January has a way of turning the volume up.

New goals. Fresh starts. Clean calendars. Resolutions that invite you to stretch into something more disciplined, more focused, more aligned than the year before.

I actually like resolutions. I like clarity. I like deciding, on purpose, what I’m moving toward instead of drifting into another year on autopilot.

What I don’t like is the pressure that can quietly attach itself to them. The unspoken belief that you need to start strong or you’re already behind. That if things feel heavy, uncomfortable, or unclear, you must be doing something wrong.

That’s why I don’t rely on resolutions alone.

I pair them with something steadier.

An anchor.

An anchor doesn’t drag you forward. It doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t demand momentum on days when momentum isn’t available. It simply keeps you grounded when the water gets rough, when emotions spike, when perspective narrows.

Mine is simple, but I return to it constantly.

What is this teaching me in this moment?
And then I ask:
Will this matter in 10 years? Will I even remember it?

If the answer is no, I let it go.

Not in a dismissive way. Not in a pretend-it-doesn’t-hurt way. I don’t skip over the feeling or try to “positive think” my way out of it. I let myself feel it fully. I sit with the discomfort. I marinate in what feels hard long enough to understand it.

Every difficult moment has information in it. Once I’ve listened, once the lesson is clear, I release the rest. The unnecessary weight. The looping thoughts. The emotional charge that wants to follow me into every other part of my day.

That process is the anchor.

I use it anytime I make the wrong decision.
Anytime I feel uneasy about how something unfolded.
Anytime a conversation lingers longer than it should.
Anytime a situation feels heavier in my body than it deserves to.

Sometimes the moment feels so big it takes over everything. It’s the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing you replay at night. It pulls your focus away from work, from people, from the present. You’re technically moving through the day, but mentally you’re stuck.

In those moments, perspective feels impossible. You’re not observing the storm. You’re inside it.

That’s when this anchor helps me get to the other side.

The questions don’t make the situation disappear. They don’t magically make it easier. What they do is create space. They widen the frame. They remind me that this moment is part of my life, not the definition of it.

Most things that feel overwhelming right now will not carry the same weight with time. Some will fade completely. Others will leave behind a lesson and nothing more. Remembering that doesn’t invalidate the pain. It gives it a container.

And that matters when you’re trying to stay aligned with the bigger picture of who you’re becoming.

If I were helping someone create their own mental anchor, I’d start with one skill before any specific phrase.

The ability to step back.

To look at the situation as if it weren’t your life, but someone else’s. To create just enough distance to see clearly instead of reactively.

Ask yourself this: what would you say to your best friend if they were sitting across from you, explaining the exact same situation?

You wouldn’t rush them. You wouldn’t judge them. You wouldn’t minimize what they’re feeling. You’d probably listen first. Then you’d offer perspective. Compassion. Honesty. You’d remind them of what they can control and what they don’t need to carry.

That voice is already inside you.

With practice, it can become your anchor.

Resolutions give direction. They help you name what matters and where you want to go.

Anchors give stability. They keep you steady when the path feels unclear or the emotions run high.

When you have both, you don’t lose yourself in the process of trying to grow. You move forward with intention, without letting every hard moment knock you off course.

That’s what keeps me focused all year.
Not pressure.
Not perfection.

Perspective.