I read 60 books in 2015. I ran my first half marathon. I took chances on new friendships and relaxed your grip on old ones; I attempted to trust that the people who are meant to be in my life would find a way to stay in my life. I traveled. I stayed home. I achieved some goals; others, unmet, I tried to forget I’d made.
I reflect on my 2015 not because I want to brag, or because I believe the opportunities I was granted are universal, but because I think it’s tempting to see the New Year solely as a chance for self-improvement. Laser focusing on future goals so often brings with it the renewal of old self-deprecation. With the construction of resolutions comes the revival of self-criticism that tends to lay dormant mid-year: this year I will work out more often (because I still don’t like my body), this year I will try harder to go out with friends (because maybe that’s the solution to my anxiety), this year I will write the next great American novel (because despite work, and college, and the labor of maintaining relationships, I still feel lazy and unaccomplished).
People joke about how New Year’s resolutions so often lay abandoned by February. But that’s because self-loathing isn’t a very good motivator. The resolution, whatever it is, gets tangled up in episodes of self-hate, and most our lives leave so little room to wallow. So the resolution gets abandoned, along with what we’re hoping to resolve.
So, My New Year’s resolution is not to treat 2016 like a blank slate. I feel like I am always looking for do-overs in my life: at the end of a bad day, I’ll tell myself that tomorrow I will pretend none of it ever happened. At the end of a bad week, Monday can shine like a beacon of opportunity. But sadness and frustration are as valuable to feel as happiness or excitement. And one shouldn’t escape to the future in order to disassociate from the present.
This year, I’m finding it more useful to focus on 2015. I am saying to myself: 2015 happened, and it wasn’t just another year of being fat or anxious or exhausted or unmotivated. It was a year where I was me, ever-evolving and inconsistent. 2015 had lows. 2015 had highs. 2015 was no different, really, from any other year. It’s such a small thing to realize, but it has shifted my outlook entirely. The secret to liking myself more is forgiving myself more. Maybe it’s easier to enjoy my life if I’m not constantly waiting for it to “get good,” or thinking it’s my fault if that hasn’t quite happened yet.
In 2015, I fought with my friends. I did poorly on exams. But I also saw the sun rise, and I played with dogs, and I spent time with my family. 2016 isn’t another chance. It’s just another year. I resolve to be grateful for that.
