At this point in the month, I no longer believe January is a time period. It’s a geographic region. A frozen emotional hellscape we’re all wandering through like pioneers with slightly better coats.

We’re on Day 20-something, which means we’re roughly a quarter through the month’s 87-day runtime. I’ve lost all sense of when anything is supposed to happen. The holidays feel like they occurred three presidential administrations ago. The kids returned to school sometime in the Cretaceous period. I think I made a New Year’s resolution? Couldn’t tell you what it was. Might have been “survive.” Might have been “buy more broccoli.” Both seem unrealistic at this stage.

January has this strange quality where each individual week somehow contains 14 days, and every Monday arrives with the confidence of someone who refuses to acknowledge they were just here.

The days are long. The month is longer. And the sun appears briefly each afternoon just to taunt us before disappearing again like a shy Victorian ghost.

People keep saying things like, “Hang in there, spring is coming!” which is adorable, because spring is not coming. Not in any meaningful or emotionally accessible way. Spring is a rumor. Spring is a myth parents tell their children so they don’t lose hope during recess.

Meanwhile, the motivational crowd is still out there posting their color-coded planners and 5 a.m. workouts as if time functions normally for them. Their January appears to be moving at a reasonable pace, while the rest of us are trapped in dog years.

And now—since we’re being honest—here’s where we are today: the weather has settled into its monotony. One day it’s cold, the next it’s colder, and occasionally we’re granted a day that is “not quite as punishing,” where the wind merely disrespects you instead of assaulting you.

This is the stretch of January where the novelty of a new year has worn off, the routines have settled, and reality has tapped us politely on the shoulder to say, “Better get comfortable. We still have at least five more weeks of this.”

But don’t worry.
We’ll make it.
Eventually.
Probably.
Ish.