Hobonichi 2026

I'm not supposed to have a physical planner anymore, but surprisingly, the act of writing on physical paper, the smell of it, and the sensation of flipping through the pages is stronger than I thought; so I ended up buying a red Hobonichi Weeks Mega last month.

I have been digitally planning for quite some time, and I finally decided to give my iPad to my partner's brother, who needs it more than I do. What a great excuse to buy a new planner, I say!

So here I am, planning again like I always do, but this time with caution. Caution, as I fear this might just be a mania phase for me, and I won't be able to complete the whole year's planning. What a shame it will be.

Week 1 of 2026

Yet despite that fear, I keep opening it every morning.

Something is grounding about seeing my life laid out in tiny boxes and narrow lines. The Hobonichi Weeks Mega doesn’t ask me to be grand or overly ambitious; it only asks me to show up, one small square at a time. A grocery run here. A meeting there. A quiet note about how I felt on a random Tuesday. Somehow, those small marks feel more real than any perfectly synced digital calendar ever did.

I chose the Weeks Mega because of its simplicity and its excess all at once. The slim weekly layout keeps me from overplanning, while the thick stack of blank pages in the back invites me to brain-dump, ramble, doodle, and unravel whatever is living in my head. It feels like a planner and a journal had a soft-spoken, slightly chaotic baby, and that’s exactly what I need right now.

Maybe I won’t fill every single page. Maybe by July I’ll get distracted by another system, another tool, another version of “this will finally fix me.” But I’m starting to think that’s not a failure. It’s just proof that I was here, trying, at least for a while.

And honestly? That might be enough.

Week 2 of 2026 spread

For now, my little red Hobonichi sits on my desk, quietly waiting for me. It doesn’t judge the skipped days or the messy handwriting. It just holds space. And in a season of life where everything feels loud and rushed and uncertain, having something that simply holds space feels like a small kind of magic.

So yes, I’m planning again, carefully, imperfectly, and with a bit of hope tucked between the pages.

Xoxo,