You know this will be gathering dust by February 2026. Photo / 123rf
Every year, like clockwork, Kiwis approach January 1 with equal parts optimism and mild terror.
The excitement of a fresh calendar page collides with the lingering memory of last year’s resolutions, most of which now exist only as vague memories.
They are lost somewhere between your work login password and the mental shopping list you were certain you would remember.
But you tell yourself, “this year will be different”, fully aware that by 11am most resolutions are already filing for divorce.
The obsession with New Year’s resolutions is great for certain industries.
Gyms suddenly fill up as people pledge to lift, run, or spin their way to a new self, while health food stores scramble to keep kale, quinoa and anything that smells faintly virtuous on the shelves.
Even smoothie bars enjoy a brief moment of glory as the nation collectively tries to convince itself that a green drink at 7am qualifies as a life transformation.
There are the classic, must-have resolutions that show up on every list.
Eat better is usually broken by 11am on January 1 when you find yourself ordering greasy food to soak up the previous night’s New Year’s drinks.
Then there are the more creative pledges, such as learning to fold a fitted sheet without swearing or cooking a meal that is not pasta.
These bold ambitions exist alongside the silent, slightly shameful resolutions.
These are the quiet resolutions, whispered only to yourself, so no one can hold you accountable when they inevitably vanish.
The reality is that by the second week of January most resolutions are quietly dying.
Gym memberships start to collect dust.
The fridge becomes a shrine to chocolate.
The kale ends up in a regrettable smoothie that tastes like lawn clippings, so it goes in the compost.
The good intentions are there, somewhere beneath the layers of excuses and weekend barbecues.
And yet, there is something charming about our collective persistence.
We make the same promises year after year, often to ourselves, like we are creating a motivational poster that will one day hang in an unseen corner of the house.
Some people document their resolutions with apps or Instagram posts, turning what should be a private pact into a public performance.
Others keep it delightfully low-key.
A sticky note on the bathroom mirror with “drink more water” written in shaky handwriting, the kind of note that suggests it was scribbled in a moment of intense optimism or mild dehydration.
Some of the most common Kiwi resolutions come with a twist.
Eat healthier, yes, but also stop leaving packets of sour snakes in the glove box for emergencies.
Exercise more, as long as it does not involve anything that might make you sweat too much or require Lycra.
Save money, but allow for an emergency flat white or a last-minute flight to Hamilton.
Stop procrastinating, while somehow still binge-watching reality TV.
Humour is part of the process too.
There is the classic resolution to cut back on alcohol, instantly tested by a New Year’s barbecue or a Friday wine festival. Because if it is a festival, it clearly does not count.
Others vow to learn a new skill, only to discover that mastering the ukulele is basically finger gymnastics for the mildly masochistic.
Some even attempt minimalism, which in Kiwi terms usually means tidying the garage long enough to find the missing lawnmower, then promptly filling the space with even more essential stuff.
Family and friends provide plenty of opportunities for resolution-related comedy.
You will hear proudly declared intentions at work.
“This is the year I quit sugar.”
Or “I am running the Round the Bays”.
By the first weekend, the same person is found mid-chocolate biscuit or insisting it is far too hot to exercise.
And let us not forget the fitness apps and smart watches.
They deliver constant little reminders that you have taken 2534 steps today, which apparently falls short of an arbitrary target set by someone far fitter than you.
These devices are motivational and mocking, a small digital voice whispering “you could do better” while you contemplate whether walking to the fridge counts as a daily activity.
There is a uniquely Kiwi stubbornness here.
We fail spectacularly, shrug and try again next year. It is half self-deprecation, half optimism and entirely relatable.
Some resolutions are simply not thought out and are more bandwagon than plan.
For example, learning to bake sourdough like a professional while simultaneously avoiding gluten, or attempting to take a photo every day that sums up your happiness.
This usually leads to awkward selfies, blurry landscapes, and the eventual realisation that happiness cannot be measured in pixels.
There is also the resolution to spend more time outdoors, which often results in impromptu hikes, unplanned swims in freezing rivers and the occasional trip to the local pub as an alternative adventure.
The beauty of New Year’s resolutions in New Zealand is that they blend ambition with absurdity.
By mid-February, many resolutions have quietly disappeared into the ether.
The gym is back to its usual mix of die-hards and existential wanderers.
Kale is hidden at the back of the fridge alongside other abandoned attempts at self-improvement.
Money-saving plans are mostly forgotten, replaced by impulse buys such as a fancy keep cup you definitely did not need.
So here is to 2026.
To fresh starts. To half-kept promises. To ambitious yoga attempts.
To early morning jogs that turn into extra snooze-button sessions.
And to the optimism that keeps us trying, no matter how many times we fail.