I remember reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby many years ago, at a time when I was young enough to think I understood despair, but old enough to know I didn’t fully. The premise was deceptively simple, almost absurd: four strangers, each planning to end their lives, meet one another on the same rooftop on New Year’s Eve. They don’t know each other. They don’t arrive together. They just happen to converge at the same edge, at the same time, each carrying their own private reasons for wanting everything to stop.
What struck me wasn’t the darkness of it. It was what happened next.
Instead of jumping, they talk. They argue. They irritate one another. And eventually, they make a pact — not to be happy, not to fix their lives, not to suddenly believe everything will be okay — but simply to stay alive until the next year. Just that. A postponement. A pause. A small, almost unimpressive commitment.
And somehow, in that waiting, their lives begin to gather just enough meaning to keep going.
I’ve been thinking about that book again lately, perhaps because we are approaching another year’s end. That strange stretch of time where calendars run out, reflections begin, and people start asking themselves quiet, dangerous questions. Was this year worth it? Did I do enough? Am I enough?
It is deeply intriguing — and unsettling — that the end of the year, a moment culturally framed as celebratory and hopeful, is also associated with heightened emotional distress for many. Mental health organisations in both Western and Asian contexts have observed that periods surrounding the New Year often coincide with spikes in crisis calls and emotional vulnerability. Psychologists point to the weight of reflection, comparison, and perceived failure that often comes with year-end thinking.
We are told the New Year represents a fresh start. But for some, it feels more like an audit.
In Western cultures, the New Year is often framed around reinvention. New year, new you. Resolutions are made, goals are set, and the unspoken assumption is that progress must be visible and measurable. If you are not moving forward, you are falling behind. The calendar turns, and with it comes the pressure to become someone better — thinner, richer, happier, more accomplished.
In many Asian cultures, the New Year carries a different, though no less heavy, emotional load. Whether it is Lunar New Year or the Gregorian one, it is often about accounting — not just of personal achievement, but of familial duty. Have you lived up to expectations? Have you honoured your responsibilities? Have you made your elders proud? Success is communal, but so is perceived failure. Reflection does not happen in isolation; it echoes through family gatherings, casual questions, and well-meaning comparisons.
Different cultures, different languages — but the same quiet reckoning.
And for some people, that reckoning hurts.
What fascinates me — and unsettles me — is how the New Year compresses time. Twelve months are reduced into a single judgment. A life becomes a ledger. Moments of survival, endurance, and unseen resilience are easily overlooked because they don’t translate neatly into celebration.
Psychological studies on depression and year-end stress often point to this phenomenon of cognitive summarising — the human tendency to condense complex experiences into simple narratives. Good year. Bad year. Success. Failure.When people are already vulnerable, this kind of summarising can feel brutally final.
This is where A Long Way Down continues to linger for me.
Hornby doesn’t offer miracles. The characters don’t suddenly find joy or clarity. What they find instead is something quieter: postponement. Connection. The realisation that staying is sometimes an act of resistance rather than optimism. That choosing to remain alive does not always require hope — sometimes it only requires company, or curiosity, or the willingness to delay a decision.
There is something deeply humane about that.
We often talk about hope as if it must be bright and confident. As if hope requires belief. But many psychologists and crisis counsellors speak instead about holding on — about helping people get through the next hour, the next day, the next arbitrary marker of time. Not because everything will magically improve, but because life has a way of changing in ways we cannot predict when we give it more time.
Patience is a difficult word here. It can sound dismissive, even cruel, when someone is in pain. Just be patient often lands as just endure. But patience, in this context, is not passive suffering. It is an active choice to delay finality. To say: I don’t know what comes next, but I will stay long enough to find out.
That is not weakness. That is courage.
In many Asian philosophies, patience is not about waiting idly; it is about endurance with awareness. In Buddhist thought, suffering is not denied, but observed. In Confucian traditions, perseverance is tied to moral strength. In Malay wisdom, there is a quiet reverence for sabar — not as silence, but as steadiness. These traditions do not promise that pain will disappear quickly. They suggest instead that staying present through hardship is itself meaningful.
Western narratives, on the other hand, often rush toward resolution. Healing arcs. Redemption stories. Comebacks. While these stories can inspire, they can also alienate those who are still in the middle — those whose lives do not yet resemble a before-and-after montage.
Perhaps what we need, especially at the turn of the year, is more permission to exist in the middle.
Mental health research consistently shows that connection — even brief, imperfect connection — can significantly reduce feelings of isolation and hopelessness. Crisis intervention models emphasise not problem-solving first, but presence. Being heard. Being seen. Knowing that someone else is on the rooftop too, even if they arrived there for different reasons.
This is what Hornby’s characters stumble into accidentally. They don’t save each other with wisdom or answers. They save each other by being inconveniently human — flawed, annoying, persistent.
And maybe that’s the message we need as another year ends.
You do not need to decide whether your life is a success before the calendar changes. You do not need to summarise yourself. You do not need to know what the next year holds. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is what those four strangers did: stay. Delay. Make a small pact with yourself to remain here a little longer.
Stay until the next year.
Then the next week.
Then the next conversation.
Then the next unexpected moment of meaning.
Hope does not always arrive as a revelation. Sometimes it arrives disguised as time.
So if this season feels heavy — if the fireworks feel hollow, if the countdown feels accusatory rather than celebratory — know this: the fact that you are still here matters. Even if you don’t yet know why. Even if you are tired of being patient. Even if joy feels out of reach.
Life has a strange habit of reshaping itself when given enough space.
And sometimes, staying alive is not about believing everything will get better.
Sometimes, it is simply about choosing not to decide today.
Author’s Note:
If you — or someone you know — are feeling overwhelmed, hopeless, or in crisis, please know that you are not alone. There are people and organisations in Singapore who care deeply and are ready to listen without judgment. You can reach out to the Samaritans of Singapore (SOS) at their 24-hour hotline — they provide confidential emotional support for anyone in distress. You can also contact Oogachaga’s WhatsApp Counselling, which offers support particularly for the LGBTQIA+ community and anyone seeking a safe, affirming space to talk through difficult feelings.
Reaching out for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. It’s okay to ask for support. It’s okay to stay. And it’s okay to take one small step at a time.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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