February 2nd, 2025 

The room is quiet, save for the soft scratch of pen against paper. A girl sits cross-legged on her bed, a journal propped open on her knees. The faint glow of a bedside lamp casts a warm halo over her, illuminating the faint smudges of ink on her fingers. She pauses, staring at the page, her brow furrowed as if the words she’s about to write are heavy, as if they’ve been waiting a long time to be let out. 

She begins. 

This year, please do nothing. 

Her pen hesitates, hovering over the page. She exhales, a slow, deliberate breath, and continues. 

Last year, you did everything. Everything. You worked like the world was ending, like your life depended on it. And maybe it did. You thought success meant never stopping, never resting. You thought if you just kept moving, kept pushing, you’d build something—a sanctuary, a place where you could finally breathe. You thought it required back-breaking effort. So you gave it. Two jobs, three jobs. You fought. Relentlessly.

She stops again, her hand trembling slightly. The memories flood in—late nights, early mornings, the ache in her shoulders, the hollow feeling in her chest. She shakes her head, as if to clear it, and writes faster now, the words spilling out. 

But here you are. Back at the beginning. You burned yourself to the ground, and for what? The ashes look familiar. Broke. Unemployed. Sitting in your mother’s house, just like you were five years ago. Life has a way of humbling us, doesn’t it? All that doing, all that striving, and yet… here you are. Exactly where you started. Oh, the cruel jokes life plays. If only they were funny.

Her pen drags across the page, leaving a dark, emphatic line. She leans back, staring at the ceiling, her jaw tight. For a moment, she looks like she might close the journal, might shut it all away. But then she leans forward again, her resolve hardening. 

This year, I beg you to do nothing. Not out of defeat. Not because you’ve given up. But out of curiosity. What if it’s not about the grind? What if emotional safety isn’t found in endless striving, but in stillness? In letting go?

Her handwriting grows softer, the letters looping more gently, as if the words themselves were calming her. 

You don’t have all the answers yet. And that’s okay. For now, you will rest. You will listen. And maybe, in the quiet, you’ll find what we’ve all been searching for all along.

She sets the pen down, her fingers brushing over the words she’s just written. For a long moment, she sits there, her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Then she closes the journal, places it on the nightstand, and turns off the lamp. The room is dark now, but the words linger, echoing in the stillness. 

This year, please do nothing.