On the first morning of the New Year, Praises woke up with the confidence of a man who believed twelve new months had magically fixed him overnight.
He sat up in bed, stretched, and smiled.
“This,” he told himself, “is my year.”
Five minutes later, he hit the snooze button.
Praises had gone to sleep the night before with a list of resolutions so ambitious it could have intimidated a motivational speaker. Wake up early. Exercise daily. Save money. Be kinder. Waste less time. Become the version of himself he always imagined showing up someday, well-organized, disciplined, and strangely energetic before sunrise.
The list was written neatly, proudly placed on his bedside table. It was the last responsible thing he did all year.
When he finally rolled out of bed, it was late morning. The sun had climbed high, unapologetic. Praises glanced at the list and sighed.
“So… tomorrow then,” he said, as if the New Year had personally agreed.
By afternoon, the day unfolded in familiar ways. He opened his phone “just to check the time” and somehow lost forty minutes. He promised himself a short walk and ended up sitting instead, convincing his body it deserved rest after doing absolutely nothing. Even his plan to eat better began with leftovers that were never meant to survive into January.
Yet, as the day went on, something unexpected happened.
Praises laughed.
Not the loud, careless kind, but a quiet chuckle, the kind you release when you finally stop pretending. He laughed at how predictable he was. At how every year he believed change would arrive fully formed, like a package delivered at midnight. At how he kept mistaking a new calendar for a new character.
That evening, Praises took the list again. This time, he didn’t rewrite it. He didn’t tear it up either. He simply added one line at the bottom:
"Be patient with yourself."
It felt small. Almost unimpressive. But it felt honest.
As the days of the New Year continued, Praises didn’t transform dramatically. He didn’t wake up early every morning. He skipped workouts. He forgot goals. But some days, quiet, ordinary days, he tried again. He made better choices, not because it was January, but because he remembered.
He remembered that growth didn’t start with pressure. It started with awareness. With laughter instead of shame. With grace instead of force.
By the end of the month, Praises noticed something subtle but important. The New Year hadn’t changed him. But it had introduced him to himself clearly, gently, without illusions.
And that, he realized, was enough to begin.
Change doesn’t happen because the year is new.
It happens when we learn to walk forward kindly, even when we stumble.
Here's to the New Year, 2026!
This Is Praisesmirel The Israel of God.
He sat up in bed, stretched, and smiled.
“This,” he told himself, “is my year.”
Five minutes later, he hit the snooze button.
Praises had gone to sleep the night before with a list of resolutions so ambitious it could have intimidated a motivational speaker. Wake up early. Exercise daily. Save money. Be kinder. Waste less time. Become the version of himself he always imagined showing up someday, well-organized, disciplined, and strangely energetic before sunrise.
The list was written neatly, proudly placed on his bedside table. It was the last responsible thing he did all year.
When he finally rolled out of bed, it was late morning. The sun had climbed high, unapologetic. Praises glanced at the list and sighed.
“So… tomorrow then,” he said, as if the New Year had personally agreed.
By afternoon, the day unfolded in familiar ways. He opened his phone “just to check the time” and somehow lost forty minutes. He promised himself a short walk and ended up sitting instead, convincing his body it deserved rest after doing absolutely nothing. Even his plan to eat better began with leftovers that were never meant to survive into January.
Yet, as the day went on, something unexpected happened.
Praises laughed.
Not the loud, careless kind, but a quiet chuckle, the kind you release when you finally stop pretending. He laughed at how predictable he was. At how every year he believed change would arrive fully formed, like a package delivered at midnight. At how he kept mistaking a new calendar for a new character.
That evening, Praises took the list again. This time, he didn’t rewrite it. He didn’t tear it up either. He simply added one line at the bottom:
"Be patient with yourself."
It felt small. Almost unimpressive. But it felt honest.
As the days of the New Year continued, Praises didn’t transform dramatically. He didn’t wake up early every morning. He skipped workouts. He forgot goals. But some days, quiet, ordinary days, he tried again. He made better choices, not because it was January, but because he remembered.
He remembered that growth didn’t start with pressure. It started with awareness. With laughter instead of shame. With grace instead of force.
By the end of the month, Praises noticed something subtle but important. The New Year hadn’t changed him. But it had introduced him to himself clearly, gently, without illusions.
And that, he realized, was enough to begin.
Change doesn’t happen because the year is new.
It happens when we learn to walk forward kindly, even when we stumble.
Here's to the New Year, 2026!
This Is Praisesmirel The Israel of God.
