Almost 2 weeks ago, while I was in Japan, I received news that my dear friend, Jon Homewood, had passed away. The loss sat heavily with me, and I needed time, quiet and spacious, to process it. Life has a way of reminding us, sometimes sharply, that it is short, fragile, and impossibly precious.

I met Jon 12 years ago in Tokyo. We bonded over movies, wandering the city in search of good food, good conversation, and those small moments that stay with you for years. Jon had ongoing health challenges, yet he approached life with a kind of stoic joy, an ease, a willingness to laugh, a refusal to let illness define him. And always, that unmistakable crisp British accent that made every joke a little funnier and every conversation feel instantly familiar.

After he moved up north and I eventually left Japan, we weren’t in touch as often. But it was one of those friendships where, whenever we did connect, it felt like no time had passed at all. The thread was always there, steady and unchanged, waiting for the next time one of us tugged on it.

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I installed a set of clear drawers recently to keep the things I reach for most: medication, supplements, those small daily essentials, in one visible, accessible place. My husband is always a little amused when I come home with yet another organizing tool, but for me, there’s something genuinely calming about creating visible order. Sliding those clear drawers into place and seeing everything arranged inside felt like a tiny exhale. It reminded me so much of Japan, where organizing isn’t just tidying, it’s a form of gentle care, a way of making life feel smoother and less overwhelming.

That small moment made me realize how much I rely on order to soothe my mind. Not perfection. Not a Pinterest-level aesthetic. Just the grounded, everyday comfort of things having a place, and me knowing where that place is. It’s amazing how seeing what I need, clearly, simply, quietly lowers the background noise in my mind.

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Every January, the world seems to hum with possibility. We buy planners with crisp, untouched pages, sign up for gym memberships, and declare bold promises: “This is the year I’ll finally get it right.”

There’s something intoxicating about that clean slate, the idea that we can reinvent ourselves overnight. I used to love that feeling. I’d write lists of goals so ambitious they felt like a new identity waiting to happen. But by this week, reality would creep in. The planner would sit unopened, the gym shoes untouched, and I’d feel that familiar sting of failure. Why is it so hard to keep resolutions? And why do they feel so heavy, even when they start with hope?

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