When I was in middle and high school, I would spend hours cutting up magazines: words written in thick or loopy fonts, photographs and images used for stories, recipes I wanted to try when I cooked my own food one day, bullet-pointed cures for acne and steps for what to do when you encounter your crush at the grocery store. I tore the pages off, cut out the words, and pasted them into an ever-growing volume of inspiration that still sits at my mom’s house. I got such joy from this activity — one of those things where I’d lose track of time for hours, emerge from my room twenty minutes past dinnertime. I didn’t have many hobbies growing up (and still don’t), but magazine-collaging would definitely have been one of them.

Sometimes, come December, I’d take my favorite clippings and put them on a poster board. These were my new year resolutions, the words and images and feelings I hoped to embody in the coming months. I’d match colors, mix fonts, and find words like “bold” and “do your thing” that would direct my coming year. I’d post it in my room and, truthfully, often forget about it. These posters became pieces of art that blended in with the rest rather than spaces to check-in about how I showed up in the world.

I was a teenager, consumed with boys and friendship drama and figuring things out, so it makes sense that I wasn’t totally focused on self-improvement or radical change in the early 2000s. But this year, I decided to do it again. I sat down with copies of magazines that had been piling up under an end table for months, turned on a James Bay Spotify station, and began cutting up the glossy paper.

I made a vision board. And I made resolutions.

In my heart of hearts, I know that January 1st isn’t different than December 31st. I know that New Year’s Resolutions hardly ever stick past the first week, and that people use this arbitrary date to have a fresh start or to turn a new leaf or to finally begin a new chapter. To lose the weight. To read the news. To save money. You can find article after article about this, about how making grandiose resolutions is, essentially, a waste of time because it likely won’t last.

And yet, I make resolutions of some sort every year. Some are more successful (in 2014, I made a resolution to get out of the city every month and I adventured twelve times) than others (I’ve had a goal of running a half-marathon since 2012). So far, nothing has drastically changed from 2016 to 2017 except the date on my iPhone. Yet January 1st is a clean slate in my planner and, year after year, feels like a good time to reassess where I’m at and what I want to change. Flipping the calendar to a new page feels like I can do so, too.

And this year, maybe more so than others, I need that.

Because 2016 has been filled with a lot of shit. It’s been filled with so much horse shit! There, I said it. It’s been terrible for the world — we are still in a war; there’s been a steady increase of horrific violence; and climate change isn’t going anywhere just because D. Trump says it doesn’t exist. For the country — racism and homophobia and sexism have a new, loud platform; Prince and the Brady Bunch mom and the Growing Pains dad died; and that last point about D. Trump very much applies here, too. It’s been a rough 2016 for me, too. I named aloud and struggled with depression, I had all sorts of doubts about my career path, and I was thrust into romantic drama and, subsequently, heartache.

I’ve seen the news stories, the listicles, the memes, which echo the overwhelming cry from humans around the globe. And I'm adding my voice, too:

“2016 was awful. Let it be over, already.”

But December 31st, 2016 was not much different than January, 1st, 2017. While we can hope that 2017 will be better than what 2016 threw at us, we don’t know that. Donald Trump is still our president-elect. Aleppo is still burning. My heart is still a little sore. Maybe it will be enough to not see 2016 staring back at us every time we look at our calendars, phones, or email history. Maybe writing a new date on checks, job applications, or essays will be the small boost we need to help us move through the shit, the anger, and the pain that 2016 brought to us. We all deserve a chance to reset, recalibrate, and focus on a new beginning. We deserve an opportunity to wipe our hands of 2016, if we need or want to. We can’t, unfortunately, ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen — it will always be a part of our collective story as humans — but we can prepare our hands (and hearts) to hold the new, messy year ahead of us.

I wrote my resolutions on index cards and stuck them on the wall, right next to my bedroom door, with sparkly gold Washi tape. Some are new (getting a 4.0 in my first term of graduate school), some are old (I still have hopes for that half-marathon). Some will be easy (taking time to adventure each month), and some will take a lot of work (reading 52 books!). Some are action-oriented (cultivate a daily writing practice), and some are hopes for how I will exist in the world (speaking up whenever my gut tells me to, even when it’s hard). And right next to those resolutions are my 2017 collage — a vision or inspiration board, perhaps. It’s a reminder of where I’ve come from and the resolve I have to keep moving forward.

I desperately need this kind of resolve to move forward — not despite 2016, but because of it. I need to believe that the world can be better, that I can accomplish goals for self-care, work, political engagement, and school. My resolve feels clearer when I think of my resolutions for 2017 in this light. How can I use my voice and words to speak up for what I believe in, and to denounce what I do not? How can I put the privilege I have and the money I make, into causes and organizations which contribute to the world I want to live in? How can I spend my quiet hours doing something that feeds my soul, so I can be recharged each day when I enter this big, messy world?

Despite the facts and research and articles, there’s something beautiful about this public declaration of newness and of change. Maybe I will read ten books this year. Maybe another year will pass where I will not run a half-marathon. Maybe I will not speak up at times when I should. But I need to believe that I will, and then offer myself grace if I don't. I need to believe that I can fully live into my intentions, that I can do as much as I can to make my corner of this world a little bit better each day. While I hope that 2017 will bring a new light and hope for our world, for now, I’ll just start with my vision board and resolutions.

So, what is your resolve for 2017?

I’ve always loved next steps. The action plan, the to do list documenting the action plan, the “so what” that follows every action. I love the orderliness of it, the finished product looming in the distance. Somehow, following up with each action makes everything feel more legitimate: that doing this right now will lead to something else. Something bigger, better, greater. Like, after I’ve read a really good quote in a book, I write it down in my journal so I don’t forget it; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve read a really good (or even a really bad) book, I add it to my growing list of all the books I’ve read since ninth grade; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve written something that feels good and real, I publish it to this blog; sometimes, just writing for myself doesn’t feel like enough.

With this, comes that. When I do this, I know that happens next.

But I put my first bit of writing online—for friends and family and anyone with Internet access to read—without a plan. I had an idea that meant something to me and some words that had been hangin’ out in my soul for awhile, so putting them “out there” seemed like a logical next step. But that was it; I didn’t know what would come after. I started this blog without a timeline, without a prepared follow-up post, without a HootSuite account with scheduled posts, and without an idea of what the heck I’d write about to fill these virtual pages.

When I hit “publish” on that first post two weeks ago, I felt unprepared. I didn’t have a next step. I had done what I wanted to do and didn’t have a plan for what happened next. A wave of questions rolled over in my mind: When should I post next? What should I write about? How often is too often to post? What if I don’t have something new to post by the time I think I should post by? Will this blog lose legitimacy if I don’t post on a regular basis? Does this blog even have any legitimacy?

These questions were followed by my next-step-self’s answers. I should probably post at least once each week. That’s what people expect when they read a blog, right? At least one post each week. Otherwise people might forget that I even have a blog. And that’s how often all of my favorite writers post on their blogs. I should be able to come up with something new to post at least once each week. That’s a good goal: once each week.

So, I listened to my answer-self and carved out time within the week to write. I sat at my desk, turned on the instrumental music, stared at the screen, and waited for the week’s words to come. Writing a blog was on my to do list; in bright blue dry erase marker across my whiteboard, it stared me down at eye-level each time I sat to pay a bill or check my email. I desperately wanted to cross it off and complete a next step in this new project. I wanted a follow-up. I wanted Writing Life Letters to have some legitimacy.

But, underneath it all, I really just wanted it to have meaning. I wanted it to be enough.

That’s at the heart of so much of what we do as humans. Or, at least it’s at the core of what I often do. The questioning and doubting, the attempting to “do” more according to society’s or my own standards, in order to make myself or my work or my writing or my life feel more real and valued. I create tasks, lists, and calendar events that remind me that when I do this, I get closer to that. Each next step becomes part of a bigger plan for my day, week, and life.

But my writing’s meaning doesn’t come from having done it on time. Its value doesn’t rest in how often I post. I did not start writing to follow a certain set of steps. I did not start writing life letters to stick to a strict schedule, to cross each post off of a to do list, or to live up to standards to make myself (and my writing) feel more legitimate. I started writing because I wanted a place to put my thoughts and ideas. Whether those thoughts come once a day or once a week or once a month doesn’t matter. It’s okay that there are no next steps—no new ideas for posts bubbling up from me—after I publish this.

The meaning and value and enoughness are there; they’ve been there from the moment I sat down to write. They’ll be there the next time I sit down to write too—whenever that may be.

So, until next time.