The week between Christmas and New Year’s is a strange little hallway of time.
The inbox slows. Meetings vanish. The world exhales. And even if life is still life—laundry, errands, family dynamics, the existential question of whether anyone actually likes pannetone—there’s a softness to these days that feels… rare.
For me, this week is sacred.
Not in a perfectly curated, matching-pajamas kind of way. More like: I can finally hear myself think.
Because here’s the truth: most of us are walking around with a browser full of open tabs in our minds—self-doubt, anxiety, internal commentary, half-finished decisions, old conversations we’re still replaying for no reason whatsoever. We’re trying to lead, love, create, decide, and grow… with a mental desktop that looks like a teenager’s laptop the night before finals. We’re full of internal clutter.
And then we wonder why we can’t access clarity.
Internal Clutter: The Noise We Stop Noticing
External clutter is easy to spot. It’s the pile of mail. The kitchen counter. The closet that could swallow a person.
Internal clutter is sneakier.
It sounds like:
- You’re behind.
- You should be doing more.
- What if you mess it up?
- Everyone else has it figured out.
- Why did you say it like that?
- You’re not as disciplined as you should be.
This isn’t just annoying. It’s expensive.
Mental “open tabs” sap clarity the way background apps drain battery. You can still function… but you’re glitchy. You forget what you walked into the room for. You react faster than you reflect. You make decisions from pressure instead of truth.
And if you’re a leader, that cost compounds because your internal noise doesn’t stay internal. It leaks into how you communicate, how you show up, how you set goals, and how you respond when the year gets hard (because it will). Outside of work you’re impacted just the same.
Stillness Isn’t Silence. It’s Observation.
When I talk about stillness, I’m not talking about becoming a monk or deleting every thought from your brain like you’re clearing cookies.
Stillness is observation, not judgment.
It’s the moment you notice: Oh. That’s anxiety talking.
Or: Interesting. My inner monologue is narrating my life like a slightly hostile sports commentator (looking at you, Collinsworth).
Stillness gives you distance from the noise.
And in that distance, you can stop confusing your thoughts with your identity.
Self-talk says: This means something about you.
Self-awareness says: This is something happening inside you.
That shift is everything.
Because when you stop arguing with your mind and start observing it, you regain agency. You can choose what to engage. You can choose what to let pass through. You can choose what deserves action and what just deserves a slow blink and a “not today.”
Externalize the Chatter: Tools That Get the Noise Out of Your Head
If your mind is full of open tabs, you don’t need more discipline. You need a way to close them.
Here are a few tools I return to—especially this week, when I’m reflecting and planning:
1) The Brain Dump (unfiltered, unpretty, effective).
Set a timer for 10 minutes and write everything in your head. Not sentences. Not insights. Just the noise. The worries. The to-dos. The looping thoughts. Get it onto paper so your brain stops trying to hold it all.
2) Name the Voice.
When you catch the inner monologue spiraling, name it. “Ah, hello, Self-Doubt.” “Oh good, the Catastrophe Channel is on again.”
This isn’t cute—it’s cognitive distance. Naming is a form of power.
3) Two-Column Truth Test.
Left column: what the self-talk is saying.
Right column: what you actually know to be true.
This is where clarity lives: in evidence, in grounded reality, in the steady voice underneath the drama.
4) A “Not Now” List.
Some tabs don’t need closing; they need scheduling. Make a list of what you’ll return to later—and when. Your brain relaxes when it trusts you won’t forget.
Why New Year’s Day Feels Like Magic (and What It’s Really Made Of)
I love New Year’s Day in a way I can’t fully explain without sounding like a human Golden Retriever. It’s always been a day of inspiration for me.
The new year feels like possibility and joy. Like a clean notebook. Like a version of me who hasn’t made today’s mistakes yet.
New Year’s Day isn’t just a date on the calendar. It’s a felt sense—a spaciousness that makes room for new ideas, new choices, a new way of being.
But here’s the part I’ve come to believe: the “magic” of New Year’s isn’t the number changing.
It’s the stillness.
It’s the pause that invites perspective.
It’s the brief moment when we step back far enough to see our lives more clearly—and to remember what’s true. And our time to clear a lot of the internal clutter.
My Three Wishes Ritual (and Why It Works)
Once I’ve closed the tabs, I work on reflecting and goal setting. I take my time over the course of the week. It crescendos into my New Year’s Eve ritual. Every year, I write three wishes on wish paper:
- One personal.
- One professional.
- One about the person I want to become.
On New Year’s Eve, I burn them.
It’s small and symbolic and a little witchy—in the best way.
But the power isn’t in the flame. The power is in the clarity it requires.
To write a true wish, you have to get quiet enough to hear what you actually want—not what you think you should want. Not what looks impressive. Not what would make other people relax. What’s real.
And that kind of clarity doesn’t come from pushing harder.
It comes from stillness.
The Real Secret: The New Year Is Available Any Moment
Here’s what I want you to know: you don’t have to wait for January 1st to start again.
The fresh start energy? It’s not seasonal. It’s accessible.
Any moment you pause long enough to return to yourself is a small New Year’s Day.
Any moment you observe your mind instead of obeying it is a reset.
Any moment you create inner silence—even for 60 seconds—is a gateway to deeper noticing: what you’re avoiding, what you’re craving, what you’re ready for, what you’ve outgrown, what’s quietly calling you forward.
Stillness doesn’t give you “perfect goals.”
It gives you honest ones.
And from honesty comes alignment. From alignment comes momentum. From momentum comes the life you’re actually trying to build.
So if you’re in that in-between week right now, or if it’s a random Tuesday in March and your brain is buzzing like a beehive in a blender—try this:
Take one minute.
Breathe.
Notice the open tabs.
And choose one tiny closure.
Not through force.
Through stillness.
Because clarity isn’t something you earn by hustling. It’s something you return to—again and again—when you remember how to get quiet enough to hear your own truth.