Today I catch myself longing for the life I'm going to live, reminiscing about my wonderful future that is yet to come.

(Progress because this isn't going to be a pessimistic post, yay!)

As always, Namjoon is the catalyst of most of my thoughts and today he posted on Instagram. A series of photos. His normal adventures displayed in each slide.

It makes me think to myself, how absolutely beautiful it'll be to live a life that I'd genuinely love. There'd be regrets sure but I'd love living.

I've been sheltered for so long that sometimes I get afraid because I don't know what the world really is. I've only known the world around me. The earth within my bubble.

So let me tell you about namjooning. It's a concept about enjoying your company, maybe even the company of others.

I find myself thinking about that word whenever there's comfortable silence after my friends and I just finished laughing for 50 minutes straight and in the silence I have realised for the umpteenth time that I genuinely love these people.

It's in me sitting and just looking at the clouds and nature as a whole.

One day, I want to be able to do more for myself. Find the things that'll make me adore living.

I want to fangirl to my full potential because it really is a beautiful thing. I want to go on trips with my friends. I want to explore the world and her food. I want to find the people I admire in what I wear, in how I dress. I want to wear baggy clothes for the thrill of it. I want to be at this level of peace that I wouldn't care less about anything. I want experience snow for the first time. I want to have so many obsessions that I start to collect them like little trinkets. I want to travel around the world and collect memoirs. I want to do all the fun things that are only fun to me but crazy to everyone else. I want to see all the things Mother Nature has to offer. I want to get to school in a foreign country even though I hate formal education.

I want to live as I am. As I've always known I want to be. It is a difficult thing, not to imagine my life going otherwise but there is a possibility and I see the tiny sliver of it coming true.

Maybe I'll be chasing this high forever but I have to leave a mark before I meet my Creator. Maybe I have to start appreciating the fact that I will grow and I'll not be this way forever. Like the moon and all its phases. How it remains iridescent is beyond me but she does it well.

I really am a lot. But I'm my mess. I'm my own whimsical little self and that'll be all I have when it really comes down to it. So cheers to the future? And manifesting?

Life is starting to feel like wearing a shoe that just doesn't fit. No matter how hard I try or how long I endure, it's always the same. I'm always left behind. Substack is starting to feel that way too, I had taken a break because I was getting too engrossed with ratings and engagements that I wanted to come back when I started writing just because I liked writing but that hasn't been going well. It's changed so much and everyone is moving along. God knows how many times I've wanted to delete my account and be done with it but I don't know what I'm waiting for...yet.

It's always like that, I feel like I'm in a place where I'm not wanted, where I just cannot just be. The world is always moving and there is always current but am I not allowed to get overwhelmed? Am I not allowed to stop and breathe and not go along with the current like everyone else? But that's the thing, I'm just one in a billion human species. Life just doesn't stop because I want it to or pause because my life's going bad.

I feel so out-of- place like I'm destined to be in this strange limbo between failure and redemption. Between being lost and finally knowing the directions. I need to know from my future self, whether I'll give up eventually because my tenacity cannot be that ironclad can it? That'd be crazy.

It's times like this I miss my maman, she'd know what to do. I have no idea what to do. I don't even think I can do anything right. Not humanity. Not academics. Not even being a plain old good person.

Is it that black and white? Are they no grey areas? I'm sitting in a space and I forget I'm here and I forget the hour I'm supposed to leave but there is constant buzzing around me, people are milling about and there are faded movements from the edges of my vision and I am aware but I am not one of those blurry figures. Does it not mean that I do not belong here? That I shouldn't be sitting here?

People will always have experiences, and friends and love, and their discoveries while I will always find myself in a sticky situation with my laces untied because I didn't remember to tie them. I will always have my oversensitive bystander and my addle-brain. I will always be of the illusion that I'm the right person who should be in this place but let's be real I haven't done anything to be in this place. Perhaps, I'm never going to be a neat fit. How can someone be so different that they stick out like a sore green thumb?

I don't understand why we don't feel emotional pain metaphorically and not literally. Yes, I'm aware of this emotion but I don't want it to hurt. Being acutely aware should have been enough to let it pass. But it hurts and it continues to hurt when anything or anyone or any event ignites it once more.

This writeup is courtesy of because we had a very short conversation about it.

I've always wondered about how there are so many unexplainable feelings and emotions, nothing like the basic emotions like love, anger, pain, sadness. etc, but somehow it is always classified as feelings. 'You're just in your feelings' they say, Why?

Ace said that jumbled feelings are the worst and I agree with him because why do I feel these huge masses of different feelings that it's like a huge tumour in my heart and it's pulsing and it hurts like hell.

And being self aware is always the underlying tone. You're aware that you feel this heated rage but at the same time you feel disappointed and you being self aware makes you break down these feelings into something you can understand because humans always need an explanation for whatever they feel.

I've had my fair share of unexplainable feelings and it always hurts because most of them are always negative.

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What do I call the feeling after spilling out my unfiltered words to my friends and hearing the deafening silence after? I'd feel embarrassment but I'd also feel anxious as well as a brief loneliness. But what do I feel overall?

What do I call the feeling after missing the social cue to not speak in a public conversation but alas I was blabbing on?

What do I call the feeling of wanting to die but not wanting to commit suicide because it's a sin and at the same time not wanting God to take you at that exact time because you think if you died you'd go to hell?

What do you call the feeling of being envious of a person that you want to be like them but at the same time want to achieve it for yourself because you know you can do it?

What do you call the feeling of working so hard things still go to shit and you want to give up but you can't so you have to go on?

What do you call the feeling of your life shifting all around you and feeling yourself shifting and turning to fit into the mold set before you?

What do you call the imminent and lingering fear you feel when your brain tells you that you'll never grow into anything extraordinary? That your future won't be as you imagined?

What do you call the feeling of immense sadness falling upon you after the happiest moments of your life, that even reminiscing and nostalgia cannot help?

What do you call the feeling of being the receiver of unrequited love that your heart changes to reciprocate the person's affection even though it doesn't want to because of guilt?

What do you call the feeling of longing and sadness towards someone who cannot experience your life as you live it?

What do you call the feeling of being deep inside your head that it becomes an abyss and you're falling and falling and you cannot find solid ground?

What do you call the feeling of relief when things are finally looking up but at the same thing Murphy's Law is a concept and things are bound to go awry?

What do you call the feeling of having a fulfilling life but still having dreams of other lives that you want to live?

What do you call the feeling of not wanting to question your Creator but you want to because your life never ever really has bright days?

What do you call the rage of being inadequate and helpless?

What do you call the stark attentiveness you feel looking at people's lives through your phone screen that the light emanating from the screen makes you live a fantasy where you have what they have as well?

What do you call satisfaction of remembering the little things that keeps us going?

What do you call the contentment after eating a good meal or after a fun day with your friends or after the outro of a song you love fades into the background?

How would I describe the feeling of the last 7 minutes of my life playing as the clear blue skies and my surroundings dissolve into nothing around me? As the tears sting the corners of my eyes and I lose my vision slowly and the fact that I can feel my heart slowing down?

Fin.

I worry that I'm a terrible Muslim.

I fear that I'll remain this way forever.

I worry that I don't know jack about the outside world and when I'm finally in the outside world I'd be played, I'd have no idea what to do.

I fear that the patriarchy will get to me and it'll suppress all my hopes and dreams like it's done for other women.

I worry that I'll never ever reach the point where I love myself, the point of self confidence.

I fear that I'll be poor and all my suffering will be for nothing.

I worry that I'll marry the wrong person. I worry I'll never find my person.

I fear that I'll be alone for the rest of my life.

I worry that I'm not a good person.

I fear that I'll become just like my father and not like my mother.

I worry about saying the wrong things and doing the wrong things.

I fear that even in this world, I'll stay here—filled with grief, filled with trauma—that it'll become my normal. That I'll even become abnormal.

I worry that I'm not like other girls although I don't want to be. I worry that the beauty standards have finally got to me and everytime I look in the mirror I see this ugly face staring back at me.

I fear I'd live my life unhappy, I fear I'm not romanticising my life.

I worry that I think too much of achieving things in this dunya when it is impermanent.

I fear that I'm not even fit for Jannah.

I worry that I do not care about my deen and my iman.

I fear I'll disappoint my maman.

I worry about wasting my adult years and wasting my youth.

I fear I am deeply melancholic and my happiness is a farce.

I worry that I wear my hijab wrongly and I worry that no matter what I do, I'll always be at fault.

I fear that I won't find my originality and my authenticity. What makes me me.

I worry about my siblings because what if all this affects them as individuals?

I fear that I'm a horrible older sister.

I worry that I won't be able to do the things I have always wished to do.

I fear that I'd die without even experiencing what it is to live fully. What it is to be a human.

I worry that all my dreams will die of hunger because I do nothing about it.

I fear that my life will be excruciatingly monotonous.

I worry about this world and all the evil in it.

I fear that humans are internally devious.

I worry about all the people suffering.

I fear that I can't do a single thing to help except pray for them.

I worry that I have no potential to change my life.

I fear that my laziness is deeply rooted in me and that is why I give excuses about why I still haven't had accomplishments.

I worry about my brain, my looks, my clothes, my standing the society, my financial state, my inability to form thoughts of my own, my stupidity, the fact that I succumb to pressure and my lack of intellect.

I fear that all my fears and worries is just a premonition of my future.

I have this theory that sometimes I drift apart from my body and become this specter that have experiences and see things outside my physical form. I feel detached from myself, as though I'm observing my life rather than inhabiting it. Maybe that's why the internet feels unreal to me—like I'm watching a world through glass. The unreality extends beyond places. Sometimes I wonder if people online are real in the way I am real. Maybe it's doubt—not trusting what I haven't touched, online or in my own body.

It's also why I think places aren't real until I've experienced them because what if everything I see behind my screen—the places, the people, the things—are all a facade?

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Are they genuinely people who always have money to spend? Does the money come back twice as fast?

I think about all the times I had wished to be more. To be better. To be shiny and lavish like what people on social media are. I briefly wonder what it would be like to be a celebrity, a famous YouTuber, and to have a blue checkmark close to my name on Instagram with my profile filled with highlights, and photos crafted with utmost perfection, my entire life and how I live daily reduced to a ten photo slide.

I am grateful for my youth and all the eye openers, all the lessons learnt and all the stupid mistakes. I used to think I was caged, I wanted to be let free and whoever opposed that, I took as an enemy who wanted to smother and destroy my golden youth. I remember how my younger self wrote page after page of things she aspired to do and wanted to buy. Looking back, I am a big girl now with my big girl purchases and it dawns on me how I used to briefly think that maybe all these silly things I wanted were unattainable. Memories are a funny thing, I would never want to go back to how I used to look, what I used to wear, eras that were immortalised as photos that I frantically want to erase. But all those events molded me into this person and there are many more events to come.

But then my brain rewinds and plays my life out in black and white film and I remember my very ordinary days, me lazying around at 1 a.m. thinking yet again that I need to up my prayer game, me exploring all and every sides of my phone down to my call logs and seeing I had last called my aunt two days ago, me going to my notes app and finally ticking off items on my list. I feel powerful and I'm running on that high. I can't sit still and my body is buzzing with possibilities of other lists so I make to do lists in my brain and I estimate how long it'll take to check them off. Then, I think about what it is to have such normal experiences and the people that have extraordinary experiences and alas, my brain cuts the film short abruptly.

I start to wonder whether time is the answer to all these wandering and I'll just have to play the waiting game, because if I waited long enough all these wishes and dreams and needs will unfurl into this labyrinth of brilliance and reward.

ꕤ. Today's psychology term.

Narrative identity theory, pioneered by psychologist Dan McAdams, posits that individuals form their core identity not just through traits, but by integrating life experiences into an internalized, evolving story. This life narrative combines a reconstructed past, perceived present, and imagined future to give life unity, purpose, and temporal coherence.

I am already so overstimulated and by the laws of the universe everything progressively starts to go wrong when you're overstimulated.

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I'm tired of all the sunshine and rainbows and optimism, today I'm going to be a pessimist. I'm going to give my negative thoughts some air. Let them out into the void of the universe.

I'm so tired of my life.

Why is my life not certain?

Why is Nigeria this way?

Why does it always have to be me?

Why does everything go so achingly wrong?

Why do these thoughts seem adamant to stick to the crevices of my mind?

I want to erase everything, every lick of bad moments. But alas, the brain remembers the negative.

Why does psychology say about it again?

Negativity bias? Something about my amygdala triggering a stronger stress response to negative stimuli, which causes more robust memory encoding. Well, my amygdala needs to chill. Seriously. Is the process amplified because I'm an overthinker? An empath? Curse all my goodness.

What if I fail in everything I strive to do?

Do I even deserve greatness?

Do I deserve to transcend the average normal?

What if I die with so many regrets?

What if I die not doing the things that genuinely makes me happy? All my dreams and all my delulu fantasies?

Is there a way to know? How my life will play out until I meet my creator?

I guess there is no way to really know.

Why do I feel like I keep on burrowing deeper and deeper into this abyss of pure nothingness?

Again, I am thinking, if I truly deserve to live this way and to have this life while there are people who do not deserve the life they live at all. But I do not get to decide that and life has never ever been fair and equal to all.

Why do I have to try harder everytime? What if I'm tired of giving it my all? What if hardwork is just a concept that we come up with to make all the suffering seem honorable when we were never meant to suffer at all? What if it is just a mirage that makes you feel righteous and all your valid selfishness scorned?

I tire of life. I tire of this life. I want to live another one.

tidbits.🪻

Did you know psychology has a term for everything? I'm going to find out every term for every feeling.

I've been feeling the pressure because as much as I regularly decieve myself that I am just a teen even as I venture into adulthood, I am actually becoming an adult. Maybe that's why it's gnawing at me that very soon I will run out of excuses to give about why I still live in my parent's house and I still ask my dad for money anytime I need the most basic of things. I cannot pay with my own money. I have no money. My credit card is there to feel entitled that I do infact have a credit card and I'm finally 'an adult'.

Instagram is my worst nightmare because I see people in their 20s already getting their first apartment, earning 6 figure salaries, buying expensive skincare, and having a very lavish lifestyle with envious everyday lives.

I want to be like that. I want to be that person children will look up to. I want my success to be questioned and dissected and analysed because of the sheer absurdity of it, 'How did she get so much money?' 'Where does she get so much money from?' And I'd love to tell you but I couldn't explain it if I tried.

I want to a '#youngho' and have my first big girl apartment and flaunt because I also earn a big girl salary. That lifestyle is so easy to imagine.

Then we have people claim they earn their money from remote jobs and online surveys. I want to know the way. TELL ME THE WAY. I'd be happy if you sat me down and answer all the genuine questions I have about all these things. But, no. Everybody wants to be private. It's frankly annoying.

It seems so easy too, their lives. It's also very easy to assume that things just come easily to them.

Every single axis of TikTok is 80% nepo babies living their nepo baby life, and then they turn around and tell you it's all hardwork. Let's be real—hardwork does not apply to everyone equally. Some people quite literally had the door held open for them before they even knocked.

Down and down the rabbit hole I go because time is running out and I do not want to be a disappointment. On the other side of it, I know I'm being too hard on myself because I'm only 19(presumably), but that's exactly the problem. 19 is not a free pass, it's a countdown. And I sincerely need to have a better life by my 20s because my teenage years were a complete trainwreck and my college years might be heading in that direction too.

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How do they do it? I find myself asking. Certainly being a creative isn't all there is to it. 90% of them are never 9-5 workers, they aren't doctors, or pharmacists or anything that requires a bachelors degree or a masters. They're content creators, they're freelancers, they're ghostwriters, they write reviews on movies and books, and they work 'remotely' and have an iron clad LinkedIn profile. Nowadays I seem to think being really good at academics will take me nowhere and my doctorate degree will do nothing for me when I graduate, because every influential person I have come across did not work a 9-5 or earn any annual or monthly wage. Am I doomed? Being smart is really the only thing I'm good at. I'm too lazy when it comes to learning a skill and having to socialise on any online platforms makes me want to burrow a hole and hibernate in it.

Apparently, most online jobs require a portfolio to prove your experience. Bro, I need this job for EXPERIENCE. That's why I'm applying for said job so what experience are y'all talking about? It's like showing up to your first swimming lesson and being told you need to already know how to swim. The whole system assumes you started before you started.

And if I choose to bet everything on medical school—is that so wrong? I didn't choose a doctorate degree as a personality trait. I chose it because I'm good at it and I believed it would be enough. What if it isn't enough?

I tried LinkedIn in one of my sudden motivation bursts and made a profile and everything. Spent an hour agonising over whether my profile picture looked professional enough or just desperate. Deleted the app days later because everyone on there seems to already have three years of experience, two internships and a TEDx talk at 20. The motivation shrivelled up and died before I could blink.

This is point I stop before I spiral into my overthinking bouts. This is also the point I still choose to do nothing about it and say 'Everything is in Ya Rabb's hands' and it is.

I mean I'm not undermining the works that creatives do but shouldn't everything be fair to everyone?

I don't think I'm going to be good at being a creative and this diploma is all I'm banking on to have a decent paying job. But then very soon, the only way to earn money would be to be a creative because apparently AI is taking over our jobs.

What if I like the predictability of earning a salary after my hardwork? Of applying all my years studying in university?

What if I like the idea of being good at a job I got just by my capabilities alone?

What if I can't write to save my life and the concept of an online anything scares me?

What if I like things the old fashioned way even though I know the world is a global village?

What if I'm camera shy and anytime a camera is aimed at my face I blank out?

What if I'm bad finding jobs online because I don't even know how to build a portfolio and simultaneously keep my CGPA up without burnout?

This is the premise of what I'm writing about I guess, I want to have those cliché movie adulthood life.

The story I had carried around in my head for years—one I had even written about—was wrong.

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I wasn't alone with my maman and her mother. My siblings were in another room playing games on a tablet. I wasn't the one who had gone to call the imam. My siblings were. The imam wasn't even in the mosque. He was outside the mosque sitting in front of it. My siblings had witnessed every single thing that happened that day, and here, I was thinking it was only Maman and me that day because that was how it felt. That was the story I had formed in my brain all this time.

We pieced that day together, memory by memory. I told them what happened when they weren't there, and they had told me what happened when I wasn't there. It had all made sense. Of course it had. But it made me realise that I was wrong and I was right in a way because that day, everything else had blurred out of focus except for the fact that my maman was foaming at the mouth and she might not live to see the next day. The mind protects you like that. It narrows the world down to just the thing that is breaking your heart.

My siblings had told me that when we had all gone to see Maman, her body covered with a white cloth, the people around had only allowed me to touch her and not them. They had only knelt down beside me while I had touched her arm. Then, I told them, "I touched her arm, and it was cold." Did they need to know that minor detail? Probably not, but in that moment, I felt like that little detail mattered. That they needed to know, however, little about how Maman was in her slumber.

The conversation made me realise how much we needed it. How much we all had kept in our minds and to ourselves. We just needed to talk about it, even to each other.

Every year since maman died, the exact date slips further from me. Whether it was on the 20th of December, or the 21st, or the 22nd. All my memories seem to always fail me, and I end up praying for her across all these three dates just to be safe, just to make sure she doesn't go unremembered on the right day.

I haven't even been to her grave in the last two or three years, and that is because my dad hasn't taken us there.

Last year, though, my dad had decided to hold a prayer for her, so we made all the preparations—the things to share after the prayers, the grains to give to the mosque and charity and so on—it was a small prayer and not a lot of people attended and despite the stress, it felt like an ordinary day. But I'm not writing this to talk about all these details.

I'm writing this to talk about grief. Every year, as December rolls in, grief comes in the form of my oversensitive bystander, and it sits with me days on end, and it doesn't even talk because why would it? It isn't something that makes small talk. It is something you feel with every fibre of your being. It is what chokes you up when it finally seems like you're moving on, and it is what reminds you that someone special in your life is gone.

In the days after Maman died, I had genuinely thought she'd waltz through the door one day and it would all turn out to be a joke. It hadn't fully occurred to me what death really is. What it really means. It meant no more homemade meals. No more scolding. No more long talks. It meant the permanent, irreversible absence of the person who had always simply been there.

I had seen a quote from the TV show, Fleabag, that had made me cry and ponder because it was so saddeningly true.

My heart was this gangly mess, and there was this fist-sized hole in my chest because the person of all my objectified love was no longer alive. Then, I think love is only love when it is felt by you and the person you are loving. She was no longer here to receive my love, and I had nowhere to put it.

And if they'd ask me about having parents, I'd tell them it was half and half—the presence of one and the absence of another.

I could no longer take my mother to Umrah or Mecca or to go on a pilgrimage. There was no one to enjoy the fruit of their labour. No one to spoil in their old age. No one to see all my milestones and achievements and be proud of me that I'd see it as twinkles in their eyes. There was no one to gift on the 13th of February. Why? Because my other half is not tangible for me to touch and to hug, and she has become ephemeral. She is a ghost. She is the past I wish to not forget.

And I know that my dad tries as much as he can never be what my maman is to me.

There are days I sit down and I feel guilty because this awareness of how much she means to me only came when she was no longer around for me to give my affections and for her to receive it. Was I a bad daughter to her? I think.

Then I remember the day I had picked up her phone and was listening to a song on it that it made me briefly wonder how I'd have her phone if she somehow died. I blame the morose thought that I had back then, and then I think maybe those thoughts were heard by the heavens as a wish, and that was why a few years later she was lowered into a grave.

I know that is not how it works. But grief makes you look for reasons, even ones that hurt you.

There are times when people tell me what she was like—the small interactions they had with her —and I gobble their words up like a starving person. I want to remember.

I want to know even the sides of her she never showed me or my siblings.

Sometimes I want it to feel as though it hasn’t been five years. As though she only just left the room yesterday and might return at any moment. So I hold onto every borrowed memory people offer me, hoping they will keep her alive a little longer.

I grow tired of the sympathy. It does not change anything.

But the stories… I like the stories.

Tell me about her.

I want to know more about her, even now that she is gone.

You'd think after what happened, one would be immune to bad news, but I was not. I am not.

One morning, just after the adhan for Fajr had been called, my mummy Abuja rang me. I remember thinking, briefly, why would she be calling at such odd hours and still, somehow, bad news did not cross my mind.

She told me my aunt had been in an accident. She had died. I said *Innalillahi Wa Innalillahi Raji'un* before I had even finished processing the words, and she told me to tell my dad.

What struck me, after, was this: my mummy Abuja and my aunt had not been speaking to each other at the time. They had fought. And yet here she was, calling at dawn to deliver the news, because who else would? I wanted to ask how she was. I wanted to reach across the line and comfort her — this woman who had now lost both her sisters, both in the month of December, both taken before there was time to mend what had been broken between them. But she was an adult and I was a child, and there are lines we do not cross. So I gave her space, and I did not call for a few days, and I thought I would not cry.

I cried doing my laundry. It was the past all over again, arriving in a different shape.

Now, whenever she calls, my heart seizes for a moment before I answer. Two phone calls were enough to reconfigure me. I brace myself every time, just in case.

I sincerely pray that my aunt's sins are forgiven, and that Ya Rabb grants her Al Jannatul Firdaus.

People say grief does not fully hit you at the moment of loss because there is too much happening all at once. It comes later—when you reach for the person and remember they are no longer there.

I remember the scene in Melo Movie, where Ko Gyeom tells his already dead brother—

And his brother says, “Why won't you call out to me the way you used to?”

But Ko Gyeom cries and says, “Because you won't come anyway.”

It is true, he wouldn't be able to see him except in his dreams. It is what I wish for, to see Maman in my dreams but even that is slipping away from me. It is the only way I can see her, the only way this pain can be somewhat digestible and easily swallowed.

But then I feel even worse when I dream of her, only to wake up in a world where she does not exist — where even memories of her are slowly beginning to fade. And still, I am grateful, because she came to meet me in my dreams. It is both comfort and loss at the same time — two sides of the same coin.

Grief has made two paradoxical feelings exist inside of me and I have learned to live with both. It is the only way I can cope. The only way I can continue living without the guilt that it was somehow my fault. So I do myself a solid and try not to think about it all.

I will cry from time to time because my tears will be everflowing when it comes to maman. I will miss her every day, some days more than others. And some days, I will feel helpless because there is nothing I can do to bring her back, not even my fervent prayers.

I do not like grief at all. I do not like how it makes me feel. I do not wish for anyone to experience it, but alas, it tends to come around a lot. To deem to understand it, oh…how difficult it will be. Trying to make it go away is futile. It is a thorn in your side—and, in strange ways, a companion. Sometimes, it is all you have because grief is its own form of love.

I've never really had a new year resolution/vision board. I never do those things, and you'd expect that I would because I'm a list person by heart. A writing things down person. But when it comes to entering a new year?

I am giddy with excitement, and so making a 2026 goals list feels like taking all the unpredictability out of the year. I usually just go into the new year with no expectations at all, I just see how it goes, but I think 2026 has to be different, and I have to lock in. Why? I'm growing older, and growing older comes with responsibilities, even though I'm 12. So, the headline of all my marination and thinking about what could possibly be my 2026 resolution is INTENTIONALITY.

•Intentional about the course I'm reading.

I was supposed to attend an online seminar yesterday that the Faculty of Pharmaceutical Sciences Students(my school chapter) had organised, and I had thought it was today and not yesterday only for me to come online and find out it was indeed yesterday by 7 30pm but at that time I was dead asleep.

(Sleep is becoming my enemy fr, no scratch that)

Another career growth webinar organized by the Pharmaceutical Association of Nigerian Students(PANS) will be held tomorrow by 7 p.m., and I'm going to try my best to attend it.

I'll try my best to attend future seminars like this, go to programs, and leave my house. etc.

So I'm entering 2026 with the unwavering will to study hard even though it wasn't the course I wanted. Ya Rabb put me here for a reason best known to Him, so I will try my best.

•Be intentional about my religion.

I know how comparisons always seem to seep into every aspect of my life, even the religion I practice. Even now, as I write this, I feel very ashamed because I wouldn't even categorise myself as the worst Muslim. I'm worse than even that. I'll probably be among those 3rd group of Muslims on the day of Judgement, the ones that aren't necessarily unbelievers but aren't believers either. I have multiple habits that Muslims shouldn't be doing, so I have decided that in 2026, I will live better, and I will try to be a good enough Muslim before Ya Rabb.

I'll pray more, read my Quran more, and learn more about my religion because growing up I wasn't taught about what I should and shouldn't do as a Muslim because my parents weren't thought either. Everything I know now about Islam is thanks to my own research and social media. I'll listen to more Islamic podcasts and attend online Islamic lectures by Yazis. I'll pray for my maman more because she needs it and it's the least I can do for her. I'll become an active member of the MSSN association in my department because they too want to be more intentional by organising charity and outreaches, spiritual activities, group prayers, and all.

Even I have been afraid of confronting this part of myself, but it made me wonder, would anyone even think I'm a Muslim just by looking at me? The answer was no.

I want it to be just Ya Rabb and I in 2026. I want to be intentional about that.

•Be intentional about my money—saving, for example.

The only really big thing that I achieved in 2025 was getting my first big girl bag. And since then, little needs and wants have popped up. I even made a list for that. So I have decided in 2026 to be more financially wise because I don't have a job or a side hustle and my dad isn't that rich of a person to cater to my EVERY need/want. So, I plan to save a very huge amount and get everything on the list of things I want to get in 2026. May Almighty Allah help me with that, amin.

•Be intentional about journalling.

Kismet(aka Ogbodo) had gifted me a journal, and I still haven't removed the wrapping because I didn't know what to use it for. I actually have so many journals that I got as gifts that I haven't used yet, but I believe one can never have too many journals. So I'm going to get a customised journal and a pen(or just an ordinary journal that I think is very cute) and journal my life and experiences.

I also have to get more stationary, my dream.♡

Then I'll document everything, and write down all the littlest moments so I don't forget.

I'm going to make the most of 2026. However little. I want to make several impacts, no matter how big or how small. So these are what I want my 2026 to be moulded into.

I just figured being intentional would be me putting in effort amd hoping Ya Rabb handles the rest. I get worried all the time about various things so I hope this new year brings me clearance about everything—my academics, my spirituality, my life and my peace. It'll all be fun.

I think I might take a break from Substack and social media for the first half of the year or at any point of the year just to see how it goes and have a minute to my thoughts. I want to have a moment for my peace and all my musings.

I only just realised that I can archive the app. So that's what I'll do.

P.S. Funny how the webinar I attended was about being intentional, lol. A clairvoyant sign.

I end this list with a dhikr.

Allahuma Yassir Wala Tu' Assir.

Some days ago, I was scrolling leisurely on Instagram when my eyes landed on the circular photo of a boy along the other accounts of other people–all under the 'Suggested accounts you may know/People you may know' title.

Under the photo was the name 'ThinkWithTobi'. It had clicked. It was Tobi. Tobi from secondary school. He looked like an adult, so my interest was piqued. I got curious, I mean, it's been so long since we've spoken and seen each other and humans tend to think about the people not in our lives anymore, of the people we lose to distance so I tapped on the 'See Profile' bar.

It took me to his page, and here I was staring at Tobi's life, being laid out in several posts. The Tobi of now was giving TED talks while wearing a suit. He was studying financial accounting, and he spoke of all his ordeals—How in the final year of secondary school, preparing for his UTME and WAEC examinations to study Data Science, he had discovered he was in the wrong field. He had decided to write the GCEs later to get the required commercial subjects and UTME the next year to study Financial Accounting when all his friends were off to university. He had done so well that he got a UTME-based academic scholarship to study Financial Accounting at Nile University.

Tobi was at Nile University in the FCT, and I know one would say the university didn't matter, but it mattered so much.

Tobi was Eikko's best friend while he was still in the secondary school I finished from. He was my friend, too. I wouldn't like to go into details of what specifically happened for his sake, but during those years, Tobi had done an act that called for expulsion, so he left the school at SS1. His parents had taken him to another school, and that was the last I had heard of Tobi. Even I know how many people talked about what he did, how many years it took for people to forget about the incident, and even now, I know it is not completely forgotten. That it is still passed around in silence, and that it still comes up in the occasional conversations.

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That isn't the point, though. The point is seeing him now made me think of the Tobi of the past. The Tobi that would create random scenarios with me about love, about life. The Tobi that would take random words and use them as innuendos. The Tobi that always made jokes in the most flippant way possible that you just had to laugh. I stare at the Tobi of now and wonder if he is completely changed. If he still has the boy of before somewhere in him or whether he has decided to erase who he was before—like drawings made on a car windshield during harmattan, gone with a single breath.

It was strange to be thinking about him after all this time, but that is how you fondly thought of someone who was once your friend. And I wouldn't lie and say I haven't randomly thought of him after that day he left.

Looking at his almost life laid bare for me to scrutinise on social media because that is what social media did—your life is made public, is made known, your life will become something that is common knowledge, no one is ignorant about it because they simply just KNOW—and as I looked at his page, I felt proud of him.

He had made something of his life. Then, I wonder whether he randomly thinks about the past, about the mistake that he made because that is how the past haunts you, I mean, it is a life that you have lived. But even he has to move on eventually, and I think he has embraced that. He has decided not to run away from it but to learn from it. He has learnt to simply just be, so the past does not weigh him down, does not help dictate his present and future, his decisions, his actions, and his character.

a person will remain stagnant until moved from their internal force and no external forces can stop them, only themselves. -Great philosopher, Layi Wasabi. (Took this from Tobi's post)

Alas, along with that quiet pride I felt, I had also felt guilt because I remember our very last conversation. Tobi had made an effort after he left in SS1 by reaching out to me and texting me, but I was not all that accommodating. I skirted around my answers and gave him clipped responses, and I think he knew too that I was judging him. That I had already made up a permanent image of him in my mind never to be changed again. So he had told me that I was still judging him for what he had done just like everyone else, that I hadn't allowed him to change in my mind.

I thought all my behaviour towards him was justified because how could he make such a mistake? It was unforgivable. But that's the thing, I could spend a decade or more judging him by that single act, but I couldn't forget that he was once a good person. A good friend.

I had allowed a single occurrence to wipe away all the good times. All the friendship. All the laughter. Poof. Just like that.

Now, I know better. I know I have the tendency to judge people even before they make their first impressions and even after several impressions. I am working on it.

But seeing Tobi made me think about how I need to at least be kinder to myself because I keep on beating myself up over the littlest mistakes. After all, if Tobi could rise from something far worse than any mistake I’ve ever made. Why can't I?

And later, I'd make up a scene in my head where I text him and tell him that I had used my guilt as an excuse to hold him accountable and Tobi would give me a lollipop.

This post was highly requested by !

I had told him I'd write a post once I saw my results and I have!

Also shoutout to Bisayo Esq for teaching me how to edit photos using Canva. I've been trying to tag her for 15 minutes now, I can't even load her page on Substack. What happened?

All of you are in for a ride because I finally want to talk about my 100lvl experience as a Pharm.D student. So, here we go!

My Grades.

First and foremost, I'd like to talk about my grades. After I had written my first and second semester exams, there were alot of times when I'd hear rumours about results being out and everytime my heart jumped. It made me so paranoid because after that momentary fear it would take a while for me to calm down and breathe. I even remember reading one of 's posts—this one—

Oyin's Journal

My Grades Nearly Broke Me

I have always been a bright student. I got awards every year in primary school and top grades in secondary school. So when I stepped into university, I just knew I was going to get a first class. There was no doubt in my mind. Everyone expected it. I expected it. How hard could it really be…

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a year ago · 711 likes · 44 comments · Oyin Osikoya

where she wrote about how grades don't define you. She talked about her own grades and the anger amd frustration she felt when she didn't get a first class on paper. When I had finished reading the post, I decided to tap into her strength and proceeded to chant daily that grades were just numbers. WRONG. I was blissfully lying to myself because I cared. I cared ALOT about grades. It fuels me. It's the only thing I'm good at. *Proceeds to attach the lyrics to a song to prove my point*

This was genuinely how I felt most of the time, I measured my importance by what grades I got, still do. I don't know how to stop that but we'll get there. It didn't even help when one day I had heard that the Dean of my faculty had called some students who had first class to encourage them. There was even a list for it and my name nor my matriculation number was on it. You can probably imagine how this goes…

I was so anxious that day, I had called my coursemates to confirm if it was true, I had asked Hyung for advice and still I felt so useless. I had also found out that my friend was on that list. It made me so sad. I started to think,

‘If I didn't get a first class what did I get?’

‘Did I get a carryover?’

‘Will I get dropped from pharmacy?’

This was because at the beginning of first semester, the Dean had said anyone with a carryover and a CGPA of less than 2.5 would get transfered to another department.

‘I mean it would make sense since I wasn't even passionate about the course and there were clearly people who were.’

‘I was getting punished because of my disinterest in studying this course.’

I had even begun calculating all the possible GPAs I could get and for some reason I thought I would get a 3.00GPA downwards. Then I became more afraid because if I got that my dad would kill me. I'd be taken to the mountains to become a monk. I'd be disowned. I'd be thrown into the streets with nowhere to call my home. I'd become a hawker.

I know, I know. It sounds like a stretch. But seriously, that's what would have happened.

All these thoughts ran through my head till finally I slept it off. I stopped thinking about it for days till my course rep actually announced that our results would be put along with the approved list of students going into 200lvl. The heart thumps began once more. I was constantly on edge and everytime I remembered I prayed and prayed and prayed that all will be well.

The day my course rep did post the list, I wasn't even online. I was asleep, so imagine my shock when I woke up by 1am and saw several missed calls from my friend and went into WhatsApp to see that our results has been sent to our official department group.

My tremors started and they didn't stop. I took several deep breaths to calm myself before I opened the file, and lo and behold–my name as number 8, along with my matriculation number along with my grade and the word PASS. I had passed. I wasn't getting dropped. I had a 4.00+GPA. I was worried for nothing. I started to cry and cry and cry. I cried so hard that I fell to the floor. ‘Alhamdullilah, alhamdullilah’ I kept on saying as I cried. All my pent up emotions came bubbling to the surface. Anger, frustration, tiredness. All my efforts were rewarded. All my suffering finally had something to show for it. I was ecstatic. I was grateful. I was so thankful to Ya Rabb.

If only maman could see me now. She'd be proud.

Now, normally I'd be beating myself up over the fact that it wasn't a first class but I didn't care. I was staying in this Pharmacy, did it mean somewhere along the way I have started to like this course?

That wasn't the point though, the point was that I got a good enough grade. I was going to continue studying in this course. I would study harder now that I'm going to 200lvl, of course. But I was safe and that was the best feeling in the world.

So I guess in a way, what Oyin had written in that post made sense.

Little tidbits.ꕤ

Below are some of the memories I made in 100lvl.

(Mainly because I remembered to pull out my phone to take a picture of said memory)

•17th January, 2025.

We have this candid photo I took of Amanda. I actually love this photo alot, being the fact that we both don't normally take photos (Birds of a feather flocks together, right?)

We were actually late to this lecture and we were standing outside, lol. I can't remember whether it was our first or second lecture. We were still settling into the fact that we were 100lvl students. We were getting lost at every turn because the university is so big and we both have zero sense of direction.😂

•22nd January, 2025.

This day, we had all went to check out the new girl's hostel. I had so much fun that day because we were just being silly and the hostel was actually nice but it had a shared toilet which I CANNOT partake in. I did take photos of it so show my dad even though I ended up not showing him and deleting it.

Let me tell you guys of the lore behind my sandals. I wore those sandals everyday with every outfit to every lecture and program till it decided to die on me.😃

It was just so convenient, fr.

•2nd May, 2025.

My department had its first soccer match and we had played against Medicine and Surgery. I had come all sport-ied up wearing a jersey and everything and we still lost. Turns out it's only book my male coursemates know.

The CapriSuns were bought by David aka Miles Morales (iykyk), so kudos to him.

•19th June, 2025.

Took this photo of Ogbodo's backside because the view was pretty. Isn't the backdrop so nice?

I can't even remember what we were doing in school that day but keep it in mind that Amanda and I are behind the camera ;)

Let me not give you guys too much information before you find out the exact university I attend. That would be disastrous.

•22nd July, 2025

Now I had made a total of two friends in this Pharmacy department which was Peace and Ini. I can't find a photo of Ini to attach to this dump because she runs away before I can take a proper photo of her. All my friends are just like me tbh.

Well, the story behind this photo is that we had a CHM practical in five minutes and even though we were very late Peace had said, “Let's take a photo!” *rolls eyes*

That girl will be the death of me.

Now, you must be wondering who is that beautiful person behind the monkey emoji and if you said me you'd probably be wrong. Oh, wait, I meant right.

I am covered because I can't incriminate myself. I'm currently undercover for the NHIS and protocol demands I hide my face. So…sorry, guyssss :)

•24th July, 2025

I had gotten this cake from my ex-school mother because she had recently started selling cakes and pastries and I decided to be a finial school daughter and patronise her. It was more to my advantage though because the cake was so gooddddddd. Ugh. She did give me a discount because you know I'm her favourite person.😏

•22nd August, 2025.

Now, this day was probably the highlight of my 100lvl because we had our departmental orientation on that day and my coursemates decided to plan a fun day filled with games and food which we all called, Pharmily Day.

You know like family but with Pharmacy? Smart right?

*inserts cricket sounds*

Tough crowd.

Ookayy, moving on!

Peace, Ini and I actually took a group photo together and Peace forced me to pose for a picture that she took and it actually looked okay.

Just imagine that I attached a photo of me. I'm not ready for a face reveal yet.🧍‍♀️

End of tidbits!

All this just made me realise I DID NOT take alot of pictures that would be regarded as fond memories later on. Oh well…

Random yap session.

Overall, 100lvl was such a ride. There was crying. There was hunger. There was frustration. There were men. There was a stalker. There was a coursemate that was of the idea that we were going to marry in 400lvl. There was the time I got beaten by rain. There were multiple 7am lectures that I missed. There were also alot of ‘I don't know book’ moments. It was a roller coaster.

Some days it was,

Other days it was,

Most of the time it was,

99% of the time though, it was—

Y'all I just went through so much. I almost died so many times. I had two very bad encounters with adults that made me cry and miss my maman but I pulled through. Anyways thank you all for going with me through my 100lvl memory lane! Muah! Je t'aime!🩷

I seem to always write about my inadequacy that my subscribers will probably be like, 'Doesn't she have other things to write about?' (Sorry, not sorry) but it's genuinely a fear of mine: That I'll turn out to be a nobody, that I don't even have the qualities cut out to be somebody of meaning.

I feel like an imposter. Maybe I can't even write as good and I'm dumb. What if I'm really not a good writer or good at anything for that matter?

The Imposter Syndrome is eating me up because I don't think I'm who I claim to be. I have this long list of goals and very little time, and I'm aware, but I still do nothing. What is genuinely stopping me? Is it all these excuses I still seem to conjure up as an explanation for me running away and not wanting to do it?

I see so many people who are earning money practising their craft, and I want to be like them—FUDGE, I want to BE them–however, I am not. Sometimes, I'm left wondering how they do it and wanting to do it. All my wishful thinking isn't actually going to progress anywhere unless I put in effort. Relentless effort. Effort that drives me to just go head in.

I feel so useless. So inadequate. So inept.

Sometimes, I have this random burst of adrenaline and motivation, and I see myself doing research, downloading apps, writing things down, looking things up and making accounts but then it passes and so does that eagerness. I end up deleting the apps, and my thoughts become fixated on the things I don't have and the situation of my life. It’s the time all that focus is lost and nowhere to be seen. I end up forgetting about it because in my mind, they aren't concrete plans they're just castles I built in the air with nothing to make it tangible. I'll blame my situation, my dad, my circumstances, where I live, the fact that I don't have certain devices and that'll somehow justify my momentary madness of thinking I could actually do it if only I just DID it.

Then, I have this ever present hope that eventually I'll be able to do it and things will work out, but just not now and we all know by now that certain things needs to be taken by the horns because there's no time for dilly dallying. Sigh. I don't know anymore.

I hate this feeling so much, and I find that it makes me feel choked. Will I even be someone with worth in the future? Will I be someone with riches and financial security? Because that's what matters to me. As long as I'm still like this, my life isn't going to get some glam or makeover. It'll remain the same, I'll remain the same, and I'd still be thinking about what an incompetent person I am.

Now that I think about it, do I even HAVE goals? Like goals that I endlessly work towards? I don't think so. Right now, I think about only surviving university, then everything can come after, my search for a job/employment, exploring, and actively being a member of my community. But then, do I really need to wait that long?

Perhaps I'm not really as passionate as others, and this burning passion I seem to have is just a farce. Maybe it's just an elaborate lie I came up with to belong and to perform. Maybe I'm a con. It's probably why I'm still so stagnant and unmoving.

I don't want to look back and be disappointed in my past self just because I couldn't pursue all my dreams, just because I was lazy. I want to be someone of substance so that I'll have something to show for all my suffering, so that finally, I'll be what my maman always envisioned I'd be and what I envision for myself.

I first heard of wabi sabi from a TikTok as other mentally stimulating videos I find on my fyp. (Thank God for my fyp, btw)

It was the sound a beautiful girl has used. ‘But I like the way mine's a little off-centre, it's got wabi sabi’. I stared at the video for so long because I knew she was talking about her body weight. I knew that by the world's beauty standards, she was considered fat, probably overweight. But to me, she was the prettiest chubby girl I'd ever seen because of her sheer self-confidence. She was happy she was fat, she was unbothered by the world's measuring tape. She had the most stunning face, too.

I had heard of the word, wabi sabi, before, but at the time, I hadn't thought much of it. I had just liked how goofy the word sounded. Then, a few days later, I saw a short clip of it being said in a cartoon, King of the Hill. In the short clip, Bobby and his dad, Hank Hill, are looking at roses, and Bobby points to a slightly off-kilter rose and says, 'This one's pretty'. His father, Hank, proceeds to say, 'Not according to the book, if you go by the checklist, this one's perfect,' pointing to another rose.

Bobby then says, 'But I like how mine's a little off-centre, it's got wabi sabi.'

His dad, Hank, sighs and says, 'You can't win an argument just by making up words.'

'Wabi sabi is an eastern tradition, Dad. It's celebrating the beauty in what's flawed.' Bobby shoots back.

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So I did what I do best after seeing anything remotely thought-provoking online: I searched it up.

And down the rabbit hole I went.

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic and worldview that finds beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and simplicity.

How deeply beautiful is that? It means that cracks, flaws, asymmetry, and irregularities aren't defects–they're parts of what makes something beautiful.

I think of weird and worn things that I find pretty like the fading of old photographs and fabrics, like the dog-eared books I've read over and over with cracked spines, like the quiet beauty in the smorgasbord of things that makes my space seem clattered–my somewhat disorganised messes–I liked messes, though. Messes meant things were touched, used and lived with.

I know the concept of wabi sabi doesn't necessarily mean physical or bodily features, but I can't help thinking of my own. My crooked index fingers. The dent in my thigh from that injection I got when I was four. My left-handedness. My single left dimple that isn't even that deep. None of these are “standard beauty features,” but I find them fobbly-mobbly and goofily pretty. They feel like mine.

I think of the tiny chip in my dad's favourite mug–the one he refuses to throw away because my maman gave it to him.

All this sentiment and feeling attached to one simple phrase.

It's a mindset, too. About self-love. About appreciating the small things. Letting go of the need for control, perfection, and permanence.

It reminded me of kintsugi, another Japanese term.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the cracks with gold, silver, or platinum lacquer. Although, I think gold is more common. Instead of hiding the damage, it highlights it—making the repaired object even more beautiful than before.

When something shatters, the goal isn't to hide the cracks or pretend it was never broken. Instead, it turns the fracture into the prettiest part of it.

Isn't being flawed what makes us ultimately, inherently human? All these imperfections makes us a species. It was what made us beautiful, embracing these flaws.

It's comforting when you think about it, I mean, the moment you think your life's in pieces, the growth and healing after will all seem worth it. Even the scars will be transformed. You're allowed to carry your scars with utmost openness because they will shine. Maybe you're even more whole than before.

I think these two terms are interlinked. It connects to the philosophy of wabi sabi, and that is finding the perfect in imperfections.

Wabi Sabi is the philosophy. The teaching that incompleteness can be beautiful while Kintsugi physically embodies that idea by turning breakage into beauty.

All of life's beauty doesn't come from the fact that it's so blindingly perfect, but from the fact that all those little mundane things you seem to pass by and the soft places time leaves its footprints, barely noticed, barely there until you look closer.

So yes, wabi sabi's one of those words that'll probably stay close to my heart because what struck me wasn’t just the word wabi-sabi—it was the way it gave language to the quiet beauty I’ve always noticed in imperfect things.

Abdulrahmon's reflection:

The first time I noticed it, I was listening to a conversation that stumbled and swayed like a rhyme unsure of its rhythm. Words lingered, paused mid-air, and I smiled at how the awkward spaces between them made the moment feel alive.

Almost without noticing, my chest lifted a little. There was something… quietly vibrant in that imperfection.

I thought of a friend’s laugh that faltered halfway through a story, the way their hesitation seemed to hold more truth than perfect fluency.

Or a memory that bubbled up, only to fade before it could fully settle, leaving behind a gentle warmth, half-formed but unmistakably real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t neat. It was… strangely beautiful.

…and then I remembered when Profiterole casually said that she had a little Wabi-Sabi in her. At first, I didn’t know what she meant. It sounded funny. What’s Wabi-Sabi??

So I went down a little rabbit hole, noticing tiny, overlooked cracks in my own mind: a sentence I couldn’t finish, a fleeting thought that drifted away, a moment of connection that stumbled but held its own quiet intensity. Things that were unfinished, fragile, slightly off… and suddenly, they felt full. They felt real.

Wabi-Sabi, I learned, is the quiet art of noticing that beauty lives in imperfection. It’s the charm of incomplete things, the grace of moments that don’t line up perfectly, the elegance hidden in what we might call flaws. This isn’t polishing life to shine; it’s letting the small cracks catch the light and the uneven edges hold meaning.

…And somehow, Aṣa’s Beautiful Imperfection made sense in this light. The words that stumbled in all the right places, the way it lingered in half-formed thoughts. It felt like a whisper of the same idea: imperfection doesn’t take away beauty; it creates it.

Maybe that’s what Wabi-Sabi asks of us: to look at the unfinished, the fragile, the imperfect, and lean in - not to fix, not to judge, but to notice. Because in noticing, we see life for what it is: alive, tender, a little messy… and quietly, beautifully enough.

_______

Shout-out to , she’s the reason this whole wabi-sabi thing even exists here. Help me appreciate her; she collaborated on this, and she’s the reason I didn’t abandon it.

*Does the clock it emoji because why not?*

Check out her Substack and subscribe, her world is quietly magical.

Also check out 's substack! He's a genius.

And sometimes I think about women who got that choice terribly wrong. Women who are physically and emotionally abused by their husbands. Women who believed they were stepping into a union between man and woman only to find themselves shackled to slavery and torture. I end up wondering about if my maman was happy in her marriage and then a scarier question follows: 'Will I get unlucky like her?'

Recently, I watched a drama called As You Stood By. One of the female leads, Hui Su, gets abused by her husband. Her husband beats her up, has his way with her, and then proceeds to buy her jewellery as a way to ask for forgiveness. How messed up is that?

He beats her up almost every day, and he keeps tabs on her. He even installed a camera once to monitor her in the house they live in. He takes her out on outings and tells her to apply makeup and wear long sleeves to cover up her bruises and marks. You'd think his mother and sister were oblivious about the abuse, but they knew and chose to keep quiet about it.

Hui Su tried so many things to expose him. She tried reporting him to the law enforcement but the day she went to the station she met his sister, she tried running away but he found out and threatened her using her mother because her mum is mentally ill and she tried killing herself. Everywhere she turns, there's a wall. Everywhere she tries to breathe, there's a noose around her throat.

Her best friend, Eun Su, finds out about Hui Su's husband abusing her. It feels all so familiar and she recognizes it instantly because she watched her own mother get beaten up by her father. As a child, Eun Su kept quiet and played dumb. She confronts Hui Su about it, but she plays it off, and Eun Su forgets about it till she catches her, trying to kill herself by jumping off her balcony. It's that day that Eun Su tells Hui Su with conviction, 'I'll help you. I'll help you kill your husband.' She gets the idea from a man named Chen So Baek. Also Mr. Chen. He also helps them alot later on.

They plan it for days, how they were going to kill Hui Su's husband. They look for a place to bury his body, they practice strangling him with a rope, they hire a doppelganger, Jang Kang to act as her husband and pay him to go on a flight to China because he has family there and he's in South Korea illegally. Then comes the day they'd execute the plan, but it fails miserably because her husband finds out. After all, he tracks her location. He comes home earlier than expected and catches them. He beats them up, and I mean, he thrashes them. Then, finally, Hui Su breaks open his head by hitting him with a snow globe repeatedly. So suddenly. In the hit of the moment. He dies. It's over, but it's also just the beginning. They put his body in a suitcase and call Jang Kang to take him to the airport and bury her husband's body.

You'd think the worst had passed, and everything would be okay, but it wasn't. Jang Kang turned out to be a very bad person, and he came back, threatening then unless they gave him money. Hui Su and Eun Su could not move on, and the guilt of killing someone followed them. Personally, I think he deserved to die because the world had failed Hui Su.

I think of how after they had buried her husband, she always saw this streak of blood on the floor and always checked her phone nervously before 7pm expecting him to walk through the door because that was the time he came back home. The body was gone, but the conditioning remains.

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The drama was so much. It was so...psychological, and it made me think and bawl my eyes out for days. In the end, they confessed to their crimes but got a reduced sentence. The two women moved to the Phillipines after to start a new life. I had cried so much because they went through so much, and they were two very strong women, truly.

I think about Eun Su also kept quiet about her mother's abuse, about how she didn't know that it was her complying to everything her father did. It had put him on a pedestal, the way he still held the reins. She ended up reporting her father, though. He got jail time. I think about Hui Su, will she ever be fully okay? It would take a while for her to be okay, but the damage had been done, and scars had already festered. She was abused for such a long time that she believed it was her fault. The way her mother-in-law and sister-in-law knew about it but kept quiet for their own selfish reasons. Do you think she knew the person she was going to marry was going to be that way?

That's the problem. You never really know how a person's character is until after you marry the person. A person can pretend for the five years you claimed to be dating and courting. A person's true colours will only come out in marriage because it's for life.

I think about all the women going through so much worse, the women, and stay because they think,'What of my children?', 'What will society say?' and my heart bleeds for them. Women are such beautiful souls, and the world keeps on proving time after time that it doesn't deserve them, that it doesn't give them utmost importance.

The world needs to be kinder to her women.

So yes, marriage is scary. It's so scary.

Classism is the unfair treatment, prejudice, or discrimination against people based on their social or economic class.

In simpler terms, it means judging or treating someone differently because of how much money they have, their job, education level, or where they come from socially.

I didn't know it ran this deep till I started paying attention to the trends Nigerians jump on TikTok. I'm sure you all know of the 'involve me' trend, right?

But this isn't where the classism started from though–it started from 'shade seen', 'catching cruise', and so on.

All these repetitive trends have the same underlying meaning, and it is that there are levels to everything, even down to the house that you live in and the shoes that you wear.

'Involve me, you wey dey spend on budget' Excuse me? Since when has someone worrying about their spending habits and thus deciding to take on saving culture bad?

Because I don't understand at all.

If it isn't about money, it's about a person's body or deformity or disability all in the name of harmless teasing and catching 'cruise'. Saying all manner of insensitive things. Let me tell you now, there is nothing harmless about it. You'd think it's not that deep till it openly starts affecting you and starts making you unsatisfied with your comfortable life.

My friend and I were talking about this topic and she said there was a video saying 'Involve me, you wey dey use iPhone 11' and someone in the comments section had said she didn't know phones could be an insecurity till she watched that video. Do you know how much an iPhone 11 even is? Do you think money is that easy to come by?

Although, maybe it is since everybody is just spending money with such flippantly that it makes me wonder where they even get the money from because I know it's not yahoo and your father does not have oil money, so where is it from?

Materialism is what everybody wants to practice, it's like a disease now.

I use an Android phone, so I wonder where I will be positioned in this their 'oblee' pyramid/hierarchy, maybe somewhere below middle-class that's if it even is on the pyramid.

It even has rules, sigh.

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There are a lot of videos I see on TikTok that are supposed to at least warrant a shred of humanity from you but if you tap on the comment section, you will see Nigerians saying so many stupid things that are so insensitive that you'll have to wonder what is genuinely wrong with people. Has empathy been lost all in the name of fun and jokes?

This internal classism has eaten so deeply into society, and people start to live fake lives. Why? Because they think it will garner some sort of respect for them. It's the only way they don't get prejudiced just because they're simply existing.

I won’t lie, I’ve caught myself scrolling through those videos and suddenly feeling like I’m not doing enough—or that my life looks too “basic.” That’s how sneaky classism is. You'll start to believe that your normal isn't good enough.

As if the 'body na meat pie' statement wasn't the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. But, I mean, I get it. Nigeria's economy is in disarray. Nigeria is super poor, and everyone is hungry. That's why we compare people's bodies to baked goods now. Nonsense.

A prime example above, now this is the height of it. Is not being a virgin supposed to be a flex now? I'm tired, honestly.

Who even starts this trend?

Even though, at first, it always starts as a vibe then people start twisting it into bullying, comparison and casual cruely then they will say it's not that deep like you're the one taking things to heart as if saying that is supposed to pacify you.

What starts as a joke online doesn’t always stay there. It seeps into how we treat people in real life—how we speak, what we value, and who we think is “worthy.”

Why can't everyone just mind their own business?

I think there are way too many serious issues happening in this country for young people to be this unserious and insensible.

All these statements aren't humorous at all. It's just bullying and classist mentality.

What do you think? Have you noticed how online “banter” often crosses the line into classism or cruelty? Share your thoughts in the comments — I’d love to hear how you see it.

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They need to be celebrated, I need to be celebrated.

I think about the very first time I joined Substack, which was maybe around May 16th, and the very first post I read was one of ’s posts, which was about the insensitivity of Nigerians saying it's never that deep. It was so relatable that I wanted to read more if her works and I remember messaging her and telling her about a similar post I wrote on Medium, so I sent her the link and she read it and she had so many nice things to say about the post that I was overjoyed. It meant I knew how to write a good amount because, I mean LOOK AT WHAT SHE WROTE. You can read that here:

Unfiltered & Unapologetic

“It's Never That Deep”- The Insensitive Culture of Nigerians & The Obsession With ‘Cruise’

The word ‘cruise’ took on a whole different meaning once it landed on the tongues of Nigerians. We all know that making jokes has always been a part of Nigerian culture- no matter how inappropriate that joke can be. But with each passing year, we’ve just found this characteristic as an avenue to be plain disgusting and tone deaf, to the point that we do…

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2 years ago · 437 likes · 35 comments · Wunmi

From then on, I made a Substack profile, and I didn't have it in mind to start posting, I just wanted to maybe read some posts and support my friend, because she also writes on substack, and I just wanted to have better assess her work, rather than using the website all the time, so I decided to download it. I never really thought I was going to write posts on it, and I never thought that I would reach this far. So, I am here to say that I have 200 subscribers. A whole 200. The very first post that I made was one of my Medium posts that I copied from Medium and decided to post on Substack, and it had more engagement than it did on Medium. Medium has terrible, terrible, terrible engagement, by the way. You hardly ever receive engagement on Medium, so I decided to transition to Substack. I still have a Medium account, which I use to speak on certain issues, but now I think Substack is my main account, and I hope to expand and get better at writing.

Now I have 200 subscribers by November 2025, and it's not even the end of the year. I was actually planning on having more than 200. I feel like my subscriber count never really adds up as fast as other people's adds up, but I would like to say that sometimes I feel like I owe myself some credit to say that I did try, and the fact that I have 200 people reading what I write has to say something of my writing prowress. So, I figured I would write a post about it, because one day after I had finished playing Isha'i, I had thought about it–all the things I had written, and I thought about how my progress seemed to be on Substack. I never really told God, never really told Ya Rabb about my writing progress, about Substack, but sometimes I feel as if I am in this little corner of the earth where I'm yet to be discovered, even though I know I don't write as good as some of the writers on Substack, some people at least like to read what I write.

There's also the fact that there are so many beautiful people I've met on here. I remember the time I wasn't as active because of exams and all. I received messages from , and . It was so heartwarming to see that people actually noticed my absence.

There's (my word lover!) who always restacks quotes from my posts. I like the little things she shares with me. I like the fact that she's such a jovial and fun person to converse with. I like that she calls me Bambito, lol. There's Bisayo, I can always count on her to give out the most beautiful comments because that's how much of a loving person she is. I like how whenever she texts me on Substack she says ‘my loveeeeee!’ There's , that girl and the way she engages in all my notes and posts. She likes everything and she sees everything lol. There's who I can always count on to comment and vibe with my posts. Then there's , even though he's looking for my trouble alot these days. I can't even put how much I love all of them into words.

However, being the overanalyzer that I am, a lot of times I find myself wishing I had more subscribers or wishing I wrote this piece that someone wrote, or thinking about whether I should start writing about trending topics just to get more likes and just to get more subscribers. The constant feeling to be up to par is sickening, and it's all that I seem to think about instead of just writing what I feel, writing what I think about, the thoughts I have, etc, etc. So, I think after a while I will go on a break because this constant…this constant need to be better, this constant comparison always happens whenever I'm on this app. There is never a day that I don't compare myself with other authors, and I think that is a bad thing because I actually have made a certain amount of progress on this app, and that's why I'd like to stop all this constant overthinking, even though I don't want to think about it and my brain still thinks about it. It's always at the back of my mind, the fact that maybe I'm not a great writer, that my progress on substack is so slow, and that's one thing because substack shouldn't really be the reason that I write or be the point of writing or be the thing that I tie my writing capabilities to.

There was one of ’s post I had read about how she started to engage in people's posts and notes and how she started writing for herself. She had said the right community will find you. The day I read that post, I had thought about it for days and decided maybe I'd start doing to, so I liked every note I saw, commented on posts I'd normally wouldn't comment on. It worked for a while, I think. But I'm bot someone that is overly enthusiastic so with time I grew exhausted so I stopped. I left it at that.

Even I'm tired of Substack and it's uncrackable algorithms, it's made me draw competitions between people I don't even know just because of engagement. Stupid engagement.

Recently though, I've decided to make substack my online diary–journalling, oversharing, writing down entries, documenting, writing all the weird ass corny fudge I can think of–as long as I remember to write and not lose the ability to write in the future because only time will tell.

Thank you for 200 subscribers, everyone!!! *mic drop, Suga style.*🩷

You simultaneously think about regret or even if one is more beneficial than the other. If choosing one is actually easy and you're just complicating things. If you're really just doing it for the sake of others or for the sake of yourself.

At the end of the day, choosing is important, and I don't think you'll always know the right choice to make. You probably might have just weighed the pros and cons and ultimately thought of deciding on the one with more pros—or just choosing based on your emotional judgement/your self evaluation.

So, really, you might not choose the right decision or the best. You're just going ahead with what feels right. What is in tune with your dreams, with your aspirations, with your thoughts.

It is struggling, yes. But I think that's the freeing part of it–the fact that you chose it of your own volition. No matter how hard you think it'll be or how tasking it'll be. I think somehow you knew you had to be ready for it. To prepare for it. No take backs. No last-minute indecisiveness. Well, maybe a little bit of indecision. Alas, ultimately, life isn't always black and white. They are grey areas. There are times when the lines are blurred and smudging into each other.

One step at a time does it. One foot in front of the other. Certain orderliness. Certain meticulousness.

I've found out that being in tune with yourself is best because really — you're all you need.

Just me, myself, and I. No grandeur. Just me choosing whatever I feel is okay with me. It is hard, definitely.

However, we'll find that nothing is never really that easy.

Like today, I was having a totally harmless conversation with Eikko, and at the end, I told him that I didn't realise he knew so many interesting people.

It made me think about how the people I know have bland lives. I wanted to know interesting people with interesting lives. I wanted to have that confidence people seem to have whenever they're close to someone worth your while.

I've been in this state since I was born, I did my primary school here, I did my secondary school here, and now I'm about to do a six-year course in this same state in Nigeria. I hardly travel because of my dad. I've only been to Abuja once and Zaria/Kaduna twice. You wouldn't even catch me in any social events happening in my town because that's not how I was raised, and everyone knows everyone in this town I live in, so my dad would catch me in those discriminating places–if I do decide to go–in ten seconds flat.

If he doesn't see me, someone he knows will see me and not mind their business and will go ahead and tell him, and then the next thing you'll hear is I've been disowned and estranged.

So no, I don't know a lot of people. I have no connections.

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I checked the page of my Instagram account–I follow 400+ people–and 90.01% of them are Korean. My photo isn't my profile picture, and my bio is basically me saying I'm a profiterole.

I don't have a well-curated Instagram page with quite a number of followers and a very few number of people that I follow. With a snarky bio that makes you curious and instead of real posts, you'll see highlights because you have to show a smidge of your interesting life and at the same time be slightly mysterious so you won't leave a digital footprint. I don’t have those effortlessly aesthetic highlights that whisper, my life is fascinating, but I’ll only show you glimpses. There’s no black-and-white photo of me looking perfect in an “I just woke up like this” kind of way.

Then again, I think it has to do with the fact that I need to be reformed. Have a complete makeover montage like in the movies where I magically become the popular IT girl that everyone automatically flocks towards.

I'm not soft-spoken or even articulate. My voice can't decide whether it wants to be high-pitched or not.

I haven't seen or met or been approached by a proper male human being in a decade. Seriously, where do you guys find nice guys?!!!!

Not that I mind though, I'm just seriously bamboozled.

I'm not in any NGO, and I haven't spoken on public issues. I've not commandeered a life-changing movement, and I haven't become a young millionaire. I want to do so many things and be so many things, but most times, I can't get past the thought that they're just dreams. They exist in a future that I can not reach or I'm not even close to reaching.

Other times, I think I'm waiting for something even though I don't know what it could possibly be. Either that or my laziness and procrastination are taking the reins.

Because I know the only way for me to stop feeling less than is to be more than. I want to be multifaceted, and I want to become someone you've never even heard of. To be an anomaly in all the ways and places that it matters.

And sometimes, I can't afford to think that far ahead in time. The only future I'm concerned about is the future that is preconceived for me. The future where I just have to finish university. That's it. Nothing more.

Oh, Ya Rabb. Fi Amanillah.

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If you even asked me when I started liking him, I wouldn't even give you a definite answer. My mind, or whatever's in charge of past memories and the regrettable actions of my younger self, however, thinks it was because he borrowed me a pen once in JSS1? JSS2? Stupid strike one(for my younger self, of course).

Before Miles, though, there were crushes. That was in primary school. The elderly brother of my friend, called Noah, and a boy who played saxophone, was younger than me, and was also my junior. His name was Anderson. I don't even know whether it was a crush or it was adoration because Noah was the head boy and Anderson played the saxophone really well. You'd think that should give you an insight into my type of men, but you'd be surprised. *smirks*

Anyways, at the time, younger me was very concerned that I liked someone younger(Anderson, I mean, Noah was my senior). Was I a pedophile? Thankfully not. I was just young and naive. Now, let me tell you how those crushes died–Noah was my first crush, and there was also a boy in my class, Jamal, who I was friends with and he had asked me who my crush was one day and I blurted it out. Ugh. So now, Jamal knew about my secret crush on Noah, had proceeded to tell my other friend, Husseina after I specifically told him not to tell anyone but in his defence, he said, 'I'll just tell one person.' and so I believed him. Stupid strike two.

Technically, he kept the end of the bargain and didn't tell anyone else, but, alas, Husseina just couldn't keep her mouth shut and proceeded to tell my other friend, Shindara who told my class teacher, Mr. Mike. Or I'm getting the order wrong, and Jamal told Shindara, then she told Husseina, then she told my class teacher. Either way *laughs hysterically* I was in deep shit.

Now, I thought I'd get a lashing of 50 strokes of that water cane, Mr. Mike normally carried around like it was his second child, or the worst would come to worst, and he'd call my parents and tell them that I had started to seduce boys and was already professing my undying love to a boy that was my senior. None of the above happened, though. In fact, Mr Mike bailed me out. He had said, and I quote in the way my brain remembers it, 'Of course she likes him, everybody likes Noah. He's the head boy, and he's a very respectable young man, so of course, *bleeps my name out again* would have adoration for him.

According to Mr. Mike, me having a crush on Noah was harmless, and it was more like a fan girl thing. I didn't wait for the crush to become harmful sha so the younger me's crush on Noah had died that day. The embarrassment alone was enough to finish the job. As for Anderson, that crush died when I found out he was going to a different secondary school than I was. So that's the overview of my very few, very stupid row of crushes I had in primary school.

Let's get back to the main character of the story, which is–me *coughs* Miles. Younger me believed I was head over heels in love with this boy. Stupid strike three. This one deserves a death penalty. So, I got closer to him, started talking to him, we became friends, and then– rethinks about whether telling this story was a good idea…

–we...started corresponding.

'Give me about five minutes to crawl into a hole and bury myself.'

You must be thinking, what does this girl mean by corresponding? Well, there might or might not have been the exchange of handwritten letters between him and me where I eventually told him I liked him. Haew, never again.

Do you need to know how we exchanged the letters? If you said no, I didn't know because this is already post written, and I'm already going to tell you why :)

Basically, every day, I'd ask to borrow any of his notebooks, and whenever he gave me, I'd slip the letter into one of the pages, and he'd do the same for me. I know, I know...I deserve the gauntlet.*bows head in past shame*. What I remember, though, is younger me going home incredibly happy because I'd get to read the letters alone in my room and draft a response.

The letters continued till in one of my letters I decided to tell him that I liked him. Younger me was so nervous about his response, but he had said he liked me too. So that was a start. I didn't get rejected. He liked me, back. The first time I had told someone I liked them, they liked me back. We didn't date, but we were aware that we liked each other and continued to behave like two lovesick birds of paradise. That was until JSS2 or JSS3, alas, Miles hadn't liked me back. He had just been playing with me. We had a fight, a very big one, and it was via WhatsApp because he had made a very mean comment about my maman, and no one is allowed to talk bad about my maman so I blocked him–after my school mother told me to–he was the first and only person I've blocked since then, lol.

He had gotten very angry, and then he decided to threaten me. He told me he was going to show everybody the letters I wrote because at the time, I had already burned all the letters that he had written to me. I was so afraid. Thinking back, maybe I shouldn't have been so afraid of what he would do because later on, I realised that a lot of people in my class already knew that I liked him. It was that glaringly obvious. Sigh.

Anyways it became a whole thing, but then my school mother stepped in and talked some sense into him. I will forever be grateful to still have her in my life, btw. He didn't threaten me anymore, and we didn't so much as talk till he left the school in SS1.

What was the point of writing this? I know for sure what I regret out of everything I told you was the stupid things I did because of him just because I couldn't control my feelings and let it burst at the seams.

(If you think the letters were the only stupid thing I did, think again).

This was what my school mother had told me, and I think I'm grateful it happened. I'm grateful he did something awful, so I'd 'unlike' him without any qualms and I'm grateful it happened earlier on in my life so you won't catch me being swayed by a boy now.

Now, I handle these types of situations with rationality.

You know, after the whole thing with Miles, B–if you can remember him from my post about him–had told me he liked me and I had told him I just wanted to be friends.

There was another person, though, who almost got me swayed, and that was Eikko. I call him Eikko now because we're friends, and I love him very much even though he's very insufferable. I also think I knew he liked me because I was always asking him questions about who he liked, and he gave me vague answers. That was how we went back and forth till he told me he liked me. When Eikko told me he liked me, I think somewhere within me, I had liked him too, but I thought my friend liked him and so I told him to give me time to think about it.

I remember the next day after he told me he liked me– also via WhatsApp–in school, I was very uncomfortable around him and ran away anytime I saw him coming, it was a disaster. His best friend, Tobi, had caught on and decided to be Eikko's wingman, and so he told me not to break his bro's heart.

This all sounds very dramatic as I tell it, and I guess it is. Later on, I think I told him I liked him too, but I wasn't ready for a relationship, so we didn't date. He made it very hard for me to stand by that decision, though, because he was so thoughtful. He wrote me a poem about my brown eyes because I always wrote long paragraphs about him, so he did the same. This actually sounds so sweet now that I think about it, sighs again. I have a problem.

Moving on! I eventually told him that we should just be friends. Thank God, we still are. I can't even remember why but it had to do with the fact that my friend actually liked him alot so I felt like I was dangling him like a piece of meat because I wasn't even sure whether I liked him or not. Sometimes, I still think about what would have happened if we did date, we would've been good together. *daps the tip of my eyes with pink tissue paper* 

'Oh, what could've been.' Nothing would've been though, religionwise dating isn't exactly permissible. Dating also irks me. How are you people doing it?

In the neck of things, I don't think I've ever really been irrevocably in love with someone and thought of marrying them, etcetera. I mean, Miles hadn't even broken my heart because what did younger me know about heartbreak. I mean, look at how easy it was for me to unlike him, and then I think it's because of that mean thing he said that I attributed it to. I also think of what would've happened if he didn't say anything mean, but that didn't happen.

I am extremely scared about experiencing real soul crushing heartbreak, and one would think it's customary when it comes to falling in love but I've never really been IN love so I think about Murphy's Law punishing me by making me fall in love with a monster of a man in the nearest future. It's probably why I read romance novels and watch kdramas because it makes me set impossibly high standards for who I'd want my naseeb to be, and no one even meets the standard in real life. Except for my naseeb himself–where ever he is. It's safer, too, because you don't catch me making heart eyes at every boy I set my eyes on, even the fine ones.

So when I found people sharing stories about how they got their heart broken, or falling in love, or being deceived by a man–nothing new there–my brains conjures up the what ifs.

I think we've all established that I'm aroace now, so I think I'm safe. All of you that's falling in love with your coursemates, I pity you. At the same time, I don't want to say it could never be me, but it could also never not be me.

Moral of the story: I'm not falling in love with anybody till Ya Rabb says it's time, and it certainly isn't time right now. Unless, of course you count Cyrus of Tulan or Arin of Nizahl ;)

There will be a big problem if by the time I'm 20, I'm still like…this.

Will I become more emotionally mature and have more knowledge that comes from growing older?

Will I understand certain things more?

Will I have everything figured out?

This uncertainty of it excites me to be honest. So I wonder what Ya Rabb's plans for me are.

I'll be 20 in two, three years' time?

So I decided to draft an agenda–to plan because why not?

And being prepared never hurt anybody. So here's profiterole's new and improved 20s bucket list:

1. Lock in and become a full on hijabi: I need to find my aesthetic, asapppppp. I love hijabi fashion, too. Which is obvious because I'm a Muslim. Modesty is key. So I want to explore different vibes with what I wear being a Muslim as I grow older. Be hijabi girl fashion icon if possible. aminasnotokay and yasminjalloh are my inspiration.

2. Have a signature scent: Yes, you heard me. I love perfumes, it's even better when I smell so nice that I get the compliment everytime I go out. I've had the pleasure of researching on different scents. And I want to smell like vanilla. I LOVE VANILLA. I want to get those Kayali perfumes, and I know they're very expensive, humour me.😃

3. Have a hobby/do every and all things: I love doing crafts, I've always been a very crazy person. So when I'm in my 20s, I want to try baking, crocheting, scrapbooking, journalling, resin art. etc. They look so pretty on Pinterest. How nice would it be? I'd finally embrace my inner art girly.

4. Document the happy bits of my life: I'm a very sentimental person and so this seems like a very real thing to do. I'm learning that memories are important, so I want to have something to look back to when I get nostalgic and remember those times. I'll get a polaroid camera to take candid polaroid pictures with my friends and probably of myself.(when I've reached the peak of self-confidence)

   

5. Journal more: I want to have daily planners, worn journals filled with my unperturbed thoughts. I want to record all the events in my life in chronological order. Someone got me a journal from my birthday so it's a start. I want to write more, I'd probably get a cute fountain pen with my name on it to seal the deal.

6. Live more: I want to do things that genuinely make me happy. With school out of the picture. I want to travel, eat new foods. Finally try matcha and boba tea and tiramisu. I just want to be inexplicably me. Probably learn more things about myself that I'm yet to know.

7. Learn to get myself alot of nice things: I want to be able to embrace self love and actually spoil myself sometimes.

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If you want to fund my 20s dream, kindly click on this link :) – show me love.