Hey there,

I hope the year has kicked off nicely for you.

January is almost over -- how have you been? Are you following any New Year’s resolutions?

If you've been reading my writings for some time, you might know I'm not the biggest fan of resolutions. The last time I ambitiously set them was in 2021. At the time, I wanted to practice yoga, meditate, and journal. Every day. I think I managed to reach a spectacular streak of 21 days. Then, I got so frustrated by the pressure I had exerted on myself that I quit my resolutions, all of them.

You might be able to relate. A recent ​​Forbes survey​​ found that only 6% of people who set resolutions actually stick to them for good. And yet, the survey participants set an average of three resolutions per year.

So, what's the problem here? Why are we so keen on setting resolutions but have a hard time keeping them?

I think the essential problem is this: We overestimate the potential of a day and underestimate the potential of a year. New Year's resolutions exploit this fallacy. In 2021, for instance, I wanted to exercise more, meditate more, write more, do more. But all these ambitions were based on the naive assumption that days are consistently long and predictable -- and that years are short and sweet.

Now, I don't know about you, but my reality looks different. For me, days rush by like hyperloop trains, and years drag on like chewing gum. Days are mildly messy. Years are utterly unpredictable. All this makes it enormously challenging to consistently stick to any resolutions, no matter how remarkable they might be. Worse, we might force ourselves to stick to these resolutions even though they no longer serve us as the year progresses.

What's needed, then, is an approach that provides enough wiggle room for the short, messy sprints we call days and also serves as a compass for the marathons we call years.

For me, the most fruitful practice has been to forget New Year's resolutions altogether. Instead, I declare one word/theme as the North Star of my year. In 2022, my word was "​discovery​." In 2023, it was "​direct​." This year, it will be "blossom." (I know, I know, it sounds like a series of fortune cookies, but the nice side effect of doing this for several years is that it tells a story of personal progress.) Contrary to New Year's resolutions, a theme isn't something that we must adhere to every single day. Rather, it gives us a soft nudge in the right direction. It's a guiding hand, not a clenched fist.

Whenever I face a choice throughout the year -- be it big or small -- I try to recall my theme and everything I associate with it. The resulting decision is quite effortless precisely because my theme is a cardinal point, not a complicated set of coordinates.

Of course, I don't always act according to my theme, but that's the whole point. Living by a theme is like taking a long hike: we don't need to get every step right. Heck, we can even take a couple of detours. What matters is that we walk in the right direction and catch the right turn at a few crossroads.

Ultimately, what I'm trying to get at goes deeper. I'm not just questioning the plausibility of goals and resolutions. I'm denying their existence.

A better type of resolution

My biggest problem with goals and resolutions is that, for years, they've pushed me between two overarching moods of being: incompletion and aimlessness.

Incompletion usually entails that I want to achieve something. This could be anything: a relationship, a published article, a material possession, you name it. As long as I'm in the state of incompletion, I feel, well, incomplete. It’s as if my life will only begin after I reach a certain goal. For instance, I recently worked on an essay for an ethics seminar I'm taking this semester. Throughout the entire working process, I had this weird itch that something was incomplete, that something was missing. It was only when I submitted the essay that this pesky feeling ceased. But then, of course, it wasn’t all sudden sunshine and rainbows. No, at that point, the second state entered –

Aimlessness. In this state, I achieved what I wanted to achieve (writing the essay), but I still don’t feel fulfilled. Quite the opposite: In the state of aimlessness, I feel predominately empty, apathetic, and almost existentially meaningless. Sure, I ticked off my goal. I wrote the essay. But this was precisely what propelled me forward, what kept me going. And so, ironically, when we achieve a goal that once motivated us, the motivation it used to provide can cease to exist.

Emptiness ensues.

And it's not just that -- before I know it, my mind creates new problems. The goalposts shift, I snap back into the mode of incompletion, and round and round it goes. From aimlessness to incompletion. And from incompletion to aimlessness.

I think few people expressed this predicament as accurately as the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. In his most famous (and hilariously depressing) book, The World as Will and Representation (1819), Schopenhauer ​writes​:

In other words, Schopenhauer argues that we either feel the pain of incompletion (i.e., we haven't yet achieved what we want), or the void of aimlessness (i.e., we got what we wanted but consequently lack meaningful objectives). "Life swings like a pendulum," Schopenhauer writes, "between pain and boredom." Happiness, for Schopenhauer, is an illusion, and seeing through this illusion will only leave us even more disappointed, thus multiplying our misery.

I find this hauntingly relatable. And yet, as long as I've been chained to this hellish pendulum, I think Schopenhauer must've gotten something wrong.

There must be a third option. Something beyond pain and boredom, incompleteness, and aimlessness. In other words, there must be a state that grants both the motivation of goals and the satisfaction of achievements. So, what might this third option look like? How can we get pain and boredom to lay down their arms and shake hands?

Here's my take: zoom out. Like, really, really far. Since incompleteness and aimlessness hinge on predefined goals that we reach or don't reach, we can decouple this dilemma by not working toward hyper-fixated goals in the first place.

I've seen some people call this perspective „the infinite game.“ An infinite game can be any activity in life (including life itself) with no winners, no losers, no boundaries, no ends. Infinite games are played to be continued -- that’s the whole point. And that’s what makes them endlessly fulfilling.

For instance, one infinite game we all play is called "relationships." Most generally, we don't enter relationships to take home a trophy. Relationships aren't a game of chess with a clear winner or loser. No, we enter the infinite game of relationships to keep playing it as long as possible. We play it for its own sake. And ideally, we enjoy it.

The problem is that life often entangles us in finite games. That is, we do treat most things like silly games we must win. We want to gain something and become shortsighted. That's why, sometimes, winning an argument seems more important than sustaining a relationship; or why we dwell on a failed exam rather than what we've learned; or why small moments of sadness can feel as if we're doing something wrong in life.

In all these cases, clinging to the finite game sabotages the infinite game. Focusing too hard on small details prevents us from seeing the big picture.

The point is that life -- when played as a finite game -- leads back to Schopenhauer's pendulum of incompletion and aimlessness. Each project, each day, each interaction becomes something we can either win or lose.

However, when we play life as an infinite game, it stops being a pendulum. Instead, it turns into a ladder. Each rung feels rewarding to climb and, at the same time, incentivizes the next step. When climbing this ladder, we can hardly feel incomplete because all the rungs are interconnected. And we can hardly feel aimless because the next rung is always right in front of us. The climb is rewarding for its own sake.

The beauty of this metaphorical ladder is that we can climb it pretty much regardless of what we do. What matters is how we perceive what we do. It's a matter of perspective.

There are certain piano songs I must've played over a hundred times. To some people, this might seem boring, aimless, or insignificant. But each of these playthroughs added a little depth to how I perceive these songs and the piano. Similarly, I brew countless cups of tea and coffee each day. Of course, I could see this as a means to an end to pump caffeine into my system. (Which admittedly, does happen sometimes.) But much rather, I like to observe how each cup deepens my understanding of these beverages -- and how they can enrich everything else I taste.

All these iterations -- as small as they might seem -- are rungs on a bigger ladder. The frame of mind that makes the difference is that I'm part of this ladder (and not swinging on an aimless pendulum). Each step on the ladder makes the next one more fulfilling and reaffirms the last one.

At this point, of course, new questions arise. Specifically, two questions have plagued me for the past few years:

1. Which ladder is the best to climb? (That is, which life projects deserve my attention?)
2. What's the point of climbing the ladder? (That is, why pursue any project when there's nothing to gain?)

My conclusion -- as frustrating as it may sound -- is that these are wrong questions entirely. The point of it all is not that the ladder leads somewhere (that's finite thinking). The point is to stay on the ladder. It's the climb itself that harbors rewards, not what might wait at the top.

This is not to say that it doesn't matter which projects we invest our time in. Of course it matters: How we spend our days is how we spend our lives. But I think that finding the "right ladder" (if there even is such a thing) happens quite automatically once we actively choose to climb the ladder, once we shift to play the infinite game.

The aimlessness that followed my essay submission ceased once I realized that I didn't write it to get a good grade. No, I wrote it -- as cringey as it sounds -- to climb the ladder of philosophy, the ladder of writing, the ladder of life. Thus, this activity became a rung in a bigger set of ladders, neatly setting up the next step.

Perhaps all this was a long-winded way of saying that the best type of New Year's resolution -- and any goal, really -- is not a sealed-off match that needs to be won. The best type of New Year's resolution is part of a never-ending ladder without winners, without boundaries.

It's not about going somewhere or leaving something behind. What matters is the climb.

Until next time,

Stephan

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