Twenty-Something Year Old Journalist

Before every new year, I make a list. I make a list of all the things I want to accomplish, things I want to buy, how I want people to perceive me, who I want to become. Along with this list I also write an entry in my (now passed) journal. I write about what I hope this new year is going to bring and how all the struggle I faced in the previous year will have been worth it. 

Yet every year it ends the same way. I do not meet the love of my life, I do not get scouted for an impressive job, I do not manage to create an entirely new identity and personality, I do not manage to lose that weight, I do not do the things I wanted to do or become the person I wanted to be. 

But this year, 2025? This year will be different. 

This year I won’t make the lists, I won’t write down the affirmations, I won’t listen to “Happy New Years” by ABBA alone in my room at 11:59 p.m., yearning for the next 365 days to bring change. 

Along with this lack of ABBA-enthusiasm this year, (as if I could even fake that) I also won’t attempt to envision how I want my body to look, I won’t mood board my hopes and dreams, I won’t speak to a God that I’m not quite sure exists anymore or attempt to meditate to high-frequency Spotify playlists that promise me prosperity and fortune. I won’t even longingly ask for this year to finally be the year of a boyfriend. 

Within my twenty-two years of New Years experiences, I have somehow managed to learn something about myself: I put way too much pressure on my future self to ‘succeed’ and to completely change who I am as a person and change my outlook on life. Every year I start starry-eyed and hopeful for what’s to come, yet every year would end with New Year’s Eve reflections filled with melancholy and discouragement. 

As I approach my twenty-third year of life, however, (January 29th — if you were wondering) I refuse to keep up the same actions that somehow always lead to the same outcomes. (Uh-doy)

So for this New Years, the big year of 2025, the year I can get into those 23+ bars in New York, the year of the second inauguration of Donald Trump, the year of the Oasis reunion tour, my brother’s junior year of college, the year Timothée Chalamet finally wins an Oscar, and the year of the new season of Severance, I am doing nothing. 

I mean, yes I have plans to consume alcohol until well past the clock striking midnight and am still holding out for a When Harry Meets Sally New Years confession, and yes I participated in an everything-shower to bring in the new year right, but I am making no resolutions. 

No resolution to meal prep, no resolution to stop wearing sweatpants outside the house, no resolution to buy a purse, or eat less sugar, or find a man, or to finally figure out how to be happy. If anyone is to ask though, my resolution is to just be kinder to myself. 

I often spend my year wishing to be someone else somewhere else, yet unhappy and disappointed in my lack to do so, no matter where I am or how hard I try. 

So this year is going to be different. 

For once in my life I am perfectly content and there is nothing I would want to change about anything. (Other than being able to meet my self-imposed deadlines — this was supposed to be published on January 1st.)

Of course there are things I would like to improve upon and goals I would like to accomplish, (100 subscribers has a nice ring to it) but just because the year has changed does not mean an excuse to create unnecessary stress, and it most definitely does not mean an excuse to shame myself or tear myself down if these desires just aren’t meant to be. 

So today is simply just today, tomorrow is simply just tomorrow, and yesterday is (was?) simply just yesterday. I will take each day at a time and appreciate what the day has brought me and taught me and be grateful for the people who were a part of it — even if they’re not yet subscribers to my blog.