In the past, as New Year’s approached, I’d buy a fresh journal—the kind with blank pages for weekly, monthly, and yearly goals.
  I would sit down with good intentions and my favorite pen, a Pilot G-2, determined to reinvent myself.
  I’d write lists, read inspiring quotes, watch Ali Abdaal’s motivational YouTubes, and vow to become an improved Amy.
  This year, I’ve gone a different route.
  I took on a life coach.
  My mandevilla plant.
  It sits on the southwest side of my porch and behaves eerily human—moody, expressive, and definitely not afraid to share advice.
  Its tendrils, long fingerlike strings that move impressive distances during the day, begin each morning pressed against the window.
  But as the day progresses, those same tendrils start pointing at things—
  sometimes with attitude,
  sometimes more subtly,
  and occasionally with what sounds like a zen master’s voice.
  During those moments, when a tendril lifts toward a patch of sunlight, I can almost hear it whisper, Follow your light.
  I frown. Am I to buckle down and finish my novel? Or is it advising me to make a decision on that Mexico tour my husband and I have discussed? Or is it nudging me to take a look at something else on my bucket list?
  On other days, it’s less mysterious and more… judgmental.
  One morning, after I’d polished off a cookie for breakfast, every tendril—and there are many—angled sharply at me like scolding fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered back. “I’ll do better.”
  During a particularly lazy afternoon, the plant’s fingers pointed unmistakably toward the porch door, as if insisting, There’s a whole world out there. Get your Cuddleduds on and go explore.
  And the day all its tendrils aimed toward the doorway leading downstairs? I sighed, grabbed a garbage bag, and accepted my fate: the basement junk room wasn’t going to clean itself.
  To be fair, Mandevilla can also be a cheery encourager.
  One morning, it surprised me with a bright red flower—glowing as if lit from within. Share your strengths and talents. Brighten someone’s day.
  Feeling inspired, I pulled out a favorite recipe and imagined the delight on friends’ faces as I delivered still-warm treats.
  My plant has also stepped into the role of personal trainer.

• Yoga coach? I watch how it swivels, stretches, and holds a pose—exactly how I hope to someday.
• Tennis instructor? I notice how it unfailingly finds the “sweet spot” of sunlight—proof that placement matters.
• Physical therapy model? Its slow, deliberate movements are practically a demonstration of the exercises my PT doctor prescribes.
    It seems to understand something I often forget: goals aren’t achieved through one grand marathon of effort, but through steady progress and commitment.
    Mandevilla never misses a day.
    It never complains that it’s tired, cold, or “just not feeling it.”
    It simply responds to what nourishes it—and keeps at it.
    Mandevilla offers not just correction and coaching but motivation, too.
    Some days, its reaching tendrils seem to counsel: Extend yourself. Try that new thing. Stretch just a little farther than you think you can.
    And maybe that’s the most important lesson it’s offering me this year.
    I don’t need to reinvent myself. I don’t need an elaborate list of resolutions or a brand-new version of Amy.
    But I can take small, steady steps toward improvement. Yes, even if that means cutting back on cookie breakfasts.
    I can stay curious.
    I can turn, adjust, and stretch.
    I can take time to appreciate the many patches of sunlight.
    And most of all, I can keep reaching—quietly, steadily—toward whatever warms me, challenges me, or helps me grow.