Every year, as the clock strikes midnight and humanity collectively decides that sparkling beverages count as hydration, we engage in one of our most ancient traditions. We promise Future Us that we will become Better Us. It’s a charming ritual, really, like writing a love letter to a person we have no intention of dating.
New Year’s resolutions are words of self delusion. They are the haikus of hope, the sonnets of self improvement, the epic sagas of “this time I mean it”. We craft them with the solemnity and optimism of elders. For a brief, shimmering moment, we believe we will wake up on January 1 as a completely different species.
We exit December with a sigh of relief, some from exhaustion, some because the year has been holding them by the collar like a strict headmaster. When January tiptoes in, it smells of fresh paint and possibility, and humanity begins its annual rite of self reinvention. But how this unfolds depends greatly on where you stand on the map.
In America, it becomes a nation of freshly baptised optimists. Gym parking lots overflow like a Pentecostal revival. Vegetables, those long-neglected green exiles, are suddenly welcomed back into households with the enthusiasm of prodigal sons. And everyone, from Wall Street executives to the guy selling incense outside the grocery store, is armed with a list of resolutions so ambitious they could frighten a United Nations committee.
Back home, we also make resolutions, but we do so quietly, privately, and with the full understanding that life may have its own plans. You can resolve to “wake up at 5 am every day,” but if the rooster decides to take a break, who are you to argue with nature?
In America, however, resolutions are a public performance. People announce them boldly, like campaign promises. “This year, I’m cutting sugar.” “This year, I’m learning Mandarin.” “This year, I’m finally writing that novel.” The confidence is inspiring. The follow-through… well, let’s just say the gym is empty again by February, the vegetables are back to their lonely exile in the crisper drawer with a fainting disorder, and the brand new planner sits on the counter judging us with its pristine, untouched pages. The universe, ever the comedian, knows better.
But I’ve come to appreciate the beauty of it. There is something hopeful about declaring that the simple turning of a calendar page can reset one’s entire life. It’s as if the nation collectively believes in a cosmic Ctrl+Alt+Delete.
In many African cultures, time is not a straight line but a circle. The past is always present, the future is always arriving, and ancestors sit in the front row of your life like stern but loving uncles. So the idea that January is a magical portal to reinvention feels both charming and fishy.
But America thrives on reinvention. This is, after all, the land where you can move to a new city, change your name, and tell people you’ve always been passionate about artisanal bread. Reinvention is practically a constitutional right. For Kenyans abroad, resolutions take on a different flavour. We are already in a state of perpetual reinvention. Every day is a negotiation between who we were, who we are becoming, and who our elders back home think we should be.
Should I resolve to be more American? Or more African? Or some hybrid creature who eats ugali and nyama choma while filing taxes early? Should I resolve to call home more often? (Yes.) Should I resolve to stop pretending I understand American football? (Also yes.) Should I resolve to finally accept that winter is not a personal attack? (Still debating.)
Invoking ancestral wisdom
Whether you’re an African invoking ancestral wisdom or an American downloading a habit tracking app, the New Year is about hope. It is the universal belief that tomorrow can be kinder, that we can be wiser, and that life, despite its chaos, still listens when we whisper our intentions. And perhaps the truest resolution is to keep dreaming, even when the calendar stops clapping.
Resolutions are the utopian declaration that, although we are passengers on the ship of life, we occasionally grab the wheel, even if we immediately crash into a metaphorical pier. We dream big, fail loudly, and try again with the enthusiasm of someone who has learned absolutely nothing.
A new year is, in one sense, an arbitrary boundary. Nothing magical happens at midnight on December 31. The world does not reset; our habits do not evaporate; our past does not dissolve. And yet, humans cling to the idea of a fresh start with devotion. Why? Because the idea of a new beginning is one of the few universally accessible forms of hope.
Make your resolutions boldly, break them gently, and live your life generously. The year is long, the journey is winding, and the story is still being written. Let’s keep trying, even when we know we’ll probably trip over our own ambition. Let’s laugh at ourselves, kindly. Let’s embrace the comedy of being human.
