I don’t know how many social media posts and news articles I read in the past few weeks that began with the same general sentiment: Thank goodness 2025 is almost over. I won’t revisit all the obvious reasons why so many people felt that way, but I will point out the obvious: change is rarely as simple as putting up a new calendar or turning the page on an old one. That’s why new year’s resolutions so often fail.

I’ve long since given up on the idea of making resolutions that I know I won’t keep. The one time in my life that I made a significant change in my behavior came about as the result of a health scare, not the turning of a calendar page; the only way to avoid a repeat of that situation was to do something different. Something better. Something actively good for me.

I wish our puny human brains were better at taking action before this kind of crisis arises. Sometimes we do, but most of the time we wait until it seems we have no choice.

That’s what I did with the decision to place Mike in memory care last year. Until it became absolutely clear that something had to happen—that his dementia day care program couldn’t safely meet his needs anymore, and that my own health was being impacted in measurable ways by my stress level—I put off making the big decisions I needed to make, even knowing full well that I couldn’t do this forever.

So, no resolutions for me. But then Kelcey Ervick, author of The Habit of Art (a Substack newsletter I adore), suggested choosing an imperative phrase to use as a guide throughout the year—a mantra of sorts, something to return to when you’re feeling stuck or directionless. That seemed like an idea worth trying.

The imperative mood in any language is the one we use for giving commands, offering advice, making suggestions, etc. It presumes action will follow. When I started giving some thought to what I need to do in the new year, the first thing that came up was Trust.

I’m still very much in the process of learning to trust other people to take care of Mike, in spite of the fact that the staff at his memory care facility have demonstrated that they will always err on the side of caution, where his health is concerned. I’m also learning to trust myself in new ways. I’ve been the sole person in charge of our house and finances for nearly 8 years now, but I haven’t been living alone while dealing with those responsibilities. Having Mike physically present made me feel less vulnerable, for some reason, though he lost the ability to help with any kind of problem-solving or decision-making a long time ago.

So Trust seemed like exactly the right imperative—until I realized that what I really wanted to do in the new year was get back to trying new things. I’m not an adventurous spirit by any definition (no bungee jumping for me, thanks), but I do love to learn. I wrote a food blog for many years, for instance, because it gave me a chance to learn how to build a website, take better photographs, and acquire new cooking skills. As a result of that blog, I did recipe development for a handful of companies. I participated in a national cook-off. Those were definitely new things.

But I’d been focused on caregiving for so long that, somewhere along the way, I’d just stopped thinking about what I might like to do. I wanted to focus at least some of my energy outward—to remind myself that I live in a city where things are always happening, where trying new things is both possible and, in fact, a good idea.

Trust and try it: that was actually the imperative I needed. Trust that Mike is okay, which makes room for trying the new thing.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that Trust and try it is about two steps away from Jump and see, an integral phrase from the John Patrick Shanley film Joe vs. the Volcano. That movie didn’t do well in theaters, but Mike and I loved it. For years, we used that film as a litmus test for new friendships: if you liked it, we were definitely going to like you. If you didn’t—well, time would tell.

But taking a leap feels different when you aren’t holding hands with someone as you stand on the precipice. Being out there on your own is pretty scary, when it’s not what you’ve grown accustomed to. And while I am a person of faith, knowing that God is with me feels very different from being able to look to my left, nod once, and know that Mike understands exactly what I’m not saying.

So in 2026, my focus will be on encouraging myself to take the occasional leap. To follow the advice I used to give my own children: If you never do anything scary, you’re going to live a very small life.

Just a few days into this new year, I’ve already made a handful of plans. Some of them feel very small indeed, but I keep reminding myself that big is not the point right now: figuring out what I might like to do is a necessary first step.

The next one is trusting that when the time comes to put those plans into action, I’ll be brave enough to do it.