New Year’s Resolutions: Then, Now, and All the Lies In Between

It’s tradition that as the 1st of January rolls around each year, we all make New Year’s resolutions. Usually, it’s about stopping something or doing more of something—and usually, it lasts till February. March, if we’re feeling wildly optimistic. But honestly, it’s the participation that counts, right?

I remember my childhood resolutions very clearly. Every year, I’d sit down with a pen and a small piece of paper and write my resolutions with extreme sincerity. Then I’d hand them to my dad like I’d just submitted an important legal document.

The list never really changed:

• I will study harder.

• I will get better grades.

• I will not fight with my sister.

That was it. That was the plan for becoming a better human being.

I was deeply serious about it too. Fully convinced that writing these things down would automatically turn me into a disciplined, calm, academically brilliant child. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. By mid-January, my grades hadn’t magically improved, and my elder sister was over there being calm, smart, and basically perfect. Still, I continued to bug her relentlessly, probably training her patience for a future sainthood. Every year, that little list returned—unchanged, sincere, and full of hope.

As I grew older, my resolutions grew up too. Or at least, they tried to. Suddenly,

it wasn’t about homework or sibling fights anymore. It became:

• I will lose weight.

• I will join the gym.

• I will eat healthy.

• I will become financially independent… and pay for everything myself.

Very ambitious. Very adult. Very unrealistic.

The gym membership lasted about as long as the New Year excitement. “Eating healthy” mostly meant adding one salad to balance out everything else. And financial independence? Let’s just say my parents still occasionally played supporting roles in that dream.

And honestly, everyone’s resolutions turn into these hilarious little life experiments. One friend decided she’d “cook more at home” and now owns every kitchen appliance—but still orders food because she’s “too tired to cook.” Another promised she’d “walk 10,000 steps a day”… and now spends her evenings vigorously pacing between the fridge, the couch, and the bathroom, proudly calling it exercise.

Yet, every single year, we do it again. Same hope. Same confidence. Same belief that January 1st holds some kind of magic reset button.

Now, when I look at kids today, I’m equal parts impressed and slightly intimidated. They don’t just make resolutions—they manifest. They have vision boards with Paris, private jets, tropical islands, and quotes about abundance. They ask ChatGPT how to become successful by 16. Grades, chores, sibling fights? Minor details. Their confidence is unreal, their dreams massive—and here I am, still debating whether I deserve dessert after lunch.

Post-Covid, my own resolutions have softened. Now it’s less about changing my entire life and more about wishing for health—because that suddenly feels priceless. A little wealth wouldn’t hurt either. And now, as a mother of two, I’ve added very important things to the list: me-time, quiet coffee, and girls’ nights out. Because surviving school WhatsApp groups, homework negotiations, and daily sibling referee duties deserves some kind of reward.

What hasn’t changed, though, is the feeling of January 1st. That strange, comforting illusion that the whole year lies ahead of us—clean, fresh, full of possibility. Just like those tiny papers I handed my dad all those years ago.

So here’s to resolutions—tiny ones, big ones, serious ones, completely unrealistic ones. Here’s to writing them down, laughing at ourselves, and loving the ritual anyway. Maybe this year, I’ll actually stick to one. Maybe I won’t. But I’ll still write them down.

So yes, I’ve written my resolutions. I’ve thought about them deeply. I’ve emotionally connected with them. And now I’m going to sit with my cold coffee and completely ignore them till next January. Growth.