in? And with you, you’ll take this child away from me—carrying him on to adventures known only to him. 2025 has always been out there—not really a year, just a number stamped upon my child when he started kindergarten: Class of 2025. It’s silly how far away it felt. But of course, this is the way of things.

I still welcome you, January, a bit more trepidatiously perhaps. December’s always showing off, and as much as I love the shine, I’ll happily take your slow, prodding days and stretch them out as long as I can.