Q: “I promised myself I’d do Dry January and I’ve already failed. Should I try again?”

From Anonymous

A: For most of my adult life I have made resolutions – which, embarrassingly, have been the same for the last decade: “Lose weight, get healthy, find a husband.” The triumvirate of tragic cliches. I would bound out of the new year’s gates optimistic that this year I would adhere to the stringent restrictions I put on myself. The reality being, just like you, I inevitably trip up due to an all-or-nothing attitude. I would give in to the temptation of carbohydrates for dinner, snooze through my 6.30am workout alarm, text an ex, or cave into a glass of wine with a friend when I’d promised to do Dry January.

If there is one thing I fear more than moths, it’s failure. Even as I say that word in my mouth it makes me feel more nauseous than slamming back a triple tequila shot. In a bid to counter my aversion to failure, I have adopted a healthy two-pronged attack: focusing my attention on things I know I am good at (playing catch and cooking pasta), as opposed to forcing myself to try things that will open me up to failing (CrossFit and commitment to another human being), and in addition to this adult way of thinking, I have decided this year to stop making resolutions. May I advise you do the same?

The thing with Dry January, or any other resolution you decide to undertake in the new year, is that they are so… resolute. There is no bend, no excuse, no give. That’s the reason why it’s so easy to fail at them. In 2019, I resolved to speak fluent French. Three years later and I’m still at ‘un petit peu’.

A resolution – even if only set for a period of 31 bleak days – is a promise to be perfect, and I’m here to remind you (through a soul-baring series of my own imperfections) that perfection does not exist. Instead, I point you towards something I am trying to achieve this year, which is just better – perfect’s much cooler, chill cousin. I want to be better at yoga (to avoid continually face-planting after downward-facing dog). I know I’m not going to be brilliant, but I am content with being better.