My 2026 New Year's Resolution

Hello, all!

I read a writing prompt recently that asked writers to consider resolutions and anti-resolutions. What happens when we go too far with goal-setting? What happens when we vow to fail, to be unproductive, to live in joy?

Now, I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions, but this prompt got me thinking (as a good prompt should). Below are the resulting ramblings. What are your resolutions for the coming year? Decade? Lifetime?

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As the glittering ball drops, humanity reaches its zenith. A sweet melody of cheers rockets up into the atmosphere with pounds of questioningly biodegradable confetti. Staccato yelps of excitement and joy blend with soft, languid cries from those with goals left unaccomplished. Primal screams and bass tones, bellows of “thank god that year is done” burst forth from lungs. Hurried breaths percuss as fervent lips touch and warm arms wrap around others. The chimes of glasses filled with bubbles—some ringing with expertly handcrafted clarity, others barely making a sound through the struggle to maintain their plastic bottoms—echo through the evening sky. The whooshing touches of hand over hand helps dilute the wailings of grief for things and people lost. Plants rustling in near-empty apartments as they dance to the beat of the muffled enthusiasm outside accents loneliness for some and peace for others. Sweet, dulcet tones of love leap through the air, transmitted through words or gifts or touch or text. 

An annual symphony of what it means to be human.

The next morning, all remnants of our raw, unfettered feelings lay strewn and stepped on in the gutters. The most persistent hopes and dreams may stick to storm drains with the cheap confetti, or linger for a short time in a late-night partier’s hair. But they never last long. After all, the night of humanity has come to a close. There is progress to be made. Routine responsibilities to regard. Checklists to complete. January begins, and we must resolve to find the bugs in our programming. 

Advertisements rattle through a list of insecurities from the living room. A sultry, speedy voice skips and dances through side effects while reminding a working mother that she no longer looks like she is twenty. Which, of course, she is not. Even worse, she’s only going to look older. The lines on her cheeks from laughing at her toddler’s antics deepen each day. Her body is losing the war against time, which—as the commercial suggests—is winnable, with a few simple procedures and products. Only humans get old. She looks in the mirror, tugs at her skin, and shudders. She resolves that this is the year she will save up for botox. 

Deep, authoritative voices conduct a rickety train of thought through a basement apartment decorated only by a bed and gym equipment. The place is minimalist-by-salary, rather than minimalist-by-choice. A young man absorbs the podcast hosts’ pressure to be hyper-masculine, turning the pain of each new bullet point shot into his ears into aggression directed at his punching bag. He is not where he wants to be in life, and he senses the same disappointment from everyone around him. Every eye that crosses his path knows he’s a loser; no girlfriend, no promotion, no house. Even his parents are the same way, always asking when he’s going to move out or when he’s going to get married. To admit that he is terrified of failure would be to admit he can fail. Nothing is more human than the weakness of failure. He hits the bag again and resolves that this is the year he benches 255 pounds.

An intrusive memo from the CEO sets off an anxiety-inducing ping from a middle-aged man’s laptop, even though it is a federal holiday. The company will be requiring each employee to create a proposal for how to efficiently integrate AI into department processes. The man is still several years from retirement, and though he has only ever had stellar performance reviews, he fears for his customer-facing role. He was going to request time off to visit his daughter and grandkids at the end of the month. Now, his January will be spent taking online courses on what AI is and how to use it. To admit he is afraid for his job would be to reject technology, and, therefore, modernity. He resolves to effectively determine the best way machines can replace him—after his retirement, of course. 

Online forums light up with postings boasting of mediocre benefits and average working conditions. Impossible requirements hide among clandestine fonts and polite corporate language. “Four years of experience” hovers just under “entry-level” and “master’s degree preferred.” Blue light burns contradictions onto the college senior’s retinas as she scrolls past job after job after job. All her life she was told to pursue her passion, yet her degree in history and love for studying the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire has left nothing commodifiable for her resume. She opens new tabs, flicking between her student debt account, graduate school home pages, and online program management certificate courses. To be too passionate about how humans have lived before is useless. We are moving forward, not backwards, after all. She resolves that she’ll work on her resume tomorrow, after asking ChatGPT which key words will catch the attention of a recruiter’s algorithm.

Every year, humanity resolves to be less and less human. To stay on track for preordained life milestones. To throw ancient artifacts and learnings back into the dust. To dive headlong into loneliness through extreme self-sufficiency. To advance technologies at such an unsustainable pace that we cannot keep up with the consequences. To become so efficient that we have no time to feel anything. 

This year, I resolve to be unabashedly, mortifyingly, and erringly human. I will write with all the adverbs I’m supposed to ignore, scribble the silly metaphors that make people roll their eyes, and show reverence to the Oxford comma my human English teacher taught me to use. Perhaps—if I’m feeling bold—I’ll use an em-dash. Or seven. I will cry when I share my neighbor’s sorrows and cheer for their victories. I will do that activity I don’t love with my friend, who I do love. I will call my parents. I will send my fears into the wind. I will freely vocalize my love. 

Every day, I will join the symphony of humanity.