As I scroll through all the "New Year, New Me" posts on social media this week, I can’t help but laugh. New year, same me. No matter how many plans I make, lists I create, or adorable gel pens I buy, procrastination is my loyal companion. There’s no denying it: I will always be the person who waits until the absolute last moment to start a project.

This year, there will be no grand gestures about taking better care of myself or signing up for an expensive membership that just becomes another embarrassing recurring charge I’m too ashamed to cancel. I’m not making vows or promises because, frankly, I know myself too well. Setting myself up for failure is no way to kick off a new year.

I love any excuse to buy a new pen, notebook, or planner. At this point, I could probably open a stationery museum featuring artifacts of my abandoned productivity dreams. When the ball drops and a new year starts, I’m already online hunting for the next magical planner that will transform me into a highly organized adult. There’s something so thrilling about cracking open a fresh notebook and imagining all the brilliant things I’ll jot down. Reality? They’ll join the stationery cemetery on my bookshelf by the end of the week.

Fitness? Oh, sure, it should probably be a goal. But I won’t even entertain the idea of vowing to "take better care of myself." In the last eighteen months, I’ve lost 65 pounds with the help of medication. While that’s been a great step, my natural grace is on par with a toddler wearing high heels. Losing that much weight has thrown off my center of gravity, making my already questionable spatial awareness downright hazardous. Door frames? I bump into them. Chairs? I knock them over. Basically, I’m a walking slapstick comedy.

Every month, a sum is drafted from my account for a gym membership I’ve had since it opened. I’ve been there once. Downtown, there’s this really cool place called Neuse Barbell Club, and I’m addicted to their TikTok videos of everyday people doing extraordinary things—it’s incredible to watch. But the thought of going? Cue the overwhelming dread. The idea of embarrassing myself in front of strangers? No, thanks. I’d rather chew glass and ask for seconds.

So, no New Year’s resolutions for me. If you’ve made a resolution or personal vow, I genuinely hope you succeed and achieve every goal you’ve set. But whether you stick to them or not, remember this: the person you are on January 1st is the same amazing person you were on December 31st.

Life (and therapy) has taught me to set reasonable expectations. For me, that means continuing to follow my doctor’s orders and striving to write a weekly column. If those two things are all I accomplish in 2025, I’ll call it a smashing success.

It’s taken me years to truly embrace the person I am. My journey hasn’t been about making resolutions or promises—it’s been about discovering my true self, defining what I want, and learning how to step out of my own way. This year, I’m focusing on enjoying each day without the pressure of fixing everything just because the calendar reset.

Cheers to 2025 – may it be filled with small wins, good laughs, and a lot less pressure.