A new year. A new decade (we may quibble on the technical start of the new decade, but there is something thrilling about seeing the number roll-over).

I don’t really believe in resolutions. If people want to change, they will — and not because of some arbitrary date on the calendar. But somehow there’s still that urge to better myself just because I don’t know this year yet.

Not that anything truly changes as the date ticks over. My experiences are still the same. I am still me. I have the same foibles as I did on the 31st.

But I feel like I need this change. Last year was one of the worst of my life in so many ways, and I don’t want to dwell in it. I want to remember and appreciate it, but I don’t want it to define me.

My so-called “resolutions” are no different than anyone else:

Be healthier. Become a better steward with my time and money. Enjoy being in the present more than worrying about the future. Tell people I love them since I don’t know the next time I will see them again.

2019 was a lost year for me. I’m trying to remember details, but all I can feel is the vague stress of the first part, and the chaotic grief of the second half. I was focused so much on getting by that I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing.

In the stress, anxiety, and depression, I think I lost a little bit of myself. That’s really what I want out of this new decade. To find myself again.

To stop performing for others and be satisfied in me.