Ah, January. The month that drags on forever, filled with cold, grey skies, failed resolutions, and an overwhelming sense that we should be doing better. But what if January isn’t the fresh start we’ve been led to believe? What if, instead of fighting through the gloom, we just accepted that this month is a total write-off and started the new year properly on February 1st?
As it turns out, this isn’t just my way of justifying an entire month spent eating leftover Christmas chocolates. The idea of starting the year in February has real roots in pagan traditions. The ancient Celts celebrated Imbolc at the beginning of February, a festival marking the return of the light, new beginnings, and fresh energy. Unlike the forced optimism of January 1st, Imbolc actually feels like the start of something new. The days are getting longer, snowdrops are appearing, and we can finally begin to believe that spring might actually happen.
This year, instead of fighting my inevitable January slump, I embraced it. I accepted that I was going to be tired, grumpy, and mildly hibernating for the month, and I did something radical: I moved New Year’s Eve. On January 31st, instead of staring down another dreary month, I told Bruce to pack a bag, booked a weekend in Christchurch, and toasted the real new year by the river, champagne in hand. A little indulgent? Perhaps. But it made so much more sense than forcing myself into positivity when I just wasn’t feeling it.
So, here’s my proposal: Let’s stop pretending January is a time for fresh starts. Let’s acknowledge that it’s basically just a bonus track from the previous year; one we can skip. Let’s celebrate properly on February 1st, when we’re actually ready. Who’s with me?