New year’s resolutions, while shiny, are, in my opinion, a way to make a statement and then ignore it for 11 months. Less a path to success, I find they act as a reminder of how much you haven’t done what you said you would. (Extra points if you share your resolution with other people who are then expecting you to make good on said commitment.)

So, this year, I’m not making a single resolution. Not one blessed sentence will escape my lips related to bettering myself in some miscellaneous way. Why? Because I’m stressed enough without the added pressure of self-imposed tyranny. There are so many questions about the new year already, most of which I don’t have the answer to. Will next year be better than this one? Will I be able to travel freely in 2022 or will it be another year without seeing family and friends in far-flung (and not so far-flung) places? Will anything feel deeply normal again or have we moved beyond the pale of precedented times once and for all?

We’ve had two years of personal responsibility – wear a mask, wash your hands, isolate if you contract the virus, isolate if you come into contact with someone who has the virus – which, to some extent, has made it feel as if the pandemic was our fault. It’s hard not to feel culpable when you are the problem. As much as this is necessary, it’s come at the cost of any wider liability; namely, at what point do we look at our situation and consider that to be as much of a problem as the problem itself.

“I’m under enough pressure as it is. Why would I make a new year’s resolution?”