I opened my 2025 planner last night after our Parish Christmas party as a way to assess the year that is about to close. What is rather observable, as I ran my fingers over its pages, is that my planner is still crisp, almost fresh, and seemingly untouched. Each page felt like a promise I once whispered to myself at the start of the year, filled with hope, a touch of determination, and perhaps a pinch of naïve optimism, quite like a modest personal plan in the “Year of Hope.” I remembered the very first page, where I had written resolutions in careful, deliberate script: wake up early, pray some more, read a lot, minimize use of cellphone, eat healthier, exercise consistently, be a better listener, be more patient with people, be humble before others. I smiled at the memory, a quiet mixture of pride and humility, for most of those resolutions had been quietly ignored by both time and circumstance. As it turned out, my planner now is the kind that whispers, “Nice try, Eugene. Nice try.” And yet, somehow, I consoled myself that life may have written a story far richer than any planner could contain.
I know I am not alone in this, am I not? We all carry our hopes for change, those carefully penned resolutions that promise a “better version” of ourselves. We start the year with determination sparkling in our eyes, imagining ourselves rising early, praying more faithfully, exercising diligently, or at last picking up a hobby we have always dreamed of. But all too often, the weight of our own expectations presses down so heavily that the spirit bends, and sometimes even breaks, before the month is over. I must confess that my New Year’s resolutions start with big dreams, but often they end with even bigger excuses. At times, I could even catch myself having inner commentaries: “Ayan ka na naman, Eugene. Parang binobola mo lang ang sarili mo.” But then again, the promises we make with such sincerity can turn into chains, reminding us constantly of what we have not done, rather than celebrating the small victories we actually achieve.
It is a quiet kind of sorrow, isn’t it? To sit with a calendar, a planner, or even your own reflection, and realize that life refuses to follow the neat little boxes we so carefully imagine. We draw our lines, color our days with intention, and plot our steps as if life were a spreadsheet waiting to be completed. Yet hours slip away with their own rhythm, the people we love surprise us with joy or sorrow, and unexpected events arrive without warning, rewriting the story we thought we were telling. There is a gentle grief in recognizing that our best-laid plans, our resolutions, our hopes for the “better version” of ourselves, cannot fully contain the unfolding of life.
One such unfolding is frustration. It can show up in the smallest ways. In my personal life as a priest, prayer can also be frustrating from time to time. Frustration in prayer often creeps in when it feels mechanical, when the words tumble out by habit rather than heart, and the rituals seem dry, lifeless, like going through the motions on autopilot. Sometimes, it feels as if the prayers are flowing outward but never reaching inward, leaving a sense of emptiness that can be discouraging. Likewise, frustration can also be found in parish life here in Napsan. It comes from the unpredictable, messy realities of working with a community. A simple event can turn into a whirlwind of missed deadlines, forgotten tasks, and last-minute changes that test even the calmest of hearts. I recall planning a small feast day celebration: the volunteers arrived late, the decorations were misplaced, and the sound system refused to cooperate. I could feel my patience thinning, and for a moment, I questioned whether it was worth the effort.
Beneath outward circumstances, though, I would dare ask myself: What have I become as a person after a series of frustrations? The truth is, they shape me in ways that calendars, resolutions, and plans never could. Each irritation, each misstep, each moment when patience is tested becomes an opportunity to practice humility, resilience, and compassion. Frustrations, when met with openness and reflection, do not break us. They refine us, slowly revealing the “new you” that is patient, forgiving, and quietly steadfast.
Still, it does no harm to keep trying. In fact, there is quiet courage in returning to what did not work the first time. Even when efforts fall short, when prayers feel dry, plans unravel, or frustrations repeat themselves, the simple act of trying again keeps the heart soft and hopeful. After all, our God does not measure our lives by our success rate, but by our willingness to show up, once more, with humility and trust. Each attempt, however imperfect, becomes a small offering, a sign that we have not closed ourselves off to grace. And sometimes, it is in the trying itself, not in the outcome, that growth quietly takes root. Each small effort, each honest attempt, keeps the heart open and willing. And perhaps that is what becoming a “new you” truly looks like, not a sudden transformation, but a steady, patient returning to what matters most.
So, how do we become this “new you” without falling into the trap of self-criticism or guilt? First, start small. Smile at the neighbor who ignores you. Nod your head to the person you meet. Offer patience when a food order or parcel delivery takes long. Take a moment to breathe deeply and thank God for blessings. These simple acts, repeated with intention, shape the soul far more than a rigid schedule. Second, forgive yourself. I know this is easier said than done. We carry our mistakes like heavy stones, and the new year often makes us want to discard them entirely. And the beautiful thing is, when we can forgive ourselves, we often find it easier to forgive others. Imagine a world where each of us carries less anger, less regret, and more compassion. That is a “new you” worth striving for. Third, nurture your spirit. We tend to think of health only in terms of the body, but the soul is hungry too. Pray, read, serve others, even in the smallest ways. These acts of love feed the soul and plant seeds of transformation that no resolution can match.
Last year, something happened that changed the way I think about “the new you,” courtesy of a parishioner named Nay Geling. She was in her seventies, cheerful, with laughter that bounced off the church walls. I asked her if she had any New Year’s resolutions. She thought for a moment, then said, “Father, my resolution is simple: to love more. Not to be perfect, but to love. Even when it is hard.” Here was a woman who had lived through hardships I could hardly imagine, the loss of loved ones, the struggle to raise children, the quiet ache of aging, but she focused not on fixing herself, not on erasing her imperfections, but on opening her heart. That day, I realized something profound: the “new you” is not about the numbers on a scale, the pages of a planner, or the tally of your achievements. The “new you” is about grace, about presence, about being fully alive in the little moments that matter.
Happy New Year. And remember, the happiest “new you” is not the one with the most achievements, the strictest discipline, or the brightest resolutions. The happiest “new you” is the one who embraces life with open arms.
Happy New You.
