A case for sincerely trying in 2025

A framework for turning new year’s energy into sustainable creative habits

Jan 05, 2025

I’m a sucker for a fresh start. Not in a “new year, new me” way, but in the messy, iterative way of trying to gradually improve. Like a new pair of shoes or a blank page—a new year is full of potential. You could argue it’s just an arbitrary mile marker, a futile attempt to wrangle time into submission, but it stands as a feat of human ingenuity that we’re able to do so at all—using a system of leap years like last year—to within about 27 seconds alignment with the solar year.

The timing feels especially potent. After months of chaos, a few weeks of actual downtime (thank you, Figma, for the company-wide break) gave me space to think about what worked in 2024, what didn’t, and what deserves to be carried forward.

The resolution resistance

And yet, not everyone shares my passion for new year resolutions. Each time I bring them up, I get fewer sincere answers and more eye-rolls. Mention them at a party and watch people laugh dismissively or drop the slightly smug “I don’t do resolutions”—as if they’ve transcended the very concept of self-improvement.

The skepticism isn’t unfounded. Studies show up to 70% of people abandon their resolutions within months, a stat so reliable that gym business models are predicated on this predictable drop-off. Young adults are the most optimistic, with nearly half of those aged 18 to 29 making resolutions. The rest? Increasingly resolution-resistant.

The vulnerability of trying

The cynicism about resolutions points to our complicated relationship with self-improvement and the vulnerability of publicly declaring our intentions. Resolutions can feel heavy. Setting goals requires a kind of optimism that feels increasingly rare. You have to believe not only that the year ahead has potential, but that you have the capacity to navigate whatever chaos emerges. That’s a lot of faith to place in both yourself and the future, especially when past attempts haven’t exactly gone as planned.

Take my Goodreads challenge. Last year I aimed for 70 books and managed 38. Now I’m faced with: Try again? Adjust down? Admit that quantity may not be the yardstick I want to measure my reading by? Consider that tracking books read is actually counterproductive to what I really want—which is to engage deeply with what I’m reading rather than racing through pages? Hm.

Finding what works

While resolutions alone won’t magically transform your year, I’ve found that some form of structured reflection can help apply intentionality to how I move through it. Like steering a ship, you might not always stay perfectly on course, but without checking your heading occasionally, you’re much more likely to end up off track. Qual versus quant, I tend to subscribe to “you can’t track what you can’t measure,” but there is something to be said for a more vibes-based approach. If you are someone who intuitively knows when you’re on track versus not, trust your gut.

Starting simple: More/Less lists

An easy entry to intention-setting? More/Less lists. I first saw them on Julia Rothman’s Instagram, but have seen them from

Kate Bingaman-Burt

Wendy MacNaughton

, and Hayden Davis. They’re wonderfully accessible—no need to decode your deepest motivations. Just draft two columns and go.

juliarothman

A post shared by @juliarothman

katebingburt

A post shared by @katebingburt

At our new year’s parties, I try to carve out a corner with paper and pens for these lists. Some people laugh it off, others dive in deep, and a few sneak back later when no one’s watching. Every year, party or not, this is where I start.

Left photo: Sticky notes with “Less” and “More” written at the top, surrounded by pens and highlighters. The “Less” note includes items like “Anxiety,” “Screen time,” “Consumption,” and “Hesitation.” Center photo: Sticky notes taped to a white door. The “More” note includes items like “Reflection,” “Reading,” “Sharing,” and “Confidence,” marked with checkmarks. The “Less” note lists items such as “Anxiety” and “Procrastination,” marked with crossed-out circles. Right photo: Sticky notes placed next to a laptop on a wooden desk. The “More” note lists items like “Writing,” “Reading,” “Exercising,” and “New ideas.” The “Less” note includes items such as “Alcohol,” “Spinning out,” and “Instagram.” A shadow of sunlight falls across the notes. — Lists from 2022 & 2023

If you stop here—that’s great. You’ve created a north star for your year. But for those of us who love a good system (hello, fellow spreadsheet enthusiasts), read on…

Getting systematic (aka spreadsheet time)

Full disclosure: I’m an optimizer. I wear an Oura ring. I get excited about a well-structured Google Doc. A color-coded spreadsheet, like this one for soup consumption, brings me great joy. But before you write me off entirely, hear me out—sometimes structure creates the very freedom we’re seeking.

I take those more/less aspirations and turn them into priorities. Then I break those into smaller tasks. Like, if I want to be healthier, could I exercise for an hour five times a week? Or if I want to save money, could I cook more at home, and meal plan each Sunday? When stumped, I use Perplexity to help break bigger goals up into actionable, recurring tasks.

The backbone of my system is a modified version of

Kara Haupt

’s brilliant goal-planning spreadsheet. I also recently changed the language from ‘tasks’ to ‘habits’ to avoid filling it with obligations, like email. I don’t aspire to be a great emailer.

A screenshot of a Google Sheet titled "2024 Planning," focusing on a tab labeled "Habits." The sheet contains columns for "Status," "Task," "Goals," percentages, and a timeline with weeks in January 2024. Tasks include "Spend an hour writing / 1k words," "Exercise (1 hr)," "No alcohol," "Read 70 books," and "Practice Spanish," with progress statuses like "Not started" and "In progress." Rows are color-coded in green and yellow to indicate progress and task activity. Tabs at the bottom include "Goals," "Good Graf," "Tasks," "Publications," and "Reduce debt." The interface shows standard Google Sheets menus and options. — (2024)

In 2022, I went overboard with priorities—totally unmanageable; 2024, I cut down to ten. The results? Mixed: Published my first piece of fiction (!) but my Peloton became an expensive clothes rack. Kept up with ASL but ghosted Duolingo (felt great). Having the data helps me understand why—and more importantly, what to adjust.

A screenshot of a Google Sheet titled "2022 Planning [Archive]," focusing on a tab labeled "Goals." The sheet lists priorities in column A, related tasks and percentages in columns B and C, and categories in column F. Categories include "Personal," "Health," "Social," "Practice," "Finance," and "Career," with color-coded rows. A pie chart on the right visualizes category distribution, with "Personal" at 28.6% and other categories like "Health" and "Social" occupying smaller portions. Tabs at the bottom include "Tasks," "$$$," "Writing," "Book timeline," and "ASL 5." The interface shows standard Google Sheets menus and options. — (2022)

Maintain and sustain

Systems are only as good as they are easy to maintain. The more complexity I add, the harder it is to sustain. I kept my spreadsheet updated through December 2023, but only made it to July in 2024. Some tasks naturally evolve into habits—I don’t track water intake anymore as I’m extremely hydrated. Others fall off, and that’s okay. It’s not about perfection; it’s about intention and having a compass when you get lost.

Building your personal practice

This framework evolved from exercises I use with my students at Parsons and SVA, helping them bridge that terrifying gap between academic skills and real-world practice. After years of teaching, I’ve watched countless creatives wrestle with the same challenge: How do you build a sustainable practice that actually works for you?

Looking back these newsletters, it’s clear what resonated. While we love theoretical discussions about AI and creativity, the pieces that hit home were practical:

Looking ahead

For 2025, I’m dedicating a few issues each month to helping you build and improve your own creative practice. Consider it part toolkit, part community experiment, part ongoing conversation about what it means to build something meaningful in an age of constant change.

This week, I’ll share the values exercise I use with my students—the one that helps them connect their skills to their bigger vision. But for now, I’m curious: What do you want more of in 2025? Less of? Let me know. Onward and upward.

—Carly