I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. Don’t believe in them, because really, I like to think that my life and character are in a constant quest for improvement. Not that I’m reading self-help books all the time or looking for some moment of zen when everything in my universe snaps into place. Maybe, to put it simply, I like to believe that I’m getting better with age.

With age, then wisdom. And with wisdom, the truth. And finally, telling the truth to myself in the same way I would tell it to anyone else. The gorgeous, messed up boy who wanted me, but not enough to grow up more and drink less, isn’t going to reform. At least not on my watch. The womanizer who tore a hole through my circle of friends ain’t gonna apologize. And my former intended isn’t going to ratchet up the courage to say goodbye before moving to Afghanistan.

These are hard truths, but no longer unspoken. I speak them, face them, and then move past them.