If everyone had to write a New Year’s resolution, my younger self would’ve recycled the same lies in my formal theme book over and over. I’d scribble: “My holiday season was happy” or “I hope for the same in the new year” or “I look forward to 20-something.”
The truth was, holidays at home were hell. My parents would fight after too many Gold Eagles or Tanduays. One would end up bruised. The other would end up in jail.
By dawn, our sawali walls would reveal dents from rocks thrown in anger. Some years, there’d be blood on the floor because one had slashed the other with a binangon. And there I’d be, at 2 or 3 a.m., scrubbing red off our linoleum.
When school resumed in January, the first task was always the same: write a New Year’s resolution.
I was ashamed to tell the truth about my holidays, so I lied on paper. I’d make up stories and fill the page with what I wished my life was like, over and over again. I kept lying until grade school ended, and I didn’t have to lie anymore.
But I never stopped carrying the shame with me. Even when I moved on to high school, then college, the lies became part of my narrative. I told myself that no one needed to know the truth about my home life. It was easier to keep up appearances, to tell the world that everything was fine, even when it was far from it.
When I got older, I tried writing resolutions that felt genuine. I’d tell myself, “This year, I’ll be good. I’ll be kind. I’ll study hard. I’ll pray harder—maybe this year, God will listen. I’ll smile more. I’ll help more. I’ll do more, even if more means less.” But none of it ever stuck. I was just lying again.
I wasn’t ready to face the truth about myself, and I certainly wasn’t ready to make lasting changes. I told myself that I would be better, but I never followed through. It was easy to set lofty goals and feel better for a moment, but the grind of day-to-day life always pulled me back to where I started. The lies were comfortable, even if they left me feeling empty in the long run.
One night, I thought about the word “resolution” and its three meanings:
- The “firm decision to do or not to do something.”
- The “action of solving a problem, dispute, or contentious matter.”
- The “sharpness or clarity of an image or picture.”
Who I am now and where I am today have taken years of trying, failing, and trying again. There was no magic moment. No single resolution that fixed everything. No grand gesture that solved all my problems. It’s been a slow and steady process, one decision after another.
I’ve spent years peeling back the layers of who I thought I was and discovering who I really am. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve made plenty of mistakes along the way. But every mistake has been a chance to learn, and every failure has been a lesson in perseverance.
The truth is, resolutions aren’t about one big declaration at the start of the year. They’re the small and big decisions we make every day and the actions we take that form a clearer picture.
My clearer picture, after almost two decades of lying, is this: I live in a house I’m paying for.
I worked hard to get here, and it’s a place where I feel safe, where I can finally be myself. Here, no parents are brawling. No excess powder covering a black eye. No broken bottles of Gold Eagle or Tanduay. No police cars. No blood. No lies.
The peace that fills this home is the result of every choice I’ve made, every day that I’ve chosen to build a better life, even when it seemed impossible.
The bedroom sheets are softer. The salad is fresh. The photos on the wall are happy. The pretend foliage on the dining table is alive, and yes, there’s a dining table. The blue curtains are brighter. The floor is cool. The dogs are asleep. The midnight is quiet. The truth is free.
That’s my clearer picture. And it’s taken a long time to get here.
I used to think that New Year’s resolutions were all about setting lofty goals and changing everything at once. I thought it was about transforming yourself overnight, about becoming the person you wish you were. But now I realize the real resolution is in the process. It’s about choosing every day to be better, to make different decisions, to break free from the lies we’ve told ourselves.
It’s about living the truth, even when it’s hard.
And my resolution for 2025 is to preserve it.
This year, I’m not setting a goal to change everything about my life. I’m setting a goal to continue building, to continue choosing the truth, and to hold on to the peace I’ve found. I’m ready to embrace whatever comes next, without the need to lie about it.
As 2025 rolls around, I’ll still be here, trying, failing, and trying again.
But this time, I won’t be lying.
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Phillippe Tanchuan, 25, is an essayist from Antique. He lives in Iloilo with his partner, Fritz.