TWENTY FIVE FOR '25

intentions over resolutions

Ah January, the month where we communally declare we will become better, shinier versions of ourselves.
A crisp notebook, a gym membership, January is the smuggest of all the months, where everyone on Instagram is pretending their desk looks like it belongs to a fictional novelist rather than a place where clothes live before they go back in the wardrobe (via the seat of the chair, then the end of the bed, then the floor).

January holds the intoxicating promise of possibility, right before reality waltzes in, wearing baggy trackies and eating crisps in bed.

Even though I’ve never quite managed to ditch the academic calendar, as far as I’m concerned, years still feel like they end with a sweaty, Alice Cooper-esque crescendo and begin again when the leaves fall in September, I’ve always loved this time of year.
Not because I’m a fan of New Year’s resolutions (I’m absolutely not; they’re just rules dressed in black tie and rules are always the villain) but, because January feels like a big permission slip; permission to try again, to wear a beret, to take up pottery throwing even though your wrists are weak.

I’m not bothering with resolutions, never do, I don’t like their vibe; lose a stone, learn to love quinoa, stop wasting money on candles that smell like the memory of a storm. They always feel punitive, like you’re signing yourself up to fail.
Instead, this year, I’m setting intentions. They’re softer, more forgiving, like resolutions’ cooler, less judgmental cousin. Intentions don’t care if you succeed or fail; they just want you to ‘av a go, babes. They’re not about winning or losing, but just asking yourself what you love, what excites you, what might make this year feel a little more like the one you’d want to live in.