At the age of 16 or 17, I developed an unusual fixation on stories of young men accidentally falling into canals on New Year’s Eve. Local news outlets thrived on these tales, often featuring drunken teenagers stumbling home from nightclubs, too intoxicated to secure a taxi, and tragically ending up in nearby bodies of water. I convinced myself this was a common occurrence (which it isn’t) and feared that if I let my guard down, I would also fall victim to such mishaps (which thankfully never happened). Whether these horrors occurred more frequently around the new year or were simply sensationalized in the media during that time was unclear, but the timing always felt ominous: the most dismal days of the year paired with haunting scenarios that evoke anxiety. This combination created a multi-layered sense of despair.

Throughout my conscious experience of “going out” on New Year’s Eve, I’ve associated December 31st with a mild sense of panic and morbid thoughts. This feeling could be seen as the manifestation of an overly cautious person’s version of the typical new year’s melancholy, a sentiment many seem to share. Various surveys over the years have confirmed that many view New Year’s Eve as a horror show or at least an unusually exhausting experience for what is marketed as a night of celebration. A 2012 study even noted that many Brits consider it “the most depressing night of the year,” a sentiment that resonates with my experiences.

The new year sits between periods of notable emotional strain. The days following Christmas can feel barren, leaving ample opportunity for self-reflection and brooding. Similarly, the initial weeks of the new year often bring their own challenges: dwindling bank accounts, faltering resolutions, and the last remnants of holiday treats. This dark date encapsulates a convergence of worries, contemplation, and indulgences.

This backdrop of anxiety is perhaps why so much pressure surrounds the day itself. Aware of our emotional turmoil, we feel compelled to overcompensate, resulting in exaggerated merriment and the performance of joy. Those attending outdoor events, like the fireworks at the London Eye, often appear pained when the reality sets in: while they might be avoiding a chilly nightclub queue, they are instead crammed into a mass of increasingly impatient tourists, listening to a mediocre performer stall for time. Meanwhile, bars and clubs resonate with quiet desperation, where patrons seek not only someone to kiss at midnight but also a memorable experience to counteract the regret that often accompanies these festivities. Such expectations rarely materialize.

Over the years, I’ve tried various ways to celebrate New Year’s Eve: the loud and boisterous, the cozy and familial, as well as experiences both single and coupled. I’ve never gone to bed early, holding on to a tradition I find burdensome. Yet every New Year’s, I can’t help but ponder what other activities I could be engaging in. The night is rife with thoughts of greener pastures; one could easily feel resentment helping someone navigate the aftermath of a night of excess or experience FOMO while watching Jools Holland’s New Year’s Eve special. Discontent seems to be an inherent part of the celebration.