No. 9 – New Year, New Me?

Every year, as one year comes to a close, I sit down to reflect on what has been.
And with the beginning of a new year, I write about who I want to become.

Many people do this. We write intentions, set goals, choose words for the year. There is something almost ceremonial about it — simply because, once a year, we do it together. A collective pause. A shared moment of reflection and reorientation. And that collective timing carries a certain magic. It should be good for something, shouldn’t it?

Recently, I’ve been reading about the so-called fresh start effect. It describes the psychological phenomenon that at temporal landmarks — a new year, a birthday, even a Monday — change feels more possible. These moments create a mental line between the “old me” and the “new me,” making intention feel charged with hope.

But a question keeps returning for me:

Why do we long for change so deeply?
Why not continue as we are?
Why the “new me” — and what, exactly, is wrong with the old one?

For me, this time between the years is not about discarding the old me. Quite the opposite.
It is a time of deep self-inquiry. A time to honor the version of me who lived, chose, acted, and responded — always to the best of her intentions.

Looking back at the year, reflecting on the intention I set at the beginning and the reality that unfolded from it, always offers a particular kind of insight. Sometimes gentle. Sometimes uncomfortable. Always revealing.

My word for 2025 was energy.

And indeed, I have learned a lot about the energies at work within my system. I have never been as fit and healthy as I was this year. And at the same time, I have never been so aware of how much energy I lose — constantly, quietly, almost invisibly.

I began to see myself as a vessel of energy.
Like a water balloon.

The balloon is full. It always has been. There is no lack of energy here. But it is full of tiny holes — holes created over time by old agreements, inherited responsibilities, unexamined beliefs.

My energy flows out to what I feel I should do.
To who I feel obliged to be there for — my children, my parents, my friends.
And also to inner systems: belief structures, expectations, warning stories that once made sense.

Wherever the water flows, something grows.

And so my inner world began to look like a wild garden. Lush, alive, full of movement — but tangled. A maze rather than a place of rest. Too many paths. Too many plants competing for nourishment. Everything grows, but nothing grows strong.

The problem is not that energy is missing.
The problem is that it is scattered.

Every distraction is another tiny hole.
Every reel I watch, another needle piercing the balloon.
Every story I follow that is not mine to carry, another quiet leak.

This constant outward pull — this dispersed attention — feels not just like my most pressing issue, but like one of the most pressing issues of our time. We don’t lack ideas or motivation. We lose ourselves to what is outside of us. We water everything — and then wonder why nothing truly thrives.

Honoring what my 2025 self has learned, I feel that this year is not about creating more energy.

It is about closing the holes.

Not through discipline or force, but through honesty. Through looking at the narratives that quietly drain me. Through questioning what is no longer mine to carry. Through noticing where loyalty to old stories keeps my energy flowing in directions that no longer align.

When the leaks close, the energy doesn’t disappear.
It gathers.

And with that, the wild garden begins to change.

I imagine an inner zen garden — intentional, clear, spacious. Not empty. Not rigid. Just consciously tended. Water guided where it is needed. Paths chosen instead of multiplied.

And in the center, one strong tree.

Not many projects. Not endless possibilities.
One tree that receives devotion. Time. Care. Patience.

This tree is the place where my energy is allowed to stay.
The place where it can root deeply instead of evaporating everywhere.

For that to happen, I need more than motivation or willpower.
I need the permission of my subconscious.

Because manifestation does not happen only on the conscious level of wanting. It happens on every level of our being — through the stories we believe, the cautions we carry, the timing we respect or ignore.

For a long time, parts of me were cautious — and rightly so. The warning stories made sense once. They protected me.

But those stories have lost their truth.
They remain now more as habit than wisdom.

This year feels like an initiation — not into a new identity, but into coherence.
Not into becoming someone else, but into staying with myself.

The year has already begun. January is almost over. The symbolic fresh start has passed. What remains now is quieter — and more honest: the way I choose to place my energy day after day.

For me, this year is about focus. About letting my energy stay with me long enough to root, deepen, and grow. Not scattered across countless stories and obligations, but gathered around what truly matters now.

Not a new me.
A more centered one.

Questions to ponder

1. What lessons has 2025 already taught you — and how are you willing to integrate them into the way you live and work this year?
2. Where do you choose to place your focus? Which tree do you want to grow — and what might need less of your energy for that to happen?
3. Do you have permission, on a deeper level, to give that focus your full attention?

new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me — new me —