Entering the New Year without needing to be fixed

Viktoriia Kantseva

For as long as I can remember, I have been running. Running to grow up faster. Running to achieve more. Running to survive whatever life decided to throw next. I grew up in a place where standing still was never an option. You had to move, to adapt, to push forward, because if you didn’t, something would break. And often, it did. Covid. War. Loss. Entire lives collapsing overnight.

Even my own body failed me once. Years ago, I went through a serious operation and lost an important organ. Breathing became something I had to relearn. And yet, even then, my instinct wasn’t to rest — it was to get back up and keep going. As if stopping would mean losing everything.

That instinct stayed with me for years. It took me a long time to realise that this constant movement wasn’t always strength. Sometimes it was fear — fear of falling behind, fear of becoming irrelevant, fear of being left with nothing if I slowed down. We rarely choose these patterns consciously. They come from childhood, from survival, from environments where safety was never guaranteed. They become part of who we are. And the thing is — you can’t simply delete that part of yourself. Nor should you.

I spent years trying to "fix" myself. Therapy, psychology, reflection — all of it helped. But what truly changed things was not trying to erase my past, but learning to look at it differently. Because the truth is: You never stop being who you were. You just learn how to carry it differently. Moving to Ireland forced that lesson on me in a quiet way. Here, life doesn’t rush you quite as aggressively. People wait. They pause. They allow things to unfold.

At first, that felt unsettling, almost dangerous. But slowly, it showed me something I had never learned before: that slowing down does not mean giving up. It means listening. I started noticing how many of us label parts of ourselves as weaknesses when they’re actually strengths in disguise. If you’re slow — you notice details others miss. If you’re fast — you see opportunities quickly. If you’re anxious — you’re often deeply attentive. If you’re tired — it’s usually because you care.

We’re so used to correcting ourselves that we forget to ask a simpler question: What if this part of me exists for a reason? This year, I’m not setting dramatic resolutions. I’m not promising to become a better, faster, stronger version of myself. Instead, I’m trying something quieter. I’m learning to stop running — not because I’m weak, but because I’m finally safe enough to stand still.

That doesn’t mean life is easy now. It doesn’t mean uncertainty disappeared. It hasn’t. And maybe it never fully will. But I no longer see my past as something that needs to be defeated. It shaped me. It taught me endurance, awareness, resilience. Those qualities didn’t vanish when the danger eased, they simply became tools rather than armour.

And that feels important to say out loud, especially at the dawn of a new year. So if you’re reading this and feeling like you didn’t do enough in 2025 - move fast enough, heal enough or achieve enough — let me tell you this: You are still here. You adapted. You carried yourself through things you never imagined you would survive. That is not weakness. That is strength, even if it doesn’t always look heroic.

In this new year, I’m not asking myself to become someone else. I’m choosing to recognise the strength I already have, including the parts I once tried to hide or fix. And I hope you do too. Because sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is stop running, and finally see just how far we’ve already come. Maybe that’s the lesson I’m taking into this new year. Not that I need to reach the top faster — but that being on the path is already enough.