Our Last Hogmanay: Preparing for a New Year as a Family On the Edge of Adventure

There’s a strange energy in the days between Christmas and New Year, especially when you’ve already taken the decorations down, and everyone else seems to still be living in a glitter-based limbo, where normalcy hasn’t quite resumed. Our tree was down and up in the loft on the 27th, with lights carefully wound around cardboard in a way that suggested future organisation, but we won’t be here to put the tree up again (we will most likely donate it). It wasn’t a dramatic statement, just a quiet “right, that’s enough now,” as I hate having the tree still up into the New Year. The decorations are packed away, probably forever traumatised by the glitter apocalypse of December, and somewhere in that tidy chaos, I realised something: we’re on the brink of a New Year that doesn’t look like any other we’ve lived through.

Because this New Year isn’t sneaking up on us. It’s standing right there in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, waving and asking uncomfortable questions while we pretend to be very busy with the crumbs at the bottom of the Pringles tub. Today is our last Hogmanay in Scotland, and every time I say that out loud, it sounds like I’m both proud and mildly terrified, as if I’ve put a giant exclamation mark on the end of a sentence that isn’t finished yet.

Hogmanay has always had a particular weight to it here; it’s not just an excuse for a party, it’s time for a pause, a breath and reflection. A moment where Scots collectively slap their thighs to stand up, saying, “Right then,” and look both backwards and forwards at the same time. There’s the bells at midnight, obviously; the fireworks and the cannon at Edinburgh Castle, the lone piper, the hand-holding, the song everyone knows across the world… but nobody quite sings properly; the hugging of people you’ve spent the evening mildly irritated by, and the odd tear that appears even when you swear you’re not feeling emotional and perhaps had a wee bit too much to drink, a kiss at midnight for luck. First footing; a tall, dark-haired, handsome man being the first to cross the threshold (Paul gets punted outside to walk back in with a gift of shortbread), opening the back door and front door to let out the old year and greet the new one. It’s ridiculous and heartfelt all at once, which is probably why it feels so important to mark it properly this year in our own way, even if we’re trying very hard not to turn it into a farewell tour.

What I keep reminding myself is that we’re not leaving Hogmanay or our Scottish roots behind like something forgotten at the back of a cupboard. Traditions aren’t fixed to a place; they’re stitched into people, their cultures and customs. We’ll still find a way to pause at the turn of the year wherever we are, even if it involves a dodgy internet connection, a different time zone, or explaining to someone what “lang may yer lum reek” means, and getting misty-eyed over a song they’ve never heard. We’ll still talk about what the year took from us and what it gave back, we’ll still mark the moment with intentions for what comes next and probably too much food.

So here’s to this Hogmanay: the last in our wee Scottish chapter, and the first in a whole new series of “well that didn’t go quite as expected” stories. We will carry the heart of it with us, whether we’re watching a stranger’s fireworks on a screen or discovering new midnight customs in a place we’ve never been. We’ll hold close the loud, the quiet, the awkward, the warm, and the utterly ridiculous bits in between. Because that’s what makes it ours; not perfect, just moments stitched together with laughter, chaos, and maybe a stray glitter flake that refused to leave the house months ago.

Preparing for a New Year like this feels less about resolutions and more about standing on the edge of something and admitting that yes, this is scary, but it’s also exactly where we’re meant to be.

Bring it on, 2026. We’re ready(ish).