Every December, the world seems to lose its mind. Suddenly, everyone’s promising themselves that starting January 1, they’ll wake up as somebody else. You know the drill: the gym memberships, the blank journals, the list of things to quit, the list of things to start. The implied message? The “real” you is waiting just around the calendar corner, if you can will yourself through it.
Let me save you some time: the real you is already here, probably reading this in pajamas, possibly with dry shampoo in your hair and coffee in your veins, maybe nursing a bruised heart, an unpaid bill, or a secret “what if.” If you’re expecting a Pinterest-perfect reinvention, you’re reading the wrong blog.
If you need proof, I’ll offer myself up: this year did not turn out the way my January self imagined. My kid’s father—the man who was safely out of the story—walked back in from prison then walked right back out. My husband’s relationship with alcohol got so toxic, we had a ride-or-die moment that nearly tore things at the seams. At the same time, I walked through the fire on child custody or Termination of rights, lost a shed’s worth of sleep, and filed adoption papers with hands that were still shaking. I got real acquainted with heartbreak, uncertainty, and that old counselor curse: looking at your own mess and thinking, “How am I supposed to help anyone when I’m not even sure I can help myself?”
But here’s where it gets weird—instead of breaking me, or confirming all those lurking impostor feelings, this year made something else snap in place. I found myself fiercely protecting my own health, saying no with more honesty, and understanding what I actually wanted to fight for. Not every battle is worth waging, and “healthy” started to look more like boundaries and bad days survived, not just salads and yoga classes logged.
“Progress Is Progress”—and Sometimes It’s Survival Mode
Somewhere along the way, I landed on the one mantra that survived into every version of myself: Progress is progress. I mean it. That’s not the kind of slogan you slap on a water bottle for a “girlboss” vibe; it’s the only way to make sense of a year that threw the kitchen sink at my supposed plans. Some days, progress looked like paperwork getting filed. Some days, it was dragging myself to a session. Some days, it was admitting that some wounds needed more than a night’s sleep and a gratitude list.
This is the part the world skips over when we talk about "resolutions." Real life will demand that you choose, minute to minute, which progress matters—what’s worth the fight and what isn’t. Sometimes, “success” is not unraveling. Sometimes it’s crying behind a locked door and still making lunches the next day.
Counselors, Professionals—Let’s Talk About the “Helper’s Mess”
Let me speak right to my fellow helpers: Clients can tell when their therapist is running on fumes. I know because, hell, I’ve seen it from both chairs. And this year, my own tank was closer to E than I’d ever admit in public. You want to know what’s dangerous? Not being honest about it. We are conditioned to keep showing up, to silence our own pain, because “the client comes first.” It’s the great unsaid of the helping professions. But the truth is, if we don’t pause and deal with our own brokenness—if we don’t get as real with ourselves as we expect of our clients—we risk doing harm instead of good.
So here’s an ugly truth: Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do as a counselor, or any “professional,” is to stop pretending. Ask for help. Take a step back. If you’re modeling honesty and lived experience for your clients, you’re doing the real work.
What I Learned the Hard Way (and Why You Don’t Need to Do It Alone)
This year, I got blindsided—by my kid’s father getting out, by my husband nearly choosing alcohol over family, by a system that sets parents up to fail. But here’s the double-twist: I also found out I could handle more than I imagined, and that “handling it” didn’t look like other people’s stories. It looked like crisis-mode parenting, interactive journaling (literally talking to my journal out loud!), and teaching myself, day after day, that being “okay” sometimes just means not giving up on myself.
If you’re neurodivergent, or someone who lives in their head, or just too tired for the usual advice, you already know: Tips like “make SMART goals” and “just go to the gym!” are about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. This year, I learned how to make self-care brutally specific, flexible as hell, and just a bit weird.
The Actual, Unfiltered Progress Toolkit (For Real Humans—Counselors, Addicts, and the Rest)
Here’s the secret: all those big, shiny, one-size-fits-all resolutions are built to fail. Our brains crave something else—creativity, specificity, permission to do it ugly.
Try these instead (tested by a neurodivergent, trauma-carrying, caffeine-fueled counselor in ongoing recovery):
• Interactive Journaling: I know, every therapist says “journal”—but this year, the only way I kept up with it was pretending my journal was a person. I wrote, argued, sometimes literally said things out loud for my future self to read back. Try talking to your journal like it’s your best friend, or like it’s someone who “gets it.”
• Designate a Battle of the Month: Instead of ten goals, try one ridiculous, hyper-specific, winnable battle a month—like “This January, I’ll forgive myself for bad days before noon,” or “In February, I’ll try one new recipe that makes me laugh, not just fills me up.”
• Choose Your Chaos: This year taught me that I only have so many spoons. Pick your non-negotiables: three little things, max, that you actually care about, and let the rest go out with the trash.
• Make Use of “Pivot Rituals”: Don’t push through the willpower wall. Instead, create little rituals, triggers, or signals for transition. When I start spinning out, I play a single song—the same one, each time. Or I walk outside and count the cracks in the sidewalk. Doesn’t have to make sense. Just has to pull you back into your body.
• Assemble the Weirdest Recovery Toolkit: Some people like affirmation cards and gratitude stones. This year? My toolkit included a playlist called “Songs for When I Want to Fight the World,” a stress ball shaped like Nicolas Cage’s face, sarcastic memes, and voicemails I left myself during panic attacks. Build yours however you need.
• Abandon Perfection—I Promise This Is Allowed: Your resolutions don’t need to look polished. They don't even need a neat ending. Progress is measured in do-overs, detours, and dumb jokes that get you through another Monday.
For the Overthinkers, Intellectualizers, and Neurodivergent Warriors
You want practical? Here’s practical:
• For every “why can’t I get this right?” moment, try writing a “rebuttal” from your bravest self, even if you don’t believe it. One voice on paper doubting, one encouraging. Battle it out.
• If your brain rebels against self-soothing, try absurdity—write your to-do list as if you’re planning world domination, or ask ChatGPT to coach you like an overenthusiastic sports announcer.
• Set up “accountability exchanges” with someone who doesn’t judge you, and who might occasionally bribe you with pizza or leave you the hell alone when you need space.
• Let yourself “win” at something so small it feels stupid. Your nervous system keeps score, and every tiny win is a vote for “possible.”
The Only Resolution Worth Keeping
Here’s where we land: Progress is progress. Not everyone in recovery needs the same finish line. The best counselors aren’t the ones who’ve never stumbled, but the ones who got back up and kept it messy and real. This year, my victory wasn’t in becoming a new person—it was in not giving up being me, while the whole damn world tried to make me quit.
So, when you sit down to “resolve” something for 2026, make it this: Give yourself credit for crawling, for staring down the same battles, for showing up with scars, and for every tiny decision to not give up.
You don’t need anyone’s permission to do life differently. Recovery, parenting, healing, just surviving December—that’s all progress.
I’m not better because I “fixed” everything. I’m better because I keep trying, keep refusing to quit, and keep remembering: there is no wrong way to get to your own next chapter.
If you’re reading this in your mess, hands shaking, heart heavy, wondering if another year can really change anything, you’re not alone. Some years, progress is just showing up at all. That’s enough.
Here’s to the messy, un-photogenic, wildly imperfect new year. And to every single kind of progress.
—Belle
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