This is the year I stop smoking. I’ve come to terms with the difficulty of quitting, I know how much I’ll mourn, bargain, be depressed and hate this whole process, but I must become smoke-free this year. My lungs are aging, and a recent bout of bronchitis has really done a number on me. I’m short of breath getting into the bed. I wheeze when I’m trying to fall asleep. I can feel mucus rumbling in my chest, vibrating against the mattress. It’s time.
This is the year that I write more. Journaling and stories, telling a piece of my life.
This is the year I read more.
This is the year I will do more, and enjoy each moment as it occurs, and not wish for time past. I’ll become the person in my dreams, spontaneous and delightful, surrounded by mysteries to solve, love to be had and doorways to walk through.
This is the year I will learn to knit socks.
This is the year I’ll be 45, an age I never dreamed about. This is the year I’ll start on my second half, making a juicy and delicious life, with no regrets, no fear.
This is the year that will begin a new decade for me, and I’m excited and in wonder of all it will hold for me.
