Up until two days ago, I thought no TV series in the world could ever make me cry my eyes out like One Day did. Boy, was I wrong.

I finished watching Jack Rooke’s brilliant Big Boys and, because I am a human with a functioning heart, I followed it up with a 45-minute sob session on the sofa. No spoilers (please watch it), but I will say this: it’s a masterpiece.

Not just in a general “wow, what great TV” way, but in the way it honors friendships—real, messy, chaotic, imperfect, heartwarming friendships. The kind that shape you. I sat there watching the final episode, thinking how proud Rooke should be of himself for bringing Danny to life, a character who, at times, has felt like an extension of my own friendship group.

And then, in true Scorpio fashion, I turned inward.

Rooke did what I’ve been saying I want to do for the past nine months: write a book that, above all, honours my wonderful friend. But instead of sitting down and putting pen to paper, I’ve been stuck in an infuriatingly familiar mental dialogue that sounds a little like this:

No one cares.

No one is going to read it.

You’re being so dramatic and self-indulgent.

You’re not a good enough writer to honour such a complex story.

And, of course:

Just give up.

I’ll be honest, I was close to listening to that last one. Then I watched the final episode of a show I’d assumed would be a light watch. And it hit me: I have been an absolute bitch to myself. Even writing this, I hear that nagging voice: “No one cares about your internal monologue.”

But Jack Rooke didn’t sit there thinking, “No one cares about my little friendship group from uni ten years ago.” He told the story anyway. And on behalf of my swollen, tear-streaked face, I’m so glad he did.

That same day, on a video call with my friend back home, she asked, “So, when are you writing your next post?” My stomach dropped. “Soon,” I lied, because in reality, I’d been drowning out the idea of writing altogether. The voice in my head had grown so loud, so relentless, that it had convinced me to press pause on something I love.

So, I decided to try a little trick my therapist taught me for moments like this—when the self-doubt feels deafening. I imagined I was talking to my sister. Would I ever tell her to give up? That no one cares? That she’s not good enough? Absolutely not. Just the thought of speaking to her the way I’ve been speaking to myself makes my whole body seize up. So why do I do it to myself?

Because it’s easier. It’s easier to decide you can’t do something than to go through the blood, sweat, and tears of actually doing it. It’s easier to play the “woe is me” card than to risk failing.

But it’s 2025, and we are done using self-doubt as a cop-out. This year, and every year from now on, we’re showing up. We’re doing the work, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because the goal isn’t to do it perfectly—it’s to do it in the first place.