Michelle and I make our biggest plans when we are absolutely certain we should be asleep. We’ll say good night, turn off the light, and then one of us will say something dangerous like, “You know what we should do…”

Three hours later, we’re still talking, solving the world’s problems, and wondering why we’re tired all the time.

Our most recent late-night planning session happened a few days before Christmas. This was supposed to be the Christmas. The organized one. The calm one. The kind you see in Hallmark commercials  where everyone wears stylish but comfortable clothes, drinks hot beverages, and nothing goes wrong. 

We were going to bask in a slower, quieter, less stressful holiday season.

At this point in our lives, we’ve decided we don’t have to put up with everything anymore. We’ve streamlined. We’ve focused on what matters. We’ve stopped being people pleasers. We’ve both recently left some unpleasant situations, started new ventures, and generally feel happier and healthier.  We’ve decided to shake off the excess baggage, if you will.

So naturally, Christmas was supposed to reflect all that personal growth.

For a while, it did. Gifts were mostly handled. Menus were planned. We intentionally made time for the people we actually wanted to see. We enjoyed family time.

 Things felt under control, which should have been our first clue trouble was coming.

That night, our conversation drifted into learning styles, thought patterns, and how your brain handles information as you get older. We talked about things we forget – and things that don’t even stick around long enough to be forgotten. Thoughts that show up, mull around, and immediately leave our old noggins.

We reached the same conclusion at the same time: we have too much stuff and too much to think about.

There we were, lying in bed, planning the Great Clean-Out of 2026. It would be done in phases. Closets. Drawers. Basement. Garage. The dusty “toy room,” which would be tackled only when the teenager was not around to suddenly rediscover deep emotional attachments to toys that haven’t been touched since 2013. We planned to have weekly meetings in which we talk and plan.  Every little thing.

Yes, we took notes. We were focused. Ambitious. Intentional. We kept saying, “As soon as the holidays are over.”A hard reset.

Even though we both had time off work, we planned to stay productive. I grabbed my calendar and started assigning myself deadlines – complete with built-in wiggle room. I was going to be ahead of the game. A version of me that almost never exists.

Then Dec. 23 arrived.

Some Christmas gifts were delayed. Ingredients we were sure we had were nowhere to be found. We ventured into grocery stores and malls filled with people who had clearly also believed, at some point, this year would be different.  

Maybe we could salvage the new us. The organized and on-top-of-things people we had decided to become.

“Oh well,” I thought. “At least I’ll sit down and hammer out a few columns.”

I couldn’t find my laptop! Not misplaced. Not nearby. Gone.

The whole family searched. I briefly accepted the idea someone had broken in and stolen my old, glitchy laptop and nothing else, which raised more questions than it answered.

The last time I remembered using it, it was in the bedroom. I keep a little portable work pile next to the bed. I also tend to dress in layers, and when I get warm, I’ll drape a shirt over a chair, the foot of the bed, or – apparently – the nightstand.

What I forgot was that earlier, I had neatly placed my laptop on that same nightstand.

Eventually, I heard Michelle’s voice from upstairs – welcome, but clearly annoyed – saying, “I found it. Do you want me to bring it to you?”

Fearing she might throw it, I met her halfway up the stairs, greeting her with a sheepish smile.  

She was gracious and gave me a sympathetic, weak smile.

I finally sat down to write. When I opened the laptop, the list we’d made about how organized we were going to be in 2026 fell out. I could swear I heard tiny laughter coming from somewhere.

Notebook paper gremlins?

I looked at the plan. Right there at the end, under “Take extra items to Goodwill,” I felt like adding, “See doctor about focusing medication.”

Not as funny as it sounds.

But maybe that’s the real lesson. We can make all the lists we want. We can plan resets, clean-outs, and perfect holidays. But sometimes, the best we can do is laugh, admit we covered our laptop with a shirt, and try again next year.