Yesterday, we all posted/blogged/tagged/tweeted and otherwise shouted out our excitement and hopes for 2016. “It’s gonna be a great year!” “Turning over a new leaf!” “The best year ever!”

So here we are. January 1. Does it feel any different?

Not really. Whatever magic we thought would happen overnight to make our lives instantly turn into some Pinterest worthy Norman Rockwell ideal, didn’t come through. The house remains messy. The kids remain loud. I remain tired.

And you know, I am surprisingly comforted by that. I think, sometimes, what we wish for in our minds, isn’t actually true to who we are. We want the spotlessly clean house and the gourmet meals on the table at 6 o’clock sharp. But what we don’t take into account is what those outcomes require on the front end. The time spent with our children sacrificed to scrub the shower tile. The labor of cooking when the truth is we hate to chop vegetables.

As I read and journaled this morning, I noted, “2016 is a hopeful year. A year of changes, new experiences, new perspectives. I’m excited!” But I am not so hopeful that I will suddenly become someone different or that my house will suddenly become clean or that my children will suddenly stop screaming at each other. No, I am hopeful that I will find pure joy and contentment in who I am. I am hopeful that the unfolded laundry and the crumbs on the floor will simply bother me less. I am hopeful that I’ll spend less time yelling at my kids to be quiet and more time joining in their fun.

So today didn’t feel much different. Because it wasn’t. The change I hope to find lies not in having a different outcome, but having a different appreciation for what I already have.

Disclaimer: My viewpoints are not necessarily reflective of my employer, or any local, regional or national organization that I belong to. As a matter of fact, I pretty much just speak for myself. Please keep that in mind.