Bernard O'Shea: 10 reasons why I don’t do new year’s resolutions
Bernard O'Shea. Photograph Moya Nolan
Let's face it: New Year's resolutions are socially acceptable lies.
They sound noble when we say them out loud — "This year, I'll finally get in shape!" — but deep down, we know we're kidding.
How often have we resolved to "eat healthier," only to devour an entire family-sized bag of crisps by January 4th?
They're like a politician's campaign promises — lofty, inspiring, and rarely delivered.
Who thought it was a good idea to start self-improvement in January?
It's cold, it's dark, and we're all broke from the festive season.
Springing out of bed for a 6 a.m. jog or swapping chocolate for chia seeds feels cruel.
January is the month of survival, not transformation.
It's about finding warmth, comfort, and enough leftover turkey sandwiches to see you through to payday.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "Bernard, surely there's room for improvement?" And maybe you're right.
But here's the thing: I've come to terms with my quirks. Sure, I could drink more water, eat fewer biscuits, and stop wearing elasticated waistbands as my go-to fashion choice, but honestly, I like me as I am.
Self-acceptance is underrated, and it's far less stressful than trying to force yourself into some idealised version of perfection. If embracing my flaws means I'm not "resolution material," so be it.
Here's the thing about most resolutions: they're vague enough to sound achievable but specific enough to make us feel guilty when we inevitably fail.
Take "be more productive," for example. What does that even mean? Does it mean getting through my inbox without crying?
Does it mean finally cleaning out the garage? Or does it just mean putting on proper trousers before noon?
Resolutions' lack of clarity makes them so difficult to stick to. They're like motivational posters that say things like "Dream Big!" — inspiring, sure, but completely useless when it comes to actual implementation.
New Year's resolutions come with an unnecessary amount of pressure.
By January 3rd, the internet was flooded with posts about how everyone else was crushing their goals.
"Just finished my first 10k of the year!" while another bragged about making their own kombucha.
This relentless comparison makes us feel like we're falling behind before we've even started.
If one more person tells me to "visualise success," I might throw something visual at them.
Few things create guilt, quite like an abandoned New Year's resolution.
It's a personal failure — a promise you made to yourself and couldn't keep.
It's like letting down your inner child, except your inner child is now holding a tub of Ben & Jerry's and watching reruns of Bake-Off instead of meal-prepping quinoa bowls.
This guilt is compounded by the fact that resolutions are public declarations.
You told your friends, your family, and maybe even your Facebook followers about your big plans for the year.
And now, whenever someone asks, "How's that gym routine going?" you're forced to admit that it hasn't gone anywhere.
Last year, I resolved to "become my goal weight." Then I found myself busier than ever and back doing 7-hour round trips in the car.
Resolutions don't account for the unpredictability of real life, and that's why they often end up on the back burner.
Life is unpredictable, and trying to plan every detail is like trying to predict Irish weather—futile and a little mad.
Why do we treat January 1st as the magical date for self-improvement?
If I want to start running in October or learn how to bake a soufflé in March, I will.
Growth doesn't need a specific date—it just needs the proper motivation (or enough boredom to make you try something new).
Instead of lofty resolutions, I focus on celebrating the small wins. Did I make it through a Monday without shouting at the computer? Win.
Did I remember to bring reusable bags to the shop? Huge win. These little victories are far more satisfying—and realistic—than aiming for something grandiose like "learn Mandarin" or "run a marathon."
Resolutions are like spoiler alerts for your own life. They map out precisely what you're supposed to achieve, leaving no room for spontaneity or unexpected joys. I'd instead let the year surprise me.
Maybe I'll finally sort out the shed or discover a new favourite TV show and binge-watch it guilt-free. The joy is in the unexpected.
New Year's resolutions aren't for everyone, but definitely not for me. Instead of starting the year with a list of impossible goals, I'm embracing life's chaos, celebrating small wins, and eating leftover trifles without guilt.
Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: the best resolution is no resolution.
