Setting intentions after loss (only if you want to)
If you’re reading this, there’s a decent chance you’ve had it up to hear with the whole “New Year, New You” noise already. The pressure to vision-board your way into a more productive, present, purposeful version of yourself can feel laughably disconnected from the reality of grieving. (Not to mention feeling horribly capitalist.) Sometimes, surviving the day without crying in the grocery store is the accomplishment.
So let’s start here:
You do not need to reflect.
You do not need to grow.
You do not need to turn your pain into a poem or a plan.
You can skip this entirely. Close this tab. Burn your planner. Eat some cake. You’re allowed.
(Seriously, you never have to return to this if it doesn’t serve you.)
But if some part of you is curious—not ready, not obligated, just gently curious—about how to imagine forward while still honoring what’s been lost, this space is for that. For softness. For uncertainty. For feeling around in the dark and maybe, just maybe, sensing a glimmer of your own self again.
A Body-Centered Approach to Envisioning What’s Next
We don’t start with goals. We start with the body.
Orienting to Safety. Find a quiet-ish space. Let your eyes land on three things that feel safe, neutral, or even beautiful. Let your body exhale. You are here.
Invitation, Not Demand. Ask your body: Do I feel open to imagining a future? Not “Can I picture five years from now?” Not “Am I doing it right?” Just—is there any spaciousness? Even a flicker? If the answer is no, bless that no. That’s your wisdom speaking.
Grounded Intention-Setting (Without Forcing Hope). If you're still with me, try this:
Inhale: What do I long to invite more of?
Exhale: What do I want to gently release or set down?
These can be sensations (ease, warmth, sleep), values (honesty, rest, connection), or simply moods (less chaos, more quiet).
Somatic Anchors. Choose a small body-based ritual to mark the new year, if you like:
Light a candle and say the name of someone you miss.
Stretch or walk with the intention of “moving into what’s next, slowly.”
Place a hand on your heart and say: “I’m still here.”
Let It Be Messy. This doesn’t have to look like anything. Maybe you set one intention and forget it the next day. Maybe the only “goal” is to be less cruel to yourself. You get to define it. Or not define it at all.
Some Gentle Prompts (Optional, Always)
What am I longing for right now?
Where in my life do I want more softness, less striving?
What’s one way I might honor both my grief and my hope this year?
Is there a rhythm, practice, or relationship I want to tend to more intentionally?
What am I carrying into this year that I don’t want to carry alone anymore?
You don’t have to be ready for anything.
You don’t need to believe this year will be good.
You are not broken if you want nothing at all.
And if you do find even one small thread to hold onto—an intention, a word, a wish—let it be yours. Let it be wild, weird, grief-soaked, hopeful, or unfinished. Let it be something that loves you back.
No resolutions here. Just breath, body, and the bravery of being.
