I’ve never been particularly drawn to the “New Year, New Me” idea, and even less to New Year resolutions. They’ve always felt strange to me (and not in the good way). Not only because they create unnecessary pressure at a moment when pressure is the least helpful, such as, in the beginning of a journey. But because they suggest that the version of us that carried us the previous year is something we should be eager to discard.
I don’t like that framing. I reject it.
If anything, the person I was last year is someone I want to invite into this year, my most trusted ally. In chess terms, that piece is the queen.
The piece with the greatest range, the most freedom of movement, the one you protect because she can change the entire game. You don’t start a game without her, and if you play wisely, you don’t end the game without her either. She was never something to outgrow or sacrifice. She’s the piece you learn how to navigate with and preserve.
And that is what changed the question for me.
So instead of asking: What do I want to achieve this year?
I’ve been asking: How do I want to move across the board, piece by piece?
Chess
Chess reentered my life recently.
At first glance, the game feels intimidating, but in reality, it’s like a dance of attention and restraint. Most moves are small, constrained, almost unremarkable. And yet each one subtly reshapes the board, opening or closing possibilities several steps ahead.
That feels far closer to real life than any resolution ever has.
Just like in life, every boundary we set or ignore, every conversation we postpone, every moment we let fear dictate our choices instead of transparency. None of these decisions feel monumental on their own. But together, they create the position we find ourselves in months later. In chess terms, that’s the pawn.
It moves slowly, one square at a time, and it’s easy to underestimate. But it’s also the piece you have the most of on the board. Individually unremarkable, collectively powerful. How often do we dismiss small, consistent actions because they don’t feel transformative enough?
Similarly, what are the moves we are choosing not to pay attention to? Especially the “small” ones that have become automatic because they’re so embedded in our routine that we barely notice their impact anymore.
Familiarity
There’s a reason so many patterns go unquestioned for so long in our lives, and it isn’t a lack of intelligence or courage. It’s just how we’re designed.
The brain is designed to conserve energy. To do that, it relies heavily on familiarity. In psychology, this process is called habituation. It refers to the brain’s tendency to reduce its response to stimuli that is repeated over time. When something is constant in our lives, even if may be harmful to us, it gradually moves out of the periphery of our awareness. What once felt alarming, starts to feel “typical”. Not because it’s healthy, but because our system has learned to conserve energy by no longer reacting to it.
The mind isn’t trying to sabotage us. It’s trying to protect us by minimizing friction.
But here’s the thing: friction isn’t always bad. Friction creates heat, which forces engagement. Sometimes the very thing that scares us is a signal that something important is trying to come into focus.
Sometimes we call it fate when it’s really endurance.
One thing I love about chess is how little it tolerates this illusion. Every move requires your presence AND input. Nothing is predetermined.
Letting Go
One of the least discussed aspects of chess is loss. Pieces are lost sometimes intentionally, sometimes because a move wasn’t fully thought through. But the game doesn’t pause for what’s already gone. You adjust and continue with what remains.
That feels relevant.
In life, we often cling to outdated identities, habits, or defenses. Letting them go can feel destabilizing, even threatening, when in reality it’s often what creates space for something new to emerge. And this is where the shadow appears again: old coping mechanisms and narratives. Holding onto them doesn’t make us safer. It limits MOVEMENT.
Newton’s First Law
In physics, Isaac Newton described: an object at rest tends to remain at rest, and an object in motion tends to stay in motion, unless acted upon by an external force. The same principle plays out in our inner lives. What we don’t question, interrupt or engage will keep carrying us in the same direction.
Growth doesn’t always require force but it does require intervention. Awareness, choice, and sometimes the courage to disrupt our own inertia. Without that, we remain stuck.
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I don’t believe in resolutions because they focus too heavily on outcomes and not enough on daily decisions. I believe in attention, movement. In the accumulation of choices (both small and large) that shape a year long before we can see the result.
Chess doesn’t ask who you want to be by the end of the year. It asks how you’re moving right now.
If every small choice is a move on the board, what kind of position am I slowly creating? And am I awake enough to notice when it’s time to move differently?
We often forget how much agency we actually have. We live deeply routined live. We blame it on our busy schedules. But if you pause and look closely, nearly every part of your day is shaped by choice.
- Do you eat the same breakfast or lunch every day? That’s a choice
- Do you repeat the same weekend rhythm simply because it’s what you know? Also a choice
- Do you go through the day without a real break when a walk, a nap, or ten minutes in the sun is available? Still a choice
- Do you listen to the same background noise all day? Or none at all? Your choice
These choices seem insignificant, but they aren’t. Small moves accumulate.
And the heavier choices: what we tolerate, what we postpone, what we allow, and the risks or opportunities we’re afraid to take, all follow the same pattern.
At every moment, there is a move available. And in choice, there is power.
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