The memories of this past year came flooding back and I hastily scrawled each one into list form. The rapid succession of disparate, non-chronological, and unsorted moments swept me into a whirlwind of emotion, condensed by time.
I realize this simple act of reminiscing might not seem extraordinary.
Usually around this time of year, I’m embracing the magic of the season, while juggling the many additional tasks and finalizing what has evolved into my multiple-category, bullet-pointed, New Year’s Resolutions list. In the moments I steal from the present, I’m looking forward, not back.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a New Year’s Resolutions kinda gal. As an adult, I took it even more seriously. Almost smugly, I distinguished myself from the hopeful resolutioners who’d suddenly crowd the gym with their good intentions of working off their holiday spirit to once and for all get in the best shape of their lives. But come February, they were no where to be found. That was not me. I referred to my admirable list throughout the year, but rarely spoke of it to anyone. When my multi-faceted approach for improvement moved to live in a cloud where I could access it from anywhere, I was sure I’d reached one of the pinnacles of adulting.
But I had it all wrong.
My well-intentioned resolutions did generate positive outcomes, but they also perpetuated an insatiable desire for, and an endless pursuit of, improvement and growth. The underlying tale I was whispering to myself was that my present was somehow lacking or unsatisfactory, and fulfillment lived in a future that never seemed to arrive.
Maybe all roads don’t lead to Rome, but this one certainly does: my childhood achievements were never good enough. It was the delta between my accomplishment and Trish’s inaccessible expectations that was most scrutinized, not the achievement itself nor the significant effort behind it. My mother’s focus on the 3% I missed on a test, for example, came from a good place, but it left me feeling defeated. “Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” she’d tell me, either preemptively or as a way to admonish my imperfection. With expectations that were unclear to begin with and morphed as I approached them, invariably I both improved and failed.
It’s not at all surprising that I internalized a nagging hyperfocus on improvement, and later clutched onto a system of rigid——but clearly defined——resolutions.
What did come as a surprise, though, is what happened after that emotional rollercoaster through my memories of 2024. The resulting list was a messy collection of life experiences infused with the gamut of human emotion. “This is what it means to be alive,” I thought to myself. These disparate moments——some joyous and others heart-wrenching——were knitted together with awe, hope, resiliency, togetherness, and love. Hindsight helped me see it was a year of abundance. A year well-lived.
This simple act of reminiscing created space for me to be able to feel contentment from having enough, gratitude from abundance, fortitude from enduring life’s challenges, and serenity from just being. I find this extraordinary.
Over the last few years, I’ve been intentional about cultivating more self-compassion. This means letting go of familiar coping strategies that no longer serve me, like my unnecessarily arduous resolutions and that militant inner voice. I’m finally able to see that there are kinder and more nurturing ways to continue to grow.
The next time I get the urge to list, it’ll be one of “strategic underachievement,” which author and journalist Oliver Burkemen explains as the practice of “nominating in advance whole areas of life in which you won’t expect excellence of yourself.” Doesn’t that sound amazing? Permission and grace to land anywhere between imperfection and failure. It’s a resolute rejection: No, not everything we do is worth doing well. And a silent, yet inspiring admission: Some things are worth pouring your heart and soul into.
I may not have resolutions in the cloud next year, but I do hope to ring in the new year with family and my personal stash of exactly twelve grapes. Whether or not this tradition brings luck to each of the coming months, it’s a hilarious and death-defying way to relish the present and step into the new year. ❤️❤️
Do you have a particular way you say farewell to the year or welcome the new year? In what ways do you cultivate self-compassion?
I’d love to hear your thoughts! Until then, I wish you moments of great clarity so that you may see past the daily clutter, quiet the noise, and savor what truly matters to you. Thank you for reading!
December’s little joy
Vicki Rawlins creates stunning art out of foraged leaves, twigs, flowers, and other botanical bits. She describes her fleeting creations, which she arranges without glue or tape, as “Mother Nature’s house of cards.” After each finished piece is photographed, the materials are returned back to nature. Her collections includes whimsical landscapes, bouquets, inspirational women, and famous faces.
A wonderful reminder of how we can create beautiful things from even the smallest bits of our lives!
Response from November’s Newsletter Question
What life experience(s) are you grateful for?
“I didn’t think I’d be here, right where I am now. I’m the person I needed when there was no one. You could say it was every single life experience that brought me to this exact place to help others.” —anonymous
ICYMI
Newsletters: November: An Unexpected Twist, October: Better Together, September: How’s the book coming along?
Joy snacking: sunset, dahlias, concrete joy, espresso, squirrels
Scrapbook: The Pedicab, Our brown van
Other posts: "I quietly hoard memoirs”
Wow!! You are an amazing writer!! Loved this piece as it sooooo resonated with me!! I miss you friend💗 I hope you are well!!