I have a planner problem.
First off, I’m particular about my planners. Spiral-bound. Tabbed. Pre-dated with a Jan 1 start date. I could go on, but you’d click away to something more interesting, so I’ll try to get to the point.
About the time I find a planner I can “sink into” with all the right bells and whistles, the next year that company is gone, or they’ve “retired” or “improved” the model I chose, or the company went defunct.
Enter 2023. 2024.
And 2025.
These years handed me, let’s call them, “Events.” With a capital letter. I’d use all caps, but I don’t want you to think I’m shouting at you. These Events aren’t “Gee, the store was out of my chocolate brand this week.” The Events are on… a more severe kind of scale.
Now I have a planning and a planner problem, because ’23-’25 did not behave, not one little bit.
This year, I have had four planners.
Bought a nice, new one online. Because surely the Events are done.
I filled it with writing hopes and dreams, and… nope.
Tossed it after the first Event.
Bought a new one.
That cheap one that’ll do until ’26 rolls around. Then another Event. Tossed it.
Bought a new one. Surely, Events are done, and this undated one will work because I can take it week by week. Perhaps it could be grounding, even, filling in the little squares with numbers each week. Maybe I’d have a shot at actually knowing what day it is.
Nope. Event.
And nope to the grounding. I still don’t know what day it is. I don’t think I’ve been sure of the day for the last three years.
By early summer, Facebook had caught on that I might have a planner problem, and it offered… solutions. Spiral-bound solutions. Print-it-yourself solutions. “Sure to solve your planning and planner woes for the final time” solutions.
That last one? Of course I bit.
No.
Actually.
I drooled over that planner. It had sold out on the first print run, if you can believe it. So popular that they didn’t have a January start date, but they did have an academic start date, so you have to act fast.
Okay.
I acted.
It came.
I unboxed it.
I ran my hand over the peacock green cover and inspected all the bells and whistles and, yeah, maybe drooled a little at the format I’ve never seen before. The monthly calendar grid spans two pages, but only across the top half of the pages. The bottom half? Those are weekly spreads, so you can see the monthly and the days’ to-dos at the same time. Eee!
I flipped back to the front where the fresh, clean “This Book Belongs To” begged my name to be placed on the line underneath. I grabbed my purple pen, and…
I balked like a horse at a rushing stream full of snakes.
Putting my name in it meant there’s a risk that things won’t work out. And with all those stacked Events, my nervous system is racking up a law firm’s worth of evidence that, yeah. Planning means Events.
This was planner number four. Four! The starting month was July. It wasn’t quite August. I need to write my writing hopes and dreams (revamped and in erasable ink—I do learn lessons, albeit very slowly), but I can’t bring myself to even write my name in it.
I tell this to Couch Lady as an aside during one of our telehealth sessions, in a long, exasperated vent.
“Do you have the planner near you?”
Of course, I had the planner near me. It’s been staring at me from the corner of my desk for weeks, the fancy format and grid space wasting away because I can’t write in it.
“Show me.”
I held the book up to the camera.
“Open it, get a pen, and write your name in there.” She said something along this line; her actual directions were a little more colorful, but they did the job.
I wrote my name in it. Promised to focus on some fun stuff, goals, etc., etc.
I felt better. The planner “belonged” to me. Maybe the rest of the year could, too. Evidently, a freaked-out part of me needed permission from someone who was not currently also freaked out.
That.
Very.
Night…
I was handed an Event as I sat on my couch. The kind of Event that will spawn other Events and just keep on giving.
As I sat there, stunned, my mind went to the peacock-green planner sitting on my desk, with my name in purple ink on the front cover. And oh, how I wished life would stop handing me real-world ways to practice therapy tools. My glue’s not dry. I’m still on training wheels, here. Couch Lady hovers one finger over that red button behind her desk, ready to send the straitjacket people in the white van to collect me at any given moment.
Innumerable deep breaths, all the tools in the therapy shed, and many days later, I faced the planner again and started using it. If this is how 2025 is going to behave, I must figure out how live around it. If only in erasable ink.
I dreamt a little. Put a couple of fun things in it. Planned a writing project out.
And I discovered something.
I hate this planner.
I hate the format.
I hate the spit pages.
I don’t care for the bells and I abhor the whistles.
If 2025 had been a pristine year, this planner and I would’ve parted ways within two weeks.
I did not buy another planner for this year. I have a tiny purse-size deal that keeps me where I need to be (but still doesn’t help me know what day it is).
Until Facebook realized I have a planner problem. And it offered a solution.
And of course, I bit.
No. I drooled.
And, since 2026 is only three days away, a new planner is waiting for me with a January 1 start date. A planner I can tolerate. One without split pages or funny layouts. One that will forgive an Event or two, because that’s life.
And sometimes you have to dream and goal-set and find micro-joys and figure out how to live around all the… life.
Even if your training wheels squeak.
Even if your glue’s not dry.
Grab a pen—not an erasable one.
And write your name inside the cover.
Because this book belongs to you.
