A Year’s End, A New Beginning: Resolutions Through Time and Through Me
A Year’s End, A New Beginning: Resolutions Through Time and Through Me
By Karin Shard
Every year, as the last hours of December slip away, I find myself caught in the familiar ritual of making New Year’s resolutions. It’s almost automatic now—the quiet moment where I step away from the noise, think about the past twelve months, and try to sketch out a better version of myself for the year ahead. I used to think this habit was a modern invention, some mix of self-help culture and holiday sentimentality. But the more I learned about it, the more I realized that when I sit there with a glass in my hand and a list in my head, I’m taking part in a tradition thousands of years old.
The first time I stumbled across the history of New Year’s resolutions, I was surprised to discover that the ancient Babylonians were among the earliest to do it. Over four thousand years ago, they held a massive, twelve-day festival called Akitu, celebrating the new year as crops were planted and their king’s rule was reaffirmed. During this festival, they made promises to their gods—pledges to repay debts or return borrowed tools. In a way, they were doing the same thing I do every December 31: acknowledging where they’d fallen short and promising to do better. The Babylonians believed that if they kept their promises, the gods would reward them; if they didn’t, well, the gods would take note of that too. Sometimes I wonder if that little pang of guilt I feel when I abandon a resolution in mid-February is just the modern version of that ancient pressure.
Later, the Romans picked up the tradition, and it became tied to Janus, the two-faced god of beginnings and endings. One face looked backward and the other forward—an image that still feels fitting when I’m sitting on my couch on New Year’s Eve, thinking about everything I’ve done and everything I still want to do. The Romans would offer sacrifices and make promises to Janus as a way of starting the year with moral clarity. When I write down things like “be more patient” or “call my friends more often,” I’m essentially offering my own modern vow to a new beginning, just without the temple and ceremony.
Even in the Middle Ages, knights marked the new year by reaffirming their commitment to chivalry during what was called the Peacock Vow—a ceremony in which they placed their hands on a roasted peacock and promised to uphold bravery and honor. I may not have any roasted birds lying around, but I do think there’s something noble in the act of committing to a better version of oneself, no matter the century.
I’ve always found comfort in traditions, and knowing the roots of resolutions makes the whole process feel less like a chore and more like participating in something deeply human. That said, my resolutions are usually more mundane than paying tribute to gods or vowing knightly virtue. One year I promised to do a bike race 64Km long called the “Test Of Metal”. Another year I pledged to read more books than I bought (I failed spectacularly at that one). Another year I decided to try meditation, only to discover that my mind had the attention span of a squirrel on espresso.
What I’ve learned, though, is that resolutions aren’t just about success or failure. They’re about hope. And hope, I think, is the real magic of New Year’s Eve. We treat midnight like a reset button. Suddenly the slate feels cleaner, even if life doesn’t actually change between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m. There’s a universal optimism that fills the air—a collective decision to try again. Maybe that’s why nearly half of people make resolutions every year, even though most of us know we’ll break at least one within weeks. We’re not bad at resolutions; we’re just wonderfully, stubbornly hopeful.
Another fun fact I learned: January 1 hasn’t always been the start of the new year. At various points in history, different cultures marked the new year in spring, or in March, or tied to lunar cycles. It wasn’t until 1582, when Pope Gregory XIII introduced the Gregorian calendar, that January 1 became widely recognized as the start of the year. In a way, the date itself matters less than the instinct behind it—the desire to pause, look back, and look ahead. Humans have been doing that in every season.
As for me, I’ve come to enjoy the ritual far more than the pressure it used to carry. I like sitting with the year—its tiredness, its triumphs, its strange little detours—and letting myself dream about what could be different or better. Sometimes I make practical resolutions, like saving more money or organizing my closet. Other times I make softer ones, like choosing kindness when I’m frustrated or giving myself more rest. And every now and then, I include something simply for the joy of learning, like finally teaching myself how to knit so I can make something warm with my own hands, even if it’s lopsided for the first dozen attempts.
This year, I’ve been thinking about adding a few more creative resolutions—ones that feel less like obligations and more like small adventures. I might try a “twelve tiny challenges” list: one new thing each month, whether it’s baking a bread I’ve never attempted, writing a short story even if no one ever reads it, or exploring a nearby trail I’ve always driven past but never walked. I love the idea of a “curiosity jar,” too—dropping in slips of paper with random ideas, like learning a simple magic trick, sketching something every day for a week, or memorizing a poem, then pulling one out whenever I need a spark. I’ve even considered giving myself a playful goal like hosting a themed dinner party, making a playlist for every season, or spending one day a month without screens just to see what my mind does with the quiet.
Maybe that’s what resolutions are really for: not to shame us into perfection, but to remind us we’re allowed to keep evolving—and to have a little fun while we do it. So this New Year’s Eve, like so many before, I’ll take a moment to honour that old tradition. I’ll think about the Babylonians with their borrowed tools, the Romans with their two-faced god, the knights with their peacock vows. And I’ll think about my own imperfect, hopeful promises. At midnight, as the noise rises and the world shifts into a new calendar year, I’ll whisper my resolutions to myself—not because I expect perfection, but because I believe in the possibility of change.
And that, as far as I can tell, is the heart of every New Year’s Eve.
Karin Shard is an editor and writer living in Squamish, BC. She is co-editor of What’s On Queer BC and former editor and publisher of the Squamish Tongue in Cheek.