I’ve never really been one for New Year’s resolutions — but I have always been a goal-setter.
An intense one.
For years, my planner would turn into a kind of manifesto by the time January arrived. Page after page filled with goals for my health, finances, work, home, creativity, relationships — my entire life mapped out in ink before the year had even properly begun.
What started almost fifteen years ago as a way to survive anxiety, stabilize my finances, improve my health, and put my life back together eventually became something else entirely. Quietly. Gradually. Without me noticing.
A tool that once supported my life slowly became a burden.
And for a long time, I couldn’t see it — because it worked.
And before that, I truly needed it.
When goals were survival
Fifteen years ago, I was a single mom who had just declared bankruptcy. I was constantly overdrawn after paying bills. I remember filling out my planner with goals around budgeting, making more money, repairing my credit — not because someone told me I should, but because I had to.
Each year, those goals changed shape. Each year, they were broken down into steps that reflected the reality of my life at that moment. And over time — slower than I hoped, but steadily — they worked. I built stability. I built safety. I built a life.
Looking back now, I realize something important: those goals were rooted in clarity. They were aligned with who I was and what I actually needed. They were not arbitrary.
And that distinction matters.
When goals became performance
Somewhere along the way, goal-setting stopped being a way to support my life and started becoming a way to perform worthiness inside it.
I didn’t notice the transition as it was happening. Most of us don’t. It’s rewarded everywhere — especially in corporate culture, where we’re trained to measure our value through productivity, output, and constant forward motion.
Over time, that mindset bled into my personal life.
What once felt like guidance slowly turned into surveillance.
What once felt intentional became obligatory.
- from support → performance
- from guidance → surveillance
- from intention → obligation
I began making goals simply to prove that I was “doing something.” That I was trying hard enough. That I was still worthy of rest — or at least would be, once I earned it.
Productivity without purpose
This became painfully clear over the last few months.
I’ve been unemployed for nearly three months — something that, logically, I knew was okay. I’ve worked for decades with very little time off. I’m entitled to unemployment benefits. I know finding the right job takes time. By all accounts, this should have been an opportunity to rest and reset.
Instead, I found myself waking up every day feeling like I needed to fill eight hours with productivity.
Chores. Errands. Laundry. Content ideas. Dog training. Home improvement lists. Appointments. More lists. More plans. Tasks pulled out of thin air — not because they mattered, but because I needed proof that I had “done something today.”
I was being productive for productivity’s sake.
And even without a job — even with open days and no obligations — I burned out. Hard. My body made me stop. It made me sick.
That was the moment I realized this wasn’t about workload anymore.
It was about pressure without purpose.
Choosing to stop
Around the beginning of December, I decided to stop.
I stopped trying to fill every hour.
I stopped waking up to alarms I didn’t need.
I stopped setting timers to remind myself to “work.”
I stopped creating endless micro-goals and tasks.
Instead, I began working with the rhythm of my days — because, for once, I could.
Now, a day might include just two or three real obligations:
- going to the gym
- doing a load of laundry that actually needs to be done
- cooking a meal so food doesn’t go to waste
On a sick day, like today, my only expectations were a warm shower, a few dishes to restore a sense of order, and maybe some light planning if I felt up to it.
Some days I wake up with energy and use it — running errands, creating, cleaning. Other days I wake up exhausted and choose a self-care day instead of collapsing into guilt.
This isn’t laziness.
It’s discernment.
What fills the space now
Letting go of my planner didn’t mean my days became empty — it meant they became responsive.
After the few things that genuinely need to be done are accomplished, I move with intuition. I ask simple questions instead of consulting a list. Do I want to read for a while? Do I feel like crafting? Am I inspired to try a new recipe for dinner? Would it feel good to work with my dogs — or just play with them for a bit? Is today a day to call a friend or family member and catch up?
Before, my days were tightly scripted. My planner would be filled with things like: clean the kitchen, clean the bathroom, take out the trash, train the dogs, create two or three social media posts, write a blog, plan meals, schedule appointments. Every hour accounted for. Every action justified.
But you can only clean, plan, optimize, and create for so many days in a row before you begin to realize that much of it isn’t actually necessary — and that all it’s producing is noise.
Life still unfolds when it isn’t micromanaged. Creativity still happens. Connection still happens. Care still happens. It just does so without being forced into boxes or measured for legitimacy.
This isn’t idleness.
It’s attentiveness.
What I’ve learned
This season has taught me a few things I’m not willing to forget.
Rest does not have to be earned.
If you don’t rest, your body and mind will eventually make you — and when they do, it can be debilitating.
Goals are not bad. But they must be thoughtful, intuitive, and aligned. Grand, sweeping goals that ignore your reality don’t motivate — they erode. When they aren’t met, we internalize failure instead of questioning whether the goal was ever true to who we are.
Corporate conditioning doesn’t stay at work unless we actively stop it. The traits of productivity culture — self-surveillance, urgency, perfectionism — will overtake your personal life if you’re not mindful.
One or two meaningful yearly goals are healthy. Anything beyond that, I’m convinced, often becomes excessive and detrimental to our well-being.
Sometimes, a single word — health, ease, sustainability — is more nourishing than a checklist.
How I’m moving forward
As this year closes, I’m letting go of the planner I’ve used for fifteen years. It served me well. It helped me survive and rebuild. But it’s no longer needed in this season of my life.
I’ll keep a simple running list of tasks that genuinely need to be done, with due dates when they matter. Moving with intention and intuition doesn’t mean nothing gets accomplished — it just means I’m no longer breaking my life into tiny pieces to justify my existence.
I’m focusing on listening to my body and my intuition instead of imagined expectations. I’m working on breaking the belief that rest must be preceded by exhaustion. And I’m aware — very aware — that returning to work will challenge this softness I’m learning.
So my work now is to protect the boundary between work and life, to create nourishing habits, and to gently interrupt the perfectionism-to-procrastination cycle I know so well.
As the year turns
This New Year’s Eve, I’m not writing a manifesto.
I’m not mapping my entire life.
Instead, I’m carrying two orientations with me into the year ahead:
Health — physical, mental, and spiritual.
If something doesn’t support my health, I will question its place in my life.
Sustainability — stability, sufficiency, and patterns that don’t deplete me.
If something isn’t sustainable, I will stop forcing it.
That feels like enough to begin.
A gentle question for you
As we step into a new year, I’d love to know:
Are you setting goals, choosing a word, or intentionally choosing less this year?
What are you carrying forward — and what are you leaving behind?
If you feel called to share, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
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