The problem with New Year’s resolutions is that we hold ourselves accountable to indescribably huge standards—standards we weren’t even considering a day before, but that are suddenly put into play without trial and error, without reflection, without grace.
We’re good at dreaming.
Dreaming is a way to displace yourself.
A way to finagle the workings of the world a little.
A way to tidy up the details—at least in illustration.
But at the first blink of discomfort, the slightest grimace of pain, we run.
We quit.
We decide we’ve failed.
In one day, we forget that we still have the next 364 as resources. We forget that even though life is unpredictable, it’s okay—necessary, even—to step into volcanic confusion.
It’s the middle that gets us out alive anyway.
So what really changes when the clock counts down to midnight and the date flips to 01/01, a new year trailing neatly behind it?
What changes?
Is it the euphoria?
The belief that one single day can redirect an entire life without interruption?
Or is it stubbornness—knowing we won’t get it right the first time, yet still giving in at the very first sign of upset?
Do we ever truly surpass our resolutions?
Or are resolutions imaginary—made-up figurines we dramatize in our heads to fit the world’s idealistic expectations?
On New Year’s Eve, what do you think about?
The resolutions you tackled and overcame—or the failures, and the constant revisions of goals you spent an entire year painting instead of chasing?
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