New Year’s Eve—what a curious little tradition we’ve concocted. There’s something both absurd and wonderful about staring down a ticking clock, champagne—who am I kidding—beer in hand as if midnight will magically reset the world. When I was younger, it all felt so grand—the glitter, the laughter, the shared optimism that the coming year would somehow outshine the last. Back then, my celebrations were raucous affairs: makeshift dance floors in living rooms, cheap lager masquerading as champagne, and the occasional ill-fated resolution that I had no real intention of keeping.
Marriage and children, of course, rebranded New Year’s Eve into something quieter but no less meaningful. Becky and I would sit with the kids tucked in, raising our glasses to another year survived, another one hoped for. The magic became less about the stroke of midnight and more about the small moments—our children’s giggles echoing down the hall as they tried to stay awake or the soft clink of glasses at midnight after she had lost her battle.
Now? Well, now the whole event feels more like a reminder of time’s relentless march. Midnight doesn’t feel like a beginning anymore; it feels like the closing of a loop. The ritual is there—a glass of something warm (often sherry these days) and a vague sense of obligation to watch the clock—but the shine has dulled. Resolutions? They’re made with the same half-hearted enthusiasm as ticking a box on a form: “Must try harder to…” What, exactly? Lose weight? Be kinder? Fix that wobbly chair in the kitchen? I’ve made the same resolutions so many times I could recite them like a nursery rhyme.
Yet, there’s a stubborn little ember of hope that refuses to be snuffed out. It’s quieter than it used to be, but it’s there, flickering stubbornly in the background. Maybe this year will be different, it whispers. Perhaps this time, you’ll keep a promise to yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll figure out what you’ve been trying to chase all along.
So, I’ve come to accept that New Year’s isn’t really about change—at least not in the grand, sweeping sense we’re led to believe. It’s about tiny, stubborn acts of persistence. It’s about raising a glass to the resilience we’ve shown in getting this far and maybe—just maybe—deciding to keep going, hoping to do it all again next year.