My New Year's Resolution List usually starts with the desire to

Nia Vardalos, with humor both sharp and tender, once said: “My New Year’s Resolution List usually starts with the desire to lose between ten and three thousand pounds.” Though spoken in jest, this statement holds a mirror to a universal longing. It is not only about weight in the physical sense, but about the burdens—both light and heavy—that people wish to shed when a new year dawns. With exaggeration, she captures the desperation and comedy of our endless striving to be lighter, freer, more at ease with ourselves.

The meaning of her words lies in the recognition of our human tendency toward extremes. To say “ten to three thousand pounds” is to acknowledge the gap between modest goals and impossible desires. It speaks to the restless spirit that looks upon the New Year as a sacred altar where old burdens may be laid down. Whether it is the literal weight of the body or the metaphorical weight of regret, fear, or insecurity, the yearning remains the same: to begin again, cleansed and unencumbered.

The origin of such resolutions is rooted in ancient ritual. At the turning of the year, societies across time have marked the moment with vows of renewal. The Babylonians promised their gods to return borrowed goods; the Romans made sacrifices to Janus, god of beginnings, who looked both forward and backward. In the modern age, this ritual is translated into lists—written or imagined—of improvements, diets, and new habits. Vardalos uses humor to expose both the sincerity and the absurdity of these vows, reminding us how often we ask too much of ourselves all at once.

History gives us many who wrestled with the desire to shed burdens both literal and symbolic. Consider the story of Henry VIII, who in later years grew so heavy and encumbered that he could barely move, his body a reflection of the weight of his unchecked desires and unfinished battles. Contrast this with the Stoic philosophers, who taught that the truest “weight loss” is the shedding of unnecessary passions, fears, and attachments. In this contrast we see that true resolution is not in numbers but in discipline, balance, and clarity.

There is wisdom, too, in the way Vardalos cloaks truth in laughter. Often, the heaviest burdens are easiest to confess through humor. The woman who jokes about thousands of pounds may also be hinting at the invisible weight she carries—the pressure of society, the expectations of beauty, the inner voice of doubt. Humor here becomes a shield, much like Erin O’Connor once spoke of clothing as armour. By laughing at her own resolutions, Vardalos disarms the shame that so often accompanies them, turning what could be despair into something bearable, even joyful.

The lesson is clear: when you make resolutions, do not load yourself with the impossible. Let your desire for renewal be realistic, yet let your heart remain light. Do not despise laughter in this process, for laughter itself is a kind of weight loss—it lifts the spirit even when the body remains unchanged. The true purpose of a New Year’s vow is not to punish yourself for what you are not, but to call yourself gently toward what you may yet become.

Practical wisdom flows from this: if you are writing resolutions, begin small. Choose a single habit to nourish, a single burden to release, a single step to take. Do not weigh yourself down with thousands of demands. And if you stumble, laugh, and begin again. The New Year is not a tyrant’s whip but a friend’s invitation, a reminder that life itself renews in cycles, and so can you.

So, children of tomorrow, take Nia Vardalos’s humorous words to heart: the weight you carry is not only of the flesh, but of the soul. When the year turns, do not demand that all three thousand pounds fall away at once. Instead, resolve to lift what you can, day by day, burden by burden, until you walk a little freer, laugh a little louder, and live a little lighter. In this lies the true spirit of renewal.