New years always begin with hope. Maybe it’s the start of the month, the turning of clock anew but for some reason, we as human beings are all filled with new aspirations, and collectively want to start again.

I began this year with the goal of writing a column every month, but if we’re being honest, writing this took longer than initially planned. Every writer knows the peculiar allure of procrastination—the way folding laundry becomes a form of meditation and scrubbing the sink suddenly feels like a noble mission when faced with the terror of a blank page.

Over the past six months, I’ve been editing articles with a focus that only comes from avoiding my own creative projects. I like to think of myself as a surgeon with a scalpel, but really, it’s more like wielding a pair of kitchen scissors and hoping for the best. Fixing other people’s words feels safer—less like walking a tightrope and more like rearranging deck chairs. Sure, the ship might still sink, but at least the chairs look nice.

But in the spirit of the New Year and all its hopeful promise, I’ve decided to challenge myself: to write something of my own. Something messy, unpolished, and maybe even imperfect. And since you’re most likely reading this in the middle of January, it’s the perfect time to remind yourself that starting late is still starting.

Our January’s cover story is particularly uplifting, almost twenty years my junior Marianna possesses knowledge that it took me a longer time to understand. That failure is inevitable and the greater strength is trying again.

On paper, that sounds simple enough. But when you’re raised to believe that nothing should be started unless it can be finished perfectly, the very act of beginning feels revolutionary. It’s far easier to say no, to stick to what you know you can excel at, to avoid the prospect of failure altogether.

And yet, this issue of PULSE is dedicated to embracing the art of trying—of daring to do something even when you know you won’t be the best at it. Whether it’s taking up a new hobby, learning a new skill, or simply writing the story you’ve been too afraid to tell, I hope this month’s pages inspire you to take that first, faltering step.

Because here’s the thing: no one ever told me that the act of doing something badly can be its own kind of victory. That there’s a strange, unshakable joy in creating something imperfect. That in every clumsy sentence, every half-formed idea, there’s the quiet, persistent whisper of possibility.

And if nothing else, remember this: perfection isn’t the goal. The goal is simply to begin.