Goals – “The object of a person’s ambition or effort; an aim or desired result.”

Beginning in grade school, as we return to the schoolhouse once again, dragging ourselves into our respective classrooms, the routine of asking, “What are your New Year’s resolutions?” is all too familiar. And, you know, the question never stops. It does, however, change in the way it is posed and, possibly, in how we answer. This year’s adult iteration is, “Write a poem or letter about your goals for 2025.”

Frankly, the very thought of being required to employ brainpower to plan further than my next oil change, tomorrow, if you were asking, frightens me to my innermost core. To be more specific, goal setting is a process that fills me with so much anxiety and dread that I find myself craving the comfort of a 5150. Too much? You know what? You’re right. Back to the topic at hand, as I’ve digressed.

Since I’ve made it to this side of 30, my New Year’s goals have been much simpler, making them more easily attainable. That said, my only goal for 2025 is to wake up and live. I know, I know. Cliché, right? Yes, but all I can seem to commit to is waking up each day and giving that day all I have—which isn’t even enough to partially fill a thimble. My only goal is to wake up and try.

Try to make it at work.
Try to show up for my friends and family.
Try to show up for my beautiful and precocious godson.
And try to live.

The world is burning. If you’re paying attention, you know it’s always burning, to be honest. Groceries are expensive. They are attempting to criminalize the unhoused. Eggs and the cheapest bottle of tequila are equal in shelf life and price. And through all of that, all I can do is put forth the bulk of my energy to waking up, then trying.