Start 2026 Right: With Regret, Sauerkraut, and a Nasal Dilator
Why January is the Hunger Games of self-worth.
Well, you did it. You made it through the holidays by consuming enough calories to sink the Titanic. Thankfully, the accompanying sugar spike buoyed you like a half-inflated Costco pool float. Throw in some healthy fats (read: the cheese on the charcuterie board you swore was “mostly protein”), and you were practically bulletproof. Temporarily.
Now it’s January. The month we collectively decide to hate ourselves. Because if you’re not juicing kale through your eyeballs by the 3rd, are you even trying to improve?
Fear not. I’m here to guide you through the guilt-fueled nonsense that kicks off every new year (with sarcasm, mild inflammation, and a couple probiotic suggestions). You got this, you bewildered, aging, gut-sensitive protagonist. This is your story. Might as well narrate it.
Let the tutorial begin.
Step 1: Throw stuff away, dammit
After you put away your Christmas decorations, come to my house and put away mine. Then spin dramatically through your living room, arms outstretched like you’re Maria in The Sound of Music, because WOW LOOK AT ALL THIS SPACE.
Suddenly, the floor is visible. You could do yoga. You won’t, but you could.
Now, march into your closets and say goodbye to:
Birthday cards from 1996.
Your Disney classic VHS tapes.
The pants you haven’t worn since your gallbladder ghosted you in 2021.
Also, please join me in the annual ritual of Staring At a Pile of Mail That Future You Will Handle™, including those Christmas cards that got returned in 2024 that you were totally going to text the friends to get correct addresses, and the tax documents from 2022 you were definitely going to scan.
Step 2: Accept that Trader Joe’s diet is a processed food diet
Look. I don’t live close enough to a Trader Joe’s to qualify for the cult, so you can hate me for having an opinion. But on the off chance I’m cruising down 400 South and have 30 minutes to spare (that’s just the parking lot), I’ll pop in.
What do I leave with?
Two non-dairy yogurts.
A bar of dark chocolate.
Existential confusion.
I’m not saying it’s not fun — it’s like grocery shopping inside Wes Anderson’s mind — but if your weekly meal plan is 90% freezer aisle, you might want to revisit the concept of “fresh.”
Reminder: “processed” doesn’t even mean evil. It means someone else chopped the onions, so you didn’t cry. Which is beautiful, honestly.
And sometimes, I just want to revisit childhood memories (and attachment wounds) by indulging in ultra-processed Cocoa Pebbles. Sue me.
Step 3: Be nice to your gut
Time for the only helpful thing I’ll say today:
✅ Sauerkraut
✅ Kimchi
✅ Kefir
✅ Seeds and nuts
✅ A rainbow of produce
Feed your microbiome like it’s your emotionally needy roommate. It’s doing its best, and it wants fermented snacks and fiber. You know, like a Publik Coffee Roasters burista.
Step 4: Move that booty
Take a walk. Wiggle your butt. Do it because your Fitbit says, “You’ve been sitting like a Victorian ghost for 6 hours.”
Want to come walk with me? I’m quite the company. When I walk, I am:
Wearing a nasal dilator
Rocking a weighted vest (Amazon, $34.99)
Listening to podcasts on off-brand earbuds
Braced like a medieval knight from mid-back to mid-thigh
Wearing SPF 50 and the will to live
Dragging a dog who pauses dramatically every 15 steps for no discernible reason
Catch me on the Bountiful hills lookin’ like a tactical librarian.
Step 5: Drink enough to be a C.U.P.™
Back in junior high, a soccer coach told us, “Girls, hydrate. Be a C.U.P. A Clear Urine Person.”
That was quite the soccer tournament. We made MANY bathroom stops on the drive up to Boise.
And it stuck with me.
It’s wildly unrealistic in adulthood, though. If I drank that much now, I’d have to set a Google Calendar reminder every 20 minutes to find a bathroom (or a very understanding bush, because hiking).
But hey, hydration matters. And if you hit C.U.P. status even once this week, you get a sticker. Emotionally.
🧠 The Ethical Technologist Weighs In
It’s one thing to track your macros or find the perfect anti-inflammatory supplement on Instagram. It’s another thing to actually be a decent human being.
So here’s your 2026 upgrade path:
💡 Choose community over contention.
💡 Say hi to your neighbor.
💡 Let people evolve (even you).
💡 Speak peace like it’s your job, because maybe it is.
Your body isn’t a project. It’s the vehicle that carries your kindness, your humor, your ability to tell the difference between satire and propaganda.
So go hydrate.
Feed your gut.
And keep your humanity intact.
The algorithm won’t reward you for it, but your soul might.