Every December 31st, right between the last grape and the first emotional hangover of the year, a collective ritual as old as it is ineffective is repeated: writing New Year's resolutions. These are not real plans or commitments. They are an emotional tradition meant to soothe consciences and mask inaction with good intentions.
Resolutions don't fail due to a lack of willpower, but because they were never meant to be fulfilled. They are personal fiction stories where each person imagines themselves more disciplined, more consistent, and, curiously, with a much healthier relationship with money and themselves. An ideal version that lasts as long as the cava opened that night.
The classic "this year I'm going to take care of myself" tops the list. A phrase so broad it means nothing concrete. Taking care of oneself sounds profound, but it usually translates into symbolic gestures without continuity: a forgotten yoga mat, an abandoned app, and the recurring excuse that "the year started strong." Real self-care — sleeping better, setting boundaries, making uncomfortable decisions — rarely makes the list.
The next one is the economic purpose par excellence: "I'm going to save." It's almost always formulated after an impulsive purchase and before justifying the next one. January brings spreadsheets and solemnity; February, excuses; March, financing; and April, the definitive phrase: "you have to live too." Saving ends up being an abstract idea that never seriously competes with immediate desireAnother classic is the social one: "I'm only going to surround myself with people who bring me something." A flawless statement in theory and null in practice. The same environment, the same dynamics, and the same personal renunciations are maintained, but everything is renamed under the banner of empathy. It is not. It is usually simply the fear of causing discomfort.
Even more diffuse is the existential purpose: "this year I'm going to find myself." As if one had gotten lost by mistake. Finding oneself does not consist of repeating motivational phrases or symbolic rituals, but in assuming that mistakes are repeated in different scenarios and that one can no longer blame the calendar.
The gym deserves a special mention. January is full of new beginnings and enthusiasm; February, of absences. The membership fee remains. Quitting also costs money, but less than accepting that consistency was never the problem: the excuse was.
And finally, the great annual mantra: "this year is going to be my year." It's pronounced with conviction, without changing habits or decisions. The year passes, as always. It wasn't "your year," but you survive. And that, even if it's not celebrated, is already an accomplishment.The reality is uncomfortable but simple: resolutions don't fail because we are incapable, but because they are used as anesthesia. They serve to postpone decisions, avoid necessary breakups, and put off real changesPerhaps this year there's no need to promise anything. Perhaps a small, concrete, and honest action will suffice. And if it's not fulfilled, at least you won't be lying to yourself
That is already personal growth.
The rest, like every December 31st, is seasonal literature.
And fiction.