2016 is here. It’s January.
I mean, you probably noticed, what with all the fireworks and ‘New Year, New Me’ statuses and general proliferation of calendars/diaries/goals/things we associate with the new year. But if you didn’t, let me be the one to break it to you. 2015 is gone. 2016 is where it’s at.
I wish I could say that I welcomed in 2016 with sparklers and celebrations – waving around a list of completed resolutions triumphantly whilst I guzzled champagne and kissed the love of my life, blabbering to anyone who would listen about my updated resolutions.
But I didn’t.
I watched fireworks on the TV for all of 10 seconds before I slunk back to the warmth of bed and a good book, pausing to give A his New Years kiss and he played whatever first person shooter he’s currently obsessed with.
I have goals for 2016, but they’re not resolutions. They’re not good intentions that will simply be swept aside come February (or, if you’re super committed, March). I didn’t make them because everyone else was, and I felt pressured into proving that I also feel a desperate need for self improvement or happiness.
My goals, the ones I’ve written out carefully into my new bullet journal, do not signify a ‘new me’. There’s nothing wrong with the ‘old’ me, in fact the ‘old’ me has only just really begun to work out what she wants to do to achieve health and happiness and all that stuff gurus go on about. They signify a commitment to myself to actually do the things I want to do, which it turns out is harder than it sounds.
Perhaps later this year, if it seems appropriate, I might share one (or all) of my 2016 goals with you, but for now they’re mine.
Just for me.
The ‘old’ me. The only me.