Every Year I Start With Nothing

Why a week of silence beats resolutions every time

photo by author

For decades, I haven’t started my new year with goals, resolutions, or a hangover. I’ve taken a week of silence.

After the 9 pm New Year’s Eve fireworks ( I love the kids’ version), I fall asleep and wake up to do whatever I want, except speak out loud.

The quiet New Year’s Day. People sleeping in, kids on the streets, still thrilled with their Christmas toys. Shops shut. A few enthusiastic joggers getting in their steps.

I enjoy it, but I breathe a sigh of relief that for the next few days, I don’t need to interact. Don’t need to engage, respond, listen, or connect with speech.

I’m alone, but connected fully back to myself in a way I rarely feel.

Silence can seem terrifying

You may have had a different experience of silence.

The confronting one, when you’re with other people.

You tell a joke, and no one laughs. You open up about something vulnerable, and the room falls quiet. You’re with new people, and no one knows where to start.

Silence, surrounded by other people, seems odd, because you expect conversation.

Or, alone, silence on the outside can make you restless inside.

The jumble of thoughts in your head sounds louder, and you want to run. To a screen, a friend, a game. Anything to distract your mind.

So why would you intentionally choose silence?

I get it. The first time I tried being in silence, I thought I wouldn’t last a day. What would I do to fill the time? What would come up inside? Wouldn’t I get bored?

But after seven days, I wished it would go on longer.

When I asked around at the retreat, I discovered that those of us who love to talk enjoy silence the most.

What happens when I stop talking

I now take this new year time to be silent alone. I let family and friends know, and turn my phone off. I fill the fridge and clear the calendar.

In the first couple of days, I feel the familiar inclination to achieve something start to drip off me. No to-do list makes sense here. I don’t feel like moving any needle at the moment. I’m ready to settle in. To see what happens.

As I go about my day, I feel myself both relaxing and becoming more awake.

I feel my breath slowing. I notice my appetite building. There’s more ease in my body. Yet I’m aware of the same old little twinges here and there.

I also feel more acutely when my energy is draining. This signals time to sit, read a book, pick up a drawing pencil, or take a nap (rare for me).

I’m alert to these inner rhythms that I usually miss.

Being home alone, enjoying a quiet day without speaking to anyone, isn’t unusual for me. But this feels different.

This won’t be just a few hours, but a few days in a row. Free from interruptions. No phone. Or laptop. No digital distractions. No speech.

No interaction with anyone.

So I prepare to sink deeper into myself as the days go by.

It’s a physical feeling, this dropping deeper.

The silence gets louder

By day three, something shifts.

The noise inside has died right down. Not all at once, but gradually, like sediment settling in water.

I notice I’m not planning any more. Not mentally drafting emails or rehearsing conversations. The constant internal monologue - the one I didn’t even know was running - goes quieter.

What’s left is just... presence.

And instead of my vocal chords, my senses do the talking.

It surprises me how lively, melodious, and engaging my world is. I hear the sparrows chatter and flit around the ferns. I watch the sunlight travel across the succulents in the morning. I savour a delectable lunch and linger a while after.

Reading or listening to anything while I eat feels like sensory overload.

My body is telling me things I usually talk over. That I have what I need. That all is well. That slowing down feeds me.

I know I can return to this quiet place whenever I need to, because it’s inside me. It’s my true home.

Like a ripple fanning out on a pond, I’m connected and yet quiet. I’m flowing, but also still.

I’m tiny, and also vast.

What the silence teaches me

On day four, I realise I’ve been rushing through conversations, sometimes half-listening while planning what I need to do next. The silence shows me how much I miss when I’m not fully present.

On day five, I notice which thoughts keep recurring. Not the urgent ones about work or obligations, but deeper questions: What feels meaningful? How do I want to spend my time? Who lifts me up, and who drains me?

On day six, I understand something about my creative work. The best ideas don’t come from forcing or hustling. They come from this - from spaciousness, from allowing, from trusting the quiet.

These aren’t the kind of insights you get from a goal-setting workshop or a productivity app. They’re quieter than that. More foundational.

A kind of knowingness that lingers, rather than flashes by.

That’s stationed in a deep, quiet place inside me that doesn’t want to be ignored.

Re-entry to speech

After a week, I’m ready to lose my hermit mode. I’m looking forward to the first conversation, even if it’s in the supermarket line. And reconnecting with friends and family and chatting about what they’re all up to. I want to communicate again.

What’ll be different now is that I’ll notice more the silence between sentences. And I’ll value the time between conversations. I’ll relish the gaps in my everyday when I can hear what the steady quietness inside and my senses want to tell me.

The week didn't give me a five-year plan or a list of resolutions. It gave me something better - a recalibration. A return to what matters.

I know the regular practice of silence isn’t for everyone. Demands of work, or toddlers, or psychic wounds interfere. Any of these could make the whole idea unattractive or practically impossible.

But I share my experience as a counterattack to what our digital culture commands. To goal-setting and optimization. To pushing through. To constant noise and connection.

Take silence in whatever form is possible for you. A quiet evening alone with a book, a silent Saturday run without earbuds, a digital-detox weekend. Intentional silence may be the soothing balm your heart and mind long for.

For me, it’s a way to begin the year by listening instead of declaring.

The practice of subtraction rather than addition.

The wisdom of quiet and openness as a starting place.

This morning, for me, that beginning was watching the moon set over the water, the subtle mix of salmon and pale grey colours, and not a soul in sight.

P.S. I’m opening up my Women’s Writing Circle again next week. If you’re looking for clarity, confidence, and connection to start the year, and are ready to think out loud with a small group of fellow female writers, reply to this email.

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