We all know, of course, that January 1 is a somewhat subjective marker in life timelines. But this year, I needed a marker.

The end of December felt like the last few miles driving on a nondescript interstate before you reach your exit. I was ready for a fresh stretch of road. And sure, Monday morning didn’t look any different than Sunday night. But it felt different. 2018 is still new and full of possibility. There are no uncomfortable conversations yet in 2018. No late nights—or early mornings—worrying. No tears yet.

On New Year’s Eve we went around the table, sharing our resolutions. Undoubtably fueled by my cold glass of champagne, I announced that I’m going to read 52 books, run a marathon, and write another book.

I love this part of the new year—really believing all of this is possible.

I’ve been reading a lot of a self-help-ish kind of books and articles lately, and one thing has stuck out as being mentioned in almost all of them: Our thoughts are often self-fulfilling prophecies. In other words, if I believe that 2018 is a year of opportunity, a year for growth and learning, a year that will bring happiness and joy, a year for which I should be grateful and excited, a year in which I’ll read 52 books, run a marathon, and write another book, then there’s a good chance that’s exactly what 2018 will be.

So, that’s what I believe. I believe this will be my favorite year yet.

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