I can’t believe we’re already coming to the end of January; a whole month of 2024 soon under our belts. It feels like time is now out of control, a bull rampaging in a china shop, and I’m just a helpless mouse clinging on to its tail, fervently praying that I won’t be smashed against a particularly hardy or expensive vase.

2024 has so far not been gentle with me or those I care about. Quite a number of people close to me are dealing with stress and disappointment, drama and trauma of various shapes and sizes; it’s only the beginning of the year but the emotional rollercoaster has already begun.

Towards the end of last year I consciously set about reducing my overall workload and commitments, in the hopes of cutting down on externally inflicted stressors. I was determined to change the way I live, to prioritise my family more and create pockets of time for leisure and fun. I wanted to wean myself off relentless workaholism and an inability to say “no” to (perceived) obligations. I wanted to tell myself that I deserve to have this fun, to “waste time”, to fritter hours away on things that serve no purpose other than the very important purpose of giving me joy.

I’ve achieved that to some extent, but have, extremely predictability, introduced a new anxiety into my life: the worry that I am now doing too little, that my desire for rest and relaxation is going to make me irrelevant, that perhaps I am overpaid, over-valued and over-indulgent. That I theoretically know I’m none of these things does not make the notion go away.

As I said, this is all extremely predictable. I’m used to living life with a baseline anxiety, and am quick to embrace the thought that I’m falling short somehow and need to be better, much better, than I am. I didn’t expect a few therapy sessions to miraculously cure me of these habitual thought patterns, and, in any case, I’ve since decided to quit therapy, or at least drastically cut down, on going to therapy, because, like almost everything else in 2024, the cost has gone up. (Otherwise I’d be going to therapy with extra anxiety over how much I’m spending on therapy.)

Still, the few sessions I got to go for last year did give me some clarity, and some pointers and observations that I’m trying to use as a compass to guide my decisions on how I want to move forward into this year that looks poised to show no mercy. If I can’t really go to therapy anymore, I can at least take what I’ve already learnt about myself and try to find my way.

As I landed in Singapore after a glorious, restful, healing month in Scotland, I decided to focus on the little things. There is a Korean phrase, 소확행 sohwakhaeng, that translates to “small but certain happiness”. It’s not about big victories or ecstatic triumphs, but little moments that might not mean very much in the grand scheme of things, yet provide moments of contentment and joy. I find it comforting because it not only sounds good, but also feels achievable.

I bought a new rice cooker, one that makes more sense for someone living alone, and that I actually know how to use. I looked up a bunch of one-pot rice cooker recipes on Instagram. I stocked my fridge, and now I’m prepping meals at home much more than I used to do. They aren’t always successful—today’s leftovers tasted pretty bizarre, to be honest, and the rice was goopy because I’d added too much water—but I still get a sense of accomplishment from doing this instead of my usual fall-back of Deliveroo and take-out. Shockingly, I do the dishes almost on the spot, rather than letting them pile up forever, and I feel encouraged by this long overdue progress. Something that last year felt “too much”, that I couldn’t seem to drum up enough energy and motivation to do, has become doable.

I space out my work, so that I do something every day but don’t spend the entire day slogging over it. This way, I can have a decent amount of time at the end of the day to read novels or web toons or play games or listen to audio dramas. (This also helps with revenge bedtime procrastination.) I use the Gentle Streak app to keep track of my fitness and exercise, and feel good when it tells me I’m doing enough and can build things up gradually. I put on weight over the Christmas holidays—who wouldn’t, really, when there is so much pudding to be had—but I don’t worry about it and tell myself there’s time to work out when I can. I tidied up my Spotify playlists today, and resolved to get better acquainted with some of the songs I’ve saved but neglected because I keep defaulting to the same favourites. I also tell myself that there’s nothing wrong with having favourites, because those songs are bangers.

(What did I tell you? Banger.)

Of course, I have no idea how long this will last. I have to a tendency to get into phases that I think will change my life, only to gradually end up adrift. Maybe I’ll eventually give up on one-pot recipes and start spending money on take-out again. Maybe the dishes will start to pile up, as will the amount of work I take on. Maybe I will once again end up flailing and floundering in a mess my anxieties and insecurities make.

I know myself well enough at this point that I know not to expect to keep it all up forever. I have to make peace with the fact that something is going to slip, that I will find new (and not necessarily as constructive) things to fixate on, and life will get messy and overwhelming again. But maybe some things will stick, and maybe there will be a little bit more progress. A few more small but certain happinesses.

I think that’s good enough for now.