I remember once taking a long walk just to see a place people kept talking about.

It was an uphill hike to the tip of the mountain, a stroll in a forest, roads that pass by small villages and narrow rivers, and lots and lots of potholed roads and gnarled pathways that’d cause a stumble here and there, but promised a sight that would take breaths away.

 It was a week-long walk. I wondered why I even started walking.

The path inclined more and more that it felt more like climbing than just walking. The kilometers just increased each day. And the roads just got longer and bumpier the further I went. My legs ached so much that at that point, I couldn’t feel them. I was nauseated, flabbergasted, and dreading every next day that came. The more we continued the camino, the more reason I wanted to go back the way I came from. There was no shortcut, just the road, stretching forward, asking me to continue.

That’s how the year feels so far.

Starting the year quietly and still carrying last year’s baggage is the very opposite of a powerful beginning. January started with loud expectations. Bold resolutions. New planners. “New Year, New Me”, thus the famous saying goes. Promises of becoming someone better overnight. A chance to start anew—the very day to have a whole reboot of life—as if turning a page was enough to fix everything we had been carrying.

But for some, January didn’t feel new.

It felt heavy. Unmotivated. The same.

No fiery motivations. Nor immediate clarity or discipline. Just the same recurring thoughts, the same unfinished goals, and the same sense of being a little lost. Then there is this underlying shame in watching other people’s lives move forward, with progress, and actually do something to become better versions of themselves, while I barely try.

While walking, I thought, “Is the view really worth suffering for?”

Some days, the answer felt like no. The promise of something beautiful ahead felt too distant to justify the pain I was in. I wasn’t walking because I was inspired anymore; I was walking because stopping felt heavier than continuing. And that, I realized, was a choice I will always choose to make.

The view, when I finally arrived, did not erase any of those that were difficult. It didn’t make the aching legs disappear or undo the days I wanted to quit. But it did show me where hope leads you when you choose it.

And choosing hope does not always mean starting strong. Not every start needs clarity. It could just be a step taken among a hundred more. It’s choosing to stay when quitting would be easier. It’s choosing to try again tomorrow, even if today felt wasted. It’s choosing to believe that being slow does not mean being stuck.

So, when the clock starts to tick in anticipation, the countdown from sixty begins. When time’s long hand moves the last roundabout, and that single minute winds up the year’s final moments. Where the spectacle of fireworks would mask the entire dark sky, and the concert of car honks and toy trumpets would swallow every trace of the silent night.

And in that moment of the new year’s first breath, though the world remains the same and nothing has yet to change, may hope be something we all choose. It is not a feeling that arrives suddenly, but a decision to keep walking, even when the view is still far away.