It is the end of the year. Again. And with it, you might find yourself saying the same things you did just twelve months ago. Making promises to change and do things differently for next year. That is all fine, so long as they aren’t empty promises made from a shaky foundation. From a place of not really knowing what it is you really need to change, and why. It is what I call a place of clouded perception. Where you say you’ll do things not because it is the next right thing for you, but because saying it is what you are supposed to say.
And by saying it perhaps you get a feeling that it will finally come to pass. That you will change.
I think in order to change you do have to know why you want to, and what you’ll get from it. That involves some questioning.
Maybe you want to “get healthy” or “get organized”, at long last. Those goals are wonderful and I think they are more likely to come to fruition when you intend for them with some depth of knowing why. Why is it important to be organized and healthy? What does attaining them afford you the opportunity to do? Who can you become because of them?
I also think you are more likely to achieve those goals if you think of them in phases or pieces. Not as an all-or-nothing thing.
They are some elephant-sized tasks in themselves, and sometimes making them “resolutions” is like trying to eat them whole.
When you resolve that this is the year to accomplish those large projects, it might leave you feeling overwhelmed, as eating an elephant whole would.
Instead, start small and dig. And make your resolution to do that work every month, or every week. Maybe even every day so you can make progress. And not end up in the same spot next year.
Progress is what propels you forward and it is made in small pieces and steps. Not in grand, sweeping resolutions. Making progress feels good. And isn’t that the point? To feel good in what you are doing in your life, and for your life?
That feeling comes more fluidly when we change how we think of the ending of the year – of the end of anything, really.
I much prefer to think of it as “a going on”.
It feels so much better to think of everything as a continuation. And importantly with it recognize how being better, or more isn’t the goal. Having growing knowledge about who I am, what I need, and why, is.
Sure, an ending like the one we experience in December is an excellent time to pause, to reflect. Reflection is good. But it is best actually when you use it to see how far you’ve come, not on where you have failed to fulfill. It is used best when you find gratitude and pride in having moved at all.
It is also a good way to assess where to go next.
A going on.
It’s a moving forward to the next thing because that is what you are doing with the end of anything. And it is how you need to think about the end of the year. And the end of a month – the end of every day, even. You need to keep moving as you did this time last year, and on a random Tuesday in May.
The end of the year, the end of anything, is not an end. It is a going on. A deliberate and upward action of small steps that help you create your life.
It is a time of evaluation. Of valuation, even. Where you find yourself again. Or just find ways to return to yourself and see your worth.
I think we all need that “returning”.
And while we all feel this time of year is when resolutions should happen, the truth is that the more you return to yourself, dig, and question, all while moving on, the more fulfilled you will be.
This gift of returning to yourself is not reserved solely for December. Or for the end of anything. It is there whenever you need to feel grounded, or seen. Or when you need a reminder of where you have been in order to catapult you to your next step, however small it may be.
May this end for you be the time you return to yourself. And feel like the progression it is truly meant to be. The start of the continuation of your life.
A going on.
If finding yourself by getting unburied, unencumbered, uncluttered is your next right thing, and you need help – this is a good place to start.