My Problem With NY Resolutions

I’m a New Year Resolution person. Or rather I’m a big supporter of other folks’ resolutions. And I’ve traditionally even set them myself – or some variation. Historically, I’m running about a 50/50 success rate. Hey it’s a great baseball stat. 

Repeated failures aside, there’s something about these annual promises that never sat right with me. Part of it is the arbitrary nature. While studies show that a new day can give us a psychological boost, a logical marker for a “new start”, our biology tells us that the only thing we should be starting in January is a nap. 

There’s the guilt aspect of it, like a new year is our penance for a joyous holiday season. It plays into a lot of harmful ideas about bodies and nutrition and exercise. I’m a big believer that moving and nourishment are gifts to our bodies (and minds) and not punishments. 

But there was still something else, and it hit me, six days after the new year. It’s so damn abrupt. We go from winter breaks and blowing off emails, to daily workouts and crash diets. We take a sip of bubbly at 11:59:59 and a second later we’re in dry January. We are one thing and expect, in an instant, to be another. Our resolutions giving us more whiplash than anything.

In short, there is no transition. 

In setting New Year’s resolutions, designed to begin at the single stroke of the clock, we go abruptly from “here” to “there” with no in between.  We fail to give ourselves the space and required preparation for these big (or small) changes we want to see in our lives. Sure, I guess you could be doing that in December, but isn’t that month supposed to be celebrating the wins of the past year? Not prepping for what’s next? 

It makes sense. Transitions are hard. Those in between spaces where you’re neither here nor there – where you’re leaving and grieving what was without the comfort of what is yet to come. 

For me, I’ve always been far too anxious to properly transition in my life. Ready to do what’s next. Eager to jump in, to just “get started.” Anyone who knows me knows I’m a planner – but those closest to me know that I’m also a jumper.  And that’s worked for me in a lot of ways. It’s kept me from ruminating on what I should or shouldn’t do. It’s allowed my curiosity (and hubris) to get ahead of my fear and self-doubt. It’s allowed me to register for races far beyond my capabilities, earn degrees, start a family. It allowed me to think I could run across the country as I left the active duty Marine Corps. 

And that jump, ironically enough, forced me to respect the transition.

I may have decided to complete the run without much (or any) consideration, but it was a long and (often) lonely path from San Diego to Virginia Beach. There are far too many miles between “here” and “there” to outrun that jarring, uncomfortable, even painful liminal space we know as transition. 

That run marked my transition from active duty Marine to, well, something else. But it also marked a different, deeper transition, something closer to a  transformation in me. It forced me to go back in order to go forward, to go in order to get out. It held me firmly in the space in between what was and what I wanted to be. All those miles pushed me to really deal with my past, my pain, and my own behavior in response to both. It allowed me to prepare my head, my heart, for what was next. And for these transformations, preparation is paramount.

So I’ve set some goals and intentions for this year, but I haven’t yet started them. I haven’t logged a proper run yet, or opened up my memoir. I haven’t cleared out my inbox or approached anything resembling digital hygiene (seriously this downloads folder is unruly). I haven’t organized my kitchen or organized my office, or really done any of the prep work to achieve those massive goals. But I will. I’ll use this January, this period of wintery rest, to prepare, to plan, to transition. 

It’ll still be 2025 in February.