Few things feel more exhausting than the annual tradition of drafting New Year’s resolutions. It seems the world collectively decides that, after a month of indulgence, we must suddenly repent with a list of impossible goals. This year, I’m opting out.
As the holiday decorations come down and the last bits of wrapping paper are shoved into the trash, we shift from celebration to self-discipline. December centers on joy and excess. January, by contrast, ushers in guilt, self-denial, and a touch too much self-righteousness.
Resolutions often serve as long, detailed inventories of our perceived shortcomings. The extra weight, the overflowing inbox, the unfinished books, the credit card bill staring us down—they all remind us that we should be thinner, richer, more productive, and more accomplished. Apparently, 2025 didn’t cut it. So now 2026 is the year we finally get our act together.
A few impulsive purchases or skipped workouts are not signs of failure. They are proof that we’re living. Still, resolutions twist these everyday moments into problems that need fixing, turning the new year into some sort of overdue bill.
By February, most resolutions are abandoned. Junk food bans crumble. Ambitious wake-up times slip back into snooze mode. Flipping the calendar doesn’t flip a switch in our minds. We are who we are—beautifully flawed, balancing indulgence and responsibility like everyone else.
Instead of another round of self-imposed suffering, we can try something refreshing. Let’s embrace where we are, imperfections included. If we must resolve to do something, let it be this: accept that we’ll never be perfectly polished, but we’ll always be wonderfully, unapologetically alive.
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