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I think about resolutions a lot. Having a marker to work towards helps me to align what I want to do with my year. In the last year, I kept and achieved a handful of goals: to write or journal weekly, read 15 books, to run a 10K, to lose five pounds — this is one of my “boomerang goals,” one that always makes its way back onto my annual wish list. Last January was the first, and likely the last, January that I try to pick up running regularly. Something about the heavy thumping in my chest just didn’t sit right with me. I wanted some wild and hopefully, attainable thing to work towards, I think, and because setting a goal of doing a single pull-up seemed like an even crazier task. I wanted to like it. But I really didn’t.
While the abandoned missions far outweigh the handful of success (mostly from targeting too many dramatic-sounding yet vague abstractions — “be more mindful”), every year, nonetheless, I always write down something new to try. This year, I’m cutting back.
Perhaps it’s because 2024 has a certain overflow to it. All being well, a wedding will be primed and planned. I intend on fully completing a manuscript, even if it is never read by anyone else but me. My parents are likely to begin their move to Portugal, an entire grand adventure of their own that they’re seeking and will involve my planning and organisational expertise. Among other things, I want On the Verge to grow bigger. I want to set aside more time for writing, to push through mental barriers that I so often stumble upon. I don’t know what the year will call for and if it will stretch me to my limitations, it certainly feels like it will, but it seems silly to tag onto to it another list of trifle items.
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 a afraid of showing 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 an evening owl that so many twenty-somethings are. I want to bake more and count less calories. I want to breathe deep and let go of the little things, accepting it may not go my way.
January, I suspect, is a difficult month for everyone. One that leads us all to think it’s far longer than thirty one days. Treat it like a different month, like October, perhaps, and think of the exciting things ahead in the year. I hope to spend more time by the sea, at the edges of the country, and in different cities with the people I love and a camera to document it.