I’m Not Becoming Anything This Year, & That’s The Point

There is nothing wrong with goal-setting or hustling. After all, humans were made to create and to dream. I’ve often felt that dreaming — that internal fire to get stuff done — is necessary. But I’ve also come to find that my dreams, my desire to achieve, is too heavy. And this year, I’m working to change that.

Like so many other moms, I put so much pressure on myself. That if I’m not actively striving, I’m somehow failing. Because we wear so many hats: The wife hat. The mom hat. The employee hat. The boss hat. The friend hat. The daughter hat. Never mind the daily news cycle, the state of the world, and the quiet panic of raising decent humans right now — of constantly hoping and whispering to them “Please don’t be a sociopath.”

This is usually where I enter freeze mode and briefly assume the fetal position.

And the voices. There are so many voices telling us how to live. How to optimize or how to unlock our highest selves. They come with millions of followers and perfectly curated feeds. Wake up earlier; do more; lift heavier; do better, they say. Hustle, but make it mindful. Rest, but make it productive.

Sometimes it’s helpful. Other times it is just loud. So loud that life starts to feel like a marathon with no mile markers. No finish line. Just an endless movement fueled by a scarcity mindset. Run. Grasp. Achieve. Repeat. As if my worthiness is something I must earn. I’m not for it.

So this year, I’ve made a promise to myself that my goals will be quieter, and honestly, more radical. This year I want less action, not more. I want to move at a pace my nervous system recognizes as safe. I want fewer commitments and deeper presence. Less friendships and dates on the social calendar but more depth and true community. I want to let go of the thought patterns in my brain that are always searching how to improve and to fix.

I want rest to be rest.

I was chatting with a friend recently at a pajama-movie night, and I told her that I don’t think I have ever been capable of just resting. She asked me if I could ever spend the day on a couch and be at peace physically resting in that way. Without hesitation I said, “No. I couldn’t.” And I think that’s sad that I can’t. I think it’s sad that I couldn’t be all right with myself if I didn’t chase after a to-do list. Somehow, ingrained in me is that productivity is deeply linked with worth. My friend confessed that she feels the same herself. A high need to achieve, constantly.

This year, I want to believe — to really believe — that who I am right now is enough.

Imagine what might fall away if we all allowed ourselves that. The tightness in our shoulders. The permanent bags under our eyes. The low-grade guilt humming in the background incessantly. Imagine walking through life at a pace that doesn’t require recovery afterward. Letting people be who they are. Letting me be who I am. There is something gentle about his way of living, tender even.

Our kids are watching. So are our partners and friends. They learn from how we move through the world. Maybe choosing to simply be gives them permission to do the same.

No life-sucking goals that take and take. No hustle for a while. No becoming.

Just being.

Meg Raby is a mom, children's author of the My Brother Otto series, and Autistic residing in Salt Lake City where you can find her playing and working with neurodivergent children as a Speech Language Pathologist and friend, or writing and planning big things in the second booth at her local coffee shop that overlooks the Wasatch Mountains while sipping on her Americano. Meg believes the essence of life is to understand, love and welcome others (aka, to give a damn about humans).