Every December 31st, the jokes start early: “New Year, new me—until January 3rd.” “Resolutions are made to be broken.” “Why wait for the new year to change?” I get it. The cynicism is easy. The follow-through is hard. But I’m not here to dunk on resolutions. I’m here to celebrate the people who still make them. The people who feel the pull—not because January 1st is magical, but because ritual still matters.
We’ve always needed ritual to make hard transitions hold. A move across the country. A shaved head. A single sentence spoken aloud. Lighting a candle. Marking a day. These moments aren’t magical on their own—but they become powerful because we decide they matter. The calendar offers us one such opportunity every year. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it’s coming. That shared awareness turns a simple date into a hinge in the collective sentence. And change—real change—thrives when it’s marked, when it’s named, when it’s witnessed.
Last year, I quietly named my own resolution. I didn’t tell many people. I didn’t post it online. But I decided that 2025 would be the year I quit drinking alcohol, and the year I removed myself from a daily max dose of Lexapro—two substances I had relied on, daily, for over five years. And now, as the year comes to a close, I can say with quiet certainty: I did it.
It didn’t start with willpower. It started with ritual. I needed a symbol—a starting line. January 1st gave me that. I began with Lexapro. The brain zaps came—those strange neurological flickers that feel like something skipping inside your skull. But I wrote them out, sat with them, and eventually, they passed. I weaned off slowly, watching my mind return to itself like an animal crawling out of anesthesia. Then I stopped drinking. Not with dramatic declarations or perfection, but with clarity. At home, I stopped entirely. With friends, I allowed the rare visit—a two-drink max, spaced by intention and environment. A ritual had ended, and a new one began.
Alcohol used to be a daily friend. Now, it’s someone I used to know—an old companion who might visit once a year to sit on the porch. We remember the good times, nod at the pain, and part ways. The bond is broken, and that’s okay. The ritual worked.
I’m not telling this story because I think I’m exceptional. I’m telling it because I’m not. I’m just one small example of what becomes possible when you let a moment matter. If you’re feeling the urge to make a change—however small, however strange—use the moment. Use the year. Use the symbolism. You don’t need a perfect plan. You need a beginning.
Light a candle. Write a sentence. Pour something out. Cut something off. Declare a threshold. Let this part of your life end, so something else can begin.
Don’t let anyone talk you out of it with cleverness or cynicism. Yes, you can change anytime. But also—you can change this time. That’s the gift of ritual. That’s the gift of the New Year. It’s not an obligation. It’s an offering. A door. A pause. A comma in the sentence. A chance to say: “This part is over.”
So to everyone resolving. To everyone deciding. To everyone quietly wondering if this could be the time it finally shifts — I see you. You’re not silly. You’re sacred.
And I’m rooting for you.