Overview of Khaya Dlanga’s Sometimes Life Is Like That

South African novelist and storyteller Khaya Dlanga’s memoir-style collection of personal essays, Life is Like That Sometimes, was published in 2025. Through his personal experiences, the book explores the unpredictability of life through humor, introspection, and poignant storytelling.

Important topics

• The unpredictable nature of life and how unforeseen circumstances mold us into the people we become

• Grief and recovery, particularly contemplations of loss and individual fortitude

• Identity and culture: negotiating South African ancestry and life

• Human relationships: connection, love, forgiveness, and family

• Discovering purpose in routine moments and transforming commonplace encounters into understanding

I’ve always envied people that have good relationships with their hair. And yes, you can have a relationship with your hair. Honestly you should have a relationship with every part of yourself because everything comes together to form your identity.

Back to the hair conversation.

For most of my toddler years, I was bald. Not in a tragic way - more in a cute, oversized-head-on-a-tiny-body kind of way. Looking back at my baby photos still makes me laugh.

Then came my dreadlock era. To this day, I’m not entirely sure whose idea that was, but it happened, and it lasted for a few years. After that, I returned to natural hair.

That phase didn’t last very long. As much as I was raised by a woman who loved experimenting with hair. Unfortunately for her, she had a daughter that was tender-headed. Every detangling session felt like a personal assault, every wash day ended in tears, and even the tiniest tug on my hair could completely destroy my mood.

So instead of embracing the fro, we relaxed it and I also started doing braids - which I still love to this day. This made life easier for both my mother and me, and at the time, that felt like the best solution.

When I got to high school, I was surrounded by girls that would embrace their afros unapologetically.

From a distance, I admired them. I adored how boldly they wore their natural hair, how full and voluminous their puffs were, how they adorned them with accessories and how imaginatively they styled their edges. Instead of being something to be controlled, their hair appeared to be an extension of who they were.

As I watched them, I realized that they had a connection to their hair that I did not. They recognized it, embraced it, and created room for it.

So, I made an attempt to embrace my hair too. I stopped relaxing, trimmed the split ends, and wore protective hairstyles like cornrows hoping it would bounce back naturally.

And she did come back.

The problem was that she didn’t come back the way I expected her to. My hair was thin, my afro seemed almost transparent in the sunlight, it wasn’t as long as I wanted it to be, my edges were hanging on by a thread - my hairline looked like it was fighting its own battles.

I had an idea of what my natural hair should look like because I had spent so much time observing other girls’ hair. The natural hair I admired was thick, full, and dramatic; mine felt sparse, fragile, and unfinished. In my mind, natural hair was beautiful - but only when it looked a certain way. When mine didn't fit that picture, I considered it a failure rather than simply different.

In retrospect, I saw that I wasn’t giving my hair a chance. I was making a comparison.

During lockdown, my mother and I decided to completely shave it off and restart. At first I was hesitant. The idea of being 15 and having no hair did not sit well with me, also teenagers are really mean…

But I didn’t really have a say, my mother insisted.

So I cut it all off, secretly praying that it would grow back before schools reopened.

Unfortunately, my hair had other plans.

When it started growing back, it came in unevenly and awkwardly, which meant I had to shave it again. Just like that, any hope of returning to school with a head full of hair disappeared.

To add to all this, I had gained quite a substantial amount of weight.

I walked back into school feeling exposed. Every insecurity I had about myself seemed impossible to hide.

I was still learning who I was, and suddenly I felt like my appearance had become the only thing people noticed. Every joke someone made seemed to confirm the insecurities I already had about myself, making it even harder to see beyond them.

That period did a number on my self-esteem.

Anyways,

Something remained the same even after my hair grew to a state of health and fullness. It still didn’t appeal to me. While others talked proudly and lovingly about their natural hair, I found it difficult to feel the same way about mine.

In fact, I hated it for a very long period.

Whenever I wore my hair out, I preferred it relaxed. I liked the way it looked, the way it felt, and the confidence it gave me. Even now, that’s still my preference.

Perhaps that is the story’s painful reality. Not everyone’s journey concludes with them falling in love with their natural hair. Not all tales of self-acceptance are tidy and motivational.

To be honest, I’m still working on it.

So maybe the first step isn’t loving my hair.

Maybe the first step is simply acknowledging that our relationship is complicated.

And for now, that’s enough.

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In his memoir Greenlights, Matthew McConaughey considers his life, work, relationships, setbacks, victories, and lessons learned.
McConaughey's theory that life gives us "green lights" - moments when things are going our way - is the source of the title. He contends that if we learn from them and alter our viewpoint, obstacles, failures, and disappointments can ultimately turn into opportunities.

Principal Themes
Resilience is the ability to accept challenges rather than run from them.
Self-discovery: Choosing your own route rather than adhering to norms.
Taking chances: Taking chances led to many of McConaughey's greatest achievements.
Gratitude: Respecting the positive and challenging experiences that mould us.
Being authentic means remaining loyal to who you are, especially in the face of criticism.

A few years ago, I had a conversation with my uncle about loyalty and infidelity.

It was in the era where social media was flooded by women sharing their experiences with being cheated on. Back then, I had never been in a relationship myself, so I couldn’t fully understand why infidelity seemed so common. What surprised me even more was realizing that cheating was never actually a new phenomenon; people were only speaking about it more openly.

I brought the topic up with him because he was someone I respected. He had a wife, two beautiful children, and from the outside, he seemed genuinely happy with the life he had built.

During our conversation he said something that completely caught me off guard:

“If cheating is the reason you’re leaving, you’ll stay single.”

I remember sitting there shocked. What was that even supposed to mean? That loyalty is unrealistic ? Men are incapable of being with one woman? Women are expected to tolerate infidelity if they want companionship?

I didn’t know how to process what I was being told, I had grown up believing that love was built on trust and loyalty. I believed that betrayal would be the last thing on the mind of your partner if you were both truly in love - boy was I wrong.

That conversation introduced me to a much harsher and more complicated reality: sometimes people normalize infidelity so deeply that they speak about it as if it’s inevitable.

Years later, I still think about that sentence and in a way many people’s experiences perpetuate it.

It’s no longer rare to hear a story of someone getting cheated on. Honestly it’s rarer to hear of someone who has never experienced infidelity at all - or maybe they just didn’t find out.

You know what’s funny?

It feels easier to answer the question “Have you ever been cheated on?” with:
“Not to my knowledge”
instead of simply saying “No.”

That in and of itself tells a lot about trust and modern relationships.

Certainty seems foolish

Perhaps the most horrible aspect of it all is not only the betrayal but also the quiet paranoia it causes.

Cruelty amongst couples continues to grow, but this didn’t start with Gen Z. Previous generations experienced betrayal too; the difference is that women were taught how to endure the pain - carry the humiliation, heartbreak, and disrespect in silence because, in many ways, they lived at the mercy of men.

Now that women have more opportunities, financial independence and autonomy. What some people interpret as women becoming “harder to control” is, in reality, women gaining the freedom to choose - who they love, what they accept, and when they walk away.

The playing field is even.

The moment women began leaving, choosing themselves, setting boundaries, exploring options, or behaving in ways once socially reserved for men, they were shamed for it.

Judged by both men AND other women

A saying I will always remember is:
“An evil woman is just an average man.”

Not because all men are evil, but rather because women are frequently condemned by society while men are excused.

There will probably always be double standards between men and women. Some things are socially accepted for one and criticized in the other - that has existed for generations, and it goes both ways in different contexts.

Because of this I do not shame women who have high expectations for the men they date (the streets are brutal).

It is incredibly difficult to find your ideal partner

And I think many women eventually realize something uncomfortable: choosing the “less attractive guy” or the “short guy” does not automatically guarantee better treatment or loyalty. A man being less conventionally desirable does not make him morally superior. He can still stimulate pain the exact same ways your “type” could.

When a man tells you that the last thing he could ever do is hurt you. Believe him. That is the last thing he will do.

I’ve also noticed a rise in the ambiguity of loyalty amongst my peers

Some of the most “single” people you will ever meet are actually in relationships.

Guilt is treated like a future inconvenience - a problem for tomorrow’s conscience, not tonight’s decisions.

“The power in all relationships lies on who cares the least”

Dating has become a game where there’s a winner and a loser (war)- insane right ?

Ladies,

being with someone you merely tolerate can temporarily ease loneliness, but over time it creates a different kind of loneliness - the kind where you feel invisible while lying next to someone.

Companionship without genuine respect, peace, attraction, emotional safety, or fulfillment can become exhausting. You begin to compromise beyond your limits, and eventually your fear of being alone transforms into resentment toward the person you selected because you didn’t want to be alone.

At the same time, loneliness is painful too. People are wired for intimacy, belonging, and connection. But that doesn’t mean you have to accept conditional love, thoughtless love, hurtful love. One does not become weak or desperate when they desire pure love.

The real question isn’t :

“Is it better to be lonely or settle?”

It is:

“What kind of loneliness can I live with?”

one asks you to wait, the other asks you to disappear.

To the hopeless romantics out there, I envy you.

I’m envious of your naiveté, optimism, and fearless faith in love. I’m envious of how you still manage to pour your heart out, despite the world’s relentless attempts to cage it.

And in spite of everything, I sincerely hope you discover gentle love, poetic love. The kind that is genuine and secure. A love that doesn’t make you doubt your value, humiliate you, or betray you.

I hope you come across someone who chooses you.

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The unconditional love of a mother is incomparable.

She holds the womb that sheltered your earliest becoming, where your heart learnt how to beat.

The woman who brings you into life before you even know what living means.

She is eternal,

divine,

the epitome of perfection.

Your first home

Your first protector

Your first understanding of safety

She forfeits bits of herself so effortlessly to ensure you have a better life. Her choices are motivated by commitment, and love that verges on agony.

Yet life continues to punish her anyway.

It consumes her mercilessly until the once-beaming woman becomes worn out by her own life.

Until her purpose is reduced to survival.

Until her smile begins to look more like resignation than happiness.

Mama endures…

She has the vigor of a stone

She is glorified for how much pain she can carry without collapsing

Silenced by duty

She is expected to continue nurturing even when there is nothing left inside her to give.

And for some reason, the world calls this resilience instead of tragedy.

The saying “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo” feels more like an expectation than empowerment. Suffering under the appearance of strength may be the cruellest legacy that women have inherited. Generations of daughters watch their mothers survive unbearable lives and unconsciously begin preparing themselves to do the same.

We inherit their benevolence, their stillness, and their capacity to bear suffering with dignity.

We are taught that a woman’s heart is a limitless receptacle for the errors of others.

My mother watched my grandmother and learnt how to construct a home out of the ashes as she held the fire of betrayal in her arms until they were callused.

They stayed not because they were weak, but because they were told that “staying” is the highest form of holiness.

Before we even become women, we are already taught how to disappear inside ourselves without anyone noticing.

Mothers accept pain and gently, almost compassionately, caution their daughters that this is just the curse of being a woman.

One day, you will understand tiredness as well.

One day, you will sacrifice pieces of yourself for other people.

One day, you will learn to cry silently.

These are the lessons passed down from our mothers’ silence.

We accept them as truth, watching the women in our bloodline tolerate ultimate disrespect.

As if womanhood is measured by how much ache you can swallow without choking.

Before we ever feel joy, we are conditioned to anticipate suffering… a slow death

Preparing ourselves for survival instead of fulfillment.

Strength is a prison.

I look at my mother and wonder how many versions of herself she had to bury in order to become the woman everyone needed her to be.
How many dreams died quietly inside her.

If life offered her another chance, would she choose herself this time?

Nobody talks about the grief of watching your mother disappear in front of you while she is still alive.

Nobody prepares you for the moment you realise the woman who seemed so unbreakable has simply never been allowed to break.

My mother is the strongest woman I know.

I admire her endlessly,

but I do not wish to live the life she has.

I will not be the third generation to mistake endurance for strength.

It’s kind of ridiculous when you think about it - a tiny, battery-powered device has managed to have so much control in people’s lives. A vape. That’s it.

I was first introduced to vaping in Grade 10. Coincidentally, that was also the year I went to my first “party” - and by party, I mean my friends and I skipped the beginner level and went straight to a club. We were equal parts wild and ambitious.

We landed on Long Street, underdressed, underage, and fully convinced we could pull it off. The audacity??

Standing there -half panicking- trying to act older than we were, as if confidence alone could age us a few years.

There we were, bargaining with the bouncer, mean mugging to silence our youthful features.

No ID, no strategy -  just pure faith.

Surprisingly enough, we got in.

After a few minutes of awkward stares, we deliberated our next move (we really did not think we were going to get in lol) we decided to buy drinks, even though the entry fee had already defeated us.

We walked up to the bar, as I was scanning the menu my brain just… paused.

The prices???

It felt like daylight robbery.

Nonetheless the night was good. We left the club, having enjoyed our spontaneous night.

I started going out more often after that night, I was finally in the high school party life I’d usually only see in movies, it was great.

My friends and I would often go to house parties hosted by other friends from different schools, in neighbouring suburbs. These were called “buzzes”

The set-up looked something like this; byob (bring your own beverage), if you didn’t know the host you’d be restricted from entering the house -only allowed to roam in the backyard. Music came from someone’s Spotify shuffle, and if an ad played, you immediately lost DJ privileges.

Now, here’s the ironic part.

I was a very strict person and took pride in people not smoking around me, especially cigarettes. Anytime someone smoked a cigarette around me I would make a big fuss and cough out loud to show them how much of an inconvenience they were being ( ya one of those people lol).

so…judging by this, what I’m about to tell you next will surely surprise you.

At one of these buzzes was the first time I was offered a vape. The person offering it to me gave the instructions on how to use it. My first attempt was awful. After inhaling, an intense choking-cough experience followed.

The second attempt… was different

The dizziness hit instantly. That light, floating feeling. I could feel the dopamine spike in my body.

And just like that… I was hooked.

The scary part is… it didn’t feel like a big deal.

Vaping wasn’t accompanied by the traditional stigmas associated with cigarettes. It was almost… aesthetic.

Flavours. Colours.

Easy to pass around. Easy to normalise.

It became a routine before I even realised it.

When you're bored, nervous, anxious, at parties, in between talks, or simply need something to do with your hands, there it is.

Additionally, it never feels like an issue because everyone else is doing it.

That's why it's so risky.

It doesn't enter your life with a bang. There is never a time when you think, "This is bad for me." It simply becomes ingrained in your routine until you discover one day that you have been reaching for it mindlessly.

The first time I ever bought my own vape was also the first time my mother caught it in my room. She had texted a picture of it to me while I was at school. I remember dreading going back home. Certain I was going to get a beating.

She was angry, yes. But it wasn’t the anger that got to me -  it was the disappointment.
Hearing it in both my parents’ voices hit harder than the beating itself (yes she beat me tjo)

And still… I didn’t stop.

It took the third time getting caught for me to actually pause and realise what I was doing wasn’t just a mistake anymore (corporal punishment works wonders).

It was a habit.

And honestly… just really stupid.

That’s why I call it a pandemic.

Not because it spreads the way a disease does - but because of how normalised it is.

How easily it embedded itself into a generation that didn’t even question it.

We went from judging smokers… to becoming them.

Just in a more socially acceptable, better-packaged way.

The same person who used to cough dramatically when someone lit a cigarette… is now the one asking,

“skyf choef?”

It doesn’t look dangerous

It doesn’t even seem like an addiction.

You tell yourself: “I can stop whenever I want.”

You don’t notice how often you reach for it,
how uncomfortable you feel without it,
how easily you became the very thing you used to look down on.

I love being umXhosa, I genuinely appreciate the culture and its traditions - everything about it. But damn… we are a judgmental people.

Nothing is more humbling than not knowing how to speak your mother tongue in a room filled with Xhosa people.

Pause.

For context: both my parents are fully  Xhosa from eGcuwa . They both grew up in the same area for years. To this day my mother still tells me stories of how she used to fear my grandmother (my father’s mother) because she was a harsh teacher. Which seems like quite a universal experience for most of our parents.

There’s always a story about strict elders, tough love, and a bit of suffering somewhere in there.

Anyways - nywe nywe nywe - they fell in love, then moved to Cape Town in a township called Khayelitsha

Their first home was ihoki (a shack/ tin house) behind someone else’s house.

Later, they worked their way up to owning the house they were behind.

Growth.

Progress.

Love that for them. And then… boom. I was born.

So yes, I’m very much a township baby. From a very notorious one at that

I was a free spirited child and a bit naughty, but was never allowed to be an “outside kid”

I could only get as far as the gate, and get to watch the other kids running up and down the street. (I promise you it does not sound as sad as I’m making it seem.)

Naturally, I was either at home or next door, at my neighbour’s house. She had an older daughter who loved me, and I loved her right back. Those were my safe spaces.

Then, a few years later, everything changed.

We moved to the suburbs. A quiet, Afrikaans neighbourhood. Not the warmest, not the friendliest - but peaceful. The kind of place people call “a better life.”

And with that came predominantly white schools.

And that… is where it all went downhill for my Xhosa-speaking abilities.

I was quite nervous for my first day at my Afrikaans school, my English was good, but my Xhosa was better.  I was only in grade 2, so I still had plenty of time to learn, to adapt…

I remember walking into the gates early in the morning before the sun had risen. That became my routine for years - my parents had to beat traffic to get to work, so I learned to start my days in the dark (not very pleasant during winter)

I met this older girl and she was super friendly and showed me around the school. That brought me a lot of comfort and made everything a little less intimidating.

And just like that, my memories of life in the township began to fade.

At my primary school, in my grade and the ones above me , black people were a minority. I didn’t mind this too much, because before this I had gone to a predominantly coloured school so I was already familiar with being “the other”

My parents had always emphasized how important it was for me to learn English, to integrate, to have access to better opportunities.

So in many ways, I was prepared.

But what I didn’t realise then… was what that preparation would eventually cost me.

I excelled in primary school, I did well academically and I had a very diverse group of friends. But it was in my senior years that I truly began to come into my own.

When I started drama for the first time and got the lead role in grade 7, everything changed. I was no longer part of the minority, blending in the background. I become visible. Recognized. Even…a little popular

I started to realise how things worked - how certain Black students were seen and valued more than others. The “acceptable” ones. The exceptional ones. The token Black kids.

Disclaimer ! The school was not racist bafethu…eh to my knowledge at least.

They were usually the athletes. The ones who brought pride to the school through sport, who were easy to celebrate. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t athletically gifted.

If I was going to climb that invisible social ladder, I had to stand out in other ways.

So I chose something I was already good at, the creative root

Drama became my space.

And it worked

My senior years were amazing and with that my English and Afrikaans strengthened. I could express myself clearly, fluently, effortlessly.

But somewhere along the way… something else was quietly slipping.

At the end of my grade 7 year during December we went to Eastern Cape, which was a tradition . It  gave my parents the opportunity to leave the kids and their own thing.

One afternoon,  I was sitting outside with my grandmother. She was telling me stories about her youth, those slow, rich stories that felt like they carried whole lifetimes inside them. I used to love those moments with her. She was a very wise woman, but quite lonely since my grandfathers passing . So I made it a point to always keep her company…hoping to distract her from whatever she carried in silence.

While we were enjoying our time a group of kids came to the gate, they were sent to ask my grandmother something. I went to open the gate for them and showed them the way to her.

As we waited for her  to collect whatever they were sent for, I stood outside with them. I never really had friends in the Eastern Cape - back again to not being an “outside kid” - so this felt new. Exciting, even. I finally had kids my age to talk to.

As they spoke to me in fast, fluent, unapologetic village Xhosa…all I could do was respond in English - not my best moment

I could see it on their faces immediately. The confusion. The surprise. That subtle shift. Like something didn’t quite make sense, simply because my grandparents were well respected in the community…so for them to have a grandchild that couldn’t seem to speak Xhosa…oof controversial.

That’s when everything went downhill.

It was the first time I ever had the term “coconut” used against me.

“Coconut; is a derogatory term for a person of color who is perceived as acting white, or having assimilated and betrayed their own culture.” It implies they are "black on the outside, white on the inside"

At first, I didn’t fully grasp what was being said. It hit me, but it didn’t immediately register. The words were spoken so casually, almost as a joke - but there was a sharp edge beneath them. Something that stayed with me.

Black on the outside. White on the inside.

I remember feeling mostly confused. Embarrassed. Vulnerable, even. Like I had been caught lacking something I didn’t even realize I was losing.

In that moment, my excitement vanished. The small happiness of finally being outside, chatting with kids my age, just… disappeared. I became intensely aware of myself - how I spoke, how I sounded, what I represented.

I wasn’t “Xhosa enough” for them.

But back in the suburbs, I wasn’t white either.

So where did that leave me?

That moment lingered with me longer than I thought it would. Because it wasn’t just about language - it was about being seen as “less than” by your own people for something that, at the time, felt completely beyond your control.

I never had an issue with belonging, because I could always easily adapt. But in this moment I battled with my identity.

That was only the beginning.

A flood of insults and jokes followed and I felt small.

The rest of trip was quite dull because of that experience, I was almost violently conflicted, but I didn’t tell anyone about it. I carried it quietly, like it wasn’t something I was allowed to be hurt by.

When I got back to Cape Town. I was about to start high school. A fresh start. So I made a decision: I buried that moment. Pretended it didn’t happen. Focused on new beginnings.

High school was a complete shift from primary school.

Now, the majority of students were people of color and white people were the minority. During break times The Xhosa kids would gather around the quad singing amagwijo(“a traditional Xhosa, South African call-and-response a-cappella singing practice”), laughing, speaking rapid, effortless Xhosa.

And for the first time, I felt it.

Pressure.

It was time to change my ways

To get rid of the “coconut” label that had followed me, whether I acknowledged it or not.

Because now, I wasn’t just trying to fit in.

I was trying to prove that I belonged.

I started speaking Xhosa more at home with my parents, reading Xhosa tweets, listened more carefully when people spoke - anything I could do to immerse myself in the language again.

I was determined.

And slowly, it started coming back.

Actually… not even slowly.

It came back almost instantly - like muscle memory. Like it had been sitting somewhere inside me this whole time, waiting to be called on again.

I felt a sense of relief knowing I would not embarrass myself the way I did again

But what I didn’t realise then was that this wasn’t just about relearning a language.

It was about undoing shame.

And that takes a lot longer than muscle memory.

Unpause.

I love being Xhosa. It’s something I carry with pride. But within that pride, there’s pressure. Because if you don’t present it “correctly,” you’re questioned.

Judged.

Almost… disowned in subtle ways.

And that quiet exclusion? It lingers longer than any insult ever could.

I was first introduced to this prompt as I was casually scrolling on TikTok. Within seconds, I was dumbfounded!  That shock immediately turned to offence. I couldn’t believe someone could say something so stupid and insensitive.

And if I’m being honest, the anger intensified when I realized the statement came from a man. My mind immediately filled with judgment and insults.

Would I have reacted differently if a woman made the same claim?

I don’t know.

That uncertainty forced me to confront something uncomfortable: my reaction wasn’t entirely rational.

It was emotional.

Defensive.

Possibly even biased.

Many of us can relate to having somewhat irrational reactions at times when confronted with controversial opinions. We immediately reject the idea before we examine it. That was me in that moment.

“Emotion alone does not invalidate a claim - nor does it prove it correct.”

I sent the video to some of my friends, seeking validation to comfort my outrage, and as expected they agreed with me. We all deemed it a “silly take”

Later, I found myself thinking about it again. Why had it bothered me so much? Was it truly absurd - or was it challenging something deeper?

So I decided to sit with the discomfort, not view the statement with an ignorant mind.

Fundamentally, the statement isn’t comparing the morality of abortion to absentee fatherhood. That is an entirely different discussion, one that has its roots in moral philosophy and rarely has universal results. Morality is not entirely the objective truth, rather it is a subjective social construct. (Your thoughts on whether abortion/an absent father is right or wrong is all your choice based on your beliefs.)

Returning to the original claim…

It compares legality and choice.

The Choice on Termination of Pregnancy Act (the CTOP Act No. 92 of 1996) came into effect on 1 February, 1997. Despite widespread opposition. Legally this gave women the choice to opt out of parenthood. Women have a biological burden, the law protects bodily autonomy. Men cannot legally force or prevent that decision.

Contrarily, being an absent father is not a crime either. However the law imposes the duty of maintenance. Financial responsibility is not optional, it is a legal obligation grounded in the rights of the child.

This is where the comparison collapses. Abortion and abandonment occur at different stages. The consequences differ. Abortion ends a pregnancy before a child has the legal and social status of an individual with rights. However, absentee paternity is removing oneself from a child who already exists and has needs, rights, and legal protections.

The concept of “financial abortion,” suggests that men can financially opt out of parenthood too if women can opt out through abortion. Though there is a crucial distinction as reproduction is not biologically symmetrical. Pregnancy can only affect one party physically, child support is not bodily - it is financial.

Abandonment does not equate to an abortion.

Furthermore, abandonment carries consequences beyond finances. An existing child can experience harm, seek emotional support, a connection, answers, or closure. Potential children that were never born cannot do that.

There are many arguments that come into play when discussing the responsibility of parenthood. The conversation is complicated by the imbalances between biological reality, legal responsibility, and personal choice. Men and women are not equal in the reproductive experience, and the law reflects that.

In the limited sense that emotional presence cannot be regulated, it may be permissible for a father to be absent. In certain situations, abortion may also be permitted. However, legality by itself does not prove equivalency. Due to their basic differences, these acts are treated differently by the law.

Controversial remarks might spark the important conversation. However, discussion needs to be based on clarity. Clarity makes this clear: although absentee fatherhood and abortion both fall under legal frameworks, they are not in any way comparable from a moral or legal standpoint.

Controversial statements often feel like attacks. But sometimes, they are invitations - invitations to question our biases, examine double standards, and explore uncomfortable truths.

The statement presented a false equivalence, hence my initial outrage.

Yet, by immediately dismissing the perspective, I reinforced the very division that often prevents meaningful dialogue between men and women.

We weaken our capacity to comprehend one another and obstruct genuine cohabitation when we permit separation and segregation to continue.   

Is getting married as great as people make it seem?

Growing up, I believed that happiness looked like a big white wedding - the elegant dress, carefully chosen bridesmaids, the festivities , the cake, the perfect man. The entire exhibition felt essential, as though it were proof that love had finally arrived.

I was drawn to the image of women walking down the aisle in white, a symbol of purity and promise, stepping into a future that seemed certain and complete. In those moments, marriage felt less like a choice and more like a destination. The point where life truly began.

Like Cinderella (kinda), I believed the idea that true happiness followed a simple formula: find your Prince, get married, and build a life together.

It seemed so simple…so attainable.

Over time, the edges of that dream started to soften. I began to see how much of that fairytale was based on tradition rather than reality, on expectation rather than understanding. Happiness is far too complex to be reduced into a 3 step fictional formula.

I never liked Cinderella that much anyways, I preferred Tiana. I related to her because she was ambitious, hardworking and had a strong sense of self- but in the end she too got her fairytale ending.

I often wonder what the lives of those princesses look like once they settle into their new realities. Does “happily ever after” triumph over reality, or does the magic quietly dissolve?

Sadly, reality is unavoidable. And unlike fairytales, it doesn’t end at the altar.

Marriage introduces changes that cannot be ignored. “I” becomes “we.” “Mine” becomes “ours.” Vowed to share a life till death due us part.

Don’t get me wrong, I think marriage can be beautiful, but I know it’s not easy. It presents many challenges and demands sacrifice and compromise. What if one day I walk down the aisle in my white dress, only to discover that the man I chose was not the one? People are constantly changing - and what happens when I don’t like who he becomes, or worse, when being with him turns me into someone I do not recognize?

The uncertainty in how someone will change is one of the reasons I’m hesitant about the idea of marriage. There’s also a dynamic switch that occurs once two people marry. Suddenly there’s more expectations and rules.

I think I’ve realised I never truly cared about marriage - only the wedding, driven by my love for admiration and attention.

Do I really need a certificate to be the defining factor of my commitment to someone?

Perhaps marriage isn't a guaranteed ending at all, but it's a question that people continue to ask themselves. Perhaps the everyday choice to remain, grow, and be honest - even when it is uncomfortable - is a better indicator of love than ceremonies or certificates

Maybe happiness doesn’t begin at the altar.

Maybe it starts the moment we stop confusing the image of love with the work of it.

Uncomfortable memories are the ones that keep one up at night, the driving force that can ruin your day in an instance- you’re never prepared for them. They are prompted by small things you didn’t even know could be linked to that moment.

It could be anything from regretting what you said during an argument to physically doing something deemed morally incorrect. You sit in a dark room visualizing self inflicted actions you knew that you shouldn’t have done

There’s no comfort in being uncomfortable

It causes your heart to race, head to spin, eyes shut down in shame for the consequences of your actions

You blame it on the alcohol, the influence, the spur of the moment…but never yourself

Because blaming yourself means taking accountability though you cannot begin to account for that…you’re too sensible to ever do such a thing.

It hits at random moments causing cold shivers to run through your body

You are riddled with disgust, disturbed by thoughts that are running through your head.

Attempting to deny implication

The memory lingers, unable to be clouded by any distractions. it replays over and over haunting your mind.

The only cure is to forget.

You try your best to erase the dark image of that day, pushing it deep down to never revisit it

But you remember that you are not the only one that is carrying this memory, someone else out there is responsible for keeping your secret. Will they?

The process restarts you’re back at square one, only now with more on your plate.

This burden consumes you, it never leaves. You look at the people close to you and wonder if they shame you too.

Memories are both a blessing and a curse. The curse carries more weight as it shields the blessing. You promise to never do what you did again.

Trying to convince yourself that you are a good person that made a mistake.

Mistakes happen, but do you deserve to carry the burden of guilt that leads to your demise?

You have no control over how your mind works.

Healing the wounds that have been formed is nearly impossible.

You’re alone, grieving with the person who tried to kill you.

When it comes to the romance aspect of my life, nothing compares to the thrill of a first date.

First it’s the brief talking stage where my mind is overruled by infatuation, I ignore his flaws because everything feels new and exciting

The cat and mouse anticipation of is he busy or is he intentionally making me wait? Does he have feelings for me or not? Those mixed emotions keep me on my toes, and somehow, they make him even more desirable.

It’s crazy how a stranger can occupy your mind so much that they become your only thought.

Then comes the very first date…

His sole purpose of the night is to impress me , he pulls out all the tricks up his sleeve - the chivalry, the compliments, the je ne sais quoi. BOOM it is the best couple of hours that I will ever spend with him.

Now you’re probably wondering why I call those hours “the best I’ll ever spend with him.”

Well… I have my reasons:

My ability to self-sabotage

Getting to know him more, which results in me liking him less

Reduction in effort.. on his end

The inevitable death of infatuation

The magic that the first date came with eventually dies. He becomes comfortable…Suddenly the goal isn’t to impress me anymore but rather it’s to evaluate me.

Now it’s him deciding whether I’m impressive or not. The playing field evens out - both parties need to participate.

I am quite an impressive person, so most of my break-ups are, respectfully, not my fault.

I don’t get bored of people…I don’t even think it’s possible for a person to become boring. People only appear “boring” when they stop trying to be impressive and just present themselves as they truly are.

Now that is not a bad thing, but it is a bad thing if the other person doesn’t like you enough to receive that version of you yet.

Timing matters.

Some interactions, at times… are meant to just end at the first date or the first couple of months of getting to know one another. Serious, commitment filled relationships shouldn’t be the immediate expectation, that puts way to much pressure on a stranger and takes the fun out of dating.

First dates are a beautiful concept…I think it’s because the less you know someone the more fascinating they are.

“People see what they want to see and what people want to see never has anything to do with the truth.” -ROBERTO BOLAÑO

In an age ruled by relentless social influence, one of the most common survival strategies is simple: fake it till you make it.

We often find ourselves in environments where everyone comes from different social backgrounds, which forces a sense of wanting to belong. Call it whatever want, but we all want to fit in and be viewed in a certain manner.

The only way to do that is by creating an illusion of superiority, better known as being pretentious. By definition pretentiousness is “the quality of trying to appear more important, cultured, or talented than one actually is, often through a deceptive outer appearance or ostentatious display”

This may sound quite insane but it is a form of survival to maintain your image. It’s normal to adjust parts of your identity based on the social setting. And because our environments constantly shift, so do the versions of ourselves we present.

True authenticity can sometimes never be achieved because we experience so many influences.

Also…this only works if you don’t weaponise it. Creating a front must have its limits to avoid humiliation. You can’t be comparing your piano skills to Mozart, yet you don’t even know how to play the damn piano… keep it realistic so that when you are tested you are able to somewhat back what you’ve put out.

In the end, none of us are fully authentic. We are curated, influenced, edited versions of ourselves - mirrors reflecting mirrors. Authenticity isn’t something we naturally possess; it’s something we construct. And that’s okay.

As a little girl you admire the man that loves you more than life itself,

the man you run towards when he enters a room,

the man you idolise because he is the most impressive person you know.

Your first hero,

Your first best friend.

Nothing is more precious than the love that a father has for his first born daughter. The sheer beauty in that relationship can light up a room.

He loves her abundantly

He spoils her delicately

He supports her vigorously

He gives her courage, shaping her into something powerful and unbreakable

Or so she thinks…

Innocence is tenuous,

no one warns her how easily everything can change.

No one warns her that even the greatest bonds can break.

The warm place that she called home no longer feels welcoming

The unconditional love that she was shown is now riddled with conditions that she never prepared for.

Those are the consequences of her growing up.

The love he once showed her is replaced with resentment

Her requests become burdens

Her achievements, insignificant.

Her joy, unnecessary

She is fed to the world with a shattered heart, having to relearn the entire meaning of love

Rage fills the cracks where innocence once lived.

Hatred becomes her.

The little girl is forgotten, as though she never existed.

A young woman emerges.

Pain haunts her like a permanent shadow

She is broken, sitting in the fragments

of a bond she believed would never change.

Thank you.

Though you may not know it, meeting you was one of the biggest blessings that i have had. Our journey may have began with indifference and we never know where it might end up, but living now, in the moment i choose to cherish every hiccup, trial, tribulation, laugh and cry that comes.

I have come to realise over the years that female friendships are one of the most important forms of love that need to be nurtured, although yes, it might not always be an easy road and there are many complexities that come with it. It is necessary to have a group of beautiful, brilliant women who will sit with you at the end of the day when you need to be distracted from external stimuli.

This phenomenal group of women are the ones that will never get sick of you when you speak about that one relationship over and over again, they critique you when it is necessary, they keep you alive during a drunk night, encourage dumb behaviour at times but never fail to bring light to a bad day.

So far we’ve witnessed each make good decisions/ bad decisions, go through break-ups/ make-ups, we’ve over shared and kept secrets and i genuinely believe there’s many more to come.

To the women that have been by my side.. thank you.. i don’t know what the next 5+ years will look like. I don’t know where we will all end up, but i believe in all of you because you are all capable of greatness.

Whether we will continue to witness each other’s milestones or not I appreciate that we’ve all gotten this far and that we’ve all shared these interesting memories.

It’s an honour to witness your journey in your 20’s and have you be a part of mine

xx