Instead of bringing in a new year with a list of “everything we want to do right this time” maybe we should begin the year with a breath, or better yet, that space between breaths—the pause between the inhale and the exhale. The exhale will come, naturally, silently (without trumpets, gym memberships or lists) and the next inhale will begin. Life, precious human life, will continue.

 

By Kellie Schorr

There are many popular songs that we use to bring in the new year.

Auld Lang Syne is the traditional choice—a song of memories, loss and having a drink in the pub at midnight. For those folks who prefer to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea when the year passes, there’s Same Auld Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg. With that one we remember past lovers, regrets and how young we used to be while we rinse out our cup and head to bed.

Other popular songs for the calendar flip are – 

  • “New York, New York” – Frank Sinatra. Played endlessly as the ball drops, it’s loud and brassy, determined to dominate this new year with sheer bravado. 
  • “It’s Just Another New Year’s Eve” – Barry Manilow. A reflective upgrade on Auld Lang Syne, it’s the anthem for the quietly melancholy.  
  • “Happy New Year” – ABBA. Nothing says New Year like a group of Swedish people asking “What now?”
    “Celebration” – Kool & the Gang. This is for those awful extroverts at the party who insist you feel happy, no matter what the circumstance.
  • “1999” – Prince. Although it’s been 25 years since we bridged that gap between centuries, this song still reminds us to dance because the world might end (Prince knew things).

No matter whether you lean toward swoony, moony, or full-energy blast, this last song will bring us into a new year.  Judging from the past year, though, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t sing something different. Let’s face it, the hyperchaotic, blue-mood shit show that was 2025 was once a New Year too.

Maybe this year we should try something new, or actually, something old.  I propose the song we should sing this midnight is….

“Silent Night.”

Wait, wait, before you slam the door and stomp off to the bar, hear me out. Silent Night may give off a, “Take down the tree, put your leftover bows in a plastic box for next year” vibe but there’s something deeply profound, and seasonless when you sing it. 

Silent Night is not about beginnings or endings or promises or productivity. It doesn’t announce anything. It doesn’t resolve anything. It simply rests inside a moment that is already holy. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s triumphant. But because it is present.

“Silent night, holy night.”

Not loud night.
 Not victorious night.
 Not optimized night.
Holy night.

Holy because it is quiet enough to notice what’s already here. Holy because it doesn’t require a “New Year, New Me” approach but offers the solid affirmation that who you are is who you are and you’re enough. Changes, inspirations, aspirations, are going to happen. But not overnight. For one night it’s better to be authentically yourself and ring in the year with your own worth and sacredness.

I know it may feel a little subversive to suggest a Christian hymn as a waypoint on a Buddhist blog. But beyond the narrative, which each of us is free to interpret or set aside, there is a simple clarity here: the night itself, and the ground beneath us, carry the sacredness of human life.

Instead of bringing in a new year with a list of “everything we want to do right this time” maybe we should begin the year with a breath, or better yet, that space between breaths—the pause between the inhale and the exhale. The exhale will come, naturally, silently (without trumpets, gym memberships or lists) and the next inhale will begin.

Life, precious human life, will continue.

If you’ve got your party planned and your black-eyes peas ready, there’s nothing that says you can’t party the house down.  But in your heart, where that feeling of, “I should be…better, fitter, more responsible, in love, leaving, staying, adventuring, etc.” is pushing you in directions that feel more like burden than blossoming, give yourself the permission to have a silent night. 

So maybe, just maybe…

This year we do not sing to be louder than the past or braver than the future. Maybe we do not try to outrun who we were twelve months ago or audition a shinier self for the year ahead. Maybe we let the year turn without commentary. No vows shouted into the dark. No reinvention demanded at midnight. Just presence.

A silent night does not mean an empty one.

It means a night spacious enough to hold grief and gratitude, fatigue and hope, without forcing them to perform. It means trusting that whatever needs to change will change in its own time, and whatever needs tending will make itself known once the noise settles. The year does not need our declarations to arrive. It will come anyway, faithful and unbothered.

So if, when the clock turns, you find yourself quiet instead of celebratory, reflective instead of resolved, you are not behind. You are exactly where the year can meet you. Let the old song play softly. Let the night be holy.

Let yourself be enough to begin.

 

Do you enjoy Kellie’s writing? Check out here book: A Space Between Breaths.

 

Photo: Pixabay

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

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