The Quiet Practice That Carried Me Through the Year

I didn’t set out to build a streak.

I didn’t choose a word of the year, or a habit meant to make me better, faster, or more disciplined. I wasn’t trying to optimize my mornings or prove anything to myself.

I was just drinking my coffee.

Coloring.

Letting my hands move before my thoughts did.

This morning, as I finished my daily picture, a small message popped up on the screen.

Congrats! You have colored for 365 days in a row.

I stared at it longer than I expected to.

A year?

Have I really been doing this every day?

And then I realized, yes. I have.

I can’t remember a morning when I didn’t start this way. Even when we travel. Even when days are full or heavy or unfamiliar. I pull out my tablet, open the app, and color my daily picture. I’ve even told my husband, more than once, “Wait. I need to color first.” And we laugh, because it’s true.

It centers me.

In the same way knitting does. Or crocheting. Or reading quietly with a cup of something warm nearby. I’ve always been drawn to things that repeat gently, things that don’t ask me to hurry, things that bring my body back into itself.

I think, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve stopped wanting excitement for its own sake. I don’t crave intensity or chaos or proving that I can handle more.

What I want is peace.

Not the kind that comes from everything being perfect, but the kind that comes from choosing steadiness on purpose. The kind that says, “Before the world gets me, I get me.”

This year didn’t carry me because I was productive or disciplined or impressive.

It carried me because I returned to myself every morning.

One picture.

One cup of coffee.

One quiet beginning.

As the year turns, I’m not making resolutions. I’m not declaring reinvention. I’m just noticing what already worked. What held me. What kept me regulated, grounded, and human.

I’m carrying that forward.

Not because an app told me I should.

But because my nervous system already knows.

If you’re standing at this threshold feeling tired, uncertain, or uninterested in becoming a “new” version of yourself, maybe that’s not a failure.

Maybe it’s an invitation to notice what already brings you peace.

And to keep choosing it.

One quiet day at a time.