New Year's Resolutions

Every year, we hear the familiar buzz about New Year’s resolutions: the grand promises, the bold goals, the shiny new starts. But if you’re anything like me, you’ve always been skeptical of this tradition. The pressure to reinvent yourself overnight can feel overwhelming, and the idea of setting lofty expectations only to fall short can seem like an exercise in disappointment. It’s easy to roll our eyes at the constant chatter about what we should be doing better, as if the flip of a calendar page can magically solve all our problems.

Yet, there’s something about the start of a new year that sparks a quiet curiosity, a small willingness to try again. Maybe it’s the idea of a fresh start that beckons, or the fact that the days feel just a little bit longer, offering a sense of possibility. This year, instead of focusing on perfection or idealized versions of ourselves, we can approach our resolutions with a gentler mindset. It’s not about transforming overnight, but rather making space for progress—no matter how small. The pressure to "get it right" doesn’t need to be a weight we carry, but an invitation to explore, reflect, and shift in meaningful ways.

So, for those of us who have long resisted the idea of New Year’s resolutions, maybe this is the year we give it a shot, not as a rigid blueprint for change but as an opportunity for growth and self-compassion. This isn’t about ticking off goals for the sake of accomplishment; it’s about leaning into what feels aligned with who we are now, and where we want to be in the future. Whether it’s cultivating healthier habits, practicing more self-care, or simply giving ourselves the space to breathe, this year’s resolutions can be a reflection of our journey—not a destination.

I know I’m late to the whole New Year’s resolutions thing, but honestly? Better late than never. There’s no perfect timeline for growth, no deadline for deciding to move with more intention. Maybe January slipped away from me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still step into the year with purpose.

So here I am, setting my resolutions now—not just as rules to follow, but as gentle guides, as reminders of what I want to nurture in myself. I’m giving myself permission to start late, to start messy, to start however I need to, as long as I keep going. Because growth isn’t about when you begin—it’s about choosing to begin at all.

When I was in residential mental health treatment, my mom gave me two rings she’d been wearing for years – a simple black band and a simple white band. She said to me, “It’s because in life and in art, you need both light and dark, light and shadow. I want you to remember that.” 

I resolve to embrace the shadows of my past, knowing they hold lessons that can only be found in their dark corners, transforming them into light.

I will stop believing that my worth is tied to my ability to endure without breaking. I will honor my fragility as part of my humanity, acknowledging that being human means feeling deeply, both the light and the dark.

When the darkness whispers, I will whisper back with resilience, reminding myself that even on the darkest days, there is light somewhere, even if I can’t see it yet.

I will hold onto hope, even when it feels like a thread too fragile to cling to, because I know that even the smallest light can push back the deepest shadows.

For so long, I felt swallowed by the darkness, like I was trapped in a tunnel with no way out. I carried the weight of my own mind, the exhaustion of just existing, the fear that this was all there would ever be. I convinced myself that hope was for other people, that healing was something always out of reach. But somehow, despite everything, I kept going. And now, for the first time in what feels like forever, I am starting to see light breaking through the cracks. It’s not that everything is suddenly easy or that the pain has disappeared. It’s that I finally believe it won’t always be like this. That there is something on the other side of suffering. That I deserve to feel joy, to feel love, to feel alive. I’m still learning what hope feels like in my hands, still figuring out how to trust that the light will stay. But I know now that I want to keep moving toward it. And that? That is everything.

Thus, I resolve to listen to the whispers of my soul, to honor its call for stillness and growth, letting silence teach me what words cannot.

I will no longer apologize for the parts of me that are broken, but rather, I will cherish the resilience that rises from those cracks, like light through glass.

I promise to reclaim my power, one moment at a time, knowing that each small step away from the edge is a victory, even if no one else can see it.

I will accept the days when my resolve feels weak, and remind myself that recovery is not a straight line, but a winding path with its own rhythms, its own grace.

I will stop using my pain as an excuse for destruction and start seeing it as the fuel for my transformation, choosing healing over harm, growth over retreat.

I promise to honor the journey, to acknowledge the setbacks without letting them define me, and to rise each time I fall, knowing that I am worth the fight.

I will no longer be a prisoner of my past mistakes, but an architect of a future where suffering does not define me, but my resilience does.

I promise to give myself permission to exist in my brokenness, to stop pretending I am whole when I feel shattered, and to reach for help when the weight becomes too much to bear alone.

For as long as I can remember, my worth has been something I measured through the eyes of others—how they saw me, what they thought of me, whether I was enough in their estimation. I clung to validation like a lifeline, convinced that if I was productive enough, useful enough, pleasing enough, I might finally deserve the love I could never seem to give myself. But no achievement, no approval, no external reassurance ever filled the void. I have spent years chasing a version of worth that was never truly mine.

This year, I will seek beauty in the ordinary, marvel at the small miracles, and allow wonder to fill the spaces between my every day.

I resolve to be gentle with myself on the days when I falter, knowing that growth is not linear. 

I promise to give myself permission to rest when the weight of the world feels too much, and to trust that stillness is not weakness, but strength.

I will set boundaries that honor my peace and protect my energy, learning to say no without guilt, and yes only when it aligns with my truth. I will prioritize my mental, emotional, and physical health, knowing that I am deserving of the space and time I need to thrive.

This year, I resolve to love myself—not in the way the world tells me to, but in the way that feels true to my soul. I will embrace the messy, the imperfect, and the beautiful parts of me, without judgment. I will look in the mirror and see not just my reflection, but the strength in every scar, the growth in every change, and the tenderness in every vulnerability.

I will speak to myself with the same compassion I offer others, catching the harsh words and replacing them with gentle reminders of my worth. I will let go of comparisons, knowing that my path is mine alone to walk, and that I am enough, just as I am.

For so long, I lived with the weight of mental illness, carrying it like a shadow that followed me everywhere, heavy and suffocating. I thought the darkness inside me would never lift, that I would always be trapped in a cycle of hopelessness, too broken to ever be whole again. There were days when I couldn’t see past the pain, when the thought of ever feeling at peace seemed like a distant dream I couldn’t reach. I convinced myself that I was doomed to live in this space forever, that I wasn’t strong enough to escape it. But slowly, quietly, I've begun to realize that healing doesn’t mean perfection, it doesn’t mean fixing every crack or erasing every scar.

This year, I resolve to honor the complexity of my mind, embracing the quiet battles that others cannot see, knowing they are as real as the moments of peace.

I will seek help when I need it, not as an admission of defeat, but as an act of courage, because asking for support is an essential part of healing.

I promise to be gentle with my mind on the days it feels like it’s breaking, and remind myself that my worth is not tied to my mental state.

This year, I will learn to coexist with the storms inside me, knowing that even in the chaos, there is room for grace.

This year, I resolve to face my demons with open eyes, to no longer hide in the shadows of my own cravings, but to stand in the light of my own truth.

I will allow myself the space to heal without rushing the process, knowing that recovery doesn’t come in perfect lines, but in small, messy steps forward.

For over a decade, my body has been a battleground—a place of struggle, resistance, and exhaustion. Chronic illness and near-constant pain have shaped my existence, turning even the simplest acts of living into uphill battles. I spent years fighting against my body, resenting it, willing it to be something it wasn’t. I thought survival meant pushing through, ignoring, denying. But I’m learning a different way now. I’m learning that coexistence is not surrender. That listening to my body, honoring its needs, and moving with my pain instead of against it is its own kind of strength. Some days, that looks like rest. Other days, it looks like celebrating what my body can do, even in its limitations. It’s a slow process—one of unlearning, of softening, of offering myself the grace I so freely give others. I may never know a life without pain, but I am building a life within it—a life that is gentle, full, and still mine to claim. This year I am choosing softness. Choosing softness is a radical act when you’ve spent years fighting. It means allowing myself to rest when I once would have pushed through. It means speaking to myself with kindness instead of criticism, offering myself the same compassion I so easily give to others. Softness is letting go of the need to earn comfort, to deserve joy, to prove my existence. For so long, I saw my body as something to battle, something to fix or control. Choosing softness means shifting that perspective—not seeing my body as an enemy, but as something worthy of care. It means honoring my needs without guilt, letting myself take up space without apology. It means allowing my journey to unfold without forcing it to fit a rigid timeline. Softness is not weakness. It is resilience in another form—the kind that nurtures instead of depletes, that builds instead of breaks. This year, I am choosing to meet myself with softness, with patience, with love. Because I deserve that. Because we all do.

I will find joy in small moments, even when the world feels heavy. Whether it’s the warmth of the sun, the comfort of a soft blanket, or the laughter of a friend, I will hold onto these moments like lifelines. I will not allow the pain to steal everything from me, for I know there is still beauty in the cracks.

This year, I resolve to honor my body, even in its brokenness. I will not let pain define me, but I will accept it as a part of my story, a chapter I did not choose but one that has shaped me. I will be gentle with myself on the days when my body feels like a battlefield, and I will remember that strength does not always look like movement; sometimes it is simply enduring, breathing, and holding on.

I will advocate for my needs, even when it feels exhausting, and I will remember that I am worthy of care, of kindness, and of rest. I will not apologize for needing to take breaks or for asking for help. My body deserves to be nurtured, and I will give it the respect it has always deserved.

I will nourish my body, not as a project, but as a home—cherishing it for the journey it has carried me through, rather than criticizing it for what it is not. I will feed it with kindness, rest, and care, allowing myself the grace to heal when needed, to rest when tired, and to celebrate when strong.

I will speak openly about my pain, breaking the silence that often surrounds chronic illness. I will share my truth with others, knowing that it is through our shared vulnerability that we can build understanding and compassion.

Since I was 10 years old, I have been fighting to find comfort in my body as a trans, nonbinary person. For so long, it felt like an endless battle—against dysphoria, against expectations, against the fear that I would never feel at home in myself. I’ve spent years searching, reshaping, redefining who I am and how I exist in this body, trying to carve out a space where I can simply be. This year, I am determined to find contentment. Not just moments of relief, not just survival, but a deeper, lasting peace. I know it won’t be instant, and I know it won’t be easy. But I am learning to see my body as something worth caring for, worth celebrating, worth inhabiting fully. I am choosing softness where there was once only struggle, choosing to embrace myself as I am while still holding space for who I am becoming. This is the year I claim my body as mine—on my terms, in my own time, with love.

This year, I will choose resilience, even when I feel weak. I will choose hope, even when the path is unclear. And above all, I will choose to love my body, as imperfect and as powerful as it is.

I will listen to my body, and let it be my guide, not as a battleground, but as a vessel of strength, resilience, and truth. I will wear my identity with pride, knowing that my existence is valid, no matter how the world may try to shape me into something else.

I will surround myself with people who affirm me, who celebrate my existence, and who love me for exactly who I am. I will distance myself from those who seek to diminish me, and I will stand tall in the face of their ignorance, knowing that their opinions do not define me.

This year, I will continue to choose authenticity, no matter how hard it gets. I will keep showing up, for myself and for my community. And above all, I will choose love—for myself, for those who understand me, and for those who are still finding their way.

This year, I will choose love—love for myself, in all my complexities, in all my beauty and flaws. I will celebrate the person I am, while also loving the person I am becoming. And when the world feels heavy, I will remember that I am enough, and I always have been.

Activism and community care have been my lifeline in ways I can’t fully put into words. When I was drowning in my own pain, it was the hands of others—reaching out in solidarity, in love, in shared struggle—that kept me afloat. In a world that so often isolates and erases, I found purpose in fighting for something bigger than myself. Advocacy isn’t just about resistance; it’s about survival, about building the kind of world that we all deserve to live in. It’s late-night conversations with people who just get it, showing up for each other when systems fail us, and learning that healing is not meant to be done alone. It’s knowing that liberation is a collective effort, and that love—real, deep, radical love—is at the center of it all. No matter how heavy things get, I know I am not alone. And that knowing? That keeps me going.

I will continue to advocate for myself and for others like me, fighting for visibility, safety, and respect in a world that often erases our stories. I will never let anyone make me feel small or less than, because my identity is not up for debate—it is mine, and it always has been.

I will show up, again and again. Not just when the world is watching, not just when the fire is fresh. Justice is a rhythm, not a moment—I will move with it, steady and strong.

Let impact speak louder than intent. When I misstep, I will listen. When I am called in, I will not shrink in shame but grow in understanding.

I will hold the mic only to pass it on. My voice is not the most important in every room. I will lift others, amplify truths, and resist the urge to take up space that isn’t mine.

This year, i will lean into discomfort. Hard conversations will not be avoided. I will challenge hate, question harm, and plant seeds where the ground feels barren

I will stand with BIPOC communities. Their land, their sovereignty, their futures—I will not just acknowledge stolen ground but work toward giving it back.

I will make space for every body, every mind. Accessibility is not an afterthought, not a kindness, but a necessity. Inclusion must be woven into every act of justice.

I will tear at the roots, not just the weeds. Injustice is more than one cruel face or one bad law. I will fight the systems that keep oppression alive, not just the symptoms they create.

As the days pass, I will rest so I can rise. The fight is long, and I will not let exhaustion steal my fire. I will nourish my soul, seek joy, and build a life that makes justice sustainable.

Writing has been my lifeline when nothing else made sense. When the pain felt unbearable, when hopelessness whispered that there was no way forward, I turned to the page. I spilled my grief, my rage, my longing into words, shaping the unspoken into something real, something tangible. Writing let me exist when I felt invisible, let me scream when I had no voice, let me dream when I thought I had none left. It has been a refuge, a mirror, a bridge back to myself. In my darkest moments, it reminded me that I was still here—that my story was still unfolding, even when I couldn’t see the next chapter. And now, as I step into hope, I hold onto writing just as tightly—not just as a way to survive, but as a way to live.

As the year unfolds, I will write my story in the pages of time, not as a quest for perfection, but as an exploration of becoming, one moment at a time.

I will speak my truth, even when it trembles on my lips, and share the stories I’ve kept hidden in the corners of my heart.