Spilled Milk.

Dear Diary, 

I’ve always welcomed New Year’s Day with open arms. I love the sense of renewal, of second chances; the newfound, collective inspiration to start fresh, to try harder, to be better. And like most people, I’ve spent the last several days or so thinking about potential resolutions, about all the little ways my life could possibly be better in 2026. However, I continuously found myself drawing a blank.

This was odd. There were certainly plenty of ways I’d fallen short in 2025; I didn’t drink enough water and probably drank a little too much alcohol. I didn’t read enough. I didn’t write enough. I wasn’t as consistent in the gym as I’d wanted to be. 

And yet, when I put pen to paper, these things just seemed so trivial. A question a therapist had asked me almost a decade ago played over and over in my head as I tried to write my list: “Are you happy, generally?” At the time, I couldn’t imagine what that felt like– being “generally happy.” Content, you might say. 

But this year, on January first, I woke up– late morning, still resolution-less– next to my boyfriend in our big bed in the old log cabin we recently moved into together. The cats roused us from beneath the covers by sulking about their empty food bowls, and he made coffee while I sat in a sunbeam on the hardwood floor and wrapped a late Christmas gift.                                                                                            

It occurred to me then how badly I’d wanted this, and for how long. If you believe in astrology, I’ll tell you I’m the textbook double-Cancer; I’ve always craved domesticity and peace. A quiet house with big windows and lots of sunlight, with space for sprawling plants, with animals sunbathing or sleeping in windowsills. And someone there with me, someone who is not angry or unkind. Someone to make a home with. 

Then, yesterday, a few friends and I helped Logan paint his living room. I’m frequently caught off guard by the way meaning can be found (and, I think, is most often found) in the most mundane moments we spend with the people we love– in the chores shared for no reason besides that they can be, in company without occasion. It felt special to know we were all collectively helping create a space where we’d inevitably share a lot of time and memories, and despite my paint-flecked hair and cramping fingers, I found myself realizing once again that I’d found something I’d wanted for so long. 

I was a lonely kid. I don’t think this surprises anyone. I always wanted to feel like I was part of something, like I mattered to people, like there were people who understood me. Really understood me. I wanted friends who showed up not just for parties and nights out, but also when it was ugly, or hard, or boring; friends who understood that grief shared is halved and joy shared is double, who wanted community the same way I did. 

I think a lot of us have a tendency to forget our own longing the second it’s alleviated, especially when we’re always focusing on what we don’t have. When I think about it, deep down, I already have everything I have ever truly wanted. If everything else in my life went to shit, I think I would be okay. 

So my resolution this year isn’t to embark on some endless journey of self-improvement, or to obsess about all the trivial ways I, or my life, could be better. Instead of wanting more, I want to be conscious of and grateful for the endless blessings I already have. I want to continue to nourish and grow the communities I’m part of. I want to remember to look around. 

With love,

Korah