So this year I decided to reflect less on the changes I want to make and focus on changes I've succeeded in making in the past, in the hope that from this would come fresh impetus for change in the future. And what I have discovered is that the things that have given me the greatest sense of pride over the years are what I call my 'I Can Do This' moments.
The precise, revelatory moments when changes I felt I lacked the courage or ability to make were suddenly achieved, or at least embarked upon. We all have these moments. And it's not the size of the achievement that matters. The trick is to recognise what is significant for you, and try to hold on to the special glow of satisfaction it gives you.
Here are my top 'I can do this' moments...
I CAN TRAVEL ALONE
Other than for business reasons, when I had a full-time job, I'd never really travelled alone. It seemed a rather sad and lonely thing to do, to have a holiday completely solo.
But I needed a break after my separation from my husband, and none of my friends were free to accompany me. So I booked the Eurostar and a room in a small hotel. I studied a map and my guidebook, choosing museums, restaurants and flea markets I wanted to visit.
I arrived nervous but excited. As I checked into my attic room, with its creaky plumbing and views all the way to Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, I thought: 'I CAN DO THIS!'
I CAN PUT TOGETHER FLAT-PACK FURNITURE
When the desk I'd bought as my son's Christmas present arrived from John Lewis, I'd been expecting it to come in pieces. But I'd been thinking more like five pieces, rather than 105.
I've never been into DIY. It had always been husband territory, as far as I was concerned.
I laid the bits out in front of me and felt ready to weep. But it had to be put together before my son arrived home for the holidays from his year of working abroad as part of his studies.
The instructions suggested it would take 45 minutes. I got down to work. Six hours and many tantrums later, it was finished. I punched the air and shouted: 'I CAN DO THIS!'
But as far as DIY is concerned, never, ever again.
I CAN SING HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN TUNE
I love to sing, but I hate the sound of my own voice. I come from a long line of people who can only sing out of tune, so I guess it must be genetic. Even Happy Birthday is beyond me.
Or at least it was before my singing teacher, Rachel, came into my life. I realised I didn't want to be on my death-bed regretting the fact I'd never learned to sing, so decided to invest in private singing lessons.
At first, I was so embarrassed all I could do was break into nervous laughter. But the fact I could hear my own voice was out of tune was a good sign, apparently.
Over the months I grew in confidence. Rachel decided I had a good ear and encouraged me into believing that, by practising the exercises she gave me, I could improve enormously.
Six months on, I was in the bath belting out Happy Birthday. And I thought: 'I CAN DO THIS!'
For the first time at midnight mass on Christmas Eve I sang rather than mimed. I still haven't been asked to join the choir, but at least I'm no longer frightened by the sound of my own voice.
That night, at a restaurant on the Left Bank, I met a fellow traveller, also on his own. We chatted for hours, then shook hands and went our own ways. This would never have happened if I'd been with a friend.
The next day, at lunch, I got chatting to an American woman and left with a list of new places to visit.
'We'll always have Paris,' said Rick in Casablanca. I'll always have Paris, I thought happily on my way back to London.
I CAN GO TO A PARTY ON MY OWN
I know plenty of women who turn down invitations rather than walk alone into a room full of people, most of whom they don't know.
It's a ghastly feeling, standing by yourself, pretending to be fascinated by your cocktail, but even that's better than becoming a hermit.
When I was young, I had to go to receptions related to my work. It was easy because I was a pretty young thing and all I had to do was stand there and within moments some guy would come and start chatting to me.
These days I have to work a lot harder. If I know only the host I will ask him/her to introduce me to some people. If the host is too busy I look for someone else on their own and start a conversation.
If everyone's in huddles I'll suss a friendly-looking group, approach, and ask: 'Do you mind if I join you?' Only the rudest of people would say no, and so far it's never happened to me.
I CAN STRIP OFF IN FRONT OF A MAN
After a failed marriage and 25 years of fidelity, the one thing I was quite certain of when we separated was that I would never take my clothes off in front of another man.
My fifty-something body, I believed, just wasn't up to naked scrutiny. And if I couldn't take my clothes off, that meant sex was also off the agenda.
I've met dozens of older women who feel exactly the same way after the end of a long-term relationship.
I wasn't averse to dating, though. After a few not-so-hot dates with various men, I met a guy I really liked.
Please don't let him rush this, I thought, or I'll run a mile. Fortunately he didn't rush and I didn't run. We met a few times over a couple of months, not even a kiss was exchanged between us.
Then I went away for a few weeks. We emailed and I thought of him often. I came home. We met up again and spent the whole day walking in the country. When it happened that night it was all so simple.
'I CAN DO THIS!' I thought, with uninhibited joy. I finally remembered that sex is about how we connect, not what we look like.
I CAN CLIMB A MOUNTAIN
My approach to things that scare me, especially physical things, is to accept the challenge first, then worry about how I'm going to cope with it after.
This is how I, a virgin trekker, ended up heading to the Atlas Mountains in Morocco.
Once I'd signed up for the charity trek and collected my sponsorship money, there was no way I could back out. It's become such a cliche, that thing of climbing to the tallest peak, then bursting into tears at the wonder of it all.
The wonder of your surroundings, the wonder that you actually did it. But so what if it has become a bit cliche? The thrill of that 'I CAN DO THIS' will never fade away from my memory.
I CAN SHOW WEAKNESS
It took a massive nervous breakdown before I learned to accept my vulnerabilities and not be ashamed of them. I thought I could do it all.
Be a high-powered exec, a great mum, a loving wife, a perfect hostess. When depression kicked in, I thought I was a woman without worth. I thought I had no right to feel so bad when I had so much.
It took two years of pills, therapy and time out from work before I began to see that being strong and capable wasn't the answer. I gave up full-time work and went freelance.
On my first day of freedom I started out with a walk, then went to a cafe and leisurely read the papers. 'I CAN DO THIS,' I thought. I can earn less, spend less, enjoy life more and own up to not being superwoman.
I learned the hard way. The trick is to change direction without falling to pieces first. Listen to the voice in your head, rather than trying to live up to impossible standards.
I CAN LOVE AN ANIMAL
Until Cuba, my black labrador, came into my life, I would cross the road to avoid a dog coming towards me, even if it was on a lead. And if a dog jumped up at me in the park I would recoil in horror. But I love to go for long walks and, when I started working from home, began to notice what fun other walkers seemed to be having out on the heath with their dogs.
Then, through a friend, I learned that a dog belonging to a woman down the road had produced a litter of nine pups. Under pressure from my friend, I went to have a look at them. It wasn't love at first sight - cute though Cuba was - it was more a case of me deciding it was time to stop being such a wimp around animals.
I crouched down and Cuba leapt into my arms. The truth is, I didn't think about the responsibility, the expense, the fact both the dog and I would need to be trained.
I just thought: 'I CAN DO THIS!' Seven years on, I can't imagine my daily routine without Cuba, and these days I get along fine with most dogs. I became a dog owner for the wrong reason, but it turned out right.
Sometimes you need to forget logic and make a leap of faith.
I CAN SPEAK IN PUBLIC
When it came to question time in class at school, I would dread being chosen by the teacher and I certainly never once put up my hand to volunteer an answer.
If the teacher's beady eyes came to rest on me, my heart would race, my face turn bright red and I would stammer and squeak, to the amusement of my classmates.
Being the centre of attention, even for a moment, was my worst nightmare. When I was a journalist, in my 20s, I began, occasionally, to speak on the radio. I dreaded it every time.
Then, one day in my 30s, I was asked to give a speech to the Literacy Trust to an audience of perhaps 100 people. I prepared for a week. I learned the whole thing by heart.
I had prompt notes as well as the speech written out in front of me. I took a Valium.
And then I went for it. At one point, the audience burst into spontaneous laughter. This was the turning point when I thought: 'I CAN DO THIS!'
The fear of speaking in public has never gone away, but the knowledge that I can do it, and do it well, has encouraged me to take on the challenge whenever I'm asked.
But I would never attempt to do it off the cuff. Preparation is the key.
Editor: jimbon/Linda Kelsey
