by Erika Matic, suspiciously hydrated and emotionally stable (for now)
I’ve never been good at New Year’s resolutions.
They feel too optimistic. Too American. Too “this year I’ll wake up at 5 a.m. and reinvent myself before breakfast.”
And yet, every year, without consent or ceremony, I end up having them.
Quiet ones. Unspoken ones. The kind that forms somewhere between exhaustion and mild despair. The kind that sound less like goals and more like ultimatums.
This year’s resolution was simple:
I cannot continue like this.
Which, historically, has been my most effective motivator.
Because 2025 didn’t arrive gently. It arrived with scars. With consequences. With a mirror held uncomfortably close to my face, asking questions I could no longer deflect with sarcasm or wine.
I wanted to be the best mother my daughter could possibly need.
The best wife for my husband.
A good daughter. A good sister.
But above all (and this part took me 30+ years to understand) I wanted to be the best version of myself.
Because if not now, then when?
At menopause?
During a recession?
In the middle of another existential crisis?
No.
Now.
So I did something radical.
I started taking myself seriously.
Which is rude, because I was very comfortable being self-deprecating.
Health, But Make It Humbling
Let’s start with the obvious glow-up.
I put my health in focus.
Not in a “green juice cures trauma” way, but in a “showing up daily, even when I didn’t feel like it” way.
I trained every day.
I quit alcohol.
I lost 25 kilograms.
And I don’t say that lightly. Or proudly. Or as an inspirational Instagram caption.
I say it with the quiet disbelief of someone who didn’t think this was possible.
For years, my thyroid was the main character in my story. The villain. The excuse. The explanation I clung to because it softened the shame.
And then (horrifyingly) I proved myself wrong.
It turns out I wasn’t fat because of my health problems.
I was fat because I was overeating, under-moving, binge drinking, and emotionally negotiating with food like it was a toxic ex who promised comfort but delivered regret.
That realisation hurt more than any diagnosis.
But it also freed me.
Because if I caused it, I could change it.
And I did.
I’ve never felt better in my body. Stronger. Clearer. Quieter in my head.
My thyroid is still annoying.
But it’s no longer the only bad thing that ever happened to me.
Growth is rude like that.
Sobriety: The Plot Twist Nobody Expected
Quitting alcohol wasn’t dramatic.
No rock bottom. No intervention. No cinematic moment where I cried on the kitchen floor clutching a bottle.
It was worse.
It was boring clarity.
It was noticing how much of my life revolved around numbing.
How wine was my reward, my coping mechanism, my personality accessory.
How everything felt louder without it.
And how much better everything felt after the noise settled.
I don’t miss it.
I don’t miss the bloating, the anxiety, the “what did I say?” mornings.
I don’t miss outsourcing my emotions to a liquid.
And no – I’m not judging anyone who drinks.
I’m judging myself.
Which is my favourite Balkan sport.
Writing, Reclaimed
I started writing again.
Properly.
Not for algorithms. Not for clients. Not for productivity.
For joy.
For years, writing was work. Content. Output. A skill I monetised until it lost its magic.
This year, I took it back.
I started my own blog. I wrote for myself. I let my thoughts be messy, emotional, sarcastic, unmarketable.
And I remembered why I fell in love with words in the first place.
Because writing is how I make sense of the world.
How I survive it.
How I say, “This hurt, but I’m still here.”
Reading: My Quiet Rebellion
I returned to my first love: reading.
The kind of love that doesn’t ask for attention. Just time.
This was my second year attempting the absurd goal of reading 100 books.
Last year, I made it to 83 – a respectable failure if I say so myself.
This year?
I read 100 books in 2025.
One hundred.
And I’m proud of that in a way that feels oddly intimate.
Because reading isn’t impressive. It doesn’t show. It doesn’t announce itself.
It’s choosing depth over distraction. Silence over noise. Inner worlds over external validation.
It’s proof that when forced to choose between a good film and a good book – I will always choose the book.
And honestly?
That feels like knowing who you are.
The Unexpected Part: Pride
Here’s the thing no one prepares you for: Being proud of yourself feels… uncomfortable.
Especially as a Balkan woman.
We survive. We endure. We joke. We minimise.
But we do not celebrate ourselves.
This year, I reached a point where I could say: I’m proud of everything I accomplished.
Not arrogantly. Not loudly.
But firmly.
I changed my life.
I showed up.
I did the work.
I stayed.
And no – my life isn’t perfect.
I’m still tired. Still dissatisfied. Still deeply annoyed by bureaucracy and inflation and people who chew loudly.
But I’m no longer disconnected from myself.
And that’s everything.
The Version of Me I’m Leaving Behind
There is a version of me that won’t make it into 2026.
She’s not evil. She did her best with what she knew at the time.
She soothed herself with food instead of boundaries.
She drank to quiet the noise instead of asking why it was so loud.
She postponed her life with a constant, hopeful “tomorrow.”
She believed exhaustion was a personality trait.
She confused survival with living.
I don’t hate her.
I’m grateful to her.
She carried me through years I didn’t yet have the tools to understand. She protected me in the only ways she knew how.
But I don’t need her anymore.
Now, I choose discipline over chaos – not because it’s aesthetic, but because it’s kind.
I choose movement because my body deserves respect, not punishment.
I choose sobriety because presence is better than escape.
I choose books because depth beats distraction.
I choose writing because silence was never my strength.
I choose myself because my daughter is watching.
And because I finally understand this: Becoming a better version of yourself isn’t about fixing what’s broken. It’s about stopping the slow abandonment of who you are.
This year, I came home to myself.
Quietly.
Stubbornly.
For good.
The Soft Ending (You Knew It Was Coming)
This year changed me. Not because everything went right – but because I did.
I chose myself.
Over excuses. Over habits. Over the version of me that was surviving instead of living.
And I don’t know what next year will bring.
But I do know this:
I trust myself now.
And that might be the biggest accomplishment of all.
Erika Matic writes about change, discipline, motherhood, sobriety, books, bodies, and the quiet revolution of finally taking yourself seriously. She is proud of herself (which still feels strange) but she’s learning to sit with it.
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