Each night, I randomly chose one folded wish to burn, trusting it to be carried off into the universe—until only a single wish remained, the one I was meant to honour myself.
In the run-up to New Year, my For You Page became flooded with TikTok videos about a 13 wishes ritual. Curiosity won. After a little late-night scrolling and some quick research, I decided to join in and make it part of my own New Year practice. On the 21st of December—the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year when darkness peaks and light begins its return—I wrote my wishes on separate slips of paper and began, choosing one at random each night to burn.
At first, I burned the wishes in an oil burner indoors, which felt cosy and symbolic but—spoiler alert—not exactly the safest choice. It was only when I fell behind with the ritual and tried to “catch up” that the universe sent a very loud warning. Burning paper inside can quickly set off your fire alarm, and when more than one slip of paper catches at once and mixes with hot wax from a candle, it can turn into a mini inferno. I ended up grabbing a wet tea towel and smothering the burner while thick smoke billowed through the room, silently thanking my past self for knowing that basic safety trick.
After that little drama, I pressed pause for a few days before burning the remaining wishes. The message was obvious: rituals can be magical, but they still exist in the real world with real flames, real smoke and real consequences. If you try this yourself, do it safely—think fireproof dish, good ventilation, and ideally, outside. The magic works just as well without almost setting off your smoke alarm.
The 13 wish ritual itself felt like a gentle rebellion against traditional New Year’s resolutions. Instead of writing a strict list of goals, I wrote thirteen heart wishes on separate slips of paper and folded them up. Each night, I randomly chose one folded wish to burn, trusting it to be carried off into the unknown—until only a single wish remained, the one I was meant to honour myself. The magic of the ritual is that the final, unburned wish is not handed over to fate; it is handed back to you.
My final wish was simple on paper and huge in practice: “Paint one painting per day for a year.” No caveats, no perfection clauses, just a clear daily commitment. It landed with a thud of truth. As an artist, there is always a gap between the work made and the work imagined. This wish is a bridge across that gap, built one small painting at a time. It is less about producing 365 masterpieces and more about who I become by showing up to paint every single day. Daily painters often describe this kind of structure as a powerful way to grow skills and confidence over time, precisely because the focus shifts from individual results to steady practice.
To make this wish realistic, I am giving it structure and kindness. I am choosing small formats—postcards, A6 pieces, tiny abstract panels—so a painting can be completed in around 20–40 minutes, a common strategy in daily painting challenges that keeps the habit sustainable. I am allowing “simple” pieces: colour studies, loose landscapes, playful mark-making and experiments all count. The rule is that a painting is finished when the timer goes off; my job is to start, stay present, and sign it. Quantity creates its own kind of quality over time, and daily work builds skills that occasional bursts of effort never quite reach.
There is also a practical container around this ritual. I will paint at the same time each day as much as possible, like a non‑negotiable meeting with myself, echoing advice from other long creative projects that emphasise routine and consistency. To remove friction, I will keep a small kit ready: a limited palette, pre-cut surfaces and a cleared space so I can begin quickly. I will track each painting in a simple log—date, title or description, maybe a quick note on how it felt. A visible streak, even on tough days, will remind me that the wish is alive and moving.
Of course, life will still happen. There will be tired days, travel days, busy days and “I don’t feel like it” days. Part of honouring this wish is building in compassion instead of perfectionism. If I miss a day, the ritual does not shatter; I simply begin again the next day, which is a mindset used in many 100‑day or daily creative challenges to prevent all‑or‑nothing thinking. Some days the painting will be a small, scrappy abstract or a five-minute colour block, and that is enough. The important part is returning to the page, the canvas, the surface—returning to myself.
By sharing this publicly here, I am turning a private New Year ritual into an open commitment. This blog will be the place where I occasionally reflect on what the daily painting practice is teaching me: about discipline, creative blocks, joy, boredom, and the quiet transformations that only appear when you repeat something for a very long time. If you are reading this and feel a tug, you might not need a 13 wish ritual to begin. You might just need one small, clear promise to yourself—something you can touch every day, even for a few minutes, and watch grow.
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