India, Jan. 2 -- New Year's resolutions are curious things. We craft them with sincerity only to break them with predictable consistency, yet we return to them year after year with undiminished hope. There is something deeply human in this ritual of promising ourselves a better version of who we already are. In my childhood, the final week of December carried a quiet gravity. While the world prepared for celebration, I prepared for evaluation. I would sit with a glossy-covered notebook - one that possessed far more ambition than pages - and review the year gone by. What had I done right? Where had I faltered? And most importantly, what would I fix next? Once the reflection ended, the real work began: the annual list. This was no ordinary document; it was an illuminated manuscript of self-improvement, decorated with colourful pens, borders, and stickers. I believed a resolution worked better if it looked important. Then came the strategic task of placement - behind the bedroom door, next to the study desk, or above the light switch. The logic was simple: if it stayed in sight, it would stay in mind. Of course, forgetting was never the problem. Ignoring was. I took my resolutions seriously for the first few weeks, conducting "self-evaluations" on what I called a scorecard. Did I wake up early? Did I read? Was I kind to my siblings? The scores were generous at first, even optimistic. But as the months passed, the marking became kinder-not to my performance, but to my excuses. One year, my resolution read: No procrastination. By March, I had postponed even reviewing the list. Another year, I resolved to be more organised, only to lose the resolution sheet itself by February. The irony was not lost on my family, who still remind me of the year I pasted my list so securely that I forgot where I had hidden it. Yet, despite the humour and the repeated failures, the habit of making resolutions served a purpose I didn't yet understand. It taught me the discipline of reflection. It forced me to pause, look inward, and ask difficult questions. It gave structure to my growth, however imperfect the results. Most importantly, it normalised the idea that failure is not final; it is simply feedback. Today, my resolutions are fewer, less decorated, and rarely pasted on walls. But the habit remains. I still evaluate, still reset, and still believe in the quiet power of starting over. Perhaps resolutions aren't meant to be followed perfectly. They exist to remind us that growth is a process -and that every year, no matter how messy the last, offers us a blank page and the courage to write again....