The Year In Review: A Failure

How to Host a Year in Review So Spectacularly Miserable It Makes Your Future Self Weep

Ah, the Year in Review—a time-honored tradition where we gather our digital ashes, dust off our self-loathing, and present it to the world as “lessons learned.” But let’s be honest: this isn’t a retrospective. It’s a spectacle. A performance. A gladiatorial match between your present self and your future self, where the only prize is the quiet, gnawing certainty that you’ll do it all again next year—only with more guilt and a slightly fancier spreadsheet.

The genius of the Year in Review is that it’s not about progress. It’s about curating. You don’t need to change. You just need to document your failure with the gravitas of a medieval chronicler recording the plagues. And if you’re really committed to the bit, you’ll even throw in a few “almosts” to make it feel like you were this close to greatness. (Spoiler: You weren’t.) Welcome to the world’s most self-sabotaging annual event.

Recipe: The Year in Review So Good, It’s Almost a Crime

Yields: One thoroughly demoralized soul, a stack of half-hearted resolutions, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’ve outdone yourself at self-pity.

Ingredients:

1 part “I almost did X” (fill with whatever you almost achieved—lost weight, started a business, learned a language, etc.)
2 parts “But I didn’t” (the secret sauce of the Year in Review)
½ part “Next year will be different” (a lie so old it’s practically a family heirloom)
1 dash “I’m committed” (said with the conviction of a man who just realized his gym membership expires in 3 days)
A handful of “lessons learned” (because nothing says “growth” like a list of things you could’ve done)
1 cup “I’m not a failure, I’m just… refining my process” (the Year in Review’s signature white lie)
Optional: A side of “I deserve this” (served with a side of existential dread)

Instructions:

Gather your digital artifacts – Pull up your old emails, social media posts, and that one spreadsheet you made in March that you haven’t touched since. “Look at all the goals I set!” (Translation: “Look at all the ways I failed to follow through.”)
Highlight the “almosts” – Circle every instance where you almost succeeded. “I almost ran a marathon!” (You walked 3 miles. Twice.) “I almost started a side hustle!” (You spent $200 on a course you didn’t finish.) The “almost” is your Peak-End Rule cheat code—it makes the failure feel like a victory.
Draft your “lessons” – Turn every missed opportunity into a profound insight. “I learned that I need to be more disciplined.” (Translation: “I learned that I’m terrible at discipline.”) “I realized I need to prioritize my health.” (Translation: “I realized I’m lazy and will never change.”)
Write your “commitment” – Craft a resolution so vague it could apply to any year. “Next year, I will finally…” (Fill in the blank with whatever you’ve been saying since 2018.) The key is to make it sound like a plan rather than a desperate plea for change.
Add the “I’m not a failure” disclaimer – Because if you admit you’re a failure, the whole exercise loses its charm. Instead, declare that you’re “just human” or “still on the journey.” (Translation: “I’m stuck, but at least I’m not alone in my mediocrity.”)
Publish it – Share your masterpiece with the world. Tag #PersonalGrowth, #SelfImprovement, and #AlmostThere. Watch as your followers nod sagely, because they’re all doing the same thing.

Note from the Chef: “This recipe is not for the faint of heart. It’s designed to be served with a side of self-loathing and a glass of wine. If you’re looking for actual growth, you might want to try something else—like therapy, or maybe just admitting you’re not a superhero. But if you’re here for the ritual of failure, this is the dish for you. Enjoy your Year in Review—just don’t expect it to taste any better next time.”

The Year in Review isn’t about reflection. It’s about performance. You’re not reviewing your year; you’re staging it. And like any good stage production, the real magic isn’t in the content—it’s in the illusion of progress. So go ahead, curate your almosts, draft your vague commitments, and declare your “lessons.” Just remember: the only thing you’re really learning is how to fail beautifully. And honestly? That’s a skill worth mastering.