SEASONAL MAGICWhy I Stopped Making New Year's Resolutions and Started Writing Eulogies Instead
January 15, 2026 - 6 min read
Every January, the internet loses its collective mind.
New year, new you! Manifest your best life! This is YOUR year! Set intentions! Make vision boards! Wake up at 5 AM to journal about your goals while the rest of us mortals are still unconscious and drooling!
And every January, I watch women I love spiral into shame by February because they ate bread or skipped the gym or failed to become entirely different people through sheer force of willpower and expensive planners.
Here's what I've learned: You can't build a new life on top of an unburied body.
I stopped making resolutions five years ago. Now I write eulogies instead.
Not for people. For the versions of myself that died in the previous year.
This January, I sat down with a glass of wine and my journal, and I wrote eulogies for:
The Woman Who Thought She Could Make Everyone Happy
She died sometime around March, after a particularly brutal family dinner where she smiled so hard her face hurt. She is survived by a woman who has learned the phrase "that won't work for me." She will not be missed.
The Belief That Productivity Equals Worth
It passed quietly in July, during a week when I did nothing but read novels and take naps. It lingered longer than it should have, sustained by capitalism and childhood conditioning. In lieu of flowers, please do absolutely nothing for at least one hour.
The Fantasy of the Perfect Comeback
This one died and resurrected several times, as these things do. But its final death came in October when I realized that the person I wanted to say the perfect thing to genuinely does not think about me at all. May it rest in peace. May I stop rehearsing arguments in the shower.
The Fear That I'm Too Much
Still dying. Takes a long time, this one. But it's weaker now than it was in January 2025, and that's enough.
After I write them, I burn them.
Not because fire is ~magical~ (though it is). But because grief needs a ritual, and release needs a container, and sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is watch the smoke rise and say: You're done now. Thank you. Goodbye.
Then—and only then—I think about what I want.
Not "goals" in the corporate sense. Not weight loss or productivity hacks or finally learning Spanish. (I'm never learning Spanish. I've made peace with this.)
Just: What do I want to feel more of? What do I want to feel less of? What do I want to stop tolerating?
This year, my answers were: - More mornings that don't start with dread - Fewer conversations where I perform enthusiasm I don't feel - Zero tolerance for people who make me feel small
No metrics. No tracking. No app.
Just a direction. A slow turn toward something that might be better.
The self-help industry will tell you that you need to become someone new. That the person you are isn't enough. That with the right system, the right habits, the right mindset, you can finally be worthy.
I'm calling bullshit.
You're already worthy. You've just been dragging around a lot of dead weight—old versions of yourself, old beliefs, old expectations—and nobody ever taught you how to hold a funeral.
So here's your permission slip: This January, don't resolve to be better.
Grieve what's gone. Bury what's dead. Thank the versions of yourself that got you this far, even the ones who made terrible decisions.
And then—only then—ask yourself what you actually want.
The answer might surprise you.
It usually has nothing to do with losing ten pounds.
