Transitions Take Energy — Even the Good Ones

Why January feels heavier than it looks (and what that might be asking of us)

January has a particular kind of optimism.

It arrives with clean pages and fresh intentions. New goals feel possible. Plans feel orderly. There’s a sense that if we organize ourselves well enough, momentum will naturally follow.

And yet, a few days in, something subtler often begins to surface.

Not failure.
Not resistance.
Just a quiet tiredness.

A few years ago, I remember standing in my kitchen early one January morning, coffee in hand, staring at a neatly written list on the counter. It was a good list—reasonable goals, nothing dramatic. Still, I felt oddly heavy. Nothing was wrong. Life was fine. And yet, my body felt like it was asking for a slower pace than my plans allowed.

At the time, I remember thinking, This doesn’t make sense. January is supposed to feel motivating.

What I didn’t realize then—but see clearly now—is that transitions take energy.

Even the good ones.

I’ve noticed this pattern repeatedly—in my work, in conversations with thoughtful women, and in my own life. The beginning of something new asks more of us than we tend to acknowledge. Change isn’t just forward motion. It’s adjustment. Reorientation. Letting go of one rhythm while learning another.

That process quietly draws on emotional, cognitive, and physical reserves—whether or not we consciously register it.

What often happens instead is this:
When energy dips, we interpret it as a problem.

So we push harder.
We tighten discipline.
We tell ourselves to focus more, try harder, stay on track.

But what if that tiredness isn’t a sign of weakness—just information?

What if it’s the body and mind saying: something is shifting; pay attention?

I’m increasingly convinced that clarity doesn’t come from pushing through these moments. It comes from pausing long enough to notice what’s actually happening beneath the surface. What’s changing. What’s asking for steadiness rather than speed.

A pause doesn’t mean stopping.
It doesn’t mean quitting or falling behind.

It means choosing to listen before deciding how to move.

This is a quieter form of self-leadership—one that doesn’t announce itself loudly. It shows up in the decision to slow a conversation, to question an assumption, to rest without justifying it. Leadership not measured by how much we carry, but by how intentionally we respond to what life is asking of us right now.

January, like many transitions, isn’t a test of productivity.

It’s an invitation to recalibrate.

To notice the energy we’re carrying.
To soften pressure before it hardens into self-judgment.
To move forward with clarity instead of urgency.

This is the work I find myself returning to again and again—creating space for reflection, steadiness, and more deliberate choices in moments that quietly shape the rest of the year.

Sometimes the most powerful step isn’t the next one on the plan.

It’s the moment we pause long enough to choose it wisely.