It’s that time of year again. I’m sitting at my desk with a brand-new notebook, the faint scratch of my pen filling the quiet. Outside, the world is winding down for the holidays, but here I am, making plans and setting goals. And as I flip through the crisp, empty pages, I can’t help but think back to this same moment last year—when I sat at this very desk, hoping that a new routine and an early morning schedule might somehow turn me into the writer I wanted to be.
Around this time last year, I sat at my desk with a brand-new notebook, determined to reinvent myself. I wrote down goals, routines, and habits like someone scripting their own transformation story. I wanted to go from being a night owl to waking up at 4 AM—because I’d read somewhere that most successful authors preferred to write early in the morning. It felt almost magical, like a Cinderella moment—except instead of a golden chariot, I was chasing productivity hacks and morning routines.
Fast forward a month and a half into 2024, and there I was—burnt out, stuck, and self-diagnosed with writer’s block. The notebook I had filled with intentions and timelines sat abandoned. The next few months blurred into exams and college deadlines—days I’d rather not revisit. But then, as life often does, it threw me a lifeline.
Trips with my closest people. A Ganesh festival I’ll cherish forever. More trips after that. Somewhere between all of it, I began to feel like myself again—not the version I had tried to mold but the one I had forgotten.
And speaking of forgetting—I let go. Quietly. I chose myself over the need to keep a bigger social circle. I walked away from a seven-year friendship. Clicked “unfollow,” deleted numbers, and shut the door without slamming it. It wasn’t dramatic. It was freeing.
I knew I wasn’t a therapist, a fixer, or a safety net. I was a friend, in a friendship that was supposed to feel mutual. I couldn’t carry it alone anymore. And to my surprise, letting go didn’t leave a void. It created space—space for peace, growth, and the people who truly value me.
Sometimes, choosing yourself isn’t selfish. It’s survival.
Letting go of that friendship felt less like walking away and more like laying something to rest. Quietly. Without fanfare. But even as I created space for myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d left parts of me behind in the process—parts I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back. And maybe that’s why, in the weeks that followed, I found myself obsessed with reinvention. I didn’t just want to move forward. I wanted to bury everything I thought was broken, so I could start fresh.
That wasn’t the highlight of my year, but it was a turning point. Somewhere in the middle of the year, I thought I had to bury my past self to become someone new. I thought being a better version of myself meant letting go of the parts of me that were imperfect. The perfectionist in me took comfort in this self-sabotage, mistaking destruction for growth. I even wrote a journal entry titled “When I Held a Funeral.” I pictured placing white roses on a coffin that held parts of me I thought I’d lost—not by choice, but by a cruel twist of fate. I imagined shovelling dirt over the grave, convinced I had covered it completely.
Except, it backfired.
I hadn’t buried my flaws. I had buried parts of me that deserved healing—not erasure. And all that self-rejection simmered beneath the surface, waiting to explode. Oh, and it did. Turns out, transformation doesn’t come from tearing yourself apart. It comes from learning to accept the mess—the cracks, the flaws, the contradictions—and realising they don’t make you unworthy. They make you human.
So here I am again, sitting at my desk with yet another new notebook. But this time, I’m not looking to erase who I was to become someone better. I’m not writing plans to magically change the minute the clock strikes midnight on January 1st.
This isn’t a Cinderella story. There’s no golden chariot, no fairy godmother, no glitz and glam to fix everything overnight. And honestly? That wouldn’t make me happy anyway.
I’m taking my old self into the new year—the tired, messy, flawed, growing, and healing version of me. Because new year, new me is a scam. But I’ve learned something along the way—chasing perfection leads nowhere. It’s embracing every messy, flawed, and unfinished part of me that clears the path to becoming my best self.
I only hope that my sweetest dreams turn into my waking reality. And if they don’t? Well, I’ll keep showing up for myself, one imperfect day at a time. With this notebook and this desk, I’ll keep writing my way forward—flaws, cracks, and all.