Another year is drawing to a close, and with it comes that familiar urge to pause and reflect. There’s something comforting about this time—taking stock, considering a fresh start, and imagining what the next 12 months might bring. I’ve always loved the idea of renewal, the chance to shake things up and begin again. And who doesn’t enjoy the promise of reinvention?

When I was growing up, December always felt magical. My mum would hum Christmas songs while counting down the days until Santa arrived, and my dad would take secret trips to Hanley for presents and the big food shop, returning with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. I treasure so many happy memories from those years, but the ones that stand out are from the late ’80s.

Back then, our tree was decked with coloured fairy lights, mismatched baubles, and that silver tinsel my mum insisted on hanging strand by strand. The house would smell of pine needles, freshly baked Christmas cake, and – strangely enough – after-dinner mints. My little brother, freshly bathed and cosy in his pink onesie, would toddle around, giggling and soft, like a living character from a Pixar movie. The whole house felt alive with the excitement of the season, as though we were all part of an elaborate production. All of my grandparents were still with us, and for a few fleeting weeks, everything felt perfect.

But as soon as the last Quality Street had been eaten and the decorations were packed away, my mum would spring into action. She’d roll up her sleeves and give the house a deep clean. Furniture would be rearranged, cupboards reorganised, and my dad would be driven to distraction by her endless ideas for making the house “work better”. (Nothing changes. She’s still the same today.) There were trips to IKEA, where flat-pack boxes would weigh down the trolley, and one year, a complete revamp of my bedroom with Ivar shelves and freshly painted walls. It’s no surprise she passed this ritual of renewal on to me. For her, the new year wasn’t just a milestone—it was a blank canvas, a chance to reimagine, reset, and start again.

I’m not entirely sure if she extended this philosophy to her career, but I suspect she did. As a brilliant school teacher, she was constantly finding ways to improve – transforming classroom walls, the lessons she taught, and the challenges she set for her pupils. When I visited her school, I was always in awe. Her displays were like little galleries, filled with the impressive artwork of three- and four-year-olds. Watching her in action was mesmerising – whether reciting nursery rhymes or commanding the room at a parent’s evening.

I didn’t get to see my dad at work much, as he was often travelling, shaking hands, and closing deals. But I knew he was great at what he did, and I remember being proud when he talked about his sales and marketing job at the dinner table.

Their influence certainly rubbed off on me. As a kid, I’d often announce to my family that I was “reorganising my room,” then vanish for hours, rearranging furniture, cleaning, and finding a better way to make the space feel just right.

That same approach applies today—not just to my home but to how I tackle everything else. And 2024 has been quite the rollercoaster. Turbulent, to say the least. A nasty back injury early in the year left me severely compromised from January to June, and recovery is still ongoing. Add to that the weight of world events, the unstable economy, and the general election—it’s been a challenging year on many fronts. Yet, surprisingly, it’s also been one of the best.

For my venture, Creative Boom, I had set a turnover target to hit by the end of 2025—and I’m thrilled to say I’ve nearly smashed it, a full year ahead of schedule. Since going full-time on the platform, we’ve collaborated with some incredible clients, including Microsoft, Meta, Adobe, and Wix. It’s been a whirlwind journey, taking us around the globe. In just the last two years, we’ve travelled to New York, LA, Hong Kong, New Zealand, and the Middle East and had the privilege of covering major events like Glastonbury, Design Miami, OFFF Barcelona, and Milan Design Week – to name a few. It’s been quite the adventure.

I don’t know if it’s solely a British thing, but we’re not great at celebrating ourselves, are we? Instead, we tend to dwell on what we could have done better, rarely taking a moment to be proud of what we’ve achieved. This annual ritual of renewal often becomes an exercise in self-critique—assessing where we went wrong and how we might improve next time. Fair enough. But after a particularly challenging year, I’ve decided to break with tradition. Once Christmas is over, I’m going to do something rare in my circles: I’m going to relax.

Oh, I’ll still clean the house from top to bottom—you’ll never stop me from doing that. And I’ll keep improving my ventures where it feels right. Take this fresh personal website, for example—overhauled and sorted in a single weekend, just in time to bring the Christmas tree in from the garage. But overall, I’m making a promise to myself: I’ll chill the f*ck out and give myself the credit I deserve. For all the hard battles fought and won. For the moments when I couldn’t even get off the floor but somehow carried on. I’m going to be damn proud of 2024 and all the lessons it’s given me. So what are they? And what will I be doing differently next year?

I’ll be saying “no” more often

Before 2024, it was an unfamiliar word—something that felt negative, even rude. How do you say no to people when your whole mission is to support other creatives? How do you brush off that deeply ingrained “be a good girl” mindset when it’s all you’ve ever known?

It’s funny how personal tragedy and health issues can finally push you to where you need to be. One Sunday, I received a WhatsApp message from someone in the creative industry, asking if I’d cover his story in my magazine. That moment was a turning point. For too long, I’d made myself too available, answering every call and every request. It was time to draw some healthy boundaries.

I must admit, it wasn’t easy at first. Ignoring texts or calls felt dismissive, even unkind. But when I looked at my phone and realised that Sunday interruption was one of dozens of similar messages I’d received that week, I knew something had to change. That inner voice whispered, “But Katy, what will they think of you if you don’t respond?”—and I had to remind myself, over and over, that for 15 years, I’d done nothing to change this pattern. Perhaps my back injury was my body’s way of telling me that too much people-pleasing and too little self-care can only lead to breaking point. Something had to give.

I’ll not allow anyone to dim my light

It sounds a little dramatic, I know—but it’s true. All my adult life, I’ve watered myself down to fit in. I’ve avoided stepping on toes, worked hard to be liked by everyone, and played the role of everyone’s pal. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t work. You can’t make everyone like you, no matter how hard you try. And in doing so, I’ve hidden the real me.

Why would I do that to myself, especially when I’m drawn to people who embrace their uniqueness? Those bold characters who own who they are, quirks and all. It’s time I took a leaf out of their book.

Hosting my own podcast has been a big step in the right direction. There’s nowhere to hide when you’re behind a mic—it forces you to show up as yourself. Recording conversations with someone else can feel disarmingly honest, almost vulnerable at times. It’s surprising how much the experience opens you up, allowing the real you to take centre stage.

But that’s only the beginning. I’ll be showing up a lot more next year. Warts and all. No holding back.

I’ll remember I have my own life experience

From the very beginning, we journalists are taught one thing: it’s not about us. We’re not the story. Our job is to make people feel comfortable enough to open up and share their deepest thoughts and emotions.

I cut my teeth in radio back in the early 2000s, often attending press conferences for missing children—or worse, murdered victims. The goal was always the same: get a decent soundbite, even if that meant something from a grieving parent. Those moments still haunt me. But when you’ve been to dozens of these events, you become cold, detached, and immune to the context. It’s a survival mechanism, I suppose.

That detachment was one of the reasons I left the newsroom and chose a career in PR instead. The pay was better, sure, but at least I no longer had to loiter outside corner shops, hoping to find someone who knew the “victim” and could give me an exclusive for my editor.

PR gave me a fresh perspective—and an unexpected use for those five tough years in broadcast journalism. I found I had a knack for “selling” stories to journalists, flipping the dynamic. Then, running my own agency for over a decade—winning clients, managing crises, putting out fires—helped refine my social skills even more. By the time I launched Creative Boom’s podcast twenty years after graduation, I was ready.

I still think about the advice of my first editor at the Crewe Chronicle in the mid-’90s. He’d sit in the newsroom, smoking Silk Cut cigarettes with me, and offer up wisdom as casually as if we were discussing the weather. “Millward,” he’d say, “you’re not important. Your job is to disappear and observe. Watch Parkinson. He’ll show you how to interview people.” Those words have stuck with me ever since.

But here’s the thing: I’ve almost lost myself. Spending half this year lying on the floor in pain, I’ve come to realise just how much I’ve morphed into someone I barely recognise. With family and close friends, I’m still me—but at work? Not even close. Somewhere along the way, I’ve hidden parts of myself, retreating behind the role I thought I needed to play.

So one of my missions for next year, oddly enough, is to work on my personality. To get comfortable sharing my story with strangers, and to remember that I have a story worth telling, too.

I’ll remember to have fun

I’m not usually one for New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I tend to choose a word—a theme to guide me through the year. In the past, I’ve picked words like confidence and resilience—the usual suspects for self-improvement. But for 2025, my word is fun.

Let’s face it: it’s been a tough decade so far, hasn’t it? Sure, there are glimmers of hope on the horizon, but I’ve realised we can’t just wait for things to get better. We have to create our own fireworks. So, next year, I’m committing to fun. To say no more often, protect my time and space, prioritise my health and well-being, and—without sounding like I’ve just returned from a spiritual retreat—rediscover myself.

And hey, if you figured all this out long before I did, good for you. I’d love to know your secret. Maybe I got lucky with a relatively uneventful life until my forties. Or perhaps this is just what midlife is about—a rite of passage into clarity and self-awareness.

I’ll certainly never let anyone take advantage of me again. And I won’t lose sight of what truly matters: family, friends, and health.

But let’s be honest—my body will heal, I’ll forget these hard-earned lessons, and I’ll likely make the same poor decisions again someday. Isn’t that just part of being human? To hope that, after this week, things will calm down, and we’ll finally be able to relax? And yet, amidst all the chaos, there’s beauty in trying. In making promises to ourselves, in striving to do better, even if we stumble. Here’s to another year of growth, lessons, and, above all, lots of fun.