funny.

mine have always answered in women's voices.

they arrived like rain that never asked permission,

watering the parts of me i had mistaken for deserts,

until even my grief began growing gardens.

i have watched girls

turn ordinary afternoons

into heirlooms.

we call it "hanging out."

time calls it

miracle.

friendship wears such humble clothes.

it disguises itself as

"have you eaten?"

"i'm outside."

"send your account number."

"text me when you get home."

love has always enjoyed pretending

it isn't love.

and maybe that's its favourite joke.

my sisters are cathedrals disguised as people,

their ribs stained-glass windows

letting light pass through

without asking permission from the darkness.

they have held my name

like it was fragile china,

never dropping it

even when i handed it to them with shaking hands.

some stitched laughter

into the hems of my worst days.

some folded prayers

into my pockets

without telling me.

some stood so close to my storms

the rain started calling them family.

tell me,

what florist sells women like these?

i'd like to buy the whole shop,

but my wallet and i

are currently conducting

a long-distance relationship.

it sends apologies.

i send poems.

we're both broke.

only one of us is useful.

there are girls

who make silence feel like abandonment.

and there are girls

who sit beside your silence

until it remembers

how to become language again.

mine are the second kind.

they have argued with my fears

like older sisters scolding stubborn children.

they have bullied my sadness

with stubborn hope.

even my loneliness,

that proud tenant who refuses to pay rent,

packs a suitcase

whenever they arrive.

their love is strange.

it never knocks.

it already knows where the spare key is.

they loved me

before i became someone

i could comfortably introduce to mirrors.

before healing learned my address.

before joy remembered my name.

before i stopped apologizing

for existing too loudly

and hurting too quietly.

they looked at every cracked version of me

and called it

"home."

what an outrageous thing

to do.

what a beautiful crime.

today is international girlfriend's day.

but truthfully,

every day has secretly belonged to them.

the calendar simply gathered enough courage

to admit it.

so here's to the girls

who became constellations

without asking the sky for permission.

the girls who carry suns

inside ordinary conversations.

the girls whose laughter

teaches empty rooms

how to echo again.

the girls who prove,

again and again,

that blood may make relatives,

but love...

love keeps adopting daughters.

happy girlfriend's day.

may your hearts always find hands

gentle enough to hold them.

and if the world ever forgets

what miracles look like,

i know a few girls

it should meet.

nothing cinematic. nothing symbolic at first. just gravity doing what it does. his face tightens, tears rise naturally, instinctively, like breathing. and before the crying can fully become what it is, someone says:

“stop crying like a girl.”

and that’s where it starts.

not the crying.

the shame.

because a lot of people don’t realize how early boys are taught that being human is optional, but being “a man” is mandatory. and “being a man” usually just means removing everything soft from yourself until there’s not much left but control, silence, and anger that doesn’t know where to go.

and let me be clear with you from the start, like we’re just talking: this is not a “men vs women” thing. it’s not a scoreboard. it’s not a competition of pain.

it’s a system problem. and it ruins everybody in different ways.

masculinity itself is not the problem.

real masreculinity is not loud. it’s not cruel. it’s not domination dressed up as confidence. real masculinity is restraint. it’s protection without possession. it’s strength that doesn’t need to prove itself by hurting anything.

it’s the kind of man who can be firm without being violent. soft without being weak. present without being controlling.

real masculinity is steady.

but what a lot of boys actually grow up with is not masculinity. it’s performance. it’s pressure. it’s a script that says:

don’t cry. don’t complain. don’t be soft. don’t be “like a girl.”

and that last line does more damage than it sounds like it should.

because when “like a girl” becomes an insult, something quietly breaks in how language teaches value. femininity stops being seen as human variation and starts becoming a shortcut for weakness. and language doesn’t stay harmless.

words carry culture inside them.

take something as small as “pussy.” it originally refers to female anatomy, but somewhere along the line it became slang for weakness, cowardice, lack of toughness. so now the word doesn’t just describe a body part anymore – it gets used to insult men for not being “strong enough.” femininity, by association, becomes something to degrade in order to elevate masculinity.

same thing with “bitch”… most of us learned in school it means a female dog. simple. neutral. but socially, it got twisted into a way to talk down on women, reduce them, dismiss them, or strip them of seriousness. it turns into something people throw around to shrink a woman’s voice without having to argue with what she’s actually saying.

even phrases like “you run like a girl” sound harmless until you unpack them. because what they’re really saying is: feminine movement, feminine expression, feminine presence is inferior.

none of this is loud on its own. it builds slowly. repetition after repetition. joke after joke. insult after insult. until language itself starts carrying bias without people noticing.

so what happens in boys growing up inside that language?

they don’t stop feeling. they just stop naming it honestly.

sadness becomes anger.

fear becomes control.

loneliness becomes aggression.

hurt becomes silence.

and after a while, anger becomes the only emotion that still feels socially allowed.

that’s why some men don’t look sad when they’re breaking down. they look angry, shut down, distant, explosive. not because that’s who they are, but because that’s what survived the editing process of growing up male.

and when you grow up emotionally starved but still expected to function, control starts feeling like identity.

this is where things start bleeding into how people see others. because when someone is taught to reject softness in themselves, they often start rejecting it wherever they see it.

that’s one of the ways misogyny forms. not as some cartoon version of “hating women,” but as a learned distortion: turning femininity into a symbol for everything a boy was trained to suppress in himself.

softness. emotion. vulnerability. openness. dependency. care.

human traits get mislabeled as “female traits,” and then quietly devalued. but we should be honest about what that actually is: misogyny is not masculinity.

misogyny is insecurity shaped by conditioning until it starts organizing how someone sees other people. it shows up as entitlement, control, disrespect, or the refusal to fully recognize women as equal humans instead of roles.

and none of that is instinct. it’s learned. absorbed. repeated.

boys don’t wake up with it. they grow into it through what gets praised, what gets mocked, what gets punished, and what never gets corrected. and on the other side of this, women are not untouched by it either.

there’s a different kind of experience that builds there. caution. awareness. inherited fear that shows up early and stays:

don’t walk alone at night.

watch your drink.

text when you get home.

be careful around men.

that kind of thinking doesn’t come from imagination. it comes from lived reality and passed-down experience.

so when women become guarded, or exhausted, or even angry, it’s not about superiority. it’s about protection shaped by repetition.

and that’s also why some reactions get misunderstood.

a woman saying “i don’t need a man” is often read as hostility, even when it’s just independence or fatigue speaking. meanwhile, statements like “women belong in the kitchen” are so openly degrading that they reveal something immediately about how normalized disrespect can be.

and that contrast says a lot about how power and language interact. because one statement challenges dependency while the other reinforces domination.

they are not the same category.

and if we’re being real, this isn’t about pretending people don’t get things wrong on all sides. individuals are messy. men can be harmful. women can be harmful. anyone can be.

but the structure underneath those behaviors is not evenly distributed, and ignoring that just turns every conversation into noise instead of understanding.

what you actually see underneath all of this is a shared distortion expressed differently.

boys are often taught to abandon softness to survive. girls are often taught to reduce their presence to stay safe.

different instructions. same system. different injuries. and that leaves people meeting each other through defense instead of understanding.

men who can function but can’t express.

women who can perceive everything but don’t feel safe expressing fully.

everyone interpreting each other through survival mode instead of clarity.

so when i talk about masculinity, femininity, misogyny, language – i’m not picking sides in a gender war but pointing out how the same system shows up differently in different people, and how it gets reinforced through the smallest things we say without thinking.

because healthy masculinity was never meant to be control.

healthy femininity was never meant to be submission.

they were never meant to sit on opposite sides of a fight.

but the world turned gender into a battlefield anyway, and now everybody is standing in the smoke thinking they’re the only ones bleeding.

the real goal isn’t to decide who’s right or wrong. it’s to reach a point where nobody has to erase themselves just to be treated like a full human being.

ADURAFEELS ☆

not because i didn’t know what’s wrong… but because there was too much to pick from. and none of it felt simple enough to say out loud.

there isn’t a single, clean answer to that question. it’s not one event, not one feeling, not one label. it’s layers – stacked, tangled, and constantly shifting. the kind of internal experience that doesn’t stay still long enough to be neatly explained.

most days, my mind feels like a room where the lights never turn off. even when everything is quiet on the outside, there’s noise inside – constant, low, and uninvited. thoughts looping. possibilities spiraling. a feeling of being on edge without knowing what i’m bracing for. it’s like living in anticipation of something bad, even when nothing is happening.

and then, somehow, there’s the opposite side of it too.

everything feels muted.

not peaceful. not calm. just… dulled. like life has been turned down to a volume that makes it hard to connect to anything fully. joy doesn’t land the way it used to. sadness doesn’t always break through. it’s not that i feel nothing – it’s that everything feels filtered, distant, like i’m watching my own life through thick glass.

sleep doesn’t fix it. nights stretch longer than they should, and when sleep finally comes, it doesn’t restore anything. it feels like a pause, not a reset. like i’m just continuing from where i left off, still tired, still heavy, still aware.

then there’s how i see myself.

the mirror doesn’t feel consistent anymore. some days i feel too big, other days too small. it’s the same body, but it never feels like the same version of me. that inconsistency starts to bleed into how i exist in general – how i eat, how i move, how much space i feel allowed to take up in a room. it becomes less about appearance and more about disconnection. like i’m not fully grounded in my own skin.

song: “saturn" SZA.

emotionally, it feels blocked. there’s something inside – pressure, buildup, intensity – but it doesn’t release. it just sits there. even when things get overwhelming, even when i should be able to cry, nothing comes out. it’s like my body forgot how to translate what i feel into something physical.

lately, i’ve started noticing patterns in myself. the way my mood can shift in ways i can’t always predict. the way my energy rises and collapses without warning. the way focus slips, the way attention scatters. the way i sometimes connect with people intensely, then suddenly feel the need to pull away. i don’t have perfect words for it, but i can see the pattern lines repeating.

sometimes i wonder if there’s more going on underneath it all – something i don’t fully understand yet. not as an excuse, not as a label, just as an explanation for why my internal world feels so inconsistent and difficult to manage.

i’ve thought about getting help. real help. sitting in front of someone and trying to put all of this into words that make sense outside of my head. but there’s also this quiet doubt that follows me – like i already see too much of myself to believe anything will really change it. as if awareness alone should be enough to fix things, even when it clearly isn’t.

some of what i carry doesn’t belong only to now. there are things from earlier in my life that i didn’t fully process when they happened. they didn’t disappear – they just changed form. they show up now in subtle ways: in reactions that feel too strong, in discomfort that doesn’t match the moment, in memories that don’t stay buried the way they’re supposed to. the past doesn’t feel finished. it feels ongoing.

and it affects how i connect with people.

that might be the hardest part.

every time something real starts to form – something meaningful, something safe – I feel this instinct to step back. to create distance. it’s like the closer someone gets, the more exposed i feel. and instead of staying and learning how to exist in that closeness, i retreat. even when i like them. even when they like me. it’s not rejection – it’s self-protection that sometimes turns into isolation.

it shows up in friendships too. i go quiet. i disappear. i fail to show up the way i should for people i genuinely care about. then i carry the guilt of that, quietly, while still not knowing how to break the cycle.

underneath everything is this persistent feeling of not being enough. not loudly – just consistently. like i’m always slightly off from what i’m supposed to be. no matter what i do, there’s a sense that it doesn’t quite reach where it’s meant to land.

and sometimes, when everything builds up – when the thoughts get too heavy and the internal noise gets too loud – it doesn’t translate into anything that can be released. not tears. not words. just pressure with nowhere to go. a kind of emotional stuckness that makes even basic relief feel far away.

so when someone asks what’s wrong with me, the truth is simple and complicated at the same time because it’s not one thing.

it’s everything happening at once – thoughts that won’t settle, emotions that won’t fully come out, memories that don’t stay in the past, and connections that feel both necessary and overwhelming.

it’s living in contradiction. feeling too much and not enough at the same time.

and still trying to function through it.

ADURAFEELS☆

the older i got, the more i realized most people were not protecting truth. they were protecting comfort. and comfort hates questions, especially the kind that sit in your chest at odd hours and refuse to leave.

i once heard of a woman, a mother who removed the only gold earring she had left and dropped it into the offering basket like she was trying to bribe heaven into remembering her name.. the pastor called it sacrifice.

i thought of it as hunger wearing church clothes.

because her children looked malnourished, yet everyone praised her. because apparently somewhere in the bible, a poor widow gave her last coin and God smiled at the gesture. nobody ever talks about how terrifying that story actually is.

because why are the poorest people always expected to prove faith with suffering? why does God supposedly love cheerful giving so much that broke people are guilted into emptying pockets they barely survive from?

i remember asking my sunday school teacher once, “if God is all powerful, why does he need poor people’s money every week?”

i remember the silence… then that smile adults give children when they are trying not to look irritated.

i remember the sentence that followed “don’t speak against men of God.”

that answer followed me everywhere. not explanations. warnings.

and the older i got, the more the questions multiplied.

if God is all-forgiving, why is hell eternal? because honestly, what human mistake deserves infinite punishment?

a teenager lies, someone doubts, someone falls in love wrongly, someone worships differently because they were born on the other side of the world... and the punishment is forever?

not correction. not healing but burning.

how does mercy coexist with eternal torture?
and honestly, some of the stories in the bible frightened me more the older i got.

a man swallowed by a fish for running away. a woman turned into salt for looking back at the destruction of her home. an entire world flooded because humanity became too corrupt.

people called these stories holy. i kept wondering why they felt terrifying instead.

because if an ordinary person wiped out cities, drowned almost every living thing on earth, or punished people with extreme suffering to prove loyalty, we would call it cruelty. but religion changes the language once God is the one doing it.

suddenly fear becomes reverence. destruction becomes judgment. silence becomes faith.

and then there was job.

a man described as righteous, yet everything was taken from him anyway. his children died. his health collapsed. his life unraveled piece by piece, all to prove a point about faith.

people always focus on the ending – how God restored everything after job remained loyal. but i could never stop thinking about the middle part because what kind of love requires devastation as proof of devotion?

and how do you replace dead children with new ones like suffering becomes acceptable once compensation arrives afterward?

everyone called it a story about faith but sometimes it sounds more like endurance under silence to me.

if suffering “brings people closer to God,” why do children suffer?

what lesson is a starving child learning exactly?

what divine purpose is hidden inside cancer wards filled with children too young to spell the word “faith”?

why create people with desires, emotions, curiosity, and free will... only to threaten them for using them wrong?

why give humans minds powerful enough to question existence, then become offended when they do exactly that?

and if God sees the future already, why create people he already knows will end up in hell?

these questions make rooms go quiet really fast because nobody really has an answer.

they just say, “his ways are not our ways” or "God knows best." but that never feels satisfying.

if a man on earth did some of the things attributed to God in scripture, people would call it abuse. imagine a father saying, “love me completely or suffer forever.” we would panic or call it manipulation. so why does fear become holy when religion says it?

church became stranger the older i got. the more i listened, the more it sounded like fear and performance had secretly married each other.

a lot of what I heard sounded like punishment language. demons and attacks were never far from the explanations.

depressed? pray harder. poor? sow a seed. sick? your faith is weak. questioning things? satan is influencing you.

convenient... very convenient.

i asked why pastors who preached humility arrived in convoys. why church buildings kept getting larger while members kept posting prayer points for food. why “seed sowing” somehow always benefited the man holding the microphone. why pastors who claimed divine protection moved around with armed escorts and massive bodyguards like celebrities avoiding assassination... this never cease to amaze me.

because if your faith can raise the dead, heal blindness, cancel witchcraft attacks, and command angels, why exactly do you need six security men pushing sweating church members away from touching you?

i remember one particular service vividly. people had been standing for hours under heat so aggressive it felt personal. babies crying. women fanning themselves with offering envelopes. men wiping sweat with handkerchiefs already soaked through.

then the pastor entered.

sirens first. then armed men. then escorts. then assistants carrying ipads and bottled water.
the crowd screamed like God himself had walked in.

and i stood there thinking: why does holiness look so expensive?

nobody answered that either.

because the truth is, the people most loyal to religion were often the ones life had beaten the hardest. the exhausted mothers. the unemployed fathers. the women staying in abusive marriages because apparently “God hates divorce.” the students fasting over school fees while pastors debated private jet maintenance.

i started noticing how suffering was romanticized if it kept people obedient. how silence was called respect. how curiosity became rebellion. and God always seemed to need defending from questions asked by children.

i started feeling like truth shouldn’t panic when examined – but maybe I was expecting too much certainty from systems built on belief.

i remember asking on a bible study groupchat: “if God loves everybody equally, why would someone born in another religion automatically risk hell?” the room became tense immediately, like i had invited something unwanted inside.

someone responded to me saying "some questions are dangerous and better left unsaid.”

“dangerous to who?” that became the real question eventually because the older i got, the more religion started to feel less like peace and more like power.

control what people fear and you control people. control what they call holy and you control guilt. control guilt and suddenly people hand over money, bodies, dreams, obedience, even logic itself.

and honestly, why does God always need money? why are churches constantly asking the poor for “just one more sacrifice”? why does giving to God always seem to come with categories and price tags attached to it?

thanksgiving offering. love offering. building offering. prophet offering. first fruit. seed sowing. tithes. every week seemed to invent a new name for surrendering money people barely had.

and the strange part was how normal everyone acted about it.

women praying for food inside buildings with million-naira sound systems. students fasting over school fees while pastors preached financial breakthrough beneath chandeliers and LED screens screaming “touch not my anointed” louder than “protect children.”

why are people taught to fear witches more than corrupt governments? why are people told to pray away depression instead of getting help?

why does God stay silent during genocides, slavery, trafficking, abuse, famine, but apparently helps people open a jar after prayer?

bothers me because every testimony sounds so small beside real suffering.

“God did it for me.”

“he gave me a visa.”

“he made me pass exams.”

“God found my keys"

okay. but where was he during mass graves? during slavery ships? during children begging barefoot outside churches built like luxury hotels?

and if everything happens for a reason, what reason justifies rape? or war? or children buried before their parents?

don't come to me with that “God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers” bullshit. because that sounds beautiful until you realize some people are simply crushed by life completely. some never recover. some pray until their voices shake and still die waiting.

and then religion teaches people to blame themselves for unanswered prayers. maybe your faith wasn’t enough. maybe you sinned secretly. maybe God is testing you. always your fault somehow.

never silence. never randomness. never the possibility that humans simply do not know as much as they pretend to.

because people pray and still die. good people suffer while cruel people prosper. healing sometimes never comes. tragedy happens without clear meaning, no matter how desperately people search for one.

but admitting uncertainty seems harder for people than inventing explanations that make suffering feel controlled.

if prayer changes things, why pray for God’s will if his will was already going to happen anyway?
if God hates evil, why create satan knowing what would happen? if heaven is perfect, did angels have free will before lucifer rebelled?

questions everywhere without reasonable answers.
just discomfort. and that heavy feeling when belief and logic collide and nobody wants to admit it out loud.

and maybe that is what changed me most. not anger. not rebellion. just exhaustion from pretending things made sense when they clearly didn’t.

and still, i cannot completely call myself faithless. i mean... the bible says in hebrew 11:1 "now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

so yeah... despite everything, i still believe in something. not necessarily the version sold with microphones, offering baskets, and vip sections in churches, but something bigger. something that doesn’t panic when questioned. something that doesn’t survive on fear.

i believe in love that exists without threats attached to it. i believe in light. in something ancient and quiet that sits underneath everything people try to name as God.

i have felt things that cannot be fully explained by science or scripture alone. peace that arrives without noise. comfort that doesn’t need a stage. love that changes people more deeply than fear ever could.

and honestly, if a God exists, i cannot imagine that God being more offended by honest questions than by cruelty committed in his name daily.

maybe that is where i stand now... not unbelieving. just unwilling to lie to myself anymore. because if faith requires me to shut down my mind completely, then what exactly was the mind given for?

just maybe questioning is not the opposite of faith, maybe silence is not wisdom and maybe doubt is simply what honesty looks like before it finds language.

i don't know really… and honestly that is the first truthful thing religion ever taught me to be afraid of saying.

ADURAFEELS☆

and nobody warns you, nobody explains
that living comes dressed in invisible chains
you don’t hear them rattle, you don’t see the rust
just pieces of you turning quietly to dust

you die when your laughter stops sounding like yours
when your joy starts knocking but you close all the doors
when your name in your mouth feels heavy and strange
like a stranger once loved, then rewritten, then changed

you die in the mornings that don’t feel like dawn
just a repeat of a life you can’t switch off or spawn
when your dreams start to rot before they can bloom
and the light in your chest forgets how to move

you die in “i’m fine” said a thousand times over
like burying storms under fake four-leaf clovers
like smiling so hard that your face learns the lie
that you’re still alive but already goodbye

you die when the people you trusted turn cold
when their warmth turns to silence, more valuable than gold
when love turns to lessons you never agreed to
and care turns to something that never quite reached you

you die in your body, in pieces, in parts
in the way you stop trusting your own beating heart
in the way you sit still just to feel less like air
like if you don’t move then you won’t disappear there

and still you keep walking like nothing has cracked
like the version of you that you lost can come back
but every new sunrise just buries the past
like a coffin that opens and closes too fast

so what is this living if not slow decay
a beautiful lie that keeps breaking each day
a song with no ending, just looping in pain
a sun that still rises but never feels same

to live is to die, and then die once more
to keep finding new graves you don’t have a key for
and still you keep breathing, still still you comply
like dying is just how you learn how to try

and maybe that’s all that a heartbeat can be
a thousand small funerals inside of “me”
and maybe that’s why when I look at the sky
I can’t tell if I’m living… or learning to die

or maybe I’m neither.
or maybe I’m –

ADURAFEELS☆

or at least i think i am.

i still hesitate before using that word sometimes because “writer” sounds too official for what i do. too polished. too intentional. i don’t sit down with structure and certainty and neat little plans. i write because i feel things too loudly and i genuinely do not know what else to do with them sometimes.

that’s where the name “adurafeels” came from.

not because it sounded aesthetic. not because it was some branding idea. but because feeling has genuinely shaped the way i move through life. everything reaches me a little deeper than i want it to. words people forget instantly stay in my head for months. certain nights leave permanent fingerprints on me. i remember emotions more vividly than actual events sometimes.

and i think writing started there.

not from talent first. not from ambition. from emotional overflow…. from having too much inside me and nowhere safe to put it.

so i started writing things down. at first it was messy. half-thoughts. angry paragraphs, letters of apologies i never sent out, tiny notes written at 2 a.m. because i felt like my chest would split open if i kept everything inside. writing became the one place where i didn’t have to explain why something hurt me so deeply. i could just let it exist exactly as it was.

and over time, i realized something dangerous about myself: the more i hurt, the better i wrote.

not “better” in a technical sense. i mean better in the way people actually feel it. when i’m in pain, my writing becomes honest in a way i can’t force artificially. the words stop sounding constructed and start sounding alive. i notice details differently when i’m emotionally overwhelmed. the world sharpens. silence becomes louder. even the smallest things carry weight.

and i hate how much access pain gives me to myself because now i don’t always know if i’m healing or just collecting material.

you know the weird split that happens when you become someone who turns emotions into art? you stop experiencing things normally. every painful moment becomes two things at once: something you’re living through and something you’re subconsciously observing.

and even in my worst moments, there’s still a part of me quietly taking notes. not literally. but emotionally.

a part of me thinking: remember this feeling. remember the way this silence sounds. remember the exact ache in your chest right now.

and that changes you.

it makes it hard to fully let go of pain because pain becomes tied to expression. to identity. to voice. when writing is the thing that makes you feel seen, suffering can start feeling productive in a twisted way. like at least if i’m hurting, i can create something real from it.

so sometimes i stay inside emotions longer than i should. i replay memories until they lose shape. i sit with sadness trying to dissect it instead of just letting it pass naturally. not because i enjoy suffering, but because some part of me feels like i need to fully understand it before i can release it.

like if i can write it beautifully enough, maybe it won’t feel meaningless.

and it affects every part of my life, not just my writing.

the way i love people. the way i attach meaning to tiny moments. the way i isolate myself while simultaneously wanting somebody to understand me completely. the way i can feel emotionally exhausted from conversations nobody else would think twice about.

i feel things deeply. i overfeel everything. emotions heightened.

and it’s exhausting.

people romanticize sensitivity until they actually have to live with it. until every emotion becomes amplified. until your own mind becomes too loud to sit inside comfortably. until you start wondering who you are without all the sadness you’ve learned to translate into beautiful sentences.

because that’s the fear underneath all of this.

if pain shaped my voice, then what happens to my voice when i finally heal?

will i still know how to write when life becomes quieter? softer? less catastrophic? will i still recognize myself without the ache?

i don’t fully know yet.

but i’m starting to realize maybe the reason my writing connects with people isn’t because i suffer. maybe it’s because i pay attention. because i stay emotionally present inside things most people rush past. pain just happened to teach me that skill first.

and maybe one day i’ll learn how to write from peace too.

not because the pain disappeared completely, but because i finally stopped believing pain was the only thing that made me worth listening to.

so yeah… i’m adura.

and this – whatever this little space is – is adurafeels.

welcome to my little world. ☆

some mornings it feels like life is already happening to everyone else. people are getting internships, building brands, moving like they’ve already read instructions we never got handed. and me? i’m here refreshing my own life like a broken app, hoping something finally updates.

it’s funny how they say “don’t compare yourself,” like it’s a switch you can just turn off. but comparison isn’t something you choose – it’s something you step into without noticing. you open your phone and suddenly you’re watching people your age doing exactly what you thought you’d be doing by now. and you try to stay calm about it, you really do. but there’s always that quiet voice in your head: you’re late. you’re behind. you missed something.

behind what exactly? nobody even gave us a map, just expectations and noise.

it starts small, then it becomes a habit. you measure your timeline against theirs, your confusion against their confidence, your silence against their highlights. and even when you know it’s unfair, it still gets under your skin. like your life is moving in slow motion while everyone else is on fast forward and nobody paused to tell you how to catch up.

the pressure to have life figured out early is like being asked to run a marathon while still tying your shoelaces. everyone else already looks settled at the start line, stretching like they belong there, while you’re still trying to figure out what direction you’re even facing. and somehow, you still start running anyway.

so you learn how to perform.

you smile in conversations even when your head feels heavy. you say “i’m working on it” with a confidence that feels borrowed, like you picked it up from somewhere and it doesn’t fully fit. you learn how to sound okay even when your thoughts are scattered – like broken glass you’re careful not to step on. you become fluent in pretending everything is fine.

and pretending is exhausting.

it’s like wearing clothes that almost fit but keep reminding you they don’t. you adjust your voice, your posture, your answers. you laugh when you’re supposed to, nod like you understand things you’re still figuring out, post things that make it look like you’re moving forward. but inside, it’s not movement. it’s noise. quiet chaos. like a room full of lights switched on, but nobody actually lives there.

and the worst part is how normal it starts to feel.

you begin to believe that everyone else is ahead, more certain, more put together. but the truth is, a lot of people are just better at hiding the same confusion. better at packaging uncertainty in something that looks like direction.

strange paradox cause the more you try to “get it right,” the more life refuses to sit still long enough to be figured out. it keeps shifting shape while you’re still trying to understand the version you’re supposed to be.

and even knowing that doesn’t fully fix anything.

because you’re still here. still waking up with questions that don’t have clean answers. still comparing moments you don’t even realize you’re comparing. still trying to convince yourself that not having it figured out doesn’t mean you’re failing at life.

ADURAFEELS☆

never the main friend,

never the first choice –

but the hinge in the doorway,

the one who held space.

song: “Fat Funny Friend“ Maddie Zahm.

even when i gathered them close;

braiding strangers into companions,

they found each other

and left me at the edges –

a thread that tied them,

but never part of the pattern.

i was the subject of meeting,

but never the reason they returned.

they held me near

for the small benefits i carried,

not for the quiet person inside.

i endured the mean comments

from"friends" who cut too deep.

i laughed with them,

even when their words

split open my soul.

confrontation wad foreign to me –

so i became the loudest laugh

in the room that hurt me most.

behind closed doors,

i wrote it all down,

clenched my teeth

until silence swallowed the ache.

i hated gatherings –

invisible, drifting.

i told myself i liked it,

yet i longed, impossibly,

to be noticed,

to be heard,

to matter.

i was never the prettiest in the room,

never the sharpest.

i only had laughter –

but was it real?

or did they laugh

because silence

would leave me too exposed?

i grew up the backup call,

the safe place,

the listener.

always outside the sidewalk,

near the rush of cars,

risking myself

just to keep pace.

they thought me low maintenance,

untouched,

but i was only good at hiding –

pulling back from affection,

flinching from love,

while somewhere inside

a voice begged softly:

please, see me.

they claimed they knew me,

but they never saw me

the drowning parts,

the wordlesss ache,

the quiet prayer

to be chosen,

for once.

ADURAFEELS☆

where promises campaign harder than presidents

and results take longer routes than danfo drivers avoiding traffic

a place where manifestos are bedtime stories

soft, sweet, and very fictional

you wake up and reality has already left the chat

we vote here

standing under a sun that feels like it’s supervising the process personally

fingers inked like we signed a contract with hope

only to find out hope didn’t read the terms and conditions

they say “your vote counts”

and it does

just not always in the direction you sent it

democracy here is like generator light

it works… sometimes

and when it does, everybody shouts “up nepa!”

even though nepa has long moved on like an ex that found greener pastures

and safety?

hmm…

safety is a rumor that travels faster than news

a story your parents tell you before you leave the house

“be careful”

as if careful is a bulletproof vest you can wear under your skin

we have learned to read silence

to measure danger in how quiet a road suddenly becomes

to understand that night is not just night

it is a question mark with no punctuation

kidnapping here is not just crime

it is a business model with terrible customer service

“hello, we have your person”

no branding, no shame, just audacity

and yet

life continues like it didn’t hear the news

because nigeria doesn’t pause

it refreshes

we still marry

dance like joy is a rebellion

spray money like we are confusing poverty

laugh like comedians are part-time therapists

the irony is loud

but we are louder

we insult politicians in traffic

then argue about them like football clubs

defending people who don’t even know our names

because somehow politics became a sport

and suffering became the stadium

fuel scarcity comes like a seasonal festival

uninvited but consistent

queues stretching like they are trying to touch tomorrow

people sleeping in cars

dreaming of movement

“is there fuel?”

“no, but there is hope”

“abeg o, i can’t use hope to drive”

and still

somebody will sell pure water in that same line

cold sachets sweating like they understand the assignment

because in nigeria

every problem is also an opportunity wearing disguise

the economy? ahhh

the economy is doing gym

always “trying to build strength”

but somehow still skipping leg day

prices rise like they are chasing something

and salaries stand still like they are waiting for permission

you buy something today

tomorrow it has entered motivational speaking

“know your worth”

but if you look closer…

because beneath the noise

beneath the chaos dressed like normal

there is something stubborn here

something that refuses to die

resilience, yes

but not the cute kind they put in documentaries

this one has scars

this one is tired

this one laughs with cracked lips and still says

“we go dey alright”

we create magic out of almost nothing

turn generators into background music

turn traffic into thinking time

turn hardship into jokes so sharp they cut and heal at the same time

nigeria is contradiction in human form

a place where

you can fear for your life in the morning

and still plan your future by evening

where darkness is constant

but so is the audacity to dream

where the system fails you

but the people catch you before you hit the ground

and sometimes

i wonder if nigeria is not broken

just… unfinished

like a story that keeps rewriting itself

with too many authors

too many plot twists

and a reader that refuses to close the book

nigeria, my country

a place where even chaos has culture

where even pain has punchlines

where even survival feels like a full-time job with no off days

and still, we stay

not because it is easy

not because it is safe

not because it makes sense

but because somehow

in the middle of everything that is wrong

there is something here

that still feels like it might one day get it right

or maybe

we just keep believing

because belief is the only thing

they haven’t found a way to increase the price of yet

ADURAFEELS☆

a passing storm.

a season.

something that arrives, disrupts, and eventually leaves.

but that comparison has always felt… incomplete.

because weather doesn’t learn your name.

there’s a quiet assumption stitched into conversations about depression that it is inevitable. that at some point, everyone will “go through it.” like a rite of passage into adulthood, like taxes or heartbreak or realizing your parents are just people who got older.

and maybe that assumption is comforting.

if everyone experiences it, then no one is alone.

but there is also something dangerously simplifying about it.

because not every sadness is depression.

and not every depression behaves like sadness.

sadness is loud in its honesty. it cries, it aches, it demands to be noticed.

depression, on the other hand, can be eerily polite.

it doesn’t always knock things over.

sometimes it just rearranges the furniture of your mind so slowly you don’t realize you’ve been living in a different room.

so, is depression a phase in everyone’s life?

the easy answer is no.

but the honest answer is more complicated.

because while not everyone will experience clinical depression, almost everyone will encounter something that feels like standing at the edge of themselves… and not recognizing what’s looking back.

a kind of emotional fog where things lose their sharpness. where laughter sounds distant, like it’s happening in another room. where even good days feel slightly… borrowed.

but calling that a “phase” can be misleading.

a phase suggests something temporary, something linear.

it implies an entrance and an exit, like a tunnel with light waiting patiently at the end.

depression doesn’t always follow that script.

sometimes it circles.

sometimes it lingers.

sometimes it leaves and then returns like it forgot something important.

there’s an irony in how people talk about it.

we say “it’s just a phase” to make it feel smaller.

but in doing that, we sometimes make the person inside it feel smaller too.

as though what they’re experiencing is something to outgrow, rather than something to understand.

what if, instead of asking whether depression is universal, we asked something else?

what if we asked why so many people feel disconnected in a world that is constantly connected?

why silence can feel louder than noise.

why rest can feel like guilt.

why being surrounded by people can still feel like standing alone in a crowded room, waving at no one.

depression is often described as darkness, but that metaphor misses something important.

darkness at least allows you to sleep.

depression can feel more like a dim light that never turns off. not bright enough to see clearly, not dark enough to disappear into. just constant, exhausting visibility of everything you wish you could ignore.

and yet, there is a strange paradox living inside all of this.

because in the same way depression can make the world feel meaningless, it can also make small things feel… quietly significant.

a random message.

a moment of laughter that catches you off guard.

the way the sky looks different on certain evenings, like it’s trying a new personality.

these moments don’t cure anything.

but they interrupt something.

they remind you that even in the heaviest silence, life is still happening in fragments.

so no, depression is not a phase in everyone’s life.

but the feeling of being lost within yourself?

the experience of questioning your place, your purpose, your weight in the world?

that might be closer to universal.

the difference is how long people stay there, how deeply they sink, and whether they learn to sit with it… or run from it.

and maybe this is where it gets uncomfortable.

what if depression isn’t always something that “happens” to people…

but something that reveals them?

not as broken, but as aware.

aware of how forced some smiles are.

how performative happiness can be.

how a lot of what we call “normal” is just well-disguised exhaustion.

but then again…

is that insight, or just a prettier way to describe suffering?

because let’s be honest –

calling depression “depth” sounds poetic… until you’re the one drowning in it.

and here’s where it gets even more complicated.

what if the people we call “fine” aren’t actually okay –

they’re just better at translating their feelings into productivity, jokes, routines… anything that keeps the questions quiet?

and what if the ones who can’t do that –

the ones who slow down, withdraw, feel everything too loudly –

are the ones we label as “struggling”?

so who’s really dealing with it better?

the person who feels less…

or the person who feels more?

we’re taught to treat depression like an intruder.

fight it. fix it. outrun it.

but what if, sometimes, it’s not an intruder at all?

what if it’s a reaction?

a reaction to pressure.

to silence.

to a life that looks right on the outside but feels slightly off on the inside.

or maybe that’s dangerous thinking.

maybe not everything has meaning.

maybe some things are just… heavy for no reason at all.

and that’s the part no one seems to agree on:

is depression something to escape…

or something to understand?

is it a malfunction…

or a message?

or maybe the real question is this:

if we lived in a world where no one had to pretend,

where no one had to perform being okay –

would depression be less common… or more visible?

i don’t have the answer. and i’m not sure i want one that’s too simple.

but i am curious –

what do you think depression actually is?

and are we getting better at understanding it?

or just better at hiding it?

it feels like being asked to show photos from a party you were never invited to. “why don’t you have pictures?” because you didn’t let me in, sir.

you apply anyway – hopeful, delusional, slightly optimistic in a quiet “maybe today” kind of way. two days later: unfortunately… that word alone has rejected more people than bad wi-fi ever could.

they say, “we’re looking for someone experienced,” which loosely translates to: we want someone who already knows how to do this job, but still accepts entry-level pay and carries the enthusiasm of someone desperate enough not to complain.

so you try to build experience on your own. you volunteer. you intern. you freelance for exposure – because apparently exposure pays bills now. you become a professional “learning opportunity,” and your resume slowly begins to read like a survival diary.

“i once managed three people.” (they were group chat members.)
“i handled high-pressure situations.” (my laptop froze five minutes to a deadline.)

and somehow, none of it counts.

it’s like trying to learn how to swim while being told you must already know how before you’re allowed near the pool. so you stand at the edge, watching others move freely in water you’re not permitted to touch, holding your towel of potential, slowly drying out.

what we often forget is simple: every “experienced professional” were once clueless, uncertain, and googling the basics at 2 a.m, every expert once asked “stupid” questions. every confident worker once performed confidence and hoped no one noticed the cracks.

but somewhere along the line, the ladder was pulled up. there is no first step anymore – just expectations floating in the air, unsupported, unquestioned.

the irony is almost exhausting. people complain about a lack of talent, yet refuse to create it. they want fully grown trees but will not plant seeds, will not water them, will not wait. they want results without process, excellence without patience.

so people find themselves trapped in a quiet loop where they are too inexperienced to be hired, too unemployed to gain experience, too capable to give up, yet too tired to keep proving something that should have been given the chance to grow.

just maybe, experience is not the real issue. maybe fear is.

the fear of training. fear of mistakes. fear of investing time in someone who might need it. but growth has always required time… i mean, nothing worthwhile has ever arrived fully formed. even wi-fi needs buffering before it connects.

so if you’re reading this while refreshing your inbox, wondering if you’re somehow behind, you’re not. you are simply early. and if no one opens the door, do not assume it is because you do not belong.

because sometimes the system is not broken. it is just unwilling.

and someday, someone will take a chance on you – and call it talent spotting instead of what it truly is:

basic human decency with a little foresight.

last night sleep became a trapdoor. i fell through it. maybe it was because i went to bed with a heart heavier than usual… the kind of heaviness that sits quietly in your chest like an uninvited guest that refuses to leave. the kind that makes breathing feel like effort instead of instinct. or maybe dreams don’t need invitations. maybe they arrive the way storms do – sudden, unapologetic… and completely uninterested in whether you’re ready for them.

the dream itself was short. 10minutes at most. 10 ordinary minutes on a clock. but inside the dream time stretched in that cruel way it does – bending and expanding until seconds feel like hallways you’re forced to walk through.

and somehow i was back there again.

not fully in the past… but not safe in the present either. dreams love that middle ground – that thin border where memory and imagination quietly cooperate. the air felt thick, like breathing through damp cloth.

and then i saw the face.

that face.

song: “what was i made for” by billie eilish.

dreams usually blur faces. they replace them with strangers or shadows… soften details so your mind doesn’t have to look too closely. but this one didn’t. it was clear. too clear.

the same face i convinced myself i would never see again. the same face buried in the deepest corner of my mind – the drawer labeled never open again. the drawer i tried to nail shut with distraction, with denial, with the quiet lie that time fixes everything.

yet there it was… standing in my dream like time had never moved forward. like the years between then and now were only a pause button waiting to be released.

the dream unfolded almost exactly the way memory remembers it. not perfectly – dreams never copy reality word for word – but close enough that my body recognized the pattern before my mind could react… like hearing the first few notes of a song you wish you had never learned.

and that’s the part no one really explains when they talk about trauma. the body remembers things the mind tries desperately to forget. that’s the real paradox.

the mind knows something is wrong… it screams no… it begs for distance. yet the body sometimes responds anyway – nerves firing like faulty wires in a machine that was never given the option to shut down.

it feels like being robbed twice… first by the moment itself, and then by the memory of how your body reacted simply to survive it.

the difference between the dream and reality is strange though.

in the dream it happened once. just once… 10 cruel minutes trapped inside sleep, but reality wasn’t that merciful.

reality repeated itself – again… and again… and again.

memory compresses pain until it fits neatly into sentences. something that once stretched across so much time becomes a paragraph someone can read in seconds. but the body remembers repetition differently. it remembers it like a drumbeat that never truly stopped echoing.

maybe that’s why the dream came back with such precision.

unfinished things rarely disappear. they simply move rooms inside your mind.

i woke up… but waking didn’t feel like waking. it felt like someone turned the lights on inside my skull and forgot to turn them off.

too aware, conscious.

too present inside my own skin.

like i’m not living in my body anymore – just standing inside it, observing everything from too close.

and the strangest part is that i genuinely thought i was getting better (that sentence feels bitter now.)

healing is supposed to look like progress… forward motion… a road that actually leads somewhere. but healing feels more like climbing a staircase that resets itself every night.

you climb, you sweat, you convince yourself you’re finally getting somewhere. and then morning arrives and you realize you’re staring at the first step again.

square one again.

and again. and again.

sometimes i wonder if something deeper is wrong with my mind. if the constant emotional shifts – numbness one day, overwhelming feeling the next – mean there’s something larger happening underneath everything.

names drift through my thoughts sometimes… quiet diagnoses whispered by curiosity and late-night searches.

borderline personality disorder. depression.

words that feel both terrifying and strangely comforting at the same time. because if chaos has a name, maybe it can be understood. maybe it means i’m not simply failing at healing.

but even that thought doesn’t make things easier.

because trauma doesn’t stay politely in the past the way people assume it does. instead, it leaks into the way you exist around people.

trust becomes fragile… like glass dropped too many times. friendships start to feel like tightropes stretched over deep water – one wrong step and everything shatters.

pain has gravity.

it pulls on the people around it – the ones who try to help, the ones who sit with you and listen, the ones who say the right things even when they don’t fully understand.

they carry pieces of your sadness longer than they should. eventually you begin to hear it in their voices… the quiet exhaustion hiding underneath concern –not because they don’t care – but because broken things are heavy.

sometimes it feels like i become that heaviness… a storm that keeps returning just when the sky starts clearing.

i hate that feeling – the feeling that my healing is taking so long it slowly becomes someone else’s burden.

so sometimes i stay quiet. sometimes i push the thoughts back into the same drawer i tried to bury years ago… pretending the storm isn’t there.

but storms don’t disappear just because they’re ignored.

they wait.

sometimes they return as memories.

sometimes they return as feelings.

and sometimes they return as dreams… with faces you thought you buried forever.

the dream ended eventually.

morning arrived the way it always does – sunlight crawling through the window pretending everything is normal.

outside the world kept moving.

cars passed.

people laughed.

birds continued their unnecessary conversations with the sky.

the universe is strangely indifferent to personal earthquakes.

but the feeling stayed.

and right now it still feels like i’m standing exactly where i started…

not moving forward.

not really moving backward either.

just stuck somewhere in the middle –

wondering if this “healing” of a thing, is actually happening…

or if i’ve simply been walking in circles this entire time.

☆ADURAFEELS

you pray, bargain with God, refresh portals like your life depends on it – because, honestly, it does.

admission becomes this finish line in your head. a promised land. a rescue boat from stagnation, shame, and the dreaded “so… what are you going to do now?” when the offer finally comes, you celebrate like you’ve been handed freedom papers. family is happy. neighbours smile wider. you feel… chosen.

then you step into school. and slowly, painfully, you realize: admission wasn’t a gift.

it was a warning.

by 5a.m, the hostel is alive – not because anyone wants it, but because survival has an alarm clock. buckets scrape concrete like nails on a chalkboard. someone is shouting about water. someone else is shouting about power. a third person is shouting about nothing, which is still something. campus mornings don’t begin with hope; they begin with negotiation.

you tell yourself, just make it through today.

funny thing is… you said that yesterday too.

this is student life: a paradox wrapped in a timetable. they tell you these are the “best years of your life,” yet everyone looks like they’ve been lit on both ends and still expected to light the room. we chase CGPAs like lottery tickets, thinking a perfect transcript will fix four/five years of stress, sleep deprivation, and panic attacks. ironically, the harder we chase, the more tired we become – proof that sometimes ambition doesn’t lift you; it presses its knee on your chest.

lecture at 8 a.m. course outline promised clarity. exam delivers betrayal. between week three and week eight, you realize you’re not learning; you’re memorizing under duress. education becomes fast food – quick, forgettable, and somehow still expensive. attendance is taken like a roll call in prison. present? yes. engaged? absolutely not.

money? that’s the real course. being broke on campus is a full-time identity. you master the art of “i’m good” when you’re not. you calculate transport like a mathematician and eat noodles like it’s a personality trait.

and then there’s garri.

garri stops being food. garri becomes first aid. emergency response. survival kit.

hungry? garri.

broke? garri.

running late? garri.

emotionally unstable but still breathing? garri.

taken daily like medicine – sometimes with sugar, sometimes groundnuts, sometimes tears. no prescription needed. just water and resilience. funny until you realize how serious it is. the irony of higher education paired with lower standards of living? not lost on anyone scooping soaked garri at midnight.

and work. always work.

you apply for everything: internships that barely pay, gigs that pay nothing, freelance tasks that eat time more than money, side hustles that feel like a second full-time job. every application is a mini audition; every rejection is a reminder that the world doesn’t care about your degree – or your dreams. you juggle academics, social life, work, and whatever private time you can steal. sleep is luxury. mental health? collateral damage. burnout becomes your roommate. permanent. uninvited.

social life doesn’t forgive. friendships complain. parties missed. calls unanswered. private time stolen in fifteen-minute increments between classes, work, assignments. and still… everyone expects you to flourish.

everybody is hustling. some legally. some spiritually. some emotionally. side hustles bloom like wildflowers – thrifting, freelancing, crypto “investments” that mostly invest in disappointment. everybody knows someone who got scammed. yet hope… stubborn. hope is the most dangerous drug on campus. no instructions. no warnings.

friendships form fast, like rain puddles – deep-looking but shallow once you step in. group projects reveal human nature with surgical precision: five names, two active members, one whatsapp ghost. loyalty tested when money enters the room. borrowing easy. returning? theoretical. “i’ve got you” sometimes means “i’ll disappear.”

loneliness is the loudest silence. hostels packed like sardines, yet you feel like a stray signal searching for reception. surrounded… but unseen. everyone posting. nobody listening. comparison sneaks in quietly. you measure your progress against other people’s timelines, forgetting everyone edits before uploading.

mental health isn’t dramatic; it’s subtle. burnout disguised as laziness. anxiety dressed as i’m tired. imposter syndrome whispering, what if they find out i don’t belong here? fumes fuel you. rest feels illegal. guilty for sleeping. guilty for not sleeping. perfect loop. cruel joke. pun life keeps making at your expense.

relationships? same chaos. situationships thrive like weeds – no labels, no clarity, just vibes and confusion. people want intimacy without responsibility, affection without accountability. everybody wants peace… but keeps dating noise.

hovering behind all this? unequal starts.

some arrive with roadmaps. connections already saved. phone numbers that open doors before they knock. nepo babies. bitter, but real. you can’t blame them. ladder’s beside you, you climb too. real pain? surviving without it.

campus itself is dramatic, unreliable, underfunded. power cuts mid-thought. water disappears at the wrong time. fees rise like inflation has beef with students. leaders shout activism, whisper compromises. change promised, never delivered.

graduation treated like freedom.

counting final papers like prison days. imagining life after uni – rest, money, independence. no more lectures. no more attendance. no more exams. then reality hits: school was tutorial. life bills you. someone ahead. someone relocating. someone getting married. someone buying land. comparison is a rigged game. freedom? responsibility without instructions.

still – the rise.

you fail sometimes. miss deadlines. lose jobs. burn out. feel like a ghost. scrape by. survive. adapt. slowly, painfully, you rise. every small win tastes like oxygen after drowning. late-night gig? done. assignment finished? done. burnout becomes a badge: endured it, came back.

here’s what we forget: we’re still here.

still showing up. still dreaming. still laughing between breakdowns. stolen joys: late-night convos, shared noodles, inside jokes. complaining, enduring. fragile, resilient. glass hearts, iron wills.

student life is a maze. no straight line. teaches things no syllabus can: surviving uncertainty, sitting with discomfort, moving without applause. humbling. hardening. shaping.

no, not the best years.

but the years that teach how to live.

and maybe – that lesson?

the most valuable degree of all.

soft music, perfect clips, faces neatly archived into montages of “the people who made my year.”

i thought of doing one too.

then i checked my gallery… and laughed.

if you know me well, you know i’m not big on documenting memories. i like living through them. i’ll forget to take pictures at the moments that actually matter, then randomly document the most normal, unserious experiences like they’re historical events 😭

so when i tried to gather proof of connection, i realized most of my best moments this year exist only in my head, my heart, and the way i changed afterward.

song: “That’s So True" Gracie Abrams.

so no cinematic recap from me.

instead, let’s talk about gratitude – the quiet kind that doesn’t always have receipts.

because this year didn’t crash.

it leaked.

it felt like water seeping through a ceiling you keep repainting, pretending the stain isn’t spreading. no single disaster. just slow damage. quiet enough to doubt. constant enough to change me.

february started well. suspiciously well.

my babe left – clean, no chaos – but life still kept giving. gifts from someone special. attention that felt warm. a talking stage that made days softer. life was lifing.

then one argument happened and rewired my entire perspective. i lost two friends(death. fell out with someone close. nothing exploded, but something fundamental shifted. that was the first crack.

i tried to replace absence with almosts.

talking stages that lived on blue ticks and midnight voice notes. learning someone’s sleep schedule before learning their fears. memorizing how they type “lol” when they mean “don’t push.”

i entered conversations already braced for expiry, then acted surprised when they ended exactly how i expected.

march was foggy. that’s how i know it hurt.

i don’t remember events, just the sense of things slipping again. all i had was me, so i maneuvered. not confidently. just enough to stay upright.

april gave me one clear win: matriculation. unilag.

relief. after how badly 2024 treated me, admission felt like proof i wasn’t cursed. joy didn’t need to be loud. it just needed to exist.

somewhere along the way, i hurt people without meaning to.

unintentionally. in the clean, modern way – by being emotionally present and internally elsewhere. by offering warmth without permanence. by saying “i’m just busy” when the truth was “i don’t know how to stay.”

i wasn’t cruel. i was unfinished. that still leaves bruises.

may was denial dressed as hope.

i convinced myself i hadn’t really lost those friendships. that fallout could reverse itself. it didn’t.

situationships blurred my sense of time. weeks measured in streaks, not substance. intimacy without architecture. comfort without custody.

june surprised me.

things got lighter. not perfect. just better. i made new friends. started working on myself deliberately – not for aesthetics, for survival. i wanted to be a better person, not just a less broken one.

i missed people i didn’t want back. scrolling through old chats like ruins – not to rebuild, just to confirm something once stood there. i wasn’t missing them. i was missing the version of me who thought consistency meant security.

july moved fast.

i attended my first house parties and felt genuinely excited, like i’d unlocked a new layer of living.

then my talking stage fell apart – my fault. accountability hurts, but it sticks. i felt nostalgic for selves that never existed. the me who says the right thing immediately. the me who chooses correctly the first time. the me who doesn’t need three business days to process a feeling. i imagined her living a parallel life somewhere else.

august felt full.

a gospel concert with friends that grounded me. i met some of my online friends in real life and realized some connections survive translation.

i wrote more. finally stopped hoarding my words. opened a substack. people read. people stayed. over 150 subscribers – still unreal. deeply grateful to God for that.

my notes app knew me better than anyone. dim screen. 2:47am lowercase confessions typed with one eye closed. silence felt safer than explanation.

september hovered.

i wanted attention but hated being seen. i wanted someone to look at me without dissecting me. without assigning motives. without demanding explanations. so i oscillated – post, disappear. engage, retreat. present, then gone.

october opened a new session.

supposed to resume. asuu stalled everything for a bit. life in limbo. some friendships didn’t explode. they evaporated. last messages unanswered. plans postponed until they stopped being suggested. no resentment. just absence with memory.

november was heavy.

i was sick. trying to keep my sanity intact by myself. i lost myself. found myself. came back different. maybe wiser. definitely tired.

i stayed busy to avoid stillness. deadlines as shelter. busyness as anesthesia. stillness asked questions.

december swung the opposite way.

calm. neutral. no expectations, which helped.

i made money. spent too much of it. attended parties. stepped out of my comfort zone. socialized. tried new things. met new people. pitched my business anywhere i could.

i drank alcohol. got drunk – bucket list checked. suffered a hangover. learned limits. grateful to my friends for keeping me in check.

i felt lonely in crowds. replayed conversations like surveillance footage. was i too much? too quiet? too honest? too safe?

there were days i wanted to vanish – not die, just dim. i didn’t want an ending. i wanted a pause button. i felt behind without knowing what race i was in. emotionally exhausted. physically fine. outgrowing people who still felt familiar.

by the end of the year, i understood i wasn’t missing people but feelings. safety. softness. being chosen without being consumed.

i wasn’t broken. i was molting.

and through all of this –

i am grateful.

i’m grateful for my family.

for being my constant even when everything else was slipping. for holding space when i didn’t have the words. for being home, even when i didn’t feel like myself.

i’m grateful for my health – both physical and mental.

and yes, that gratitude came after the struggle. after ocd showed up loud. after my body felt unfamiliar. after weeks of not sleeping properly and waking up already tired. this year taught me that health isn’t something you notice until it starts negotiating with you.

i’m grateful for my friends

hezekiah(my bestttt friend), fk and shay(my girls fr), angel(my childd), james(i could write a whole book on you guyyy), enifome, tola and layomiii(i love you both sm), kkz(for being the first and last to check up on me when i'm sick and sorts), adekunle(that one person i could call anytime and he'll pick without questions), theodora(marry me atp), mide(talked me into posting here), temi(for listening to my endless rants), faizah(just met bro and she's been amazinggg)… and others whose names my brain has temporarily misplaced but whose impact i haven’t. some people came for a season, some stayed longer, some showed up exactly when i needed them. not all roles are permanent, but that doesn’t make them insignificant.

because ka ma paro ka ma jale... this year tested me.

i fell off academically.

i questioned my faith.

i struggled with a whole lot.

my health dipped.

i went weeks without proper sleep.

had an identity crisis as a cherry on top which is very on-brand if you ask me.

four job applications said “no” in different fonts.

and somewhere in between all of that, i stared at myself and thought, who exactly am i becoming? emi mi fe bo walahiii.

but here’s the thing no wrapped video really shows:

even in the mess, nothing was wasted.

the effort.

the prayers.

the friendships that didn’t last but still mattered.

the nights i survived instead of conquered.

the version of me that kept showing up even when motivation didn’t rsvp.

so no, i don’t have a highlight reel full of pictures.

but i have growth you can’t screenshot.

lessons you can’t edit into transitions.

and gratitude that runs deeper than aesthetics.

this year didn’t look good – but it shaped me.

and honestly? that counts.

song: “TV“ BILLIE EILISH.

sometimes clarity arrived without warning,
and i realized the person i thought was my “significant other”
was just another stepping stone.
yes, that.
and after realizing they weren’t enough,
or weren’t treating me how i wanted,
i left quietly.
not dramatically. not loudly.
just choosing myself and walking away.

heartbreak lives in the futures you rehearsed in your head
like a play that never made it past opening night.
it lives in the habits your body performs on autopilot –
reaching for a phone that no longer rings your name,
turning corners expecting a shadow that doesn’t follow.

breakups hurt in quiet ways no one warns you about.
songs sound familiar but slightly off,
like they’ve been detuned.
you grieve someone still alive,
still breathing, still posting,
just no longer yours.

and the cruelest part?
you miss them even when you know
going back would break you more carefully this time.

but i remember a particular boy i liked in junior school.
that one feels different.
that was my first actual love story.

i remember buying him airtime with my snacks money,
folding generosity into small sacrifices.
writing letters i’d never give him,
words living their whole lives inside my notebook.
giving him the little i could afford
to get him a phone –
even when i didn’t have one myself. 🤣

i remember how happy i was around him.
how light everything felt,
like happiness hadn’t learned how to be complicated yet.

then i found out he was with someone else
and i cried and cried and crieddd…
the kind of crying that feels endless
because you don’t yet know it can stop.
i was like 12? 😭
12 and naive, maybe,
but maybe just soft.
maybe just honest.

heartbreak is confusing because love doesn’t shut off
just because logic finally clocks in.
you can understand why it ended
and still ache like you missed a step in the dark.

healing isn’t linear –
it’s forgetting for two hours,
then unraveling because a random smell
reminded you of nothing and everything at once.
it’s borrowed strength in the morning
and returned weakness at night.

maybe that was my first lesson –
that love can exist quietly,
that it can be generous without being chosen,
that it can be real even if it isn’t returned.

and then there was that friend who felt like a sister –
the one we fell out with over a misunderstanding.
things never went back to normal, and it hurt like crazy.
it was harder than any romantic breakup i’ve been through.
losing her felt like a divorce with my soulmate.

it’s wild how losing a friend – someone who felt like family – can cut deeper than love sometimes.
you didn’t just lose a person;
you lost a shared history, a safe space, someone who knew all your quirks and secrets.
it’s like a piece of your life just… unraveled.

you replay the misunderstanding, reach for their presence in texts or inside jokes, grieve what could’ve been –
but there’s no “closure date,” only absence.
and that’s okay.
that heartbreak is real, valid, and it leaves marks.
it softens you, teaches you, shapes how you trust and love moving forward.

heartbreak is proof you loved deeply.
it means you showed up without armor,
even if the ending wasn’t gentle.

and slowly – so slowly it almost feels like lying to yourself –
you begin choosing yourself in tiny, uncelebrated ways.
you laugh without checking your phone.
you breathe without bracing for absence.
you imagine a future that doesn’t include them,
and it doesn’t feel like betrayal anymore.

so can i call that my heartbreak story? 😔
maybe.
maybe heartbreak doesn’t need adulthood or long timelines.
maybe it just needs hope meeting disappointment
for the very first time.

and maybe that 12-year-old version of me
is the reason i now know when to leave,
the reason i don’t beg for bare minimum,
the reason i recognize when love stops feeling like love.

you don’t get over heartbreak.
it’s not a fence you climb and leave behind.
you grow around it.
it becomes quieter.
softer.
less sharp –
like glass worn smooth by time and touch.

i think i was naive.
but i was also in love.
and i think both things can be true at the same time.

heartbreak doesn’t only wear the face of lost lovers.
sometimes it’s a friend who felt like family,
sometimes it’s a goodbye you didn’t see coming.
it comes in different forms,
but it always leaves its mark –
teaching you, softening you, shaping you,
reminding you that to love is to risk,
and to feel deeply is never wasted.

ADURAFEELS☆

but underneath, there’s a version of me nobody sees – the one that’s tired in ways words can’t touch, that goes quiet when the world gets too loud, that drifts while my body keeps moving.

the routines, the smiles, the small sarcastic remarks – they’re armor. every gesture rehearsed, every laugh timed, hiding the emptiness, the fear, the exhaustion i can’t speak aloud. people notice the surface: the energy, the “i’m fine,” the ease… they stop there.

they don’t see the spaces in between, the silent moments where i’m really standing behind the scenes, hoping – just hoping – that someone might look deeper, even for a second, and understand a story i cannot say out loud.

because behind the laughter, behind the small talk, behind the “i’m good” – i’m somewhere else entirely.

sometimes it feels like i’m living in a body that’s still moving even though the person inside already left. like i’m walking around with echo instead of emotion. you know, it’s crazy how everyone thinks i’m fine because i still laugh, still gist, still act playful, still say “i’m good” with a straight face. meanwhile, i’ve been stuck in derealization for months – everything around me looks like a movie set, and i’m just standing in the background hoping nobody notices i’m not actually here.

it’s the little things that scare me.

how i can be in a room full of people, talking, joking, dragging someone playfully, and the next minute my mind disconnects like someone pulled the plug. everything goes flat. blurry. distant. like i’m watching myself from behind glass.

i blink, but the world doesn’t blink back. and i keep walking, keep responding, keep acting normal, because what else am i supposed to do? start screaming “help me, i’m floating away”? nobody would take me seriously. they’d say i’m tired, or “you're overthinking.”

the worst part is how easy it is to hide this shit.

i've mastered performative healing like it’s a degree. i can switch my face like light-up: smile here… nod there… small sarcasm to show i’m still “myself.”

nobody knows that every time i joke, part of me is begging for someone to actually look deeper. but even if they did, what would they do? nobody has the patience for the kind of sadness that doesn’t cry loud enough.

these days, i wake up tired.

not normal tired – the type that sits on your chest like a brick you can’t push off. i open my eyes and there’s this moment of silence where my mind tries to prepare me for another day of pretending.

another day of being stuck in the same mental loop, like my life is on repeat but the remote isn’t in my hand. i move, i shower, i dress up… the routine is muscle memory.

my spirit is absent.

my appetite? gone. food feels like a chore. i’m either too nauseous to eat or too empty to care. people ask why i’m losing weight, why my face is changing, why i “look different.” i just laugh it off – “stress jare.”

if only they knew my body has been waving red flags like a malfunctioning traffic light. shaky hands, random chest tightness, headaches that feel like someone is knocking inside my skull… everything pointing to the same thing i keep avoiding: i’m not okay. i’m nowhere close.

i knew it was getting really bad the night i sat on my bed and whispered to God –

“either take this pain away or take me away.”

it wasn’t dramatic. no tears, no shouting. just a quiet, tired request from someone who didn’t know what else to ask for. i wasn’t looking for miracles. i was just done.

tired of feeling like life was something happening to me, not something i was living. tired of waking up with the same heaviness that refused to loosen its grip. tired of fighting battles i couldn’t even name.

that night changed something in me. not in a hopeful way – more like surrender.

like i dropped the weapons and walked off the battlefield because i didn’t have strength left. ever since then, i’ve been moving through life like someone counting down silently. waiting for something to shift… or break. whichever comes first.

and the craziest part? nobody knows.

i still joke. i still playfight. i still talk like someone who has their shit together. i still give advice. i still hype people up. i still say “i’m fine” like it’s the easiest lie in the world.

i've gotten so good at it that sometimes even i believe it for a few seconds… until that familiar emptiness returns and reminds me i’m just performing.

performing stability. performing energy. performing a version of myself that doesn’t exist anymore.

i’ve lost people along the way – friends, lovers, myself. not violently, just gradually. slow fading, slow drifting, slow disconnection.

you know that ironic thing where the people who once claimed they cared suddenly become strangers, but the pain they caused stays loyal? yeah. life has a funny sense of humor.

the ones who swore they’d stay vanish, and the memories you want to forget hold on like glue.

sleep? i don’t even know what that word means anymore.

i close my eyes, and my mind starts doing too much. replaying conversations. imagining problems. building fear out of thin air.

and when i finally sleep, it’s not peaceful – it’s more like turning off a glitchy device that immediately turns itself back on. no restoration. no relief. just exhaustion dressed as rest.

every day feels like walking through fog.

i’m present, but not really. i’m living, but not fully. i’m breathing, but the air doesn’t reach where it should.

i exist in this weird paradox – too numb to feel anything deeply, yet too heavy to feel light. too tired to keep going, yet too scared to stop. too alive to die, yet too dead to live.

and i keep telling myself it’ll pass…

but i don’t even know if i believe that or if it’s just something i say so i don’t crumble in public. people like me don’t get the luxury of breaking down. we have to stay “strong,” stay “funny,” stay “available.”

we have to carry pain silently so nobody starts treating us differently. because once people see you’re slipping, they either pity you… or avoid you. and honestly, i don’t want either.

so i keep it moving.

i keep showing up.

i keep pretending.

i keep surviving in the most passive way possible.

not because i’m hopeful – but because i don’t know what else to do.

and maybe that’s the part that scares me the most…

that i’m living on autopilot, waiting for a sign, a shift, a reason, anything…

but nothing’s coming.

at least… not yet.

and i don’t even know if i’m holding on… or just here.

ADURAFEELS☆

they say there’s a worldwide beauty standard.

like humanity all came stamped out of a factory, exact replicas:

light skin, thick curves, perfect noses, hair that obeys gravity and instagram filters.

check the boxes, or you’re failing life.

and if you don’t fit?

you’re suddenly “less than,” like you forgot to download the latest software update called acceptable.exe.

but i don’t buy it.

i don’t believe in beauty standards.

they are misleading, restrictive, and ultimately damaging.

they weren’t created to celebrate humanity – no.

they were invented to sell insecurity, to make us chase ideals as fleeting as snapchat streaks, to make people doubt themselves while someone else profits off their anxiety.

they whisper:

“you’re not enough. maybe if you try harder, someone will like you.”

like life is a test and your body is the final exam – graded with someone else’s biased pencil.

and spoiler alert: the exam was always rigged.

and let’s not forget the role technology plays in all this.

apps like snapchat, instagram, and tiktok gave us filters –

the kind that smooth your skin, enlarge your eyes, shrink your nose, plump your lips, even reshape your jawline.

suddenly, our own faces became negotiable, like clay in someone else’s hands.

we scroll, snap, swipe, see ourselves “perfected” through a lens that never existed in real life.

and after a while, we start comparing our unfiltered faces to the edited ones, like the natural version is the broken one.

it’s exhausting.

it’s demoralizing.

it’s like the world handed us a cheat code for beauty, and then punished us for not having it.

we crop, we tilt, we hide.

confidence in our own skin becomes optional, or worse, a liability.

the more we chase these pixel-perfect versions of ourselves, the less we trust the person staring back in the reflection – the real, messy, beautiful human being who existed long before filters existed.

and isn’t that ironic? technology promised connection, but it also sold us insecurity.

it turned self-expression into a competition, and suddenly everyone’s face feels like it’s under review.

beauty apps didn’t just change how we look in photos –

they changed how we see ourselves, teaching us to doubt what is natural, normal, and alive.

the result?

a generation comparing reality to illusion, forgetting that flaws, scars, and quirks are not imperfections to fix, but hallmarks of being human.

and it doesn’t stop at filters.

we’d rather choose wigs, weaves, extensions, or elaborate hairdos over our own hair,

because somehow, the natural version doesn’t look “luxurious” enough.

i know what you’re thinking – it’s just to enhance beauty, to feel confident, right?

but who decided that confidence has to come from something artificial?

who decided that our own curls, coils, kinks, or waves aren’t already worthy?

we spend hours, money, and energy reshaping, hiding, or covering what is ours.

and while it’s fun to experiment, the problem arises when the message we internalize is:

my hair, my face, my body – they aren’t enough as they are.

filters, wigs, weaves, apps – they become tools not of self-expression, but of self-doubt, teaching us that perfection exists only in imitation.

the irony is painful.

we have the most original, living, breathing version of ourselves staring back in the mirror every day,

and yet we reach for something manufactured – digital or physical – thinking it’s better.

when really, the “better” we’re chasing has always been inside us, messy, glorious, completely human.

look at stretch marks.

once hidden, shamed, secret scars.

now? memes compare them to ocean waves, meat pie textures, constellations across the body – and suddenly people love them.

skinny bodies – size 6, size 4 – once bullied, called fragile, “not real curves.”

now? everyone wants to shrink, squeeze into that shape, as if being small finally validates your existence.

thick curves? people went under knives, spent thousands, all because society’s insecurities projected onto them whispered:

“you’re not enough.”

and it’s wild how beauty standards can flip on you like an annoying tiktok trend you didn’t ask to watch.

take big foreheads, for example.

back in the day, they were considered elegant, like a built-in crown – something only the most admired women had.

now? people call them “fiveheads,” make jokes in group chats, hide them under bangs, wigs, or filters.

same with hairlines, hip dips, same with every feature dragged into the comment section just to be laughed at.

the forehead didn’t change.

your hairline didn’t shift.

what changed was the story – the way society decided to frame it.

one month, a feature makes you a queen.

next month, it’s a punchline.

people who would’ve been praised in another era now check the mirror twice, scroll through photos, tilt their heads sideways – just to see if they “measure up.”

that’s the cruel part: beauty standards aren’t reality.

they’re trends wearing borrowed crowns.

they don’t measure worth – they sell insecurity, and the return policy is broken.

features once celebrated can suddenly become flaws –

just like albinos were whispered about as “oddities,” feared for not “seeing in the sun,”

or vitiligo, dismissed, misunderstood, even feared.

now these same features are photographed, admired, meme’d in ways that make people laugh, love, and embrace them.

and isn’t it amazing?

that our differences – patches, scars, shades, curves, textures, angles – are finally being seen.

humans aren’t supposed to fit in a mold.

they’re supposed to break it.

stomp on it.

maybe even glitter over it.

beauty exists in difference.

it is in skin kissed by the sun,

pale skin glowing like moonlight on quiet water,

eyes in every shape and shade,

hair curling, coiling, dancing like it’s at a private party with no dress code.

each person is a brushstroke.

each face a color in a painting no one has the right to edit.

to say there’s an “acceptable” standard is like walking into a garden and declaring:

“only roses allowed.”

suddenly, lilies, daisies, wildflowers – even the weeds, messy, stubborn, unapologetic – are criminals.

we all have preferences, and that’s fine.

but liking one thing doesn’t give anyone permission to make someone else feel small.

beauty is not a competition.

nor is it a checklist.

it’s personal.

fluid.

deeply individual.

appreciating what you are drawn to should never come at the expense of another person’s sense of worth.

the obsession with standardizing beauty reveals more about society’s need for control than what is genuinely attractive.

real beauty is messy.

raw.

unapologetic.

it’s the laughter lines on a face that has cried too much.

the hands that made something from nothing.

the posture of someone refusing to shrink to fit a frame that never fit anyway.

beauty doesn’t ask for permission.

it doesn’t need a checklist, a filter, or an approval stamp.

ironically, the more we try to standardize it, the more we strip it of its soul.

so no, there is no worldwide standard.

there is only difference.

only freedom.

only the light sneaking through the cracks in those broken mirrors,

showing us what we’ve always been: alive, messy, glorious, and uncontainably beautiful.

the cracks? that’s where the light gets in.

beauty was never meant to fit in a box.

it was meant to kick the box over.

dance on it.

set it on fire.

and the best part?

the world is finally starting to see it too.

ADURAFEELS☆

before i learned my own name, i was already learning prayers – already told what was holy, what was right, what was wrong.

it greeted many of us before we could even speak for ourselves – whispered into our ears by parents, echoed from pulpits, stitched into the songs we were taught to sing.

we grew up calling it truth before we ever learned to ask whose truth it was.

for a while, faith felt like home. then it started to feel like a performance.

we learned to sound grateful even when we were confused.

to sing, to kneel, to believe – even when parts of us weren’t sure.

somewhere between doing and feeling, something sacred got lost.

faith stopped being a mirror and became a mask.

we memorized verses to prove our worth, recited prayers to show we belonged.

and in that repetition, something holy started to sound rehearsed.

maybe that’s what this feeling looks like – being layered with versions of yourself:

the believer, the doubter, the one who just wants to understand.

one part prays, another questions, another quietly screams, “do i even know who i am without this?”

it’s that quiet chaos between wanting to be good and wanting to be real.

we were told faith should be blind, but maybe that’s why so many of us grew up unseen.

we learned to silence our questions because asking made us seem rebellious.

we learned to hide our confusion because doubt looked like weakness.

and so we said “amen” even when our hearts whispered “i don’t know.”

but still – faith never really leaves.

it lingers like a song you used to know all the words to.

maybe you don’t sing it as loud anymore, but you still hum it sometimes when the world feels heavy.

it lingers in the background like an old melody that once made perfect sense, even if the lyrics feel distant now.

maybe faith was never meant to be perfect – just personal.

religion built communities, yes – it gave us warmth, love, belonging.

but it also built walls.

it made us quiet when we should’ve spoken, guilty for simply being human.

it can teach love, yet punish those who love differently.

it can preach forgiveness, yet forget empathy.

and maybe that’s what many of us are still unlearning – that holiness isn’t about rules; it’s about kindness.

still, i think there’s hope.

maybe faith isn’t dying – maybe it’s evolving.

maybe we’re not running from God – just from the noise that tried to define Him for us.

we’re learning that spirituality can exist outside of rules,

that belief can breathe beside uncertainty,

that connection doesn’t have to come with fear.

to the one sitting in church wondering if they still belong – you do.

to the one who doesn’t pray but still whispers to the universe – that counts.

to the one who feels too far gone – maybe you’re closer than you think.

to the one who feels too broken for religion – maybe you’re the reason it needs healing.

we’re not losing faith; we’re reshaping it.

we’re unlearning what was forced, keeping what feels real,

and finding our own way to believe.

maybe that’s what these echoes are –

the many voices inside us trying to find their way back to peace,

their way back to light.

and maybe that’s what faith has always been –

not knowing for sure,

but still reaching.

ADURAFEELS☆

every morning, i give myself that pep talk: “today will be different.” spoiler alert – it never is. the day just finds new creative ways to humble me. hope knocks; i don’t answer. i smile instead – not because i’m happy, but because it’s easier than explaining why i’m not. call it survival, call it denial, whatever. it works. it’s my version of saying, “i’m fine,” when i’m clearly not.

inside, though? heavy. like i’m dragging invisible bags everywhere while everyone else thinks i’m walking light. i eat sometimes just to fill the silence – like maybe if i’m full, i won’t feel so empty…it doesn’t work. the ache always finds its way back – like a toxic ex who shows up to “check up on you” or “make sure you’re good” just when things are barely holding together. it’s that consistent.🤣

sleep used to be my escape – a safe space. now it’s like we share a bed but don’t talk anymore. i just lie there wide awake at 3 a.m, staring at the ceiling like it’s full of constellations. once, i was thunder – loud, bold, alive. now i’m drizzle – still here, just quiet, unsure, confused… occasionally ruining someone’s outfit, and trying to remember what being “alive” used to feel like.

everything i used to love feels like it belongs to someone else now. my laughter? borrowed. my goals? outsourced. even my prayers sound like the google translate version of hope. i talk to god, but sometimes the silence feels awkward after my words trip on their way up. then i say, “hey, it’s me again,” like in that movie Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret – and even that sounds fake. i know he’s listening. maybe he’s quiet on purpose… or maybe i haven’t been patient enough to hear what he has to say.

sometimes it feels like i’m wearing skin that doesn’t fit – like my dreams are hand-me-downs. like i’ve been stitched together with other people’s expectations and told to smile in it. it’s like wearing jeans that almost fit, but not quite. you know they’re uncomfortable, but you keep wearing them because – what else are you supposed to do?

honesty is cold. pretending at least keeps you warm. deep down, though – under all the noise of “should” and “must” – there’s still a little version of me humming. the real me. a candle in a hurricane – soft, tired, but still there.

when people talk about things like this, they say, “it’s just a phase.” but i’ve been here long enough to call it home. i’ve learned the shape of the walls, rearranged the quiet, softened the edges with memories i didn’t ask for. two years in, and it doesn’t feel like a phase anymore — just a place i’m still learning how to leave.

pretending? yeah, i’ve mastered it. it’s a lifestyle at this point. i joke through the pain, smile through the breakdowns, and make memes out of misery. someone asked me what my hobbies were recently, and i almost said, “recovering from life.” music feels like noise now… books blur… even my reflection looks like someone auditioning to be okay.

some days, breathing feels like a full-time job. other days, it’s the only thing i get right. but maybe that’s okay. maybe there’s something sacred about staying – about patching yourself together with sarcasm, snacks, and the occasional prayer that sounds like, “God, please don’t let me flop today.”

healing, i’ve realized, isn’t pretty. it’s not “glow-up” energy. it’s brushing your teeth at 2 p.m. because you finally got out of bed. it’s not crying in the shower this time. it’s sending that crying emoji 😭 — the one that’s supposed to mean i’m laughing so hard, when you just want to cry. it’s choosing to stay when every part of you says “enough.” being human isn’t about shining; it’s about showing up – even if you look like a mess doing it.

maybe the art of holding on isn’t strength. maybe it’s faith – quiet, shaky faith that whispers “tomorrow” even when today’s a mess. maybe surviving isn’t about thriving; maybe it’s just about not quitting – believing there’s still something worth holding onto, even if it’s your last nerve and a good meme.

so yeah – if you’re reading this and you feel that same quiet chaos inside you, stay. not because it’s easy, but because one day we’ll look back at this mess and laugh… or at least make it into good content or a storytime on tiktok😛. until then, we keep showing up – with borrowed hands, cracked humor, and a heartbeat that insists on being counted.

because honestly, that’s enough for now.

ADURAFEELS☆

Life? School? Friendships? Scars? They all came to mind, but none of them stayed. Even asked Google for help where it gave out ideas like love, fear, growth, guilt. And yes, I’ve thought of all those too. But right now, none of them resonate with me.

So here I am, still wanting to write. Still searching for the thing that feels real enough for today. Maybe I don’t need to chase a grand theme.

Maybe today itself is worth documenting. Not a polished story, not a neatly packaged lesson... just today. The uncertainty, the restless itch in my fingers, the need to put something down.

So what happened today?

Nothing extraordinary. The hours slipped by the way they always do, with small pauses and quiet interruptions. I thought about writing more than I actually wrote. I stared at blank spaces and wondered if they were judging me. I caught myself scrolling, delaying, waiting for something to spark.

And maybe this is the point: not every day has to be a climax. Some days are simply about showing up to the page. About saying... I was here. I thought. I tried.

But as I sit with the silence, one thought keeps returning, tugging at me: the struggles of being the oldest child. Maybe that’s what I’ve been circling all along. Maybe that’s what feels real enough for today.

They say being the oldest child is a quiet burden no one really talks about. People often describe it with words like “responsibility” and “leadership,” but what they don’t say is that it sometimes feels like raising children who aren’t yours. The oldest learns how to soothe tears, settle fights, and step in as the in-between parent... not because they chose to, but because they had to.

They become the cushion that absorbs every bit of frustration. When something goes wrong at home, the aggression finds its way to them first. They are expected to walk carefully, to live perfectly, because there are younger ones watching. Mistakes that others can make freely suddenly become unforgivable when they come from the firstborn. They are the blueprint, even if they never asked to be.

What no one says out loud is how much of themselves they lose in that role. They end up shielding their siblings from what they shouldn’t see or hear, even when they’re barely old enough to understand it themselves. They’re the ones listening to their mother’s long rants, the ones weathering their father’s anger when it could have been handled differently. And through it all, they’re still supposed to smile, still supposed to stand strong.

There’s also the contradiction of control. The firstborn is told to make their own choices, to act like an adult, to be responsible for their future. But when they do take a step for themselves, it’s branded as selfishness. They’re encouraged to be independent, but only in ways that fit neatly into someone else’s idea of who they should be.

Being the first child is living under a magnifying glass. Every action, every word, every slip is watched and measured. And yet, the love and care they pour into everyone else often go unnoticed. People see the strength but not the sacrifice. They see the stability but not the silent nights of holding themselves together.

No one really talks about how exhausting it is to cry all night, only to wake up the next morning looking fine. The heart feels heavy, the pillow is wet, yet the firstborn is expected to step into the day with a smile that convinces everyone they are okay. No one notices how the spark in their eyes slowly fades, how the light dims when they carry burdens that no one else sees.

No one talks about the social experiment carried out on the firstborn... how their childhood was less of a life and more of a trial run, a testing ground for rules, punishments, and expectations. They weren’t just a child; they were the experiment observed, adjusted, and redefined until the formula was “right” for everyone who came after.

No one talks about how they had to be the bridge between their parents’ strictness and their eventual softness. How they had to fight, break, and sometimes burn just so their siblings could walk on smoother ground. They were the one who bent under the weight of iron standards, so that by the time the younger ones reached the same walls, those walls had already been lowered. Yet somehow, they were still the bad egg. The black sheep. The warning sign.

No one talks about how every stumble they made felt magnified... how one mistake was never just a mistake but evidence, proof, a flashing neon sign that maybe they weren’t good enough, maybe they were failing everyone. No one talks about how much energy it took to live under a microscope, every choice dissected, every flaw rehearsed in lectures until they learned to carry guilt like second skin.

No one talks about the irony... how the same things that condemned them earned their siblings freedom. How their rebellion became permission. How their “recklessness” became the safety net. The younger ones are praised for “just living their lives,” while the firstborn is remembered for every scar carved into theirs.

Being the oldest child often means carrying responsibilities never asked for. They are expected to put everyone and everything first... their siblings, their parents, the household... sometimes at the cost of their own comfort. They think of how to make life easier for others, even when it means making their own life harder. The silent rule is that their life must serve as a guide, that their steps must be perfect because younger ones are following behind.

In Yoruba, there is a saying: “Èṣin ìwájú ni t’ẹ̀yìn wò sáré”... the horse behind runs by watching the one in front.

The proverb is often used to remind firstborns that their younger ones are watching, learning, and imitating. And so the pressure grows: they must achieve, they must succeed, they must endure, because their life is not just theirs.

But here’s the truth: You are not just a horse in front. You are not a blueprint. You are not a silent sacrifice.You are a person with your own path, your own voice, your own future.

Yes, they may watch you. Yes, they may follow. But you shouldn't be crushed under the weight of a role you didn’t choose. My life is not a lesson for others... it is yours to live.And if that is called selfishness, then so be it.

What makes me smile now is how all of this started. I sat down staring at a blank page, thinking I had nothing to say. For three weeks, I’ve been circling around ideas... life, school, friendships, scars... dismissing each one as not “right.” I told myself today might just be another failed attempt. But here I am, several paragraphs later, realizing that “nothing” turned into something raw and real.

Maybe that’s the magic of writing... it pulls out the words you didn’t know you were holding in. It gives weight to the feelings you thought were just passing clouds. This was supposed to be nothing, but it became a mirror. It became a voice.

So I’ll commend myself for this... for showing up, for ranting, for writing when I thought I couldn’t. And now I’m giggling and smiling sheepishly, because it feels a little funny to be proud of something that almost never existed.

I guess this won’t be the last time I spill my thoughts here. Maybe I’ll keep ranting... loudly, quietly, honestly. And maybe that’s enough.

☆ADURAFEELS