You Shouldn't Make A New Year's Resolution

You shouldn't make New Year's Resolutions. I don't.

The whole concept has always seemed a bit arbitrary to me. If something matters enough to declare it a resolution for the next 365 days, why wait for January 1st? Why not July 12th, or February 3rd, or any random Tuesday in September?

Still, I believe in being intentional. If you know me, "haphazard" isn't, most likely, a word that comes to mind. At my first parent-teacher conference in kindergarten, my teacher looked at my parents and asked, "You know Mason is actually 55 years old inside, right?"

So why do resolutions persist? I think it's the appeal of the clean slate. 2026 is yet to be written, and there's something psychologically powerful about starting fresh when the calendar resets. We're drawn to symbolic beginnings—the first day of the month, the start of a new job, the moment after we finish that last bite of cake and declare, "Tomorrow, I'm eating healthy."

The New Year's Resolution endures not because it's logical, but because it feels right. January 1st gives us permission to believe we can be different, better, newer. And sometimes, permission is all we need to actually start.

Resolutions versus Intentions

Resolutions are rigid and results-focused: travel to five states in 2026. Read 52 books this year. Lose 33 pounds by next Thanksgiving. When they're not easily quantifiable, they default to vague generalities: spend more time with family and do better at work.

The problem? You're setting yourself up for failure. Someone who reads 51 books instead of 52—maybe they had a brutal week at work—has technically failed their resolution. Never mind that they read 51 more books than they might have otherwise. The goal becomes the number, not the growth.

Setting intentions

Rather than make finite resolutions, I advocate for setting intentions. In other words: commit to the behavior, not just the outcome.

Want to lose 33 pounds this year? Instead of living beside the scale, obsessing over every fluctuation and punishing yourself when the numbers don't cooperate, set an intention to go to the gym four days a week. Rather than declare you'll visit five states in 2026, be intentional about planning trips—and more importantly, actually taking them.

Focus on what you can control: the actions. The outcomes will follow.

My intention for 2026

In 2026, I'm making an intention—quite publicly—to write and publish more. I've always enjoyed writing and create plenty of content in my day job, but I want to create something for myself, too.

So what does this look like in practice? For me, it means committing to the act of writing regularly—not promising myself I'll publish 52 posts or hit 10,000 subscribers, though both would be nice. The intention is to show up, to put words on the page, to tell stories worth telling. The rest will sort itself out.

Enter Wild Bluegrass, which sits somewhere between journal, blog, travel guide, and magazine. I'm not sure what this will look like in 12 months, but I know it will be totally and completely mine.

Expect stories about small towns in nooks and crannies of Kentucky that are all but forgotten, a profile of the woman who's been making chess pies the same way for 60 years, and what can be found on Kentucky's backroads when you slow down a little. The kind of writing that makes you want to get in the car and go see it yourself. This won't be another blog drowning in ads and sponsored content. Everything here will be self-funded and honest.

Is this a resolution in disguise? Maybe. But the difference is I'm not measuring success by follower counts or post frequency. I'm measuring it by whether I'm showing up to write—and whether I'm proud of what I create.

If you're interested, sign up to get updates in your inbox. I'm intentionally starting slow and small, and I'm excited about what's coming. I'd be honored to have you along for the ride.