New year’s resolutions must reduce stress, not pile it on - so accept the ups and downs along the way

The Chinese Garden almost ruined me. The Jurong East landmark went from being a source of serenity to a psychological obsession. It started with a couple of sweaty ang mohs, a pile of even sweatier cheese sandwiches and some new year’s resolutions.

In 1996, my travelling partner Scott and I were going to conquer the world. Two working-class lads from England had somehow ended up in Singapore, looking for jobs, fame and fortune. We had just found the first one – a job – and went to the Chinese Garden to celebrate because the place felt cultural. More importantly, it was free.

We spent so much time alone in a pagoda that the gardeners began to worry. What could a couple of decadent western men in sweaty vests possibly be doing in a remote location?

We were changing the world, obviously. Looking out from the pagoda and channelling Martin Luther King, I improvised a Singapore Dream speech on my 22nd birthday and listed my goals to a lone gardener down below. He probably assumed the ang moh was pissed.

I asked for a job, a home and enough money to explore Asia. I achieved the first two and went to Bintan.

All right, the goals were modest, but I wasn’t the Sultan of Brunei.

I was superstitious though. The Chinese Garden had made it happen. For several years, there was an annual pilgrimage to Jurong East. Same location. Same pagoda. Same sweaty cheese sandwiches. Just different new year’s resolutions. Most of them were achieved. Even the publication of my first book was announced at the pagoda, to the bemusement of the sweeping gardener, who had long since reached the conclusion that I was a halfwit.

And then, as always, life got in the way. Around the mid-2000s, the December day trip to Chinese Garden was missed. The following year did not pan out as planned. Anxiety took hold. Clearly, it wasn’t the birth of social media platforms that triggered a downturn in the readership of physical media. It was a missed visit to Chinese Garden.

Resolutions must reduce stress, not add to it

Looking back, the fixation with making new year’s resolutions at the same superstitious venue can either be viewed as quaint and harmless or stressful and harmful, depending on your perspective or the research you read. There’s not even a consensus on the effectiveness of new year’s resolutions.

In the United States, there’s evidence to show that just 9 per cent of Americans complete their resolutions and 23 per cent quit by the end of the first week. A 2022 BBC report is more optimistic, citing a YouGov survey, where 35 per cent of people stuck to their annual goals and 50 per cent achieved some of them. A definitive number is always difficult with such a personal, subjective issue. How goals are defined and accomplished is determined by the individual, for the most part.

When I stood on that pagoda, doing my Martin Luther Humphreys, I resolved to be a “success” in 1997. By the end of 1997, I was sharing a three-room flat in Toa Payoh with my girlfriend, two Filipino nurses and a sweary landlady who flashed her breasts at me. I considered that to be a success. Others might disagree.

But we persevere with the annual tradition anyway. According to that YouGov survey, at least a quarter of us will come up with new year’s resolutions in the coming days, which underlines the appeal of a fresh slate. Who doesn’t like the idea of a makeover?

That said, the negatives can’t outweigh the positives. A new year’s resolution must reduce stress, not add to it, which is a fine line to walk from 1 January. Set a goal and feel good. Fail to meet the goal and feel bad. It’s not the despair that kills, but the hope being just out of reach. You don’t need a degree in psychology to know that. Forty years of following West Ham United will do.

Set achievable goals, feel free to improvise

Living in the digital era doesn’t help. Our daily setbacks are right there, on our phones, watches and apps, measuring every bloody heartbeat. We’re addicted to data, leaving us with a results-driven compulsiveness to track and monitor everything. Last week, a dear friend opened an app to show me graphs revealing his weight fluctuations, exercise patterns, BMI changes, resting heart rates and stool movements.

I may be speculating on the latter categories as I’d drifted off after the weekly BMI graphs. Still, subjecting one’s self-esteem to such rigorous physical pressures is relentless. And we don’t really stop there. We’re encouraged to post this fitness data online, perhaps in search of validation to stay motivated, but it’s a risky endeavour.

Social media has already created a tense climate of constant judgment and the need for self-improvement in public, often to the amusement of others. Why add to it with regular new year’s resolution updates? Sod that. I don’t cycle for social media likes. I cycle for my physical and mental wellbeing and, if I’m lucky, for the chance to spot a couple of mating macaques at Coney Island.

And my goals are realistic. When I surveyed the manicured greenery of Jurong East, I resolved to write my first book, not play for West Ham United. In Singapore, the struggle to keep up with personal goals in school, or the workplace or even at home are stressful enough. Why add to the anxiety on 1 January?

Go easy on yourself. Set achievable, flexible goals and feel free to improvise. Ten years ago, I resolved to run a marathon. Nine and a half years ago, my dodgy hamstring convinced me to run a half marathon. During the half marathon, a groin strain persuaded me to forget personal best times and just stagger over the finish line. Five kilometres from the finish line, I resolved not to scream in public after rubbing too much Deep Heat on my groin strain.

The journey is not a linear process and that’s fine. Accept the ups and downs along the way. Learn from the setbacks. They all offer enlightenment. For instance, I now realise that my annual ambitions are not determined by Chinese Garden. And I no longer apply Deep Heat to groin strains.

Happy New Year!

Neil Humphreys is an award-winning football writer and a best-selling author, who has covered the English Premier League since 2000 and has written 28 books.

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