2026: The Year of Not Ironing Every Wrinkle

Every year, as the old year draws to an end and the new year stands expectantly outside our door, just waiting to be let in, I get these uncontrollable pangs of excitement. I am as nervous as a dancer about to make her first public appearance and as giddy as a little kid going to Disneyland for the first time.

I don’t know what’s in the air, but it forces me to burst into a strong case of OPTIMISM! I want to change my entire life – discard old habits, espouse better living, kickstart my weight-loss efforts, eschew lethargy, and jumpstart my attempts to make my existence absolutely rocking.

My exuberance jumps out at you like a jack-in-the-box, splaying its arms wildly with a mad grin on its face. My infectious enthusiasm wriggles its way up your nostrils and makes you sneeze violently. Like that Bollywood song you absolutely detest, my happiness irritates the shit out of you, but it still manages to make your limbs move to the beats of that God-awful music.

If I could, I would turn cartwheels; but since I can’t, I content myself by hopping around the house, the office, my friends, family, even strangers, sporting a goofy look that makes people take a few precautionary steps back while reaching for their mobile phones to call the nearest mental hospital.

This is also the time of year when I make my resolutions, completely aware that I am not going to be able to sustain them beyond the first week of January. But what the heck, why change tradition at all? I’ve dedicated nearly three decades of my life to making beautiful resolutions and watched them all turn to ashes before January could say hello to February. Why stop now, eh?

However, I have changed my strategy a bit. In the beginning, I was naïve. I chastised myself for poor willpower, cursed my lack of resolve, and chided the devil on my shoulder who was egging me on towards ruin.

With time, I realised that this was just how the ball rolled. Much like the mango that ripens and falls from the tree (straight into my all-fat, full-cream, no-holds-barred milkshake), my resolutions were also meant to give me a massive guilt trip. It’s the law of nature, or at least the law of Murphy: “If thou shalt keep a resolution, thou shalt also watch it decimate in front of you” or some shit like that.

So this year, I thought to myself, Why use up my grey cells thinking of resolutions that are simply impossible to keep? For all my sangfroid, I do feel bad when I fail so miserably. Sure, it passes with the first shrug of my shoulders, but while it lasts, it can be quite brutal. Self-reproach, disappointment, and defeat are like those relatives you meet at weddings whose sole mission in life is to remind you how you’ve amounted to absolutely nothing.

Instead of this self-inflicted torture, why don’t I just go ahead and make resolutions that I won’t mind breaking? You know how you childproof your home so your toddler doesn’t waddle its cute ass out of a tenth-storey window? Or keep your slippers out of the puppy’s reach because he’s bound to go all ape-shit, hungry critter on them?

I know that’s not exactly sound science, but it works for me. The best way to break-proof something? Just surround yourself with things you don’t mind having broken. #brainwave

So, in the spirit of lowered expectations and higher chances of survival, I resolve…not to make resolutions, but promises instead. Because I’m far better at keeping promises.

I promise to be consistent. Not impressive. Not dramatic. Just consistent. Writing, exercising, eating better, learning something new when the mood strikes. I’ve finally realised that consistency doesn’t arrive with trumpets and before-after photos. It shows up quietly, on ordinary days, doing unremarkable things. And honestly, I trust that version of effort far more than sudden bursts of motivation that disappear the minute life gets inconvenient.

I promise to cut out the noise. There is far too much of it. Advice, opinions, commentary, hot takes, and people who seem deeply invested in explaining my own life to me. Somewhere along the way, I’ve allowed all of it to seep in, rattle around, and influence decisions that were never meant to be crowdsourced. This year, I’m learning to lower the volume. Not every opinion deserves my attention, and not every suggestion requires a response. Silence, I’m discovering, is wildly underrated.

I promise to own myself. Fully. I am an overthinker. Check. An emotional fool. Check. My hair is frizzy and frequently gives off escaped-into-the-forest-and-lived-off-berries energy. Check. I do not possess a chic fashion sense. Also check. I am lazy at heart and get less done in one month than most enthusiastic folks around me get done in a week. Of course, check!

For years, I’ve treated these things like glitches that needed fixing. This year, I’m calling a ceasefire. They are not defects; they are features. Slightly chaotic, a bit undesirable, perhaps, but mine nonetheless. And I’m done auditioning for a version of myself that was never realistic to begin with.

This isn’t a rejection of growth or self-improvement. It’s simply an acknowledgment that we’re allowed to have small glitches, little pockets of imperfection that don’t need immediate attention. Every tiny flaw is not a personal failure. I’m not aspiring to well-rounded perfection or a life where every rough edge has been neatly filed down. If something genuinely gets in the way of my progress, I’ll work on it. But not every wrinkle needs to be ironed out. Some of them are just part of the fabric.

I promise not to get worked up over things I can’t change. Will I still fantasise about taking a machete to half the drivers on Delhi roads? Absolutely. Some habits are hard to break. But instead of letting every external annoyance hijack my mood, I’ll focus on what I can control. Driving well. Staying in my lane. Not becoming the very problem I’m complaining about. Inner peace may be ambitious, but reduced daily rage feels like a solid starting point.

I promise to keep things real and not set myself up for failure. If I decide to learn the piano, I will not immediately compare myself to people performing Tchaikovsky symphonies with alarming ease. I will compare myself only to the version of me that didn’t try at all. Growth does not require humiliation. It requires patience. Anything else is just unnecessary self-sabotage dressed up as ambition.

These are my New Year promises. Simple. Manageable. And most importantly, mine. No grand declarations. No public scorekeeping. Just small, inward shifts I can adopt quietly, one day at a time. I’m still excited. Still hopeful. Still absurdly optimistic. I’ve just decided to be a little kinder to myself in the process.

So here’s to 2026. May it be gentle. May it be imperfect. And may it allow me the space to grow without demanding a performance.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and turn over a new leaf. Or maybe not! 😛