Rising Rooted

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This post is coming out near the end of January.

Which, frankly, feels on brand.

If this were a productivity blog, I’d be behind already.

But for a post about slowness, softness, and refusing unnecessary urgency? This timing feels… correct.

I’m not late… I’m embodying the practice 😉

And if you’re still feeling foggy, tired, resistant, or quietly allergic to the whole new year, new you energy—good. You’re not broken. You’re paying attention.

January, reoriented

Before we get into how to do January differently, it helps to zoom out for a moment.

January being “the beginning of the year” is not some timeless truth handed down by nature. In many older, earth-based calendars, the year begins in spring, when life actually stirs again. In others, it begins in the dark—at Samhain—marking a cycle of death, rest, and renewal rather than immediate action.

January as the start of the year is largely a cultural and political decision—shaped by Roman governance, reinforced by industrial schedules, and now aggressively upheld by consumer capitalism. Gyms, planners, programs, apps, and self-improvement industries all rely on the idea that January is when you should overhaul yourself.

Which is… a bold choice, given that January is often the coldest, darkest, most resource-conserving time of the year.

So if your body didn’t get the memo, that’s not a motivation issue.

That’s biology. Ecology. Nervous system reality.

Here’s a different lens…

The month is named after Janus, the Roman god of thresholds, doorways, and transitions—often depicted with two faces: one looking back, one looking forward. Janus wasn’t concerned with momentum. His role was orientation.

One eye on what has been.

One eye on what is becoming.

Feet planted in the doorway.

January, in this older understanding, wasn’t about charging ahead. It was about reckoning honestly with the last cycle—how you actually lived, what it cost you, what sustained you—and letting that information shape how you move forward.

That’s a very different energy than optimization.

And it lines up far more closely with what the land is doing right now.

What “new year, new you” actually does to a lot of us

Personally, that phrase triggers an eye roll and a mild gag reflex.

Not because the desire to grow is bad—it’s deeply human—but because it’s been co-opted into something harsh and transactional. It quietly suggests that who you are right now is insufficient, and that January is when you’re supposed to fix it.

Before I learned how to step sideways out of that pressure, January often came with:

• a tight, braced feeling in my body
• shame about goals I already sensed wouldn’t stick
• fatigue just thinking about improvement

Deep winter is not a time to start strong.

It’s a time to stay warm and stay alive.

So instead of asking How do I reinvent myself?

Janus invites a different question:

What if this moment is for orientation, not execution?

Dreamtime, foundations, and the body’s wisdom

At least here on unceded Anishinaabe territory (Madawaska Valley, Ontario), January is quiet.

Snowy. Still. Sparse.

The land isn’t expanding—it’s conserving. The soil is gathering nutrients. Roots are deepening with no visible movement above ground.

Nothing about this landscape is asking for urgency.

From a mental health perspective, this matters:

• bodies are tired after months of stress and stimulation
• nervous systems are settling after December’s intensity
• daylight is limited, which affects mood, energy, and focus
• most of us are expected to perform as if none of that is true

That mismatch takes a toll.

Gentle January isn’t about opting out of life.

It’s about listening closely enough to set foundations that won’t collapse later.

A Janus pause (if you’re open to it)

If you’re open to it, take a moment here.

Let your attention gently turn backward:

• How did the last year actually feel in your body?
• Where did you stretch beyond capacity?
• Where did you feel most like yourself?

Now, without rushing, let your attention soften forward:

• What kind of care would support a different way of living?
• What would allow you to have more to offer—without burning out?

Notice where these reflections land physically.

Is there heaviness? Relief? Tightness? A sense of longing?

No fixing. No planning.

Just standing in the doorway for a breath.

That noticing is the work.

A gentler way to orient to the calendar year

I still work with the calendar year. I plan. I dream. I have goals.

I just don’t treat January like the beginning of everything.

For me, this time of year is about orientation, not output.

Instead of resolutions, I work with:

• one to three words I want to give myself for the year
• a visual practice (collage, drawing, imagery) that helps me feel those intentions
• one guiding teacher or archetypal lesson I’m exploring

This year, the gifts I’m inviting in are slowness and sadhana—a personal, lived ritual practice that supports growth without burning me out.

And the teacher I’m working with is Saturn, an archetypal mentor of discipline and sustainable structure.

I’m good at imagination and devotion. I struggle more with the mundane, day-to-day containers that actually hold those qualities in place. Saturn, for me, represents learning how to build rhythms that support life instead of draining it.

These aren’t flashy goals.

They’re not impressive.

They’re humane.

What “tending the foundations” looks like in real life

This is where Gentle January becomes tangible.

Tending the foundations doesn’t mean doing everything at once. It means noticing capacity and letting that be real information.

For example: This year, I am imagining a life with slower mornings, more ritual, more embodied presence. So I played with a day rhythm—slow mornings, focused work blocks, gentler evenings.

Did I suddenly start living that way perfectly?

Absolutely not.

I have started with one piece: the morning block.

I made it small. Minimal. Kind.

And when I fall off, I don’t punish myself. I remind myself why I care.

That cycle—intend, try, drift, remember, return—is not failure.

It’s how change actually happens.

If a goal makes your whole body tighten, that’s not laziness.

It’s information.

A nature-based practice for this season

On a day when you can see light pouring through bare trees—whether on a walk or through a window—pause.

Let your eyes rest on how the light moves through the branches.

If you’re open to it, imagine that light as something gently magnetic.

Ask yourself:

Where am I being pulled this year—not pushed?

No answers required. Let the question linger.

Let nature remind you that growth happens slowly, often invisibly, and always in relationship.

Why this matters (quietly, but deeply)

This isn’t about self-care as an individualistic project.

It’s about self-tending as a prerequisite for contribution.

When we skip this reflective pause—when January gets hijacked by optimization—we don’t become better humans. We become exhausted ones. Disconnected ones. People with good intentions and no reserves.

Janus doesn’t demand change.

He asks for honesty.

And honesty about capacity is what makes sustainable care—for ourselves, our relationships, and the wider world—possible.

A doorway, not a directive

I’m not here to tell you the right way to do January.

I’m offering a doorway.

An older, earth-honouring way of moving through time—one that doesn’t require urgency, self-criticism, or reinvention in the dead of winter.

You get to choose what January is for.

Maybe it’s for dreaming. Maybe it’s for resting. Maybe it’s for laying one small brick at a time.

None of that makes you behind.

It means you’re standing at the threshold—looking back honestly, looking forward gently, and letting the path reveal itself at a human pace.

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If this spoke to something in you, there are a few paths you can follow from here:

Each door leads somewhere different. It is my hope that all of them lead back to you.

<3 Rachel