I’m not striving for better in 2025. I’m hitting ‘unsubscribe’

I recently came across a TikTok therapist talking about the pointlessness of self-care. In a culture that worships hyper-productivity and infinite growth, they said, sheet masks and journaling can only ever be a Band-Aid over a festering, necrotic bullet wound. The hustle, the grind, the tireless chase of more and new and better: we aren’t designed for it, and attempts to assimilate will only treat the symptoms, never the cause.

But we can’t just opt out. There’s always more money to make, a better job to strive for, appliances to be replaced and new toys to feed our collective dopamine addiction. There is always news to analyse and discuss, bills to dispute, attractive vigilantes to gawk at, micro-trends to latch onto, gossip to consume, viral recipes to attempt, a muscle group we’re neglecting, shows to catch up on, calls to return, imperfections to vanquish, relationships to nurture, plants to water, another terrible habit to kick. But that’s just life, right? People aren’t some static thing; we’re never “done”. There is no “enough”. It’s always been this way. Why should it ever change?

Credit: Robin Cowcher

Maybe it’s because I just watched an insane documentary series about people who keep chimpanzees as pets and treat them like babies, but lately, when I look in the mirror or consult an ever-growing to-do list, I feel a little like an over-medicated, under-caffeinated chimp in lipstick, captive to an environment that I wasn’t made for. My enclosure is getting crowded. This primate is getting agitated. What if the TikTok therapist is onto something?

But a new year is a blank slate. Faced with a fresh page, it’s time to make a change.

So that’s it. I’m not striving for better in 2025. I’m hitting “unsubscribe” on the whole thing.

First things first: I’m quitting the gym. I hardly go as it is, and when I do, it’s as an act of war against my nominally flawed body. Every time I leave my apartment in leggings and sneakers, a heartbroken howl from my dog puts more strain on my heart than any group fitness class ever did, anyway.

I’ll be worse at keeping up with the news, hard and soft (but could we all make a promise not to tell my editor this one? Being across celebrity gossip and new trends is kind of a job requirement). I want to be able to listen to a pop song for the love of it again, not to mine each metaphor for insights into the Taylor Swift Cinematic Universe.

I’d like to get worse at being nice for niceness’ sake. Less saying “yes” when I mean “I would rather die,” more letting “no” exist as a complete sentence. Fewer platitudes, less mindless peacekeeping. All the people I know who see personal boundaries as an enemy claiming territory — they’re not going to like it. I’ll end dates at the first or second ick, abandoning my Negroni and reclaiming my Thursday evenings, no longer folding myself into someone sweet and agreeable, going cold turkey on “It’s not you, it’s me”, text messages the morning after.

I’ll get lazier and lazier about checking my phone, less apologetic for leaving texts unanswered. My screen time score will drop. The digital subscriptions to productivity apps and shopping lists will go to waste. All decaying neural pathways will come alive again.

When I catch a new book feeling like homework, I’ll stop reading it. I’ll donate it to a street library and remove it from my GoodReads tracker. I’ll stop setting optimistic deadlines and berating myself when I don’t meet them. My third book was due at the publisher in March last year, and I’m still stuck in the middle of it. Who cares? Me, still, but hopefully a little less day by day.

I’ll cut down on posting for validation, stop writhing into my shapewear to make my body look better, and quit telling people I’m “really well, thanks!” when I’m on the verge of tears. I’ll stop sipping optimism and chasing it with cynicism to mask the taste.

All these bad habits disguised as good intentions — I quit them all. Will it work? Will it help? Will it end all my relationships, leave me isolated, get me fired? Time will tell. It always does.

A year of no new purchases, buying your first packet of Nicorette gum, a sobriety challenge, or a drawer full of Lycra for your Couch to 5K program: these are all admirable goals, much more impressive than my commitment to regression. I salute the pursuit of self-improvement. I’m just opting out this year, to see if it makes a difference.

New year, new me. That’s how this works, right?

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