Why do we make New Year’s resolutions when we don’t stick to them?

Why do we keep making New Year’s resolutions, even though most of them fail?

Studies show only 12 percent of people stick to resolutions all year, yet millions resolve to improve their lives each January.

As a religious Jew, my introspection happens during the real New Year (you know, the one with apples, honey, and the shofar). Still, the cultural ritual of resolutions all around us this season fascinates me. Sociologists call this the “fresh start effect”: milestones like New Year’s offer a chance to leave behind failures and embrace renewal.

The desire to improve does not always lead to follow-through, but the impulse itself is transformative — and one we see emerge in the narrative arc of Genesis.

As we near the end of Genesis, we should zoom out to explore the journey we have been on. It’s not only Abraham and Sarah who set out from Haran to Canaan; rather, we too have traveled, and from the very words that open Genesis.

We’ve accompanied the first humans, witnessed the birth of the Abrahamic covenant, followed the drama of Joseph and his brothers, and now find ourselves in Egypt, with Joseph as viceroy confronting his family.

What is this journey?

The bookends of Genesis reveal a profound truth that took our ancestors generations to grasp and cuts to the core of what makes us human: we are moral beings with the ability to grow.

Genesis begins with Adam and Eve transgressing God’s command. When confronted—Ayeka — where are you? — they fail to reflect or repair. Perhaps, as the first humans, they did not understand growth was possible. In a world governed by physics and biology, where a fallen fruit cannot grow back, they may have assumed this rigid view applied to their moral lives as well. Instead of embracing repair, they deflect blame, pointing fingers at one another, and are exiled from paradise.

Medieval philosopher Rabbi Joseph Albo suggests their sin was not eating from the tree — that was inevitable — but failing to take responsibility for their actions.

Cain fares no better. After murdering his brother, Abel, he deflects with, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

These early stories highlight humanity’s greatest obstacle: the impulse to deflect and deny responsibility.

By the end of Genesis, after an intergenerational journey of struggle and transformation, we encounter two brothers who offer a glimpse of what it means to grow into moral agency.

* * *

Last week’s parasha ended with Pharaoh’s second-in-command (secretly Joseph) accusing Benjamin of theft and declaring he will keep him enslaved while the others return to Canaan. At this moment, Judah steps forward. He pleads for Benjamin’s freedom and offers to take his place.

This marks a shift in Judah’s character. Years earlier, he had proposed selling Joseph into slavery. Later, he deflected responsibility for his daughter-in-law, Tamar, nearly condemning her to death for promiscuity without reflecting on his own culpability.

Judah, now faced with the potential enslavement of Benjamin, could have easily chosen deflection. Benjamin appeared guilty of theft; imprisonment could have been justified. Judah might have resented his father’s favoritism, thinking it unfair that Benjamin’s life seemed to matter more than his own. He might have resigned himself to his past betrayal of Joseph, believing: This is just who I am.

But Judah refuses to let his past define him. He steps into a new identity as a moral agent, taking responsibility for Benjamin, his father’s well-being, and his family’s survival. In doing so, he breaks Cain’s curse — he becomes his brother’s keeper.

Joseph’s transformation follows. The Genesis text leaves his mindset ambiguous. Is he lovingly guiding his brothers toward teshuva (repair), as classical commentators suggest? Or is he initially driven by a desire for retribution?

As a self-centered youth, Joseph dreamed of others bowing to him. Had he remained that person, he might have been consumed by vengeance, seeking to punish his brothers — much like Dantes’s relentless obsession in Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. Yet Joseph transforms after witnessing Judah — Leah’s son — willing to sacrifice himself for Benjamin, Rachel’s son. His forgiveness is not naïve; it comes only after Judah’s speech demonstrates genuine change.

One detail in the Genesis story highlights Joseph’s greatness: though his brothers regret ignoring his cries, they never fully admit that selling him had been wrong. It would have been easy for Joseph to blame them for everything that went wrong thereafter too, but he does not do so. Unlike Adam and Eve, who shifted blame, Joseph takes a different path. He reveals his identity, comforts his brothers, promises to care for their families, and chooses forgiveness without waiting for their apology. In doing so, Joseph transcends blame, reframing his suffering as part of God’s plan to save them during the famine.

Joseph is known in Jewish tradition as “Yosef HaTzaddik” (Joseph the Righteous), a title perhaps rooted in his transformation — that is, from a self-absorbed youth dreaming of others bowing to him into someone who understands himself as a small part of a larger narrative.

While my own season of repentance and resolutions is anchored in Rosh Hashanah, there is something undeniably beautiful and grace-filled about the practice of New Year’s resolutions. They awaken a deep, primordial truth: we are not static beings. We can choose to embark on a journey of growth and becoming.

Regardless of whether we make or keep resolutions, this season provides moments for us to remember that we are moral agents, entrusted by God with the extraordinary gift of growth and change.

Happy 2025!