New Year, New Me? (What Again?) - Why Do You Think You Need To Be Better Than You Are?
In the dying days of December, around the time I finished digesting the brussels sprouts, I did what I always do as a new year looms on the horizon - I added beetroot, spinach and a courgette to the online shopping, debated what I should give up - bread, sugar, alcohol, red meat. I considered what I needed to throw out - pretty much everything. I vowed to use my time more productively, have concrete things to show for it. I’d have a clear vision, a proper plan, I’d get fresh air and close my rings, take vitamins, wear more colour, moisturise my elbows.
Resisting was futile. It was as if I was pre-programmed to believe there was a better version of me I could slide strategically into. I couldn’t decide if the admonishing January voice was inside my head or circling around me. Was I exercising free will or being manipulated by a consumerist society that wanted me to live excessively, joyously, exuberantly then switch suddenly into deprivation mode one week later? By 6 January, Epiphany, Nollaig na mBan, National Shortbread Day, I should have taken down all my decorations and become a new person.
I started early. I would not be taken by surprise. I’d tie off all loose ends, watch all the TV series we’d never finished. There was the one set in Tokyo, the one with Toni Collette, the second season of Bridgerton. By 31 December, I was exhausted. I had exhumed and disposed of 15 pairs of nude tights, put all the leather gloves I’d never worn on eBay, I’d spent an entire afternoon staring at the walls and establishing that none of the pictures worked anymore. I’d asked my husband when he’d like to meet me on the landing to tackle the cupboard with the fitted sheets. This would definitely be the year I’d be pristine, polished, streamlined, uncluttered, the children would eat healthily, and we’d have better shelving.
There was a poem I wanted to write but I couldn’t get past the first line. My brain couldn’t cope with creativity. I was in a demanding cycle of urgent self-improvement. The poem was called ‘Kill the Shloer’. The Shloer1 was haunting me, taunting me from behind the table tennis table where I’d hidden the six bottles I’d been gifted. I could still see them. Somehow, they symbolised a life I desperately needed to escape.
It didn’t seem right that the New Year started on a Sunday so I skipped church. I wasn’t ready to be good yet. I wasn’t ready to get properly dressed yet. None of my clothes suited me anyway. I needed room to have all my extra thoughts, to feed off my oppressive post-Christmas anxiety. On the evening of 1 January, as I headed off to bed at 10pm (I’d get more sleep in 2023), I stood up, did a cat stretch (I’d be more flexible in 2023) and announced, “I’m going to be better tomorrow”. “Better at what?” said my husband. “Something,” I replied. But on Monday, there was nothing to eat in the house, I’d put it all in the food recycling. “Do you want a sandwich?” he asked. I reckoned maybe sugar rather than bread this year.
I couldn’t escape. If I went on Instagram, I’d be forced to question all my life choices, define what the ‘better me’ would look like. There was a woman proudly sharing her plate of bean shoots, another was going to run a 5k in under 23 minutes. I applauded the mum who got her kids to school and went back to bed. In the Spar, the magazines screamed at me – ‘New Year, New Body’, ‘Find Your Happy In 2023’. If I moved fast, I could get a half-price outfit in the sales that would completely transform me – there was a pair of culottes that were “ideal for office hours, but could totally visit an offbeat museum or independent café at a moment's notice”. I aspired to that. ‘How will you make this year count?’, ‘Don’t just set goals, build systems’ were headline articles on Medium. ‘Make 2023 work for you’ yelled Women in Business. I felt under pressure.
On Thought for the Day2, a man talked about January, how it is named after Janus, the Roman god of doorways, gates and transitions. His two faces looking in opposite directions represent endings and beginnings. Before I could move forward, I needed to look back. I should reflect on my 2022, make sense of it, learn from the past, carry that wisdom into the future. I composed a post for Facebook. I deleted it. My greatest achievement was reading 102 books. My greatest learning was that I’d enjoyed it. I didn’t know if that was even an achievement. Then, it turned out I’d miscounted. There were only 101.
According to social media, there was an awful lot I needed to get right in 2023 – how would I look after God’s creation, protect my marriage, prioritise my self-care, increase my network, fulfil my potential? I was being trolled by my inbox. I could choose whether I was a success or a failure as a writer. “How’s the new year treating you so far? Did you start it with a clear head, a tidy desk, and a list of writing resolutions? Or are you still hoovering up pine needles, nursing a festive cough and working through a mountain of emails?”. I mainly wanted to know how to get a mountain of emails. There were only the weekly ones I’d subscribed to. I didn’t have a desk.
I got the ‘Friday email’ from my church. I’d signed up to it. They weren’t specifically contacting me to check if I was ok. It focused on resolutions. It encouraged us to do something for our minds, our bodies, our souls, to add positive things to our lives, not take them away. I reckoned I could do that. I was half-way there. Did I mention reading 101 books in 2022? I’d stretched on 1 January.
I listened to Sunday Sequence3. Four women were discussing faith in a secular world. “How do you approach a new year?” the presenter asked the guests. “It’s a great time to re-evaluate our lives,” one said, “to set expectations, hopes, goals”. That sounded huge. In 2022, I’d discovered that everything was totally out of my control so I didn’t want to be too ambitious. The women all wanted to be less busy, to have more time for conversations, more space for friends and family. I had a momentary revelation. I’d lots of time and space in 2022 but I’d spent it reading. Maybe it is just an illusion that there are better versions of us to be found once we eventually get that time and space….
It’s been a brief flirtation, me and my ‘better me’. One week into 2023, we’re going our separate ways. I like sandwiches too much, I like not having a plan, I like black, I like starting things I’ll never finish because giving up is the best decision you’ll ever make, I like Haribos, I like medium-rare, I like freedom from goals and expectations, I get thirsty. That’s life. There’s no reason to think you need to be better than what you already are. Happy New Year!
Non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice with sweetener.
BBC radio programme.
BBC radio programme.