What Is More Powerful: A Resolution, a Practice, or a Plan?

Every January, I feel it in my body before I hear it in my mind.

A tightening.

A subtle bracing.

A quiet pressure to be better.

It usually arrives wrapped in well-intended language:

This is the year I finally…

I need to get more disciplined…

I should be further along by now…

For years, I called these resolutions. Later, I upgraded them into plans or goals.

Both sounded reasonable. Both looked good on paper. And both, if I’m honest, often left me feeling tense, like I was standing on one side of a gap, staring at the person I was supposed to become on the other.

That gap matters.

Because it’s not just conceptual, it’s felt.

The quiet tension we rarely name

There is a real, lived tension between who we are today and who we believe we need to become in order to live the life we want.

That tension isn’t a flaw.

It’s human.

But how we relate to that tension makes all the difference.

When I frame change as a resolution, I notice something happens inside me. My shoulders lift. My breath shortens. There’s an unspoken demand hiding in the words—Don’t mess this up.

When I build a rigid plan, something else appears. The mind takes over. The future dominates the present. I start measuring myself against milestones I haven’t reached yet.

Neither approach is wrong.

But neither feels particularly kind.

And kindness, I’ve learned, is not a luxury in change; it’s a requirement.

The body never lies about language

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned, through burnout, through parenting, through leadership, through simply aging, is this:

The body responds to language before the mind does.

Some words create contraction.

Others create space.

When the language we use to describe change carries pressure, the body prepares for threat. When the words are rigid, the nervous system stiffens. We try to force ourselves forward, and then wonder why we stall.

This is where I began to notice the quiet power of a different word: Practice.

A practice doesn’t demand perfection.

It doesn’t require belief.

It doesn’t shame you when you miss a day.

A practice says: Come back.

Why practice changed everything for me

When I stopped asking, What should I resolve? and started asking, What can I practice? something softened.

I wasn’t abandoning ambition.

I was changing my relationship with it.

A practice lives in the present tense.

It allows room for rest, relapse, and repair.

It honours the person I am now while gently orienting me toward who I’m becoming.

There’s freedom in that.

Instead of trying to eliminate the tension between who I am and who I want to be, I began to hold it—with curiosity rather than judgment.

And paradoxically, that’s when movement started again.

The Small Pause that makes growth possible

At the heart of Small Pause Coaching is a simple idea:

Nothing meaningful changes without space.

Space to notice the body.Space to choose language that doesn’t betray us.Space to remember we don’t grow in isolation.

When we pause, even briefly, we reconnect.

With ourselves.

With others.

With what actually matters.

Connection reduces tension.

Community normalizes the struggle.

Freedom emerges when we stop trying to become someone else through force.

This isn’t about lowering standards.

It’s about raising awareness.

So… which is more powerful?

A resolution can spark intention.

A plan can provide structure.

But a practice, especially one rooted in language your body can trust, has staying power.

Because practice meets you where you are.

And from there, it invites you forward.

Not with pressure.

Not with shame.

But with presence.

A gentle invitation

If you’re standing at the edge of a new year, a new season, or a quiet internal reckoning, here’s a question worth pausing with:

What language helps my body soften rather than brace?

The answer won’t come from force.

It will come from listening.

And often, listening begins with a small pause.