My Kid Says Grown-Ups Lose Their Imaginations. January Might Prove Him Right.

The Romans had it right.

Janus—the Roman god of doorways, gates, and transitions, often depicted with two faces looking in opposite directions; one towards the past and the other towards the future —was celebrated at the start of each new year with feasts and pagan festivals dating back to 700 BC. He is associated with beginnings and endings, and the month of January is named after him. He was the literal embodiment of duality, long before it became therapized jargon.

Even then, it seems humans placed equal value on reflection and vision. The merits of practicing both are obvious: learn from the past, apply to the future. It’s no surprise the Romans revered this practice so much, given shared experiences, storytelling and word of mouth were the currencies of advancement and cultural enlightenment in ancient civilizations. It’s all easy enough in theory. But in practice? Much messier.

If the annual theatre of self-improvement that takes over every January is any indicator, it’s clear we haven’t quite mastered the art. We tend to overcorrect. Too much rumination. Or too much manifesting. One foot in regret, the other in delusion. Which might explain why most resolutions fizzle out within weeks.

Still, as a species at large, we’re nothing if not optimistic. So, millions of us try again each January, determined to evolve into some shinier, stronger, more focused version of ourselves. It’s admirable. Sincerely. If you’re one of those resolutioners, I wish you well. You’re cut from a more poetic cloth than me.

But me? The whole idea of resolutions—and frankly, the month of January—gets a hard pass.

I know I’m not alone in this detest. In fact, that buoy of camaraderie is empowering me to say a few things out loud.

For starters, “Dry January” feels so performative and judgy, plus all the cleansing and fasting rituals steal all the joy from one of my favorite pastimes: dining out. January is also a special kind of hell for year-round gym-goers as novice fitness enthusiasts descend upon equipment with chaotic vigor. Everything feels harder and further away: the sun, open treadmills, outdoor dinners, vacation, serotonin. The sky looks like God handed a paintbrush to Eeyore.

But you don’t get this cranky about something without having your own baggage.

Clearly, I’ve been burnt by the resolution game. Years ago, I tried to give up carbs and dairy and don’t remember a time when I was angrier or more vengeful. More recently, I thought I’d be able to join the 4:45 a.m. crowd. Never managed to wake up before 6am.

To be fair, I’ve had some wins. I quit Splenda cold turkey last year. Replaced it with a heavy honey dependency, but still—a shift. And about three years ago, I started charging my phone in the kitchen overnight. Haven’t looked back. (That one’s a game-changer. More on that another time.)

So no, I’m not anti-growth. I have ambitions. I’m just no longer interested in building goals out of guilt or tying success to a calendar date. I don’t need more reasons to feel behind or self-loathe. It might also be because I’m in my 40s now, and I just want to enjoy the small pleasures—chips, guac, a thimble of tequila—without a moral referendum.

I used to think this aversion was just personal preference. But a recent insight made me reconsider.

A family member generously answered my call for prompts and he told me he was staunchly anti-resolutions—but pro-goal-setting. This is not an uncommon position, come to find out. But, he added something that stuck: “Most people grossly underestimate what they’re capable of. They set goals that are way too low.”

It made me wonder: Am I playing it too safe? Is my indifference for resolution-setting just fear in disguise? Am I swiping left on myself sight unseen?

Then a few days later - as if he knew I was silently deliberating - my 10-year-old son randomly announced at the dinner table, with the type of devastating & heartbreak clarity only kids can achieve, that “all grownups lose their imaginations.” Oof.

Immediately, a lightbulb flashed above my crestfallen head telling me that those two ideas shared a swim lane. Because my son is at least partially right. Without imagination, we DO lose our appetite for aspiration. And without aspiration, we stop pushing. Stop stretching. Stop seeing what could be.

Speaking in defense of all of us, adulthood does have a way of shrinking our field of vision. Life gets practical, demanding, gray. Sometimes, imagining a bigger future feels inefficient, childish, irresponsible—or even painful. So we choose what’s safe. Realistic. Reasonable.

But what if our realism is costing us?

If it’s true that people are setting goals that are too small, maybe it’s not due to laziness. Maybe it’s just that we’ve lost touch with our imaginations. Maybe we’ve over-indexed on practicality and forgotten how to dream without guardrails.

What would it mean to reverse that trend?

That’s the thread I’m tugging on this year. Not with any fancy trackers or aggressive targets. But because, quite honestly, I need this. Lately, I’ve felt spread too thin—creatively cracked open but inconsistently expressed. I’ve had a dozen half-finished thoughts and ideas floating around with no sense of direction. No cohesive throughline. Just a hum of frantic energy.

So I’m not making a resolution. I’m not tracking anything. I’m just declaring this: I want to understand what happens when I reclaim some of that imaginative energy. When I give myself permission to explore vision without expectation. To chase questions, not answers.

And here’s the one I’m starting with: What goals would you set if you placed zero constraints on yourself? No spreadsheets. No risk:benefit ratio anaylsis. Just imagination.

What future would you envision for yourself? What would it take to get there? What’s standing in your way right now?