If you asked me what month we were in, I’d probably say March. Not because I don’t know—it’s June—but because mentally, I’m still catching up. It’s like life hit the fast-forward button, and I didn’t get the memo. I was standing on a footbridge in Ruaka, headphones in, watching the slow chaos of the city unfold below. Somehow, all that movement made me reflect: What have I actually done this year? And why does everything feel like a blur?

It’s easy to lose track. Wake up. Scroll. Work. Scroll. Eat. Scroll. Sleep. Repeat. Somewhere in there, we convince ourselves that this cycle is progress. That we’re “trying.” But are we?

I recently took a trip to Naivasha. Not the bougie, boat-ride, champagne Naivasha you see on Instagram. I’m talking dusty roads, motorbike rides, and vibandas with smoky chicken frying in reused oil. It was quiet. Slower. Real. It felt like a place where people don’t pretend. Where effort isn’t aesthetic—it's survival.

I met a woman selling handwoven baskets outside a petrol station. She had the kind of energy that makes you pause. I asked her how long she’s been doing it. She smiled and said, “Since before the bypass.” That’s over ten years. I asked if she still loved it. “It feeds my children,” she said. “That’s enough love for me.”

That hit me. Because that’s trying. That’s waking up to do something hard, even when no one claps for you. And maybe that’s where we’re getting it wrong. We’ve romanticized trying so much that we expect it to look glamorous, curated, or at least Instagrammable. But trying often looks like showing up tired. Like walking into a room where you know no one. Like googling “how to start a business” for the 100th time and still feeling lost.

Mornings now feel different to me. Not magical, not aesthetic—just possible. I take a walk at 6 a.m. in my dusty trainers, past the estates where everyone’s gates look the same. I pass security guards rubbing their hands together for warmth, mamas mboga setting up with small radios playing gospel in the background. There’s beauty in that rhythm. A quiet kind of trying. A trying that doesn’t announce itself—but is happening all the same.

Let’s talk content. I know, I know—everyone has something to say. But I miss when it was weird and raw. When people posted things because they wanted to, not because they had to. I’m tired of seeing the same dances, same “soft girl era” routines, same aesthetics recycled like bad memes. It’s exhausting. Authenticity isn’t vintage—it’s necessary. I want to see your weird hobbies. Your messy room. Your art that doesn’t make sense. Not everything has to be viral. Just real.

And speaking of real—can we be honest about how many of us are living with low-key imposter syndrome? We don’t try because we think we don’t belong. We don’t apply because “there’s someone better.” We don’t start because what if it fails? News flash: everything might fail. But what if it doesn’t? What if that awkward little idea you have in your Notes app changes someone’s life? Or even just makes one person smile?

The other day I walked into a new art studio in town. I’ve always wanted to learn how to throw clay, and this place looked like something out of a Pinterest board. I almost turned back—everyone inside looked like they belonged. I walked in anyway. I sucked. My first pot looked like a shriveled fruit. But I went back the next day. And the next. Now I’ve got three wobbly bowls and a new thing to look forward to every weekend. That’s the magic of trying—it doesn’t guarantee success, but it guarantees motion.

This year, I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing momentum. Movement. Messy first steps. I want to try new food, visit random towns, listen to music I can’t understand, wear colours that don’t “flatter my skin tone,” dance badly, write nonsense, and love deeply—even if it doesn’t last. I want to live like effort is beautiful. Because it is.

Trying is not failure. It’s not cringe. It’s human. It’s brave.

So if you’re scared, uncertain, unsure—you’re exactly where you need to be. Start anyway. Text that person. Sign up for that class. Open that savings account. Share your weird little poetry. Go to that networking event where you only know the host. Try dumplings, or skating, or Mandarin. Try life.

You don’t owe anyone perfection. You owe yourself permission.

Here’s to the quiet power of starting anyway.