We clink our glasses at midnight
as if the calendar itself were magic,
counting down like astronauts
ready to launch into better versions
of ourselves.

We make lists as long as confetti trails.
Eat cleaner. Try harder. Wake earlier.
Run farther. Fail slower.
Become, somehow, dazzling.

The gyms glow with January pilgrims
seeking salvation on treadmills,
while planners fill with bold intentions
written in heroic handwriting
that grows tired by February.

We promise the moon to ourselves
but offer only crumbs to God,
as if He were a side note
on our list of improvements,
a gentle reminder we dismiss
like a snoozed alarm.

We chase resolutions that sparkle
for a moment
and fade like party sparklers
left smoking on cold sidewalks,
while the One who shaped the stars
waits for the offering
that actually matters.

Perhaps the true beginning
is not the stroke of midnight
or a vow to drink more water
or be less stressed,
but the quiet, trembling surrender
of giving Him everything
we pretend we can fix on our own.

Maybe the new year begins
when our resolutions fall away
like confetti caught in a gust,
and we place our whole, unfinished selves
into the hands that make all things new.