Man’s obsession with the year’s end and the promise of new beginnings is as enduring as time itself. The transition from one year to the next is more than just a flip of the calendar; it is a symbolic gesture, a chance to pause, reflect, and imagine something better. From ancient practices to today’s festivities, we have always looked to endings as moments of transformation, where we can let go of the past and step into the future.
This fascination has deep historical roots. The Babylonians, for example, celebrated Akitu over 4,000 years ago, a 12-day festival designating the vernal equinox as the beginning of their new year. The Babylonian Akitu festival marked the rebirth of nature, the reestablishment of kingship through divine authority, and the securing of the life and destiny of the people for the coming year. Similarly, ancient Egyptians celebrated the heliacal rising of Sirius as a symbol of their agricultural New Year, a celestial event that also marked a time of renewal. These early traditions were born from a desire to understand time, to anchor human existence to the cycles of nature, and to begin again.
The Roman New Year held similar significance. The Romans celebrated the Kalends of January, dedicated to Janus, the god of beginnings, transitions, and dualities, symbolized by his two faces—one looking backward, one forward. It was a time for reflecting on the lessons of the past year while setting intentions for the future.
In ancient Israel, the idea of new beginnings was central to the Jewish calendar. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was a time for self-reflection and repentance, rooted in the belief that the new year offered a spiritual reset. Leviticus 23:23-25 describes Rosh Hashanah as a time for rest, remembrance, and offerings: “Ye shall have a sabbath… a memorial of blowing of trumpets… an offering made by fire unto the Lord.”
This theme of new beginnings extends beyond Rosh Hashanah in the Bible. In the book of Ecclesiastes, the preacher meditates on the cyclical nature of life: “To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” The idea that life flows in cycles of renewal and change resonates throughout scripture. The Israelites’ observance of the sabbatical year, where every seventh year debts were forgiven and land was left fallow, was another example of a ritualized “reset,” a way of starting anew and restoring balance. Similarly, the concept of a “new creation” in Christian theology emphasizes the idea that through Christ, believers are offered the opportunity for spiritual renewal.
We Filipinos have an equally strong obsession with new beginnings, rooted not just in personal aspirations but in our collective history. Our repeated encounters with upheaval—colonization, wars, and revolutions—have taught us to cling to the idea of renewal as a form of survival. The revolution against Spain in 1898 was fueled by a desire for freedom and a fresh start, but the Philippine-American War that followed dashed those hopes of independence, replacing them with a new cycle of foreign control. Later, the Japanese occupation during World War II devastated the nation, yet the rebuilding efforts that followed were guided by a resolute vision of progress and recovery. Even during the Martial Law period under Ferdinand Marcos Sr., we Filipinos resisted repression with the hope of restoring democracy. The EDSA People Power Revolution of 1986 symbolized not just political change but the enduring faith that a collective reset could bring about a better society. These cycles of struggle and renewal further demonstrate how deeply the drive for progress is ingrained in our collective consciousness.
The reality of change is often more complex than we imagine. Years of oppression have ingrained survival as our top priority, leaving little room for introspection and self-awareness. When survival is at the forefront, it becomes difficult to work through old habits, especially when immediate needs, like food and basic security, take precedence over long-term growth. This is particularly true in societies like the Philippines, where, as F. Sionil José addresses in his Rosales Saga, the focus on survival—especially securing food—often outweighs intellectual or emotional nourishment. In his works, José explains how the daily struggle for basic needs leaves little space for higher pursuits such as self-awareness and personal growth. However, this doesn’t mean change is impossible. While determination plays a role, a significant factor in change is the circumstances that enable it. External factors, support systems, and the environment we live in are crucial in determining whether transformation can take place. Without the right conditions or resources, even the most committed efforts can fall short. This is why New Year’s resolutions often fail—not because we lack the will to change but because our minds and bodies are tethered to the rhythms of the past, and the environment around us often reinforces those old patterns. We Filipinos are no exception to this. While we are deeply hopeful about transformation, many of us still cling to familiar traditions and routines that feel safe. The balancing act between striving for progress and honoring old habits is a struggle, as it is hard to marry the two, with their often conflicting demands pulling us in opposite directions.
This obsession with fresh starts also pervades the political sphere. The rhetoric of change is a perennial theme in Philippine politics, with candidates often promising “a new beginning” during elections. Some politicians invoke this idea of transformation to inspire hope among voters, positioning themselves as the heralds of a new era. They use hope to lure vulnerable people who long for change, capitalizing on the poverty of the masses to secure their grip on power. These are the very ones who’ve turned political office into a lifelong inheritance while the people remain in perpetual debt to hope. This paradox between our desire for change and our tendency to recycle incompetent political leaders mirrors the way we view the New Year: a desire to reset, but often constrained by the same old patterns. It reflects the deeply rooted challenge of breaking away from established systems—whether they be political, social, or personal.
Still, there is something undeniably hopeful about this obsession. It speaks to our resilience, our ability to dream of something better even when the odds are against us. Although I reject the romanticization of resilience, it is evident that it has been the force that has allowed us to endure and evolve, despite the heavy toll of our struggles. For us, who have endured years of adversity, the New Year is a rare moment to imagine not only personal change but societal transformation. The act of imagining change, no matter how imperfect, embodies a deep-seated belief in growth and progress. Even if we stumble or fall short, the determination to try again is, in itself, a form of renewal.
Perhaps the true value of the New Year lies not in the endless pursuit of grand transformations, but in learning to accept the present and work with it. We don’t need to constantly reinvent ourselves; after all, the pressure to change can be far more exhausting than simply embracing who we are. Change is inevitable, but it doesn’t always need to be forced. Accepting where we are isn’t defeat; it’s understanding that sometimes, even when we are ready for change, the circumstances don’t align. True growth comes not from chasing a moment, but from working patiently and allowing the right opportunities to bring meaningful change.
