Hey, hey, hey! It’s another new year and that means there are a thousand and one resolutions on the table – all of which open an opportunity for failure.
Damn, that’s cynical, right?
A few months ago, my friend and trainer Emily (at Emily Ackart Fitness – check her our) raved about Rachel Hollis’ Girl, Wash Your Face: Stop Believing the Lies About Who You Are So You Can Become Who You Were Meant to Be. In the midst of a hardcore audiobook binge – I soaked up Rachel’s “girl, you got this” empowering messages and laid out a whole new list of goals for end-of-the-year fitness, productivity and so on.
I didn’t achieve any of them.
Rachel has a whole chapter lamenting on the importance of keeping the promises you make to yourself. She talks about the promises we make others, our follow-through, our dedication, our success – and then the promises we make to ourselves along with the let-downs and guilt that often come with them.
For me, it was all terribly true. In the last year, especially – I’ve stepped away from the work that filled my cup and put 100% into my day job. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been worthwhile in its own ways – but in failing to deliver on promises to friends, partners, my now-fiancé and myself, I ended up in a puddle of emotions on the dining room floor more than once in Q4.
That’s just shit.
My cousin Kristin mentioned the book, again, many times over through the holidays. She and I rarely get to celebrate anything together – but this holiday “break” gave us plenty of chances to hang out, work on business plans, talk and gather with family. It was awesome.
“Girl, Wash Your Face changed my life,” she repeated. I heard it at least a dozen times over wine. In the same breath, she emphasized the exact point that had stuck with me in the Fall – “quit breaking the promises to yourself.”
Damn it, Universe. I see you.
So when New Year’s morning rolled around again this year – I took a long scroll through my Facebook newsfeed to take inventory of my friends’ resolutions. I still didn’t have my own – mostly out of the terror of admitting, yet again, that I would fail myself.
Again, that’s just shit.
I’ve never in my life been afraid of failure – especially not in recent history. So why the-actual-fuck am I afraid of it now?
The one thing I know I can commit to – that is guaranteed to bring more joy into my life – is writing every day. Every. Single. Day. For me, writing is a therapy. It clears my brain. It talks through and solves issues in my life. It documents incredible happenings and brings me insane happiness to read them later.
Somewhere in the madness of life over the last few years, I stopped writing often. I’ve tried to start again, but – unless I’m traveling – I fail to find the time to make it happen. Sadly, that’s the same excuse I have for working out, finishing my personal projects, fixing up the house and folding the laundry.
So here we are. I have a thousand-and-one goals for 2019. Many of them will fail. Some of them will succeed. My efforts at all of them will be worth it.
And my resolution, all along the way, is to write about it.