In my Christmas Message last week, I wrote about purposefully seeking out a new core memory; something specific and intentional to plant a new root in a season that otherwise felt awkward and unfamiliar. New Year, though, brings a slightly different lesson. And as it turns out, I can keep some traditions even when everything else has changed.
Since we moved to Gloucestershire, I’ve made an effort to climb my local hill for the first sunrise of each year. Some years I’ve been wowed by the colours, some years I’ve been underwhelmed. But every year I’ve had my first tea of January having moved my body up to a vantage point high above the area I call home. It’s a ritual that has quietly stitched itself into my life; not dramatic, not performative, just a gentle way of marking time.
Usually, it’s paired with watching the last sunset of the old year from the same place the previous day, though this time I caught that one from the motorway. I had to watch it through my windscreen as I drove home from the airport having found that new core memory I was looking for. So I guess I managed half a tradition, if you like.
And maybe that’s the thread running through this season: things don’t have to look the same to still matter. Traditions can flex. Rituals can adapt. And sometimes the familiar becomes even more precious when the rest of life has been turned upside down.
The New Year Myth: Reinvention, Resolutions, and Reality
New Year is a funny old beast. Everywhere you look there’s talk of fresh starts, new you, big goals, big change. And I’ll be honest: I’ve always struggled with all that. And I’m struggling with it even more this time around. When life has been upended, the pressure to ‘be and do better’ lands differently.
I’ve always believed you don’t need big goals to be worthy. You don’t need to reinvent yourself to be enough. My monster of a bucket list was and is a demonstration of that; full of tiny, joyful, ordinary things alongside the big adventures. A reminder that small counts. Small matters. That small can be celebrated just as loudly as the milestones that get applause.
This year, that belief feels even more important. Especially for anyone stepping into 2026 carrying grief, trauma, uncertainty, or the quiet exhaustion of simply getting through the days. There’s a quiet bravery in continuing. In making tea. Putting one foot in front of the other. Choosing gentleness over transformation.
Stepping into 2026 with Curiosity, not Certainty
The truth is: I don’t know what 2026 holds. For any of us. 2025 taught me that lesson in a very big way. The ground can shift without warning, and the life you recognise can disappear in an instant.
I’m therefore choosing to move into this year with gentle curiosity. Small steps, up and along familiar paths, as well as onto new ones. Choosing what feels right rather than what’s expected. Letting the year unfold as it happens instead of trying to wrestle it into shape.
If you need it, I hope this gives you permission to do January differently. No resolutions required. No pressure to transform.
If you’re struggling too, know you’re not alone. There is nothing wrong with you for finding this time of year hard. There’s a strange silence around that truth, as if we’re meant to tuck pain away until February in favour of being the best version of ourselves. But naming it matters. Honesty matters. Softness matters.
So, here’s my invitation: Speak honestly. Move gently. Let yourself be enough. Even in the midst of rebuilding.
Here’s to a happy 2026. Whatever that might look like for each of us.