HEIA – Head uut aastat! Happy New Year!

Estonians in Australia (HEIA) is a meeting place for everyone connected by Estonia and life in Australia. It is a website created by the community itself that keeps Estonians connected—sharing stories, events, important practical information, and cultural and community life across the entire continent. HEIA was born from a desire to keep the Estonian spirit alive even far from the homeland, offering a warm and open space where every Estonian—regardless of their place of residence or generation—is welcome. Kristel Alla, editor of HEIA, put together these New Year's greetings along with her own memories and reflections.

Hello you. Yes, you — wherever you are in the world, whatever you’re seeing when you peek out the window (a blazing sun or big piles of snow). Here come our New Year’s greetings — sent with love, optimism and with a lingering smell of fireworks up in the air.

It’s the first day of the year. A reset. A cosmic Ctrl + Alt + Delete. That magical moment when we open our eyes and briefly believe we are brand new people who definitely drink more water, reply to emails on time and exercise every morning.

Hold onto that feeling. Hide it in your pocket. Use it recklessly all year.

Growing up in Estonia, 31 December was not just a date — it was an EVENT. On par with Christmas Eve, easily. Possibly better.

Christmas came with obligations. Because in Estonia, Santa does not simply give. Santa demands performance. You sing. You dance. You recite a poem you half-forgot. You prove yourself worthy. Only then may you approach the presents. Christmas was about the real tree and the pressure.

New Year’s was chaos, joy, fireworks and zero expectations — except happiness and new beginnings.

I’ve had the privilege of celebrating New Year’s in different forms, both in Estonia and in Australia — loud ones, quiet ones, sweaty ones, rainy ones, and ones involving animals that absolutely should not be walked.

There was the year I arrived in Australia as a backpacker and welcomed the New Year by claiming a patch of lawn near the Sydney Opera House at 7am. Yes. Seven. In the morning. We stayed all day. Like champions. As one does when in Sydney. Those fireworks are world famous after all.

The fireworks? Incredible, as advertised. Deafening. Worth every minute. The sunburn? A brutal but very Australian souvenir.

Then there was the New Year in Bundaberg, Queensland — rainy, slow, gentle. It rained for days, which meant cosy reading marathons and supply runs between downpours.

On one such run, I noticed a small crowd behind my fence. Curious, I stepped closer and discovered the reason:

My neighbour was walking his snake. Yes, you read that right. A snake.

We learned that Adam — bearded, calm, unbothered — occasionally takes his elderly python for a stroll. The snake had once arrived injured, been lovingly rehabilitated, and now lived a comfortable life involving occasional school visits and one rat per month. (No, Adam wasn’t schooling his python — he was showing it to schoolchildren, with permission from teachers, apparently.)

The python tolerated gentle pats. I patted it, pretending to be brave while every fibre in my body screamed absolutely not. I did not put the python around my neck, as Adam suggested. Because I enjoy living.

New Year’s memories really do come in all forms.

New Year’s has always been loud in Estonia — gloriously so. Everyone went outside with fireworks and säraküünlad, regardless of weather or common sense.

When midnight struck, we hugged everyone. Friends. Neighbours. Strangers. People we’d never see again. We yelled “head uut aastat!” into the night like it was a group project and we were all equally responsible.

Even walking home, you shouted “head uut aastat!” at passing strangers. For a few magical minutes, everyone was your people.

Living in Australia means I get two New Years. One Australian. One Estonian. It’s double the joy and double the messaging chaos.

Messages before midnight. Messages after. Phone calls across time zones. Pots bubbling on the stove while one hand sends “head uut aastat!” messages at lightning speed.

Sometimes it’s chaotic. Sometimes it’s exhausting. Sometimes I wonder why I agreed to cook and bake and coordinate time zones.

And yet — I love it. Because that’s the one time of year when even the busiest teenagers, the hardest-to-reach relatives, the young, the old — everyone pauses. Everyone sends that message. We all show up.

Another long-standing tradition I picked up as a teenager in Estonia — from where, no one knows — is closing my eyes at midnight and making wishes for the year ahead. Wishes for me, wishes for loved ones.

Sometimes I only have two wishes, other times it takes me 12 minutes to list them all. I never share them. They change every year. Health. Love. Dancing next New Year’s Eve. A million dollars on my bank account. Very reasonable requests, honestly. Some come true. Some don’t. That’s fine. The ritual is the point.

Another long-standing tradition in my family is reading everyone’s horoscopes aloud. What is it about Estonians and horoscopes? They’re on national television every New Year. Predictions for the country. Predictions for everyone.

A national hobby of collectively imagining a better future.

The start of the New Year feels, at least to me, is like someone somewhere presses a reset button and says: “You can bring everything you’ve built so far — but leave your regrets behind that door.”

You don’t get to carry negative baggage into 2026. No emotional overpacking allowed. No heavy backpacks filled with old disappointments. Just hopes. Dreams. Curiosity. Kindness.

Good intentions for yourself, your people, your community? Step across the threshold.

Here’s the secret: you are in charge of this year. You get to feed the hope. Protect it. To make this year what you want it to be. And if you forget? The reset button works anytime. Not just today.

Happy New Year! Head uut aastat! 💙