It’s been a long time since I wrote here. Not because nothing was happening, quite the opposite. Too much was happening, and I had to reprioritize. Life demanded attention in places that writing quietly slipped away from. Maybe today’s note should be called a delayed update, or perhaps a pause, finally learning how to speak again.

A new year has begun, and with it comes the familiar ritual of plans, vision boards, ambitions, and carefully worded intentions. We all do this in our own ways. Some loudly, some quietly. I do it quietly. I always have.

One of my intentions this year is to be more consistent with my reading. Last year, I read 42 books. This year, the goal is 30 books, with six big, chunky reads spread across alternate months. Fewer books, perhaps, but more intentional ones. More time to sit with ideas instead of rushing through them.

Recently, I found myself thinking about reading in the context of time. If a human being starts reading at the age of eight and reads fifty books a year, then with an average life expectancy of eighty years, they would read around 4,000 books in their lifetime. Four thousand. And then consider that there are millions of books in existence. Millions of voices, stories, philosophies, lives, thoughts, far more than we could ever experience.

It’s a humbling thought. Before us, there was an eternity. After us, there will be another. And we exist as a brief blip in between.

Yet even with that awareness, we are rarely content with what we have achieved, or with what has been given to us. We constantly feel behind, insufficient, and incomplete. As if fulfillment is always one milestone away.

I recently finished A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman, and I loved both the book and the author. I fully intend to read more of his work. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a cozy, deeply human reading experience.

While reading it, I realized something uncomfortable but honest: I share many qualities with Ove. And I know there’s a high possibility that many others do too.

I am structured. I like things done a certain way. I’m not much of a talker. Connecting with people doesn’t come easily to me, and making friends certainly isn’t my strongest skill, especially as we get older. In fact, one of my resolutions this year is to make at least one new friend.

That being said, I believe most of us, quiet or loud, are kind, jovial, and easygoing to a certain extent. Or at least, I hope we are. Yet the society we live in often demands that everything be over the top. Grand. Extravagant. Even kindness.

Expressive kindness is rewarded more than quiet kindness. And I want to be clear, I’m not saying kindness shouldn’t be expressive. Kindness in any form is still kindness at the end of the day. But I do question a world that measures goodness by its visibility.

There are people who show up without announcing it. People who help without documenting it. People who care deeply but don’t know how to package it attractively. Their kindness doesn’t trend. It doesn’t get applause. And yet, it is no less real.

We live in a time where everything needs to be seen to be validated. Where experiences must be shared, moments must be optimized, and even simplicity must be aestheticized.

Again, I’m not saying one way is right and the other is wrong. We live in a world where something categorized as “good” ten years ago can suddenly be labeled harmful today, to the extent that merely existing within it feels wrong. I understand that change is the only constant.

But when eternal beauty is repackaged as luxury, that’s where I begin to feel uneasy.

When stillness becomes expensive. When silence is only accessible through retreats. When mindfulness is sold instead of practiced. When simplicity is no longer simple but curated. We begin to lose something essential, not because progress is bad, but because we’ve attached a price tag to peace.

Ove reminded me that there is dignity in routine. That there is love in showing up the same way every day. That not all heroes are expressive, and not all kindness needs witnesses. Sometimes, the most meaningful lives look ordinary from the outside.

Perhaps that’s why the book stayed with me.

This year, I want to read more intentionally, live more gently, and measure my progress less loudly. I want to value quiet consistency over dramatic transformation. I want to allow myself to exist without constantly justifying my pace, my personality, or my preferences.

I don’t want to chase grandness for the sake of appearing successful. I want to find contentment in doing small things well, reading thoughtfully, caring sincerely, and building at least one genuine connection along the way.

If nothing else, this delayed update is a reminder to myself: it’s okay to be a blip. A quiet one. A structured one. A slightly awkward one.

As long as it’s honest.