Notes for January: new beginnings

Dear Reader,

It’s 22:09 on a Monday as I write this. I’ve spent almost three weeks thinking and writing in French, preparing for a national exam. Trying to write in English now feels like it’s breaking my brain—or, as the saying goes, ça me casse la tête.

I still don’t know the proper time to write down resolutions—or if it even makes sense to write them down at all. Truth be told, I’ve never cared much for making New Year’s resolutions. I only learned it was a thing after I started using social media. As a child, my father would gift me a diary, and I’d start the year with a hopeful first entry, promising myself I’d write more. By March, I’d rip out the five entries I managed to write and hand the notebook over to my mother to use as a recipe scrapbook.

Another year has come and gone. Over a cup of tea, my mother asked if I’d accomplished any of the goals I’d set for myself this year. Two realizations hit me at once:
One, I’d burned my tongue.
Two, when thinking back over the months and past Decembers, there are moments I’m not sure if I even existed. Not in the sense of forgetting to exist, but that this past year felt more like a haze of forgetting than a practice of remembering.

Would it be a blessing to forget and be forgotten—or a curse?

Did i do enough?

This question lingers, heavy and persistent. I think back to the promises I made to myself last January: bold declarations and quiet hopes, most left untouched. There’s regret and shame. I wish things were different—that regret and shame didn’t come so easily.

I remind myself that life is rarely linear, that growth doesn’t always follow a neat plan. Still, it’s hard not to feel like I’m running out of time, like life is happening somewhere just out of reach. There were books I wanted to read but didn’t. Languages I wanted to learn but didn’t. Routines I wanted to build but abandoned halfway.

Yet, amidst the regret is a comforting thought: life unfolded in its own way. There were small joys—a sunny afternoon spent watching Frieren (I love this anime so much), a new song on repeat, a new inside joke with my siblings.

Maybe, just maybe, those moments matter as much in the grand scheme of things.

Last month, I traveled more than I had all year—job interviews, birthday parties, weddings. I talked to people and listened to what they had to say. I lost friends to distance and silence. I still think of him sometimes, quietly, but I’d cut off my hand before I reach for him again.

This summer, I was so terrified I can still taste it now. I took the tramway around a new city alone, ate too much mille-feuille, and forgot to take pictures. I learned to forgive my father.

I know I’ve been happy, but I want more. Will we ever stop wanting more?

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I’ll never be ready for what life has to offer. There’s nothing I know for sure and nothing I can say that hasn’t been said before. I won’t have the right words when it matters most.

I can keep waiting, hoping, sustained by little more than the promise of something yet to come—or I can shrug my shoulders and let it collect dust. I’ve learned to lean into the darker parts of myself, to let my fingers skirt around their edges without losing myself completely.

The grand scheme of things will fail us. But I have another year ahead. Another shot at making it all the way around. Another chance to get it right.

Here’s to all the late nights, early mornings, and the experiences gained. Here’s to finding meaning—or making it—and to living a life that feels full.

So, here’s the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

To the promise of the new year.

much love,
Fatima.