Hubert de Givenchy's French Countryside Estate
Do you start the year with a vision board, or do you set New Year’s resolutions?
Or perhaps you do neither—and simply sit quietly with a cup of tea letting yourself feel into what you want more of.
There is something undeniably magical about the first week of January. The world feels hushed, almost expectant. A clean page. A pause before the year begins to speak back to us.
When you think about goals, do you think in one-year increments? Three years? Five?
I’ve learned that timelines matter less than clarity. Once a goal is named—truly named—something begins to shift beneath the surface. Opportunities quietly align. Curiosity sharpens. You start noticing doors you hadn’t seen before. Much of it happens unconsciously, as if life itself begins to collaborate with you.
Lately, my dreams have been painted in French hues.
I find myself drawn, again and again, to all things France. French lessons scribbled into notebooks. A new recipe pulled from a well-loved cookbook. French history podcasts playing in the background of an ordinary afternoon. Old French films watched with subtitles on, the language washing over me like music. Even idle moments are spent searching for charming Airbnbs tucked into villages I can’t yet pronounce properly—but somehow already feel connected to.
Somewhere along the way, I fell deeply in love with this most magnificent country. Not just the place itself, but the way of being it represents: intention, beauty, slowness, curiosity, pleasure in the everyday.
And yes—I have many goals wrapped around this love.
But what fascinates me most is how simply allowing myself to name them has already begun to enrich my life. Nothing dramatic. Nothing forced. Just small shifts: the choices I make, what I consume, how I spend my time, what I daydream about when my mind wanders.
This is the quiet magic of goals. Not the pressure. Not the checklist.
But the way life begins to rearrange itself once you give your dreams permission to exist.
Perhaps that’s the real invitation of January—not to demand more of ourselves, but to listen more closely to what keeps calling us back.
For me, right now, that call sounds a lot like France.
