As we approach the end of February 2026, you’d think the buzz of New Year’s would have started to cool off. Instead, it feels like it’s building again.

Today marks the beginning of the Year of the Horse in the Chinese zodiac, and people are energised by it.

There was already a lot going on symbolically with 2025, and I think we all felt it. Numerologically, it added up to nine, a number associated with completion and endings. In the Chinese zodiac, it was the Year of the Snake, all about shedding old skin, closing chapters, and releasing patterns and behaviours that no longer fit.

The Year of the Horse, on the other hand, represents ambition, drive, freedom, forward movement. Two very different energies.

It seems a lot of people resonate with this change, and if anything, it tells me that January 1st didn’t quite deliver what we thought it would. After everything 2025 symbolised, the endings, the shedding, it felt like we were owed something bigger. We were ready to put it behind us and see the magic of 2026.

But when the clock struck midnight and January arrived, nothing really transformed. If anything, the heaviness intensified. I found myself in a loop of low motivation, low energy and low hope. I was ready to write off the year before it had even properly begun, pack up my things and try again next time.

My friend and I were both feeling it. We’d message each other half-jokingly, half-desperately reassuring ourselves, ‘It’s fine!! The real new year is in February. It’s still the Year of the Snake.’ As if we could extend the grace period by shifting the calendar slightly, as if we hadn’t technically started yet and therefore couldn’t have failed.

It got to the point where you’d say, ‘There must just be something in the air.’ For those of us in the gloomy UK, the endless grey skies and constant rain didn’t exactly help. Nothing screams motivation more than waking up to constant downpour five days in a row. It’s a sound that feels permanently lodged in my mind now, even when the skies are surprisingly clear. It’s like convincing yourself you can hear the phone ring when absolutely no one is trying to reach you.

Regardless, I think that’s why this second symbolic ‘new year’ feels so enticing. We all want another chance to get it right.

And if you’re anything like me, you love the symbolism of these mythological and celestial markers. There’s something comforting about the idea that the universe moves in cycles, and that we can move with it.

Today, with the sun finally out for a few hours, it does feel like a fresh start. The air feels lighter. There’s a soft sense of momentum. Maybe change really is in the air.

But I’ve been thinking about how psychologically we cling to these dates. How we wait for a new year, a new month, a new Monday to begin again. How anxious it can make me feel, as if, if I don’t start properly, the opportunity disappears. As if a whole year can be ruined by a slow January, as if time is that fragile.

I’ve even seen people say you shouldn’t wash your hair or take the bins out on the first day of the year, like a single domestic task could tip the scales of the next twelve months. And the thing is, for people who attach weight to these kinds of things, myself included, I would genuinely believe that one act could cause everything to come crashing down.

But humans invented calendars; we didn’t invent momentum, or the process of becoming.

And that doesn’t just happen at the stroke of midnight or depend on doing everything perfectly from day one.

Maybe the opportunity isn’t wasted when we don’t ‘start correctly.’ It merely waits for us to step back into it. I love the enthusiasm around this symbolic reset. I love the idea of ambition and forward movement.

But there’s no need to wait for a symbolic marker to begin, or for a flawless first week. And surprisingly, I can choose not to write off a year just because it didn’t feel magical straight away.

Time will pass regardless, whether it’s the Year of the Snake, the Year of the Horse, or something else entirely. The only fragile thing was my belief that I had already ruined it. And if I dare to go there, maybe momentum doesn’t arrive all at once, but builds each time you decide to keep going.

I’m drawn to think of that Britney Spears perfume advert, ‘I choose my own destiny.’ Slightly theatrical, in my true fashion. But fitting.

So here’s to the Year of the Horse, whether it’s your second beginning, or your third, fourth or fifth.

Photo by Andrey Soldatov on Unsplash

I wish I was joking with the title. I do. As a writer, I take pride in my way with words and my ability to paint a pretty picture (metaphorically, of course. My artistry isn’t quite there yet), but it’s gotten to the point where I’m just out of options. I’m looking back at all the advice I’ve ever heard, thinking, “Damnit! They have a point.”

Throughout my life, I’ve run into this ‘perfectionist’ thing a few times. Really irritating, wouldn’t recommend. Apparently, a few writers actually encounter it. Ever heard of it? Eh. I’m sure I’m just special and unique.

The point is, I’m finally at my wits’ end with it. Eventually, issues stop being so doom and gloomy and really just start being a pain in the ass. I open up a notebook, try to write, the voice in my head starts doing its thing. Previously, I would quake in fear and resolve to never touch a pen or keyboard again, to spare the world from my dreadful words. Now, it’s just kind of like, “Really? Is this the best you can do? I’m kind of busy here.”

But I digress. A goal of mine for years and years and years has been to write a book. Again, very special and very unique, I know. Venturing where no man has gone before. Yet after all these years of the same goal, I’m still yet to see a finished book. I probably get about two thousand words in before I curse myself for ever daring to try – as obviously the idea is completely horrendous, and who would ever want to read anything of the sort? I pre-reject my own writing and ideas before people even get to make up their own minds about me.

But then I think back to my Wattpad days, where I would sit and read on the very safe and great-for-your-eyes layout from a tiny phone. Reading a story that a thirteen-year-old wrote every day, only half of which made sense. I hate to say that at the time I would think, “Gosh, I can write better than this.” Almost scoffing at the audacity while I read. I don’t know what type of superiority complex I had going on back then. Did I read it anyway? Yes. The whole way through? Yes. Props to them – they got further than I ever did. I underestimated just how difficult it is to even be consistent with something, let alone consistent and good at something.

As I’ve gotten older, I understand the depth and bravery it takes to actually put yourself out there like that, whereas I shoot myself down before I even really try. My sister used to love hearing about the things I was writing and working on – it’s now gotten to the stage where I rush to her with this amazing new idea, and she just looks at me sideways, and the first thing she says is, “Yes, but will you actually do it?” 

I then get offended, of course, as how could she even ask that when this is my sole passion and new reason for living, and she should just forget about the other 300 ideas I got her excited about and never delivered on. I also have a friend from uni who made me promise to put his name in the acknowledgements of my book when I get it published. That was in 2019. This book is still imaginary. I hope he’s not still holding on to that promise.

Thus, bringing us back to the title of today’s piece: my new goal is to write the worst book you’ve ever read.

Upon reflection, maybe this is my perfectionism creeping in again. I’m sure I can settle for just a badly written book. It doesn’t have to be the WORST. Gosh. I even have to be the best at being the worst. Maybe the only thing I actually have to give up is the version of me who needs to be impressive.

But yes, shocking news. Therapists and coaches were right. You should just start badly. And writing badly with the aim of writing badly is quite freeing. I mean, it was painful at first. It seemed like every word I wrote was just evidence for why I should never write again.

It hurts to write badly. But it hurts more leaving goals unfinished.

Then, suddenly, the clouds of judgement and annoying subconscious self-protection seemed to be parting from above me.

I wonder if I should apply this to other areas of my life. Maybe this has been the answer all along. 2026: the year of doing things badly. Sounds like a whole lot of fun.

Well. If this is the worst book you ever read, at least it will exist.