It’s 2026, and I never quite know how to feel about New Year.
Part of me genuinely loves a fresh page. A clean line in the sand. That quiet satisfaction when occasionally a new month starts on a Monday - double fresh! There’s something about that neatness, that sense of order and possibility, that I do lean into.
But there’s another side to this time of year that I’ve been noticing more and more. A subtle pulling backwards.
Almost every app we use now invites us to review our past before we’ve even had a chance to step into what’s next. Your best photos. Your most listened-to songs. Your most watched shows. Your top moments. Even ChatGPT wanted to show me what I’d talked about all year.
And don’t get me wrong - reflection can be beautiful. Important, even. But lately, it feels like reflection has tipped into something heavier. Less like a gentle review, more like a constant backward glance.
We’re living in a culture soaked in nostalgia
Films are remakes of remakes. TV shows with the biggest followings are set firmly in the past. The music, the outfits, the aesthetics - all carefully designed to pull us back to a time before smartphones, before constant notifications, before the pace of life sped up the way it has.
There’s something comforting about it, of course. Nostalgia works because it reminds us of belonging. Of shared references. Of moments where we say, “Oh wow, do you remember that?” A toy. A song. An outfit. A TV show that tied you together with friends, siblings, whole generations.
Millennial culture is especially steeped in this right now. The memes alone tell the story — jokes about VHS tapes, dial-up internet, flip phones, being allowed out until the streetlights came on. The “good old days.”
And this is where it starts to feel tricky for me.
Because somewhere along the way, nostalgia has stopped being just a fond glance backwards and started carrying a quieter message underneath: it was better then. As if the best days are already behind us.
That story doesn’t sit comfortably in my body.
It starts to feel like a dragging energy. A sense that we peaked already. That everything meaningful has already happened. That now we’re just remixing old versions of ourselves and calling it comfort.
And I don’t want to live from that place.
I actually think there’s a beautiful sliding scale with nostalgia. On one end, it’s tender, connective, grounding. On the other, it becomes heavy, bittersweet - leaving little space for new ideas, new stories, new experiences to take root.
For me, that scale has tipped recently.
I still love nostalgia. I mean, my sister and I are genuinely excited to go and see Hercules in the West End. We nearly wore out that VHS when we were kids! And shows like Stranger Things get it right, in my opinion - familiar enough to feel safe, but bold enough to tell an entirely new, all-consuming story. The best of both worlds.
That’s the balance I’m craving.
To remember without getting stuck.
To honour what’s been without believing it was the peak.
To let the past inform me, not define me.
Why I Step Away from Resolutions
I don’t love the performative nature of New Year intentions. The pressure to declare big plans. To be seen doing something. To optimise, upgrade, reinvent, all at once. If that works for you, truly, I’m all for it. But it’s never been my way.
Partly because it’s winter.
I can’t sow seeds right now. I can’t rush growth. I can’t force clarity. Nature doesn’t work like that, and neither do I.
Some of the most beautiful things in my life didn’t come from perfectly executed plans anyway. They came from chance conversations. Unexpected connections. Trusting the next step even when I couldn’t see the full path. From someone completely unexpected creating a connection that quietly propelled me forwards into dreams I didn’t even know I had.
So this year, instead of setting intentions or resolutions, I’m choosing something softer.
An energy.
For me, this doesn’t look like resolutions or rigid plans. It looks more like creating an environment for possibility.
Sometimes that shows up as writing things down without needing to decide what they mean yet.
Sometimes it’s a word or phrase I return to when I notice myself tightening or rushing.
And sometimes it’s allowing myself to daydream - creating my very own new main character movie in my mind. Imagining scenes that haven’t happened yet. Letting curiosity lead instead of control. No rules. No pressure. Just small, quiet ways of staying open to what wants to emerge next.
Not answers.
Not outcomes.
Just space.
No force. No performance. Just trust.
The past can be beautiful.
But I don’t believe it has to be the best part.
And right now, choosing to look forward - softly, imperfectly, curiously - feels like the most grounded thing I can do.
