Far from the madding midnight crowd, I’ll be revelling quietly under the covers

Fireworks are nice but so is waking up without a hangover and a bucketful of ­regret. Picture: AFP

There is only one New Year’s Eve tradition that I give my respect to. One that I have faithfully honoured year in, year out, for the past decade or so. That tradition is to be tucked up, cosy as can be and in the sack by 10pm on New Year’s Eve. Half past 10 if I’m feeling particularly racy.

Anyone who has known me for more than 30 minutes will not be surprised by this. What can I say? I’m the ultimate girl gone mild. But I can also genuinely vouch for the deep, abiding joy it brings me to know that I’ll not be stranded somewhere, in search of a taxi or an Uber at 1am or beyond. That I won’t be paying some absurd ransom to go an event that I wouldn’t ordinarily dignify with my time. Nor will I be waking up hungover like a dog on the first day of the new year, with a bucketful of ­regret for my trouble. That’s just the start.

The best New Year’s Eves I’ve celebrated in my near half-tonne of life were not among hordes and heaving crowds, not in places that fashion would say it’s important to be seen, nor among people who are described as moving “in the right circles” – but with small groups of close friends.

Usually at someone’s home, ­always with a solemn pact to start festivities at toddler-o-clock and wrap things up by 9.30. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

It might be an unpopular opinion, but I’ve always felt like New Year’s Eve is the Valentine’s Day of calendar milestones, but instead of the forced fauxmance of the internationally mandated day of lurve, at New Year’s we get served a brand of reflection that is contrived and obligatory.

What are your resolutions, they ask. Well, I am resolved that I will continue to ignore the pressure to make silly declarations that are meaningless 72 hours later.

It’s the psychology of it, really. Shutting the door on the previous 12 months and turning one’s mind to the unwritten possibilities of a fresh, blank page. I understand that.

For me, 2022 was a big year. The most stretching since my ­father passed away. Greater, possibly, though in different ways.

I packed up my life and my dog and moved interstate at the age of 49. For context, I’d never lived more than 10 minutes’ drive from my entire immediate family. It concurrently felt like I was finally where I was always supposed to be and having something on the inside of me torn apart.

But I had, and I continue to have, a conviction that this was the right move for me. I didn’t want to wonder, what if? As my wonderful big brother said to me at the time, what have you been waiting for? Just book your ticket and go. As it happens, I was waiting for the West Australian border to open.

In case some of you need reminding, this time last year most of the country was finally opening to the rest of the world, while we in the West were still locked up like a bunch of chumps with no end in sight.

The one thing that continues to ring true for me, and perhaps many of us, is that it is in the hard and brave things, in the stretching things, in the things that we fear will break us, therein lies the gold.

It’s often the emotional price attached to a decision that is the hardest to pay, but it is always ­worthy of that cost. That’s my key 2022 takeout.

As for the New Year? I often feel like I swing between staring it down like you might a petulant, defiant child, and running to embrace it like you would an old friend. That balance between self-preservation and expectancy. Fear of the unknown, and the excitement birthed by hope.

This year is no different. For all the talk of recessions, and the inevitable geopolitical threats, not to mention Australia’s current substantial areas of policy challenge, my natural inclination is to be hopeful.

I think hope is like joy. You must choose to find it, choose to engage with it. Nobody can do it for you.

So, in the face of much ongoing uncertainty, I’m hopeful. Hopeful that the pendulum is finally swinging back to a place of genuine tolerance for different views. A place formerly known as the sensible centre. I’m hopeful that timid voices will grow stronger, that courage will no longer be measured by attempts to silence and cancel. I’m hopeful that Australians will spend more time talking about and focused on the things that unite. That we would say a firm “no thank you” to the things that divide, and those who would seek to drive that division.

They say to start as you mean to go on. Brilliant! In 2023, I mean to get plenty of sleep, get up early, make the days count, live boldly, love bravely and with intent. After all, what is life if not lived courageously? It’s just marking time. And one thing we’ve all been reminded of in recent years is that life is so very short, and time the most precious commodity of all.

Happy (early) New Year everyone. May the hope with which you start 2023 never fail to disappoint.