I remember when midnight meant something. Now it means sponsored moments and influencer appearances.
When I was a little girl, my family would gather around the television every December 31st to watch the New Year’s Eve ball drop in Times Square. It was magical. It was American. It was something we did together, as a family, before “together” became a scheduling conflict and “family” became a group chat that nobody responds to.
Last year, I watched alone. Reagan—my dog, not the president—fell asleep at 11:47. I made it to midnight because I’m not a quitter. But somewhere between the celebrity appearances and the cryptocurrency sponsorship, I realized: this isn’t a celebration anymore. It’s content.
What We’ve Lost
There was a time when the ball drop meant something. Dick Clark. Genuine excitement. Strangers kissing at midnight because they believed in new beginnings, not because they were creating footage for their Instagram stories. Now I watch performers I don’t recognize sing songs I’ve never heard to crowds holding phones instead of each other.
My daughter McKayleigh—who insists on spelling it that way—asked why I still watch. I told her it was tradition. She said tradition was “cringe.” I asked her what wasn’t cringe. She listed several things that I genuinely did not understand. Then she went back to her room.
I poured another glass of wine and thought about my grandmother, who watched the ball drop every year until she passed in 2019. She would have hated this. She would have hated all of it.
The Content Machine
Everything is content now. Weddings are content. Funerals will probably be content soon. The New Year’s Eve ball drop has become a three-hour commercial interrupted occasionally by a countdown. Last year I counted fourteen brand integrations before midnight. Fourteen. My grandmother counted her blessings. We count sponsorships.
And the performances! When did we decide that New Year’s Eve needed a “musical lineup”? It’s supposed to be a moment. A single, crystalline moment where the old year dies and the new year begins. Instead, we get someone named “Lil Something” performing a song about topics I refuse to repeat in print.
My ex-husband used to fall asleep by 10:30 every New Year’s Eve. At the time, I thought it was weakness. Now I think he was onto something.
This Year
I’ll watch again, of course. Reagan and I will take our positions on the couch. The wine will be poured. The disappointment will be familiar. And at midnight, when the ball drops and the confetti falls and everyone pretends this means something, I’ll raise my glass to what it used to be.
That’s the thing about tradition. Even when they hollow it out, even when they fill it with advertisements and influencers and whatever a “TikTok moment” is, some of us still remember. Some of us still watch. Some of us are still hoping that next year—next year—it’ll feel like it used to.
Happy New Year.
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