Hello, dear self. I wrap you in love and longing during these first few days of the eagerly awaited new year. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been restless, waiting to meet you again. Tell me, how did the last night of the year feel… that instant when farewell and glitter collided? I hope you had enough time to whisper all the wishes dwelling quietly in your mind.
I like to imagine the year’s final night as a fairy-tale doorway; it opens without a creak, letting a gentle light slip through. Long ago, tales spoke of a god with two faces—one looking at the past, the other into the future. Yet he could neither erase what had been nor pull forth what was yet to come. His only power was to behold both times at once and to wait. People called him the “Lord of Beginnings,” yet in truth, he was merely the silent guardian of the in-between. No one dared whisper his name aloud, for the whisper itself was the beginning. Later, it was revealed that this guardian’s name was Janus—the god of beginnings, transitions, doors, and time. And still, we have mistaken him all along for the new year itself.
Every year, a star rises in the sky, brighter and older than any other. Its light creates a brilliance that is unmatched, boundless. It guides no one, makes no promises; it simply shines, whispering softly, “The cycle is complete. Now, the new is possible.” That star is Sirius. Yet we, ever dreaming, have called its glow the sparkle of our wishes.
And I can almost hear you asking, “So, what did you wish for?” Keep reading, dear self; perhaps you will hear the wish I whispered into the night sky.
The Psychology of Forgiveness at the New Year
As the new year approaches, our minds play a curious trick on us. Psychologists call it the fresh start effect. Symbolic beginnings open a brief yet potent window for change. Yet, almost immediately, the brain’s negativity bias steps in: we remember the sorrows and missteps of the past year more vividly than its joys. Hope and excitement rise together, but our inner voice sometimes casts a shadow.
The last days of the year reveal another truth: emotional contagion. The thrill of a crowd, the pure joy on faces, streets draped in vivid lights and decorations—these lift individual hope, bolster self-belief, and soften the sting of loneliness. Yet science whispers the deeper secret: lasting change does not come from motivation alone; it is nurtured by self-compassion, identity, and meaning. When we see ourselves as projects to fix, we slowly burn out; when we see ourselves as forgivable beings, transformation begins.
And here, hope turns. Forgiving yourself is not forgetting; it is overturning the verdict of your inner court. It is not rejecting the past, but understanding it anew—seeing it through a different window.
The Glittering Last Night of Farewell and Beginning
And there it was—the dazzling, vertiginous final night… As midnight nears, excitement swells. Some hurl their wishes to the sky with shouts, some whisper them softly, and some repeat them silently, only to themselves. In that final breath of the year, I look both backward and forward, like Janus with his two faces. On one side lie burdens, mistakes, and broken promises; on the other, the pages of a book yet unwritten.
Amid the hum of wishes soaring into the night, Sirius pierces the darkness with its brightest glow. Its light is silent, steadfast, simply there.
But this time, I did not leave my wish in the sky. I plucked it immediately and placed it on the first page of my new book. I learned that if you want a new beginning, if you want to write your own story, you must first wish for yourself. You must first forgive yourself—as you are, just as you are.
Do you remember how our elders told fairy tales? They would say: happy endings are new beginnings. Yes, not every new year ends joyfully. Yet we know that every ending—joyful or sorrowful—opens the door to a new beginning.
At that moment, we join the countdown so that light may enter, so that our wishes may reach the heavens. Perhaps this is why the truest wish is not the brightest, but the most heartfelt. Like in the story… The hero does not win because he draws his sword; he wins because he lowers his armor and accepts his wound.
The Wish Left at the Threshold of 2026
This is the wish I left at the threshold of 2026. Sometimes, to begin anew, we do not need to be strong; we only need to be brave—and forgiving.
I wish for my own forgiveness—for every time I could not accept myself, for every moment I hurt or lost myself. The verdict has been passed: the inner court has granted the writer’s petition for self-forgiveness. The wish is no longer trapped in the sky; it is free.