It's a new month. February. The blank page in my journal starts with one word: Dear.
Normally, my new years resolutions begin in February. That's only because I'm normally still catching up with life in January. The past year has been another rollercoaster ride. I found myself wrapping the year with a lot of tears and feelings of defeat. I write about that in my "Aperture" piece. But there's something about starting February with a renewed sense of excitement.
It's like "ah, yes, another month to live life, fearlessly."
I want to start my month with good intentions. So I started intentions with the word "Dear," as though I was writing a letter to February.
It suggests intimacy without expectation. You know, the kind of cute address without demand. It's just my moment where I get to play with words, intention and my own personal dreams in one little setting. When I sat down at the beginning of this month, pen hovering, paper empty except for that single word, I realized how rarely I allow myself this kind of pause. I'm usually a perfectionist. In other words: when I'm stuck, nothing gets done. But this time I just had to listen to what knocked me down the past year precisely — and how I'm going to fall back in love with life.
February has always carried a certain emotional gravity. It’s short, often cold and culturally saturated with messages about love — most of them externalized, performative or quietly anxiety-inducing. But this year, something feels different. Instead of bracing myself against the month, I find myself incredibly excited about it.
I love February. Let's start the month by setting our intentions.
In doing so, I stumbled into a question that sits at the heart of this piece: does setting intentions actually do anything for us — neurologically, psychologically, emotionally — or is it simply a comforting ritual we perform to feel momentarily in control?
The answer, it turns out, is more interesting than either extreme.
Intention is not a goal. Duh. And the brain knows the difference.
We often use “intention” and “goal” interchangeably, but from a psychological standpoint, they operate very differently.
Goals are outcome-oriented. They ask the brain to project forward — to imagine a future state and organize behaviour toward it. Intentions, by contrast, are process-oriented. They shape how we relate to what unfolds, not just what we want to achieve.
This distinction matters because the brain responds to uncertainty differently depending on the frame we give it.
Research in behavioural psychology suggests that when individuals orient themselves around intentions — values, attitudes, ways of showing up — rather than rigid outcomes, they experience greater psychological flexibility. That flexibility is associated with lower stress reactivity and better emotional regulation. In other words, intention doesn’t eliminate difficulty. It just changes how the nervous system meets it.
From a neuro-scientific perspective, intention-setting appears to engage the prefrontal cortex — the part of the brain responsible for meaning-making, self-regulation and long-term perspective. When we articulate intention, we’re not manifesting anything mystical. It's not black magic. We’re simply providing the brain with a coherent narrative. And coherence, especially under stress, is deeply stabilizing.
Burnout thrives in fragmentation and so, intention restores continuity.
February, for me, is not about discipline. I think of it as an opportunity to refresh my devotion for a better and balanced life.
When I think about what I want from this month, the word that keeps surfacing is falling.
Not achieving nor conquering. Falling — slowly, imperfectly — back into my own life.
I want to approach my health with pragmatism rather than punishment. To move my body because it is capable, not because it must be corrected. To eat in ways that feel nourishing without turning every decision into a moral referendum. To sleep more. To recover more honestly. To remember that being alive — and healthy enough to care — is not a given. It's something we're lucky to have been gifted to us the moment we wake up another day.
There is a particular cruelty in modern wellness culture that frames consistency as virtue and deviation as failure. Behavioural science tells us this binary thinking is not only inaccurate, it’s counterproductive. Shame activates the brain’s threat circuitry whereas, curiosity activates learning.
So this month, I’m choosing exploration over perfection.
That choice, small as it sounds, is neurologically significant. Studies on self-compassion show that people who approach behaviour change with curiosity and kindness, rather than self-criticism, demonstrate greater long-term adherence to healthy habits. Not because they try harder, but because their nervous systems are not constantly bracing for judgment.
Intention-setting works when willpower doesn't.
One of the most misunderstood aspects of burnout recovery is the role of willpower.
Willpower is metabolically expensive. It relies on executive function, which is already compromised under chronic stress. Intention-setting, by contrast, works upstream. It shapes perception before decision-making kicks in.
When you set an intention, you are essentially priming attentional networks in the brain. You’re telling your nervous system what to notice. And what we notice, not what we demand, drives behaviour. This is why intentions often feel quieter than goals. They don’t shout. They orient.
Clinical psychologists often emphasize that sustainable change occurs when identity shifts before behaviour does. Intentions help scaffold that identity. They allow us to say, This is how I want to relate to my life, rather than This is what I must accomplish to be worthy.
In a culture addicted to optimization, that’s a radical move.
I want to emphasize, however, that falling in love with life is not romanticism. It demonstrates your ability to navigate this crazy, chaotic world with resilience.
There’s a tendency to dismiss phrases like “falling in love with life” as sentimental. But resilience research tells a different story.
Positive affect — moments of appreciation, curiosity, meaning — broadens cognitive flexibility and builds psychological resources. This doesn’t mean ignoring hardship in any shape or form. It means expanding our capacity to hold it without collapsing.
When I write my intentions for February, I’m not scripting a perfect month. I’m creating a container. A place where effort and rest can coexist. Where setbacks don’t erase the experiment. It becomes a space where health is honoured without being weaponized against the self.
This matters because burnout is not cured by intensity. It’s cured by the safety we create for ourselves. And safety, neurologically speaking, comes from predictability, self-trust and permission to pause.
Now, I want to keep my letter to February open-ended. On purpose. This year, I'm not ending my letter with a list of demands or promises. I'm ending it with curiosity. That's the thing about intention. It doesn't close the story for us. It keeps it open with this excitement like it's an adventure.
So this month, my intentions are simple, even if the practice is not.
We're talking: how to meet my life with excitement and curiosity, care for my body without bargaining, explore health as an adventure (not discipline), let enthusiasm return without forcing it and making it performative and to remember that falling off track is part of being human — not evidence of failure.
No perfection here. Just attention. Just honesty. Just the quiet courage to begin again (and again and again). As exhausting as that might sound. It feels refreshing to approach life without the need to have it all figured out.
And maybe that’s the real power of intention-setting. Not that it guarantees outcomes, but that it gives us permission to live — thoughtfully, imperfectly, and with a little more grace — exactly where we are.
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From Matt's Rituals:
The Function Flow Cleanser is a pause in motion. Designed to cleanse without disruption, it refreshes the skin while keeping its rhythm intact. Simple, grounding, and restorative — the kind of clean that doesn’t ask for more.
