New year, old me

“Do you have any plans for next year?”

When the new year approaches, people suddenly get busy and start asking each other this same soulless question.

This December was no different. As soon as our calendars hit the final month, every platform was posting its “Top Albums of the Year.” The year was already over for so many of us. Today was just a concrete step towards the upcoming year.

In the past few days, I felt pressured to dig up every problem in my life and hold it high above my head. To look cool, I had to pretend I was preparing to become a new version of myself. So I came up with a word of the year 2025, made plans to earn more money, and wrote down ways to boost my productivity.

Until November, I was fine making just enough money to call myself an independent artist. I worried about the future, but deep down I believed pouring 100% into my art was my life’s true purpose. Then December came, and I started obsessing over whether I had any tangible success in 2024. I wanted to make sure my 2024 looked good on paper.

What projects did I finish? How much money did I earn? How many books did I read? How many posts did I publish? How many awards did I win? I asked myself these questions and felt frustrated when I realized I didn’t have any impressive numbers to impress the crowd. I was already caught in a self-inflicted competition. Suddenly, my love for reading and writing felt like something to be ashamed of.

I looked around me, stuck in a country where young people leave and old people take their own lives. I read devastating news about the martial law and the plane crash. I mourned the death of democracy and the victims. I grew anxious about the idea of being swallowed up by a nationwide crisis. I began to lose my smile whenever I spoke. I became almost convinced I was a useless piece of shit who needed fixing.

As I’m writing this final paragraph, there’s only a minute left in 2024. I must say, I’m tired of this depressing game. I don’t want to force myself to become a different person every year. Life doesn’t magically change when December 31 turns into January 1. The “new me” isn’t waving at me on the other side of the year. No matter how many fireworks light up around the world, I’ll still be the same old me. It’s about the right time to be proud of that.