I'm Tripling Down on Failure and the Universe Is Screaming

My Goodreads goal went from ambitious to absolutely unhinged in one decision.

Last January, I did what every optimistic person does at the start of a new year. I set a goal. A big one. One that felt achievable in the moment but would later reveal itself to be the aspirational dream of someone who forgot what their actual life looks like.

I told Goodreads I would read 48 books in 2025.

Forty-eight.

That’s four books a month. One book a week. A pace that assumes I have endless free time, zero distractions, and the discipline of someone who definitely does not spend an hour watching TikTok videos of people organizing their junk drawers with $400 worth of clear plastic containers from The Container Store.

I don’t know what possessed me to believe I was that person. The kind of person who reads a book a week like breathing. Like they don’t also have a full-time job and a tendency to stare at their ceiling fan for extended periods while thinking about how someone had to invent the ceiling fan and that person probably got rich and good for them.

But there I was. January first. Fresh start energy. New year, new me, new reading habits. I was going to be the kind of person who finishes books. Who has thoughts about books. Who casually mentions what they’re reading in conversation without it being a complete fabrication told to avoid admitting I’ve been rereading the same three pages of a thriller for two weeks.

I read 22 books.

Less than half.

Not even in the same neighborhood as half.

And you know what the worst part is? I saw this coming around June. I checked my progress and realized I was already way behind. Like, mathematically impossible to catch up unless I started audiobook-ing during every shower, which sounds like a recipe for pruney fingers and water damage to my relationship with literature.

But did I adjust my goal? Did I lower it to something realistic like 30 books, which would’ve still been ambitious but at least within the realm of human possibility?

Absolutely not.

I left it at 48 because adjusting mid-year felt like admitting defeat to an app that doesn’t even know I exist. Like I was giving up on the version of myself who set that goal. The version who thought she could read 48 books while also working full-time, maintaining a social life, remembering to buy groceries before the milk situation became a biohazard, and occasionally showering.

So instead of lowering the goal, I just accepted my fate as a reading failure. I watched the little progress bar on Goodreads slowly inch forward like a snail with arthritis while the deadline loomed closer. Every time I opened the app, it reminded me how far behind I was. Like a passive-aggressive friend who keeps texting “hey just checking in on that thing you said you’d do” except the friend is an algorithm and the thing is my self-worth.

Every time I thought about reading, I had to do the math. If I finish this one, I’ll still need 26 more. If I read two this month, I’ll still be 15 behind. If I somehow finish three, I’m still doomed.

It stopped being fun. Reading became an obligation. A chore. A reminder that I couldn’t even commit to something I actually enjoy without turning it into a performance review where I’m both the employee and the disappointed manager.

Which brings me to next year.

I’m setting my Goodreads goal to 72 books.

Yes. You read that correctly. Seventy-two.

Fifty percent more than the goal I just totally failed to achieve.

Why? Simple. If I’m going to fail anyway, I might as well fail even harder. Go big or go home, except I’m already home, alone, failing at reading while wearing my favorite sweatpants with the hole in the crotch that I refuse to throw away because they’re still very comfortable.

Setting my goal to 72 books is like doubling down at a blackjack table when you’ve already lost three hands in a row. Probably inadvisable. Emotionally questionable. But spiritually? Chef’s kiss 💋.

The Universe clearly enjoys watching me set ambitious goals and then trip over my own shoelaces trying to achieve them. So why not give the Universe better material? Why aim for something reasonable when I could aim for something so absurd that when I read 25 books next year, I can say “well, that’s 25 more than zero” and feel like a champion?

Plus, there’s something freeing about setting a goal so unrealistic that failure becomes the expected outcome. When you aim for 30 books and read 22, you feel bad. When you aim for 72 and read 22, you’re basically a hero for even trying.

I’m reframing the entire concept of goals. Instead of setting something achievable and feeling disappointed when I fall short, I’m setting something impossible and feeling impressed when I get anywhere close.

Next year, when Goodreads sends me that smug little notification that says “You’re 47 books behind schedule,” I’ll laugh. I’ll screenshot it. I’ll send it to my book club friends with the caption “lol remember when I thought I could read 72 books” and we’ll have a good chuckle about my consistent inability to accurately assess my own capacity for reading.

And you know what? I’ll probably surprise myself. I’ll read 30 books. Or 35. And when I do, I’ll feel like an overachiever instead of an underachiever, which is really the psychological gymnastics I’m going for here.

Setting a goal of 72 books is strategy disguised as delusion. I’m lowering expectations by raising them so high they loop back around to being manageable. Like when you eat an entire pizza and then declare you’re starting a diet tomorrow so technically you’re already thinking about health.

Growth can look like aiming higher. Or realizing you were aiming at the wrong target all along. Or aiming at a target so far away that missing it becomes funny instead of sad. A comedy show instead of a tragedy.

Next year, I’m going to fail bigger, laugh harder, and read exactly as many books as I feel like reading without doing math about it until December 31st when Goodreads sends me my annual “you tried” participation trophy.

The Universe has been watching me set goals and miss them for years now. Time to give it a show worth watching. Time to fail so hard and so deep that even the algorithm feels bad for judging me.

And you know what? That sounds perfect.