To Be or Not to Be: Why I Entered 2026 Without Resolutions and With My Soul Intact

“While the world celebrated the new year loudly, I chose the quiet work of becoming.”

We have just entered 2026.

And honestly? My timeline looks like a global therapy room.

Everyone is sharing something.
Memories from 2025. Achievements unlocked. Lessons learned. Before–after collages. Career promotions. Gym transformations. Travel dumps. Gratitude posts. Vision boards. Resolutions written with military precision.

Some challenges.
Some troubles.
Some highs.
Some lows.

And then—boom—New Year celebrations, new goals, new agendas. Fireworks outside, affirmations inside. It’s all about wishing, manifesting, planning, hustling.

And yes, before you ask—is that wrong?
No. Not at all.

Having goals is good. Having vision is healthy. Wanting growth—personal or professional—is human.

But here’s where my confusion kicks in.

Let me ask you something—who really benefits from all this madness?
Who profits when motivation becomes seasonal?
Who cashes in when self-worth is measured by productivity?
Who sells you the idea that January 1st is the only acceptable reset button?

Capitalism smiles quietly in the corner.
Corporations clap.
Algorithms celebrate.

Entertainment isn’t the enemy—but distraction is a powerful tool. When noise becomes constant, silence becomes dangerous. And in that silence, we might ask questions we were never supposed to ask.

So no, I don’t hate celebrations.
I just refuse to confuse them with meaning.

Looking Back Without Rose-Colored Filters

I’ve never been too enthusiastic about New Years.
Not because I’m ungrateful—but because reflection for me has never been calendar-dependent.

Still, when I look at 2025, I don’t see a “failed year,” even though income was unstable and job security felt like a joke with bad timing.

I see highs.
I see survival.
I see awareness.

And with 2026 beginning, I don’t just want to review a year—I want to look at my entire life.

I’ve written before about my childhood, so I won’t romanticize it now.

I grew up in a middle-class Pakistani family. My father—a self-made man—was the eldest son, burdened with responsibility long before adulthood. Seven younger siblings. A joint family system. Endless sacrifices.

And sacrifices, no matter how noble, always leave marks.

My sisters and I didn’t grow up privileged. Bullying, harassment, emotional neglect—these weren’t exceptions; they were patterns. Not because our parents didn’t care—but because survival demanded prioritization.

This isn’t a complaint.
It’s context.

We weren’t sent to elite schools. Opportunities were scarce. Talent existed—but access didn’t.

And tell me—how many dreams die not because of lack of ability, but lack of exposure?

Dreams, Denials, and Detours

I wanted sports.
Didn’t have the system.

I wanted music.
Didn’t have the money—or permission.

So I improvised.

During my bachelor’s and MBA days, I taught Physics and Mathematics to fund my hobbies. I bought a guitar. Joined institutions. Built small communities. Tried to learn music seriously.

But in middle-class societies, certain dreams are labeled “luxuries.”
Art is tolerated—but only as a hobby.
Passion is allowed—until it threatens conformity.

Then came the corporate world.

After my MBA in 2008, I entered financial services. Retail banking. Structured suits. Structured lives. Structured obedience.

And slowly, painfully, fiction disappeared.

Everything I had studied felt vague—not useless, but incomplete. No one taught us how to preserve dignity inside systems designed to extract it.

Let me ask you—is stability worth slavery?
And if yes—how much of yourself are you willing to trade?

Exit Doors and Unpopular Choices

I left for the UK under family pressure. Two years as a student. Watched immigrants struggle—underpaid labor, silent exploitation, survival masked as opportunity.

When my visa neared expiry in 2012, I left.

Not because I failed.
Because I refused.

I chose Dubai. Banking again. Judgment everywhere. And yes—I remain the only one in my social circle who left the West without nationality.

Why?

Because a passport isn’t freedom if it costs your soul.

Later, I quit banking entirely. I worked across digital marketing, e-commerce, supply chain, real estate. Then in 2018, I returned home due to family circumstances.

And suddenly, I was surrounded by “successful” people—titles, promotions, polished LinkedIn lives.

Yet no one asked:
Are you fulfilled?
Are you at peace?
Are you becoming more human—or just more efficient?

The only advice I heard was: “Be practical.”

But practical, to me, sounded suspiciously like surrender.

And that’s when the question kept haunting me—
“To be, or not to be?”

Yes, that line. From William Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Most people quote it.
Few dare to live it.

When the World Paused, I Started Listening

Then came 2020.
COVID-19. Systems collapsed. Offices dissolved. Certainty evaporated.

And unexpectedly—space appeared.

Remote work. Freelancing. Writing.

I tested myself as a content writer. Joined a local agency. And something clicked.

I enjoyed writing.

Is it good writing? Bad writing?
Honestly—who cares?

Writing made me happy.

By 2022, I was working with UK clients. By mid-2024, I joined a US-focused agency. Money multiplied. Take-home tripled.

But joy didn’t.

Control intensified. Culture suffocated. Productivity worshipped. Slavery—wrapped in KPIs.

So I quit. November 2024. No backup. No safety net.

Was it practical?
No.

Was it honest?
Absolutely.

A Year Without a Map

While others entered 2025 with plans, I entered with confusion.

And yet—2025 was kind to me.

It gave me time.
Time to read.
Time to think.
Time to unlearn.

I revisited philosophy. Stoicism. Greek thought. I remembered how my reading habit started back in 2008—with Macbeth, of all books.

I explored ideas from Karl Marx, questioned the psyche with Sigmund Freud, wandered spiritually with Paulo Coelho, confronted power through George Orwell, and felt human again reading Elif Shafak.

Art. Literature. Philosophy.
That’s my real energy source.

I learned AI tools. Took freelance clients. And most importantly—I started writing for myself.

I joined Medium. Blogger. Substack. Wrote without permission. Without validation.

My first blog went live in November 2025. Not perfect—but mine.

And suddenly, I found a community. Writers. Thinkers. Humans.

A place I had been searching for—quietly—for over 20 years.

So, What About 2026?

Am I setting resolutions?
Not really.

Am I hopeful?
Absolutely.

Because happiness, I’ve learned, doesn’t come from clarity alone. Sometimes it comes from courage—the courage to ask uncomfortable questions.

So here’s mine, again:

To be—or not to be?

To conform—or to question?
To survive—or to live?
To earn—or to exist meaningfully?

For me, 2025 ended as a blessing in disguise. And 2026 feels like continuation—not a reset.

I don’t know where this path leads.
But I know one thing with certainty:

Writing makes me happy.
And for now—that’s enough.

Happy New Year.
Not the loud one.
The honest one.