negotiations

on deciding who you want to be

Henriette Browne

Goals. New Year. Set intentions now. Glaring reminders of next year are chasing me around the internet. An ad for Grace Beverley’s The Productivity Method notebook. Papier’s various planners. Codie Sanchez on not setting goals but on setting the sacrifices you will make. It’s hard to scroll past all this without feeling their silent chorus: You could be better, you know. My gut squeezes as I wonder if I should’ve done more this year. I’ve noticed my tendency to think this way as the year ends. I’ve been trying to see the endings and beginnings for what they are — not a moment to overhaul my life, but a chance to listen to its currents more closely.

In the past, my resolutions have often read like commands issued to a stranger, curated for some general other: Read more. Cook healthier. Lose weight. They were always trying to push me from a distance, rather than meeting me where I already was. And what they certainly never were, was kind.

This year, I changed this. I wrote about the unmaking of resolutions in January, a way of living a fuller life less tied to strict goals. Here’s what I wanted my 2024 to look like:

I want to set aside more time for writing, to push through mental barriers that I so often stumble upon.

But there are other things, small things that are the sustenance of life. I want to document more of life in photos, physical, one-snap moments. And share it. To not be afraid to show life on Instagram, but to share what brings me joy. I want to have a book with me wherever I go. I want to make grander dinners and not fuss when it goes wrong. I want to say yes to weekend dates with friends and embrace being the evening owl that so many twenty-somethings are.

I spent the year writing more openly than I ever have before. I talked about the loss of friendships, about body issues — twice — and about the complexities of figuring out who you are in a world that tells you who and what you should be. I took photos of everything. I have fallen in love with reading again. I now haul not just one book, but at least three books with me.

This year was not perfect. But I reflect on it more positively than any other. And I’m thinking of approaching 2025 in the same way. Maybe it’s a getting older thing, but I find myself asking: “What life do I envision for myself?” instead of, “What can I do to be better this year?” A small change that edges me toward what brings me joy. Instead of considering the new year as a time to apply external pressure, I want to treat it as an invitation to discover what compels me.

I’ve thought about where the year has taken me and how I’ve ended up where I am — and I think it’s this: there’s a magic in identifying what naturally pulls you forward rather than trying to shove yourself into action. Take writing, for example. I’ve tried to become the kind of person who starts the morning with a writing session, but it just didn’t sit with me. My mind foggy and caffeinated, eyes barely adjusted to a screen far too bright. This year, though, I discovered something surprising: I love jotting down fragments. Quick, unpolished notes scribbled in the margins of my day, capturing stray thoughts or fleeting ideas. And that pull — the simple joy of getting words out without pressure — has started to turn into something I’d never expected: a desire to sit down and write longer, to shape those fragments into something whole when the moment feels right. It’s creativity but without the battle.

The same energy has started showing up in other parts of my life. I feel it in the excitement of finding a book genre that I love, in exercising, in cooking, and carving out that time for myself. Resolutions, at their best, are less about summoning willpower and more about noticing what already makes you come alive and doing more of it.

I’ve also been thinking about how resolutions are a way of reorienting ourselves to change. And change, I’m learning, is never as clean as we hope. You make one resolution that doesn’t just impact that part of your life, but it bumps shoulders with all the other things that make up your life. You decide to eat cleaner, drink less, practice better boundaries and suddenly your relationships and routines shift with it. You realise how many things were bunched together without you noticing. Some things will shift or even fall apart. That’s not failure; it’s just the natural mess of growth.

Maybe the trick to resolutions isn’t to treat them like rigid scripts but like experiments. You test, adapt, and explore the shapes your life can take. Like, I’ve only realised this year that I do love getting out and moving my body — but only in the shape of a strength workout or walking for miles. If you ask me to go for a run with you, I’ll dig my heels in. Resolutions — they can be like the bumper rails you put on when you go bowling, they nudge you in the direction you choose but it’s light touch work, never forcing, never damaging. You trust that what truly resonates will find its way back to you, even when you wander. And wandering is allowed, it’s encouraged. It’s how you find out what you crave, and what you don’t like. You learn to listen for the deeper desires beneath the surface that guide you without force.

Next year, I’m letting myself follow those pulls. I’m not making resolutions that demand I become someone else; I’m resolving to get closer to who I already am. To do more of what already brings me joy. Listen more carefully to what feels true and alive now, knowing that the shape of next year will reveal itself in time.

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