It’s the 6th of January.
I’m sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee, back from a holiday, and noticing something very familiar. Before I left, there were things I’d quietly postponed — practical things, but also the idea of changing my exercise routine, trying something different, being a bit more intentional. I’ll deal with that when I’m back, I’d told myself. Maybe next month. That will be better.

Now it’s the first week of the new year. I’m not someone who really does New Year’s resolutions, and yet I notice a strange pull nonetheless — the sense that now would be a good moment to begin. As if the calendar itself were giving me permission.

And it makes me stop and think. Why do we do this? Why do we so often attach change to dates, phases, even events — a new year or a new month — instead of simply starting within an ordinary day? If every day is new, why do we keep waiting for the right moment to begin again?

The comfort of collective resets

One explanation is surprisingly simple: we are social animals. Change feels easier when it happens collectively — at New Year, after holidays, at the start of a school term. There’s something reassuring about knowing others are “starting again” too. It lowers the emotional risk. Trying feels less exposed when it’s part of a shared rhythm.

Psychologists describe this tendency as the fresh start effect¹: certain dates act like mental landmarks, helping us draw a line between what came before and what might come next. January 1st creates a sense of distance — that was last year, this is now. Past missteps feel easier to leave behind when they’re neatly contained on the other side of a calendar page.

Why daily beginnings are harder

The difficulty is that ordinary days don’t come with the same sense of permission. Yesterday is still close. Sometimes uncomfortably so. There’s no clear break, no collective agreement that now is the moment to begin again.

Living with the idea that every day is a fresh start sounds liberating — carpe diem and all that — but in practice it asks more of us. It requires attention rather than ceremony, repetition rather than declaration. It’s far easier to announce change once a year than to quietly recommit to it again and again, without fireworks or witnesses.

The voice in our heads

Anyone who has ever tried to change a habit knows this moment. You’re sitting on the sofa in the evening, perhaps feeling quietly pleased that you’ve managed a few “good” days. And then a very persuasive thought appears: You’ve done enough. One won’t matter. You can start again tomorrow.

Sometimes it goes further. You’ll never keep this up anyway. The thought often arrives when we’re tired, when energy is low, and it can sound surprisingly reasonable. But more often than not, it’s not insight — it’s efficiency. The brain is designed to conserve energy and favour predictability². Familiar habits cost less; new ones require more effort. So this isn’t the mind or body working against us, but simply a system trying to return to what it already knows.

Five small things I come back to

1. I start smaller than I think I should
   Instead of waiting for the “right” plan, I begin with something manageable — a short walk, a stretch, a few minutes of movement.
2. I pay attention to postponement language
   When I catch myself thinking “when things calm down” or “once I have more time”, I take it as a signal that I’m pushing something into the future.
3. I expect the voice — and try not to argue with it
   When the familiar “you’ve done enough” thought appears in the evening, I notice it without getting into a debate.
4. I use evenings as reviews, not verdicts
   I look back on the day to see what actually happened, without turning it into a judgement.
5. I begin again quietly
   I don’t always announce a reset — sometimes I just start again, without marking the date or making a promise.

Ending the day, beginning again

This is why I’ve come to like a much quieter way of resetting. At the end of the day, when everything slows down, I sometimes lie in bed and think back over what happened. Not to judge or analyse it, but simply to notice. What went well. What didn’t. What I’d like to let go of.

There’s no labelling, no scorekeeping. Just acknowledgement. And then sleep.

Some evenings I remember to do this, some evenings I don’t. But when I do, it creates a sense of closure — not as an ending, but as a gentle pause. And with that pause comes the possibility of beginning again the next day. Not because the calendar says so, but because every ordinary day already carries that option within it.

Sources

1. Dai, H., Milkman, K. L., & Riis, J. (2014). The Fresh Start Effect: Temporal Landmarks Motivate Aspirational Behavior. Management Science.
   https://pubsonline.informs.org/doi/10.1287/mnsc.2014.1901
2. Friston, K. (2010). The free-energy principle: a unified brain theory? Nature Reviews Neuroscience.
   https://www.nature.com/articles/nrn2787

Photo: West Pier, Brighton (UK) – 31 December 2025