Jazz, Journals, and the Year Behind

Some rituals are inherited, passed down with the scent of cinnamon and pine. Others are invented, born of necessity, memory, or quiet rebellion. Mine is a little of both.

Each winter, as the calendar rolls toward the year’s final pages, I find myself drawn back to something elemental. Not a particular place, but a particular posture: the return inward. And though it may sound strange in a world built on momentum and metrics, my ritual is simple, to pause, to remember, and to begin again.

The Spark and the Book That Lit the Path

The ritual began in 2008, though I didn’t call it that at the time.

That was the year I picked up a book at my local Starbucks while getting my daily Pumpkin Spiced Latte. The book was, 5: Where Will You Be Five Years from Today? Something about it resonated with me at a point where my life was in flux. The premise was simple, but provocative. It asked me to think long-term, to visualize not just goals but outcomes, lifestyle, mindset. And for the first time, I did.

I sat down that December and mapped out where I wanted to be, who I wanted to become. The habit didn’t end with that book. Year after year, I kept at it. Not always perfectly. But consistently.

What started as a simple goal-setting exercise evolved into a personal ritual. It grew into structured reflection. Into writing. Into journaling. And eventually, into an annual return to self.

Over time, the practice deepened. The goals lived in Evernote. The entries piled up, hundreds of them, now thousands, spanning years. Some furious and scattered. Others calm and clear-eyed. And every December, I revisit them.

Not to judge. Not to gloat. But to understand. To notice the loops. The stories I repeat. The promises I kept, or didn’t. The dreams that quietly persist.

The Reset Button

Some winters, despite the structure and the practice, I still hit a wall.

There are years when the noise creeps in, when the system feels overloaded; professionally, mentally, physically. The structure is there, but I lose touch with it. I move through days without reflection. I let the urgency of work or the weight of expectations pull me out of alignment.

And that’s when the ritual matters most.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not reactive. It’s the act of returning. Of re-opening Evernote. Of reading old entries, not to critique, but to reconnect. It’s lighting the room just right. Playing something slow and familiar. And allowing the words to come, whatever they are.

This is the reset. Not the escape. Not the break. But the recalibration.

The reminder that I don’t need to start over. I just need to re-center.

Lights, Jazz, and Evernote

There is always light, the steady amber of a desk lamp, or the warm glow of Christmas lights strung around the tree or on the mantle.

There is always music, Rat Pack crooners, Christmas jazz, something that feels both nostalgic and grounding.

There is no printout. No vision board. Just me, my laptop, and Evernote filled with the year’s goals, typed with the boldness of someone determined to make this “the year.” I don’t revisit them to shame myself. I read with curiosity. I laugh at how serious I was about some things. I nod at the quiet wins. And then, I begin again.

Not resolutions. Rituals. Not reinvention, but realignment.

My winter ritual isn’t about changing my life in a day. It’s about checking the compass. Making sure I’m still steering the ship and not just drifting with the tide.

Winter as Teacher

Most people look to spring as the season of renewal. I disagree. Winter is where the seeds are planted. Quietly. Beneath the surface.

It’s in these quiet, glowing hours that I sketch the blueprint for the year ahead. One winter, I imagined a life in football and found myself in London the next year. Another time, I confronted burnout and started laying the foundation for financial independence.

The transformation never begins in the rush. It begins in stillness.

A Ritual of Becoming

My winter ritual isn’t dramatic. It isn’t public. But it’s sacred. And every year, it brings me back to myself.

We all need checkpoints. Winter gives me mine. It’s the moment I stop and ask: Who am I now? Who am I becoming? Am I still aligned with what matters or just moving through inertia?

This isn’t about productivity. It’s about presence. It’s about asking better questions of myself, not because the year is ending, but because the darkness makes the answers easier to hear.

So when the world quiets down, and the room is lit by white bulbs and jazz, I return to the ritual. I write. I remember. I rebuild.

And slowly, silently, the next version of me begins to take shape, beneath the snow, beneath the noise, beneath the light.