December 31st, New Year’s Eve, has rarely held much charm for me. The holiday feels drenched in sentimentality, forced cheer, and an overbearing expectation to reinvent oneself overnight. Years ago, I quietly stepped away from the revelry, trading the clinking of champagne glasses for moments of introspection. But it wasn’t always this way.

In my early thirties, I poured my energy into organizing rambunctious New Year’s celebrations with my university friends, and a few trusted work colleagues. These weren’t ordinary parties; they were full-blown, three-night events, held in ancient locations—castles in Northumberland, estates in the Lake District, or lodges in Snowdonia.

Planning began months in advance. We’d estimate guest numbers, scout properties, draft menus, and prepare endless shopping lists. My friend Vivienne and I spent weeks curating every detail—maps to the venue, suggested activities, which ranged from rock climbing to pub crawls, from shopping to board games, and even a schedule for who’d take turns cooking meals, washing dishes or restocking the booze. Everyone pitched in—and those who didn’t weren’t invited back, except for Nigel and Rosie, because we loved them anyway. 

The guest list was as colorful as the events themselves: a Scottish laird, a supermarket heiress, police officers, geologists, a Hercules Loadmaster, an Australian Homeopath, and enough PhDs to launch a think tank. That first year, we hosted 40 people. By the time I attended my last event, the crowd had grown to over 70.

Eventually, I passed the torch to others, especially after I moved continents. Yet, decades later, those New Year’s gatherings still persist, now infused with the energy of attendees’ children, and the nostalgia of enduring friendships. For many years, my holiday ritual involved crossing the Atlantic—first to visit family for Christmas, then to join these gatherings, where we’d reminisce over old stories and create new ones-especially answering the question “why did Andy always have a black eye?” 

But somewhere along the way, I began to feel restless. The same stories, the same faces, the same patterns—what once felt comforting, now seemed like a closed time loop, that I couldn’t escape. As I built a life, and family in North America, I realized it was time to step away, and embrace new traditions, ones that allowed for evolution and personal growth. 

It’s funny—I hadn’t planned to write about this today. I rarely share personal stories like this, and maybe that’s something I’ll change in the coming year.

To everyone I love, near and far: Happy New Year. May 2025 bring you peace, fulfillment, and a wondrously, meaningful life.