It’s that strange point in your life where you begin to question the things you were taught and begin to wonder, “But why?”

Sometimes, you search for an answer and discover that what you were taught was actually correct.

Sometimes, you discover that what you were taught was only partially correct.

And sometimes… you realize that there is an entire depth to the subject that nobody ever bothered to introduce you to.

Like in my anatomy classes last semester.

Who would’ve guessed that your stomach is not that general area in the middle of your body, underneath your chest?😂 Turns out, that is your abdomen.

And no, Garri will not make you blind.😭🙏

I learned these things because I started studying for myself.

I had access to textbooks. I had lecturers who had spent years studying the human body. I was exposed to information that was more accurate than some of the things I had casually heard growing up.

And nobody told me that learning the truth meant I was disrespecting what I had been taught.

Nobody said, “How dare you question what you were told about the human body!”

They simply taught me.

So why do we become so uncomfortable when the subject changes from anatomy to God?🫠

I have probably seen the word “deconstruct” on social media a million times. (Okay, maybe not a million. But you get what I mean. 😂)

It is mostly used in conversations about religion, particularly when someone begins to question the beliefs they grew up with.

Almost immediately, someone appears in the comments to tell them that they are going to hell.

But I have a question.

What if asking questions isn’t the opposite of faith?

What if, sometimes, it is how faith becomes real?

Now, before you throw the stone you’ve picked up, wait. Listen.

God wants a relationship with us.

And relationships require honesty.

Imagine being in a relationship where you were terrified to ask questions because you thought the other person would leave you the moment you expressed doubt.

That wouldn’t be a healthy relationship.

So why do we sometimes imagine God that way?

As though He is sitting in heaven, waiting for us to stop asking questions and start reciting everything we were taught?

But faith isn’t pretending you don’t have questions.

Faith is bringing those questions to God.

Ask, Please.

God is not repulsed by your questions.

He is not intimidated by your curiosity.

And He certainly does not need you to protect Him from your thoughts.

Asking questions is not a problem, you just have to do it properly.

There is a difference between rebellion and curiosity.

And I think we need to be careful about treating all questions as rebellion, because you can frighten someone into silence without ever helping them understand what they believe.

And eventually, they may leave home, enter university, meet people who challenge their beliefs, encounter an argument they have never heard before, and suddenly realize they have no idea what they actually believe.

Because nobody taught them how to think.

They only taught them what to say.

And perhaps that is why I don’t think we should be afraid of people who ask questions about their faith.

Because if something is true, surely we should be willing to examine it.

I am not saying you should believe everything you read online because you are “deconstructing.”

Please, for the love of God, use your discernment.😭

Not every TikTok theologian has the answers. 😂

But I am saying: don’t be afraid to search.

Read your Bible, ask questions, learn the historical and cultural context, listen to people who know more than you, and pleaseee, talk to the Father for yourself.

Not every question will have an immediate answer, but God will acknowledge them and will reveal Himself.

“And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.” - Jeremiah‬ ‭29‬:‭13‬ ‭‬‬ ❤️

So if you are standing at that crossroads right now, asking questions you were once told you should never ask, don’t panic.

You are not automatically lost.

And if God is truly who He says He is, you will not discover that He is fragile.

You will discover that He can handle you, and your questions.

thank you for reading my newsletter 🥹 I love you but God loves you more.

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Mubarak, I hope you read this.

I met Mubarak when I was fourteen.

He had come to live with a family friend on our street, so we saw each other almost every day. He was tall, dark, had the brightest white teeth, and spoke English so fluently that my fourteen-year-old heart decided those were enough qualifications to develop a crush.

We were the same age, so while our older siblings talked, we’d quietly disappear and have conversations of our own. We’d talk for hours.

One day, he started telling me about the girls in his class he was fascinated by.

As he spoke, I slowly realized something.

I wasn’t anything like the girls he seemed fascinated by.

These girls were the type of girls who got into trouble. The girls who weren’t considered exactly… “good.”

The exact opposite of who I was.

So…

I lied.

I told Mubarak stories of things I’d never done.

I made myself sound adventurous when I was actually the child who would panic if the teacher shouted my name too loudly.

I claimed I was part of groups I’d spent my entire life avoiding.

I even invented trouble I’d never gotten into.

If being the “bad girl” was what it took for him to like me, then bad girl it was.

And somehow…

It worked.

About a week later, Mubarak told me he liked me.😂

Which brings me to a realization I didn’t have until years later.

They say that to love someone is to see them for who they truly are and still choose them anyway.

If that’s true, then Mubarak never loved me.

He couldn’t have.

Because he never saw the real me.

Before I continue…

Mubarak, if you’re reading this, I need to publicly clear my name.

I promise I’m actually a good girl. 😭

I love the Lord with all my heart. I just could not defend my beliefs then.

Anyway…

Fast forward a few years.

I met someone else.

Unfortunately for him, I already knew something about him.

The very first thing I had ever heard about him was a story about something he did that got him into serious trouble.

(And before your imagination starts running… yes, it was actually bad. 😭)

Immediately, I mentally filed him under my “Wonderful as a friend. Absolutely not as anything more.” list.

And that was the end of that.

But later, something bothered me.

The only reason I could protect my heart so easily was because I had already seen one of the ugliest parts of his story before I ever had the chance to even think about anything else.

Had I met him without knowing that story…

Things would probably have taken a different turn.

And that’s when another question hit me.

Everyone has an ugly chapter.

Not necessarily a crime, or something evil.. but everyone has something.

If we met people after reading the worst chapter of their lives, would we still choose them?

Or would nobody ever fall in love?

I think that’s why love is so much deeper than the butterflies.

Butterflies are easy.

They’re produced by attractive faces, charming personalities, nice smiles, six packs, good hair, deep voices, and excellent flirting.

Love is different.

I know God loves us because He sees the worst version of us, and still chooses us anyway. He still chose to die!!

Love begins where fascination ends.

It starts when you slowly discover the parts of someone that aren’t pretty, and still choose to stay.

So before you tell someone you love them...

Ask yourself one question.

Have I loved the person...

or have I only loved the version of them I invented in my head?

I think that if we ask ourselves this question every time the butterflies come, there’d be fewer numbers of failed relationships.

And rather than getting angry, I was amused.

Today, I hope to correct a misconception.

Many years ago, a classmate of mine reported a heinous crime I had committed to our teacher.

I was in Primary Six when I began exploring words I shouldn’t have known. Not only did I know them, I said them to my classmates. I said and did many sinful things.

My teacher beat me mercilessly.

She beat me so much that she actually went downstairs to borrow another cane so she could continue.😭 She flogged me to the hearing of my juniors, and I walked back into the classroom carrying enough shame for an entire village.

It got so bad that the classmates who reported me, came to apologize after school.😂

(It was even worse because I was the Head Girl.)

But to my teacher, I wasn’t just the Head Girl.

I was a sinner.

Not a child who needed guidance.

Not a child who needed discipleship.

A sinner who deserved to be beaten until she changed.

I guess that was supposed to be the turning point in my life.

The kind of story that goes, “I was beaten out of my bad behavior.”

Except…

I didn’t change.

I left that school and became worse in secondary school.

I kept exploring things I shouldn’t have explored. Some things I picked up from conversations with friends. Others I found through YouTube and the internet. Eventually, the beating became a distant memory.

Ironically, I now write and speak about Jesus.

But my salvation story is not attached to the whips I received that day.

I came to Jesus because I met Him.

Because I discovered who He really is.

Because I encountered a kind of love I had never known before.

Condemnation didn’t change me.

Love did.

And that’s why my friend’s sudden block amused me.

You see, many people who don’t believe—or who have walked away from the faith—carry stories of being hurt by Christians or by the church.

And honestly…

I understand.

But here’s the question that changed everything for me:

Does God have the same personality as the Christian who hurt you?

Because He doesn’t.

Many people genuinely believe Christians are waiting for an opportunity to judge them.

And if I’m being fair, I understand why.

Some people have encountered believers who spoke more condemnation than compassion. Some have met Christians who forgot that the Judge of humanity is still God, not them. Others have experienced a version of Christianity that seemed more interested in pointing out sin than pointing people toward the Savior.

So yes…

I understand the assumption. From my story, you already know I do.😭

Which is why it amuses me to think someone somewhere might be saying,

“Let me block Bisola before she judges me.”

How could I judge someone for standing where I once stood?

The believer isn’t someone who was born cleaner than everyone else.

The believer is simply someone who has been rescued by grace.

Every Christian has a before.

So whenever I see someone living the way I once lived, my first thought isn’t,

“How could they?”

It’s,

“I know exactly what that feels like.”

Because apart from Jesus, I would probably still be there too.

If you’re not a Christian, I hope you know this:

Your Christian friends or neighbors, are not always the clearest representation of Christ.

Sometimes we’ve represented Him poorly.

Sometimes we’ve spoken without love.

Sometimes we’ve made people feel like they had to become perfect before they could come to God.

But that was never the gospel.

Jesus didn’t wait for people to clean themselves before He called them.

He met fishermen, tax collectors, adulterers, doubters, thieves, and sinners exactly where they were.

Then He transformed them.

That’s still what He does today.

So maybe your Primary Six teacher beat you to a pulp.😂

Maybe a church leader embarrassed you.

Maybe a Christian made you feel like you were too dirty for God.

I’m so sorry that happened.

But I promise you,

I’m not your Primary Six teacher.😭

And more importantly,

Jesus isn’t either.

So if you’ve been avoiding Christianity because of Christians, I understand.

But don’t reject Jesus because someone else misrepresented Him.

Don’t walk away from the Physician because one patient gave you a bad impression of the hospital.

Come and meet Him for yourself.

You may discover, just as I did, that Christianity isn’t about pretending you’ve never been broken.

It’s about finally meeting the One who can make broken people whole.

She had two suitors. She didn’t want either of them, not because she was being difficult, but because she was a teenager who simply wasn’t ready. Nobody in that house was interested in whether she was ready. So she made a smaller request.

If marriage was unavoidable, she at least, wanted to pick the man she would be married to. But that right too, was denied her.

When she objected, they beat her. When she objected again, they beat her again. Slapped her, threatened her, and kept going until there was nothing left of her resistance and she finally, exhaustedly, said yes.

This is not fiction. It happened to someone I grew up with. And there are countless others in similar, if not worse, situations.

Whenever people are asked to define rape, the answers are usually predictable. They talk about a stranger attacking a woman in a dark alley, a gang of men forcing themselves on a victim, or an unmarried woman being violated by a man. Rarely does anyone mention a wife.

We were told that marriage is supposed to be the wall that keeps danger out. The place a woman is finally safe, finally covered, finally protected.

Well, I want to talk about what sometimes happens inside that wall.

A few years ago, some classmates of mine were discussing the rapid growth someone we knew was undergoing. I thought it was the usual teasing girls do with each other. But as I listened, I discovered something barbaric.

Girls as young as 13 and 14 were being fed chemical substances to make their developing bodies look acceptable to adult men they would eventually be married off to. They call these things supplements, but they are actually dangerous puberty enhancers designed to force breasts and hips to mature prematurely, years before they were ready.

While some of us were studying for final exams, our peers were being chemically altered and prepared for systemic violation.

Whenever we talk about fruits that were chemically ripened, we widely condemn it as hazardous. We understand that forcing nature to move faster than it should damages the fruit. Then why are we comfortable forcing a child’s body to mature before its time?

Statistics show that in Northern Nigeria, nearly 50% of all girls are married before they turn 15, and more than three quarters are married before they turn 18. These are not isolated incidents. This is a system.

And inside that system, when a Northern girl made a mistake in class, teachers would laugh and say “you’ll soon get married anyway.” Everybody would laugh. Nobody flinched. A classroom full of people heard a child’s future dismissed in one sentence and kept moving.

We have normalised the abnormal so deeply that we cannot see it anymore. Either we have lost the plot entirely, or we never had it to begin with.

Now I need you to stay with me for this next part.

A vagina that is not ready for penetration is not simply uncomfortable. Girls forced into sex before their bodies have developed properly suffer severe tearing. Holes form between the vaginal wall and the bladder or rectum, leaving them leaking uncontrollably — a condition called obstetric fistula.

Many are abandoned by their husbands afterwards. Many lose the ability to bear children on their own terms. Some die. The body keeps a record of everything done to it without consent, and it does not lie.

But the damage does not stop at the body.

She learns to disappear inside herself when something is happening to her that she cannot stop.

She is sold. And she is left with the grief of a future that was decided for her before she was old enough to want anything for herself.

The word wife is used to overwrite the word child. The supplements are given, the pain is expected, and the girl is told to endure.

And when she endures, we call it culture, tradition, or religion.

But rape does not become something else because it happens inside a marriage. It does not become less violent because it was arranged by a father, blessed by a community, sealed with a bride price.

A child who cannot consent is a child who cannot consent.

It is still rape even if she is your wife.

It is still rape even if she is beginning to develop in the “right” places.

It is still rape even if nobody in the room called it that.

Free every girl still sitting in a classroom, wondering why her future feels like it belongs to someone else. Free every girl being prepared for something she did not choose.

She is not a wife. She is a child. And someone stole her life before she was old enough to know it was hers to keep.

If she is too young to choose her future, then she is too young to be a bride.

So please, END CHILD MARRIAGE!

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If you’ve ever basked in the high of an awesome performance, but when the whole thing was over, a part of you whispered that you weren’t good enough…

Then I relate to you very very much.

If I had a dollar for every time someone complimented my boldness, I’d be filthy rich. And honestly? They’re not wrong. I’m bold and perhaps, audacious too. But recently, I've started to realize that boldness and high self esteem are not the same thing.

Two months ago, my school hosted a Creative Summit and invited several well known creators and artists. I auditioned for a performance slot, but I wasn't selected.

On the day of the summit, I found out that my audition had never even been reviewed. So I sat in the hall, felling disappointed while my friends encouraged me to reach out to the organizers and ask for another chance.

Eventually, I did. And by God's grace, they gave me an opportunity to perform, and that single performance brought me more recognition than I could have imagined.

What my friends don't know is what was happening inside me as I approached the organizers. My hands shook, and my heartbeat went into a spiral. A part of me desperately hoped they would say no.

Not because I didn't want to perform, but because rejection would have given me an excuse to retreat. I could have quietly returned to my seat and convinced myself that I never really had a chance anyway.

The truth is that even though I believed my piece was good, I was terrified.

And it doesn't stop there.

After that, someone created edits of the performance, and posted them on TikTok. Most creators would probably be excited.

Instead, I cringed.

I had to actively resist the urge to ask the creator to take it down. And when I told my friend about my feelings, she looked at me like I was crazy😂 understandably so.

And recently, someone reached out to me for a potential collaboration, because she’s looking to work with spoken word artists.

My first thought wasn't excitement.

It wasn't even curiosity.

It was:

"Am I really good enough to be featured by a creative director?"

And that thought forced me to confront something I've been avoiding for a long time.

What if I have low self esteem?

Why do I shrink just before opportunities arrive?

Why do I become uncomfortable whenever I have to pitch myself?

Why do I cringe when I post my own work?

Why does every compliment feel easier to believe when it's directed at someone else?

I've spent years assuming that confidence was simply the ability to act despite fear. And perhaps that's partly true.

But maybe true self esteem is something deeper.

Maybe it's not just standing on the stage.

Maybe it's believing you deserve to be on it.

Maybe it's not just sharing your work.

Maybe it's believing your work is worthy of being seen.

Maybe it's not just accepting opportunities.

Maybe it's believing you belong in the room where those opportunities exist.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I've spent years doing brave things while secretly questioning whether I was good enough to do them.

And perhaps that's why every new opportunity still feels like an accident. Like somehow everyone else sees something in me that I haven't fully seen in myself.

But maybe it's time I stop arguing with the evidence. Maybe it's time I stop treating every achievement like a fluke and every opportunity like a mistake, and stop waiting for everyone else to convince me of what they have already been saying for years.

I must force myself to recognize that I'm talented and not feel like an imposter.

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I love love.

I am exactly the kind of person romance novels were written for. Give me longing and yearning. Give me stolen glances across crowded rooms. Give me the scene where he realizes she’s the love of his life after twenty chapters of acting like an idiot.

I eat it up every single time.

So I’m not going to be that writer that will pretend romance is beneath me. It isn’t. I adore a good love story. But somewhere along the way, I started asking a question that made me deeply uncomfortable:

After the suffering, and mistreatment the female protagonist goes through.. why is marriage always the reward?

I’ll explain.

Growing up, I consumed so many things that centered around love. From zee World Series, to K-dramas, and romance novels. (Yes, crazyyy😂)

And they all followed the same pattern.

A girl suffers, she is overlooked, mistreated, underestimated, or trapped by circumstances. Then, after enduring all of life’s hardships, she is rewarded with a handsome prince.

The End.

And apparently that’s enough.

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Recently, I listened to a creator called Oyin Osikoya ask a question that refused to leave my mind. “Why was the final destination for so many Disney princesses a man?”

Not purpose, impact, discovery, or greatness. It is always a dang Prince!

Cinderella got the prince.

Snow White got the prince.

Sleeping Beauty got the prince.

And then what?

Did they never have dreams of their own?

Did they never want to build anything?

Did they never wake up one morning and think, “I want my life to mean something beyond being chosen”?

Maybe they did, but why did we never get to hear about it?

I refuse to believe God gave women dreams merely to watch them trade those dreams for wedding rings.

I once read a book series centered around a family of sisters. Each sister eventually got a beautiful love story, which was lovely. But there was one sister I could never stop thinking about.

Her dream was education.

The story was set in a time when women were stopped from learning, and she desperately wanted more. She wanted knowledge. She wanted a life beyond the limitations placed on her, and every part of me was rooting for her.

Then the author gave her a rich and fine husband, made her a mother, and ended her story.

That was her happy ending.

Sometimes it feels as though we are told that a woman’s greatest achievement is being loved by a man.

As though her story reaches its highest point the moment someone chooses her.

But men are allowed so much more. They can fall in love and still conquer kingdoms, build companies, and change history.

Nobody tells little boys that marriage is the grand conclusion of their lives.

So why do we tell girls that?

I do not think there is anything wrong with being a wife, or being a mother. I do not even think there is anything wrong with staying home to raise children if that is what a woman genuinely wants.

The problem begins when those things become the only acceptable ending.

The problem begins when ambition in women is treated like a phase that romance should eventually cure.

The problem begins when an ambitious woman is expected to shrink herself so that everyone else can remain comfortable.

I want a love story, but I do not want my entire life story condensed into who loved me.

When my story is told, I want there to be chapters about the things I built, the people I impacted, the risks I took, the dreams I chased, and the person I became.

If love finds me along the way, wonderful.

But I never want romance to become the graveyard where my ambitions go to die.

So yes, I love Cinderella. But if my Cinderella story doesn’t come with a mixture of Moana.. then what joy is there to it?

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So here it is, my love. This is the part where you get your own article.

In a world that seems obsessed with romanticizing every deep connection, we’ve inherited a rather cynical narrative: the idea that platonic love is just a "placeholder" or a myth. We are taught that if a bond is profound, it must be romantic, and if it isn’t romantic, it must be shallow.

Is that true though?

I beg to disagree.

I believe that love is friendship, presence, and consistency. And in my life, I’ve seen those things take shape so beautifully. So this is a friendship appreciation post

At a point in my life, my Christian journey felt heavier than usual. Not because I stopped loving God, but because I am human enough to struggle while still wanting to pour into other people. And if I am being honest, that contradiction made me feel very hypocritical.

And so, I opened up to my friend.

He didn't meet me with judgment. Instead, he spoke truth directly into my spirit.

And if this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.🥹

Some friendships touch you in ways romance never could. And I think that is why I appreciate Iniidara so deeply.

He has unknowingly become proof that God still sends people who care sincerely. People who do not make friendship feel transactional. People who make you feel safe enough to be honest.

At your lowest point, God will often send someone to speak life back into you. Do not become so blinded by gender stereotypes and worldly assumptions that you close your heart to the people He is using to reach you.

To you, love may mean different things, but to me — if love is consistency, if love is friendship, if love is comfort and being gently reminded that you are not alone, then love is Iniidara.

Have you ever been in a relationship so strained you forgot how it began?

I mean the way it felt in the early days.. the ease and the softness of it. How you used to reach for it without thinking, and how it made sense in a way you could not fully explain, only experience.

Then, somewhere along the way, things changed. It wasn’t all at once. It happened slowly enough that you didn’t notice until the day you woke up sitting inside something that still had your name on it, but no longer felt like yours.

We talk about falling out of love like it is a single moment. A door slamming. A clear ending. But usually, it is a quiet, torturous drift that leaves you questioning everything you once believed.

If you have felt this, I am right there with you.

Maybe you sometimes remember the days when life held no real concerns. You’d be woken up, bathed, handed a lunch box, and sent off with a fifty naira note tucked in your back pocket. You would walk to school, convinced of a simple truth: “Whatever you love, you would do, and it’ll work out.”

But as the years blurred and the world sharpened into focus, you realized that love is rarely the sole determining factor in how our lives unfold. How can it be? Not when a failing economy, family demands, and the crushing weight of peer pressure stretch you until there is no longer space to breathe.

It is hard to look an artist in the eye.. one who walked away from everything to follow a spark, and tell them the world might have a different plan. It is hard to tell a chef that the world isn’t currently interested in the recipes she spent her soul inventing.

This isn't an article offering a professional solution or a five step plan to success. It is a tap on the shoulder. It is a reminder of something beautiful that you might have dropped.

I want you to fall back in love with your passion.

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There is a specific kind of modern madness that convinces us that if we aren't stressed, we aren't working hard enough. We wear our burnout like a badge of honor, bragging about how little sleep we got or how many meals we ate over a keyboard. But stress is a terrible lens. It distorts the work. When you are operating from a place of pure frantic energy, you lose the ability to see the nuance and the craft in what you do.

So we complain. A bit at first, then louder with time. About missed chance, closed doors, and about the vast world we feel shut out of.

And in the middle of all that noise, we overlook something profoundly sacred : The gift of having a passion.

For many of us, the passion didn't die; it just got buried under a mountain of "urgent" emails, Slack notifications, and the general friction of existing in a productivity-obsessed society.

The problem isn't that you've chosen the wrong path. The problem is that we’ve been taught to treat our passions like marathon sprints. We run until our lungs burn and then wonder why we don't feel like dancing at the finish line. If you want to actually enjoy your work again, you have to stop treating your joy like a reward for finished tasks and start treating it like the fuel that keeps the engine running.

Take It Easy on Yourself

I know this sounds cliche, but it’s actually a survival strategy. And it doesn’t have to contradict hard work.

Work very hard in pursuit of your dreams, but let’s not become to burned out from it that we forget the reason we started, was out of love for an art.

Start reclaiming your time by building in "non negotiable" moments of appreciation.

Let’s try to remember that there are people still searching for what we already have. People trying, failing, starting over, hoping that one day something will click. People in hungry pursuit of something that comes to you naturally.

And here you are, already holding something. Maybe not perfectly, or fully developed. Maybe not where you want it to be yet, but it is yours.

So instead of constantly asking for more, learn to see what is already in front of you. Care for it. Grow it. Enjoy it. You do not need to escape your passion to love it again. Sometimes, you just need to return to it differently. Gently, this time.

Because loving what you do is not about feeling inspired every single day.

It is about choosing, over and over again, to see the beauty in something you once prayed for… even on the days it feels ordinary.

I hope this letter gave you even the tiniest bit of comfort.

With love from me to you,

Bisola.💗

I watched one of my favorite writers on Substack grow from a quiet corner with a couple hundred readers to a platform filled with thousands. It felt like watching someone you love get the recognition you always knew they deserved, and I was genuinely proud of him.

Then one day, I opened his letter and the first thing I saw was an apology. It was polite and thoughtful. But it did something strange to me. It made something in me sink in a way I could not explain.

I found myself wondering if it was possible, that one who once was recklessly in love with the mess of it all, could become an employee of his own passion, and nothing more.

This isn’t about him though. It’s about me, and a fear I do not voice out loud.

One of my biggest fears is waking up one day and realizing I don’t love writing anymore. That I’m still doing it, still posting, still showing up… but it feels like a task. Like something on a list I need to tick off. And that scares me more than not being read at all.

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I wonder if this is what happens in other parts of life too.

With faith for example. If talking to God starts to feel like something you should do instead of something you want to do… I doubt you can sustain that relationship.

In other relationships also. When people stop choosing each other and just… continue each other. Does a spouse look across the dinner table and realize they are no longer in love, but are simply "in contract"? It is a terrifying thought that we can suck the love out of the very things meant to give us joy, when expectations meet passion.

About a month ago, I stopped writing on Substack for a bit. I didn’t announce it or anything. I just… left.

But the funny thing is, I never really left. Because I would be in the middle of something random and a sentence would come to me. Or a feeling. Or a line I needed to write down quickly before it disappeared. It kept happening until I realized something.

I wasn’t taking a break from writing. Writing was just waiting for me to come back. And I did. Not because I felt guilty, or because I thought I was falling behind. I came back because something in me would not stay quiet, and that’s what love does.

It pushes you to come back.

There’s a fountain in me. God put it there, and I can always tell when I’ve ignored it for too long. Everything starts to feel a bit… full. Like I’m carrying words I haven’t released yet.

So I write.

Not because I have to, but because I need to. And I think that’s the line I’m scared of crossing one day.

That thin, quiet line between need and obligation. I know my words are a tool for a mission I’ve been given, but I hope I always perform this duty out of love.

I never want to be a professional who has forgotten how to be an amateur. I want to remain the person who writes because the silence is too loud to bear alone, and I can’t help but share from the fountains in me.

I want to stay in the honeymoon phase with my metaphors where every sentence is a discovery rather than a chore. I would rather write one letter that breathes than a thousand that merely occupy space.

So I choose to forever remain absolutely in love with my passion.

The reason for this title is pretty simple. I’m writing this letter to my twenty-year-old self. And if you’re already in your 20s, or about to enter them like me, maybe you’ll pick up something too. 💗

Dear 20-year-old Bisola,

You’re about five months into your 18th year, and already, you’re learning. I’m so proud of you, and I thank God for your life. In case you’ve forgotten, here’s a little reminder.

One thing about your younger self is that you tend to doubt your potential. Even when you know God has given you a gift, you still ask, “Will anyone even notice this?” You sometimes cringe at your own ideas and watch others do amazing things in spaces you could dominate.

Why? Sometimes you’re too shy to pitch your work, sometimes you overthink, and sometimes your perfectionism critiques you out of your own brilliance.

But recently, you’ve been learning that the world doesn’t want a watered-down version of your talent. It isn’t interested in the usual things it’s already been fed. What the world is waiting for is you. Your own ideas, your creativity, and your unique version of excellence.

When God gives you an idea, write it down immediately. Begin to work on it. Don’t procrastinate. Don’t overthink. Don’t try to make it “perfect.” It’s yours, and that alone makes it beautiful.

I know you’ve bought journals Bisola, I hope you’re writing??

You’re stepping into your 20s now. CRAZYYYYY.

It’s wild, bold, audacious, and beautiful, and I’m so proud of you for getting here.

Now, don’t you dare become a boring adult. Live fully. Don’t rush to pick a niche, explore jorrr. You’re multitalented. Pitch every part of yourself, because you never know which path God will bless the most. My baby, sho ti gbo?

I love you so much. Your family loves you. And God is absolutely head-over-heels in love with you. Love Him with all your heart, and love yourself too, okay?

Bye, my love 😝💗

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Nobody volunteers to go first. But in every family, someone has to. In mine, that person was my brother. And he never got a thank you for it.

Growing up, we fought like it was our job. Over the TV, over food, over nothing, over everything. If there was a reason to argue, we found it. If there wasn’t, we invented one. For a large part of my childhood, I genuinely believed that my brother’s sole purpose on earth was to make my life difficult.

I was wrong. He was just as lost as the rest of us. Nobody told me that part.

Here’s what actually happens with firstborns that we don’t talk about enough.

They become the test. Not because their parents are bad people, but because nobody knows what they’re doing the first time around. Every rule gets made on them. Every punishment gets calibrated on them. Every boundary gets tested and drawn on them. By the time the second child arrives, the parents have practice. The firstborn just had to survive the experiment.

I was the second child. I had my brother to watch. I saw where the walls were before I ever touched them. I knew which mistakes were expensive and which ones they’d let slide. I received, completely for free, an education that cost my brother years of his life.

I never once acknowledged that.

When my parents weren’t home, he became the parent. When we did something wrong, he got the blame. When the house needed someone to keep it together, it was always him. A child who was still figuring out how to be a child, being asked to be an adult.

And the funny thing is, people love to say firstborns are difficult, stubborn, or even hard to manage. Like it’s a personality flaw they were born with, not a response to being handed the heaviest role in the family before they even understood what a role was. He had no example to follow. No older sibling to watch and learn from. He walked into every new stage of life completely blind, and somehow the standards held against him were still the highest in the house.

To be fair to my parents, God bless them, they only ever wanted the best. They were hard on my brother because they were trying to build something in him. Something solid. My siblings and I just made the whole project harder than it needed to be. Me more than anyone.

Eventually, he went away to university, and I became the oldest one at home.

It took months for me to fully understand what he had been carrying.

Suddenly, I was the one being blamed when the younger ones misbehaved. Suddenly I was expected to have answers I didn’t have. Suddenly, uncles and aunties wanted to use the “you’re the oldest, you should know better” line, and I wish to laugh because I did not know better. I was guessing, exactly the way he had always been guessing. The only difference was that he had been doing it alone, from the very beginning, without anyone who had gone before him to show him the way.

I’ve grown up now. I understand him. I see the invisible weight he still carries, the one that makes him feel like he has to be the strongest person in every room. If I could go back, I’d tell that younger version of myself to stop swinging and start listening. I’d try to ease the stress he didn't know how to voice.

But, please, don't tell him I said any of this.

When I return home, I am going to argue with him about the piece of chicken he gave me last time he was sharing food. I’ll scream, he’ll roll his eyes, and we will descend back into our usual chaos. But as I’m arguing, I’ll be doing it knowing that I only have the luxury of being the "annoying younger one" because he survived being the first.

So here’s to all the firstborns. The ones who had no map, no example, no grace period. Just responsibility handed to them before they were ready. This one is for you, because you are amazing people.

And to my brother, I hope you know how much I love you. Maybe I’ll let you read this on your wedding day, but if you happen to read this before then, don’t say anything cheesy.😭 I love you.

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If you open any generic romance novel or tune into a coming-of-age movie, you know exactly where to find me. I am the girl in the background wearing the neon-colored headband, screaming at the top of my lungs because the protagonist just got a text from a boy she’ll eventually have a life with. I am the "vibrant" best friend. I am the human equivalent of a golden retriever on espresso, standing five feet away from the "soft-spoken" lead who communicates primarily through delicate sighs and accidental eye contact.

In the world of storytelling, being loud is apparently a specialized trade. My job description is simple: I provide the "vibe." I am the one who drags the shy heroine to the party, the one who confronts the mean girl while the lead stares at her shoes, and the one who magically disappears into the shadows the moment the slow-dance music starts. It is as if the universe decided that you can either have a personality that fills a room or you can have a love story, but God forbid you have both. If you are the girl who laughs too long or talks with her hands, you are destined to be the hype-woman, never the woman being hyped.

We are treated like human batteries. People plug into us when their energy is low. They come to me when the room is too quiet, when the atmosphere is awkward, or when they need someone to be the "life of the party" because they are too tired to try. I am the one who cracks the jokes that break the ice and the one who keeps the conversation moving so nobody else has to feel the weight of the silence. But here is the thing that is not funny: the moment we step into our own light, the world tries to dim it.

For too long, we have been the consultants for everyone else’s confidence. We are the ones people call when they need a boost, yet we are the first ones told to "pipe down" when our joy becomes "too much" for the room. I have spent years watching the quiet, delicate leads get the grace, the patience, and the flowers, while I was expected to just keep performing, keep shouting, and keep being the emotional backbone for people who wouldn't even let me finish a sentence.

But I am done apologizing for the volume of my existence, because I finally realized something life-changing: God does not make mistakes in His craftsmanship.

When God knit me together, He didn’t accidentally slip and give me too much heart or too much voice. He didn’t fumble and make me "extra" by mistake. He is the Master Artist who chose to paint some of us in watercolors and others in bold, striking oils. He loves the quiet soul who reflects His peace, but He also delights in the vibrant soul who reflects His joy and His thunder. To tell me that I am "too much" is to look at the Creator’s work and tell Him He overdid it.

This isn't about promoting bad behavior or being rude; it’s about honoring the design God placed within us. It is about realizing that being expressive and bold is a gift meant to be used, not a defect meant to be hidden. God made the oceans to roar and the stars to shine, and He made me to speak, to laugh, and to love with a volume that cannot be ignored.

To every girl who has ever been told she is "too loud," "too expressive," or "just a lot"… listen to me. You are not a side character in someone else’s muted documentary. You are not a tool to be used when the energy is low and discarded when the "real" drama starts.

Your laughter is not an intrusion; it is a symphony. Your opinions are not "aggressive"; they are articulate. Your energy is not a flaw; it is a superpower that most people are simply too intimidated to mirror.

We have been conditioned to believe that the only way to be "feminine" or "likable" is to be small, to be soft, and to wait to be spoken to. But some of us were born with fire in our lungs and a rhythm in our chests that doesn't know how to be quiet. Why should we shrink ourselves to fit into a world that is clearly built too small for us? If they can't handle the noise, that is their limitation, not our burden.

So, here is to the girls who talk with their hands and laugh with their whole bodies. Here is to the Bisolas who refuse to be the "best friend" trope anymore. We are reclaiming the lead role. We are taking up space, raising our voices, and living unapologetically out loud.

I am Bisola, and I am loud. I am vibrant, I am expressive, and I am exactly the right amount of "much." If you can't hear yourself think over the sound of my joy, then maybe it's time you started thinking a little louder too.

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There is a particular kind of question that quietly ruins the peace of every student.

It sounds harmless.

“So… what are your plans after school?”

Simple question. Very innocent.

But the moment someone asks it, your brain begins to buffer. Because suddenly you realize something slightly alarming: For about sixteen to twenty years of your life, your only plan has been the next exam.

Primary school: pass the test.

Secondary school: pass the big exam.

University: graduate with a good degree.

And after that?

Silence.

Maybe you were rich and did a masters degree program, but the books aside, what did you do?

Another silence.

And then, you begin to panic.

Somewhere along the way, many of us began to treat education not as a tool for life, but as the entire point of life.

Allow me to expatiate.

The Glory of the Degree

Society loves a degree. And a first class degree? Oh, you become a golden goose.

When someone graduates with a first class, the announcement spreads faster than breaking news.

The graduation photo will circulate every family WhatsApp group, and suddenly, every relative becomes a public relations officer. Even those that haven’t remembered you for years, would love to say: “My niece graduated with a FIRST CLASS.”

Don’t get me wrong. Academic excellence is beautiful. Hard work deserves recognition. But sometimes I wonder what happens years later when life asks a very simple follow up question.

Imagine this scenario.

Your grandchildren gather around you and ask:

“Grandma, what did you do with your life?”

You sit up proudly, and say: “I graduated, and I topped my class.”

They cheer, and then nod respectfully.

Then one of them squints and asks the most dangerous question ever invented.

“And?”

You then add a little more detail.

“I graduated with a first class.”

They wait.

“And?”

Suddenly your brain begins to glitch.

Because somewhere along the line, we started believing the degree was the destination, when it was actually supposed to be the starting point.

The Skills We Quietly Ignore

I realized something about this culture recently.

In my secondary school, I spent years doing far more than just reading textbooks. I was the president of the Christian fellowship, the head girl, and the vice president of the press club.

Many nights I slept past midnight editing the Monday morning news. While other students were sleeping peacefully, I was still rearranging headlines like a tiny newsroom editor fighting for my life.

I won debates, even outside my school. I interviewed people. I anchored programs. I hosted events. I planned activities. Even though I still ensured I had good grades, I fell in love with other things outside the books.

Now I’m not trying to blow my own horn, all of these things I did by God’s grace. The point is this. When it was time for awards, I was given a prize for something very specific: Best performing student in six years.

Now let me be clear.

This is not to shame the gift. I truly appreciated that my academic excellence was recognized.

But I remember wondering something quietly.

What about the other things?

What about the leadership?

The communication skills?

The organization?

The editing?

The public speaking?

There was no conversation about how those skills could be developed further, and definitely no encouragement to build them.

Just: “Congratulations on your grades.”

The moment passed.

And now, in university, I realized that there’s a chance the pattern would like to continue.

I recently concluded my university exams.

For weeks, my life has looked like a survival documentary. Sleep by 3am, and wake up by 6am. Start reading again before my brain even remembers basic functions like blinking or breathing. My entire existence became books, notes, and for some, caffeine flavored determination.

And somewhere in the middle of all that reading, a small question started whispering in my head.

After this degree…

What exactly will I say I achieved?

Yes, I would have knowledge. Yes, I would have a certificate.

But beyond that?

What would I have built?

What would I have created?

What would I have contributed to the world outside the classroom?

Imagine a Different System

Imagine if education celebrated more than grades.

Imagine if the loudest applause went not only to the person with the highest GPA, but also to:

The student who built something useful.

The student who started a small business.

The student who solved a problem in their community.

The student who created something meaningful.

For years, I watched teachers constantly belittle the same girl who had won medals for the school in athletics, simply because she wasn’t academically strong. They would cheer for the boy who could run the fastest and applaud the girl who could dance beautifully, yet the moment the conversation turned to academics, those same students suddenly became targets for ridicule. Why?

Now imagine a different system.

Imagine graduation ceremonies where the announcement is not only:

“This student passed all their exams.”

But also:

“This student built something that mattered.”

That kind of culture would produce graduates who are not only knowledgeable, but capable.

People who do not just understand the world, but actually improve it.

After the Degree

So the question remains.

After the degree, what next?

Not after retirement.

Not after your grandchildren ask you awkward questions.

Now.

What skills are you building?

What ideas are you exploring?

What risks are you brave enough to try?

Because the degree was never meant to be the final chapter.

It was only supposed to be the beginning of the story.

And hopefully when life asks us one day,

“What did you do with your life?”

Our answer will not end with: “I graduated.”

It will continue with:

“I built something.”

“I created something.”

“I changed something.”

And somewhere in the middle of that story, the degree will simply be what it was always meant to be.

A tool. Not the entire life.

Thank you for reading my newsletter. To my dear subscribers, forgive my inconsistency. Again, I was “writing exams”😂

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Love you, but God loves you more!💗🫶

Trigger Warning: This article contains discussions of sexual harassment, assault, and gender-based violence. Some readers may find the content disturbing.

We need to have a very uncomfortable conversation about the small humans being raised in your homes. Specifically, the ones we’ve collectively decided get a “boys will be boys” pass until they grow into men who think consent is a suggestion and personal space is a myth.

If you think I’m exaggerating, let me take you back.

Think back to year 1. For most of us, it was the era of bad haircuts and oversized uniforms. For the boys, apparently, it was the season for amateur anatomy critiques. Imagine being eleven and having a group of boys analyze your body and leave the most terrible comments.

Bad? It gets worse. They didn’t stop at words. They took turns “pressing” - a polite term for what was actually a coordinated campaign of harassment. They would smack, grab, and rank girls in the middle of class. I still remember my friend, trying to shrink into the floorboards to escape two boys who viewed her as an object for their amusement. We didn’t report it. Why? Because we already knew the script. Speak up and you’re “sensitive.” Hide and you’re “dramatic.”

This didn’t stop at my school.

Last week, a younger friend reached out. She told me about the harassment in her school. How boys touched girls inappropriately. How one touched her last term. She reported it. The school acted serious at first, then quietly swept it under the carpet. Maybe because he was rich. Maybe because he was just a boy. Either way, nothing happened.

That small act of impunity encouraged more. Boys now kiss girls without consent. They strip them of dignity and treat them as if they exist for their pleasure. And you might think this is just a secondary school problem. It’s not.

I was at a freshers’ fair at my university recently, trying to survive my own bouts of social dread, when I witnessed a spectacle. A young man, barely out of his teens, shouting at his girlfriend, who happened to be older than him. Why? She refused to go “run things” with him at the party.

The sheer volume of his entitlement was staggering. He didn’t want a girlfriend; he wanted a subordinate. He felt owed her time, her energy, her compliance. When she didn’t give it, he reached for the only tool he’d been allowed to sharpen his whole life: aggression.

I wish I were making this up.

According to UNICEF, over 370 million girls and women globally have been subjected to rape or sexual assault as children.

How did we get here?

It started with boys. Boys who grew up to be men.

Who told these boys that a girl’s body is a communal toy? Who taught them that “no” is just a starting point for negotiation? We are so busy teaching our daughters how to behave, dress modestly, and protect their pride that we’ve forgotten to teach our sons that they are not the center of the universe.

If you are raising a son, it is time to check the software you are installing. If he thinks it is funny to rank girls, if he thinks a handshake is a green light for more, if he thinks shouting is a valid reaction to being told “no,” then you are not raising a man. You are raising a liability.

Start raising them right. The girls are tired of being collateral damage for your “boys will be boys” parenting style.

That time he hit his sister’s butt and ran away, and you just watched and laughed along? You told him it was okay.

The time he shouted at his mum and you clapped as a dad? You taught him he was superior to even older women.

The time he tripped a girl in class and everyone stared, and you said “boys will be boys”? You showed him that fear is a sport.

The time he grabbed a younger cousin and no one said a word? You whispered permission into his ears.

The time he made a joke about a woman’s body in public and you laughed louder than anyone else? You told him entitlement is hilarious.

The time he refused to listen to “no” and you didn’t correct him? You handed him a license to take, because apparently teaching respect is optional.

And this isn’t just a message for parents. School authorities, adults on the streets, older siblings who believe more in sensitizing girls than boys, this is for you too.

Teach them that no is not an insult. Teach them that desire does not equal access. Teach them that a girl’s body is not payment for friendliness or trust.

If you do not, girls will continue learning how to shrink. How to be quiet. How to endure.

And we have been enduring long enough.

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Growing up as an average Nigerian child, I was taught that there were special people in the world. They had a name. Oyibo.

The moment you heard that word, something shifted. Excitement, curiosity, and awe filled your heart. Special people were around. We admired them deeply. Their hair, their skin tone, their accents, even the way they ate felt fascinating. Some of us went as far as only watching white people’s films, subconsciously or consciously training ourselves to speak, dress, and think like them. To sound like them. To be like them.

For context, oyibo is a Nigerian term commonly used to refer to foreigners, especially people with very fair skin.

One might say it was harmless admiration, but was it just admiration when the woman down the street kept you on a queue for hours, yet the moment an oyibo appeared, she suddenly remembered how to rush, smile, and bend rules? When she allowed them to cut the line, not because they were paying extra, but simply for the thrill of interacting with them?

Was it still admiration when many Nigerian teachers treated certain students differently, praised them more loudly, excused them more quickly, disciplined them more softly?

Was it admiration when my Nigerian university imposed a hair code on us, but quietly gave passes to certain people?

You see, I attend a university that is stricter than a Nigerian mother with seven daughters. The rules are a lot, and the enforcement is aggressive. In my school, your hair must be shoulder length. Simple rule. Except it is not simple at all.

Many African girls have hair that naturally reaches their lower back. Beautiful, full, African hair. Now there is a restriction placed on them. They cannot use attachments. They cannot braid freely. They must either cut their hair or wear it in a way that constantly polices their identity. And if your hair isn’t long, but you wish to have long hair, you can’t keep it to a certain length.

But it’s completely fascinating when we see a foreigner with very long hair. You see those same people stop to admire.

Why?

Because their hair is more precious. More acceptable.

And before anyone says it is policy and not prejudice, ask yourself why policy always bends in one direction.

This is where the conversation gets uncomfortable.

The discrimination does not always start from outside. Sometimes it starts from us. The very racism we so graciously fight against is often rooted deep within us. We protest it loudly when it comes from abroad, yet practice it quietly at home. We condemn discrimination with our mouths while enforcing it with our behaviour.

It starts from how we treat ourselves. How we rank tribes, accents, skin tones, and surnames. How we idolize people who are also human, just wrapped in foreign packaging.

It shows in the way we speak about ourselves. The way we doubt our competence until someone foreign confirms it. The way validation feels heavier when it comes with an accent.

And what might be the cause of this?

Over time, we have been subtly and sometimes aggressively taught to believe that we are less, that lighter or darker is better, that closer to whiteness is closer to worth. Yet God did not create any of us with inferiority stitched into our skin. He formed us with intention, care, and purpose. It must break His heart to see people He so beautifully crafted begin to doubt their value, not because of who they are, but because of how society has ranked skin tones.

God is not repulsed by your complexion. He is not disappointed in your shade, your features, or the richness of your melanin. Whether you are dark or light, Black or white, none of it reduces the dignity He placed on your life. Our worth was never meant to be measured by proximity to fairness.

Personally, I refuse to be boxed into labels that were never designed to define my value. I am not black or white. What I am is created. What I am is loved. What I am is blessed.

Before you come out and say you are an activist, pause. Before you raise a placard, ask yourself some hard questions.

Do you subconsciously respect foreigners more than yourself? Do you assume competence when you hear an accent and doubt it when you hear your own? Do you enforce standards on Black bodies that you excuse in others?

Because activism without self examination is just performance. And here is where I draw my own line.

I will not assume that the dark skinned girl sitting beside me is less intelligent than the light skinned girl in her own classroom. I will not assume that brilliance changes with geography. I will not believe that excellence needs an accent to sound credible.

I am teaching my children that you are just as brilliant as anybody else, even more. You’re not less because you’re not an oyibo.

We are not lacking in intelligence. We are not lacking in creativity. We are not lacking in value. What we lack is belief.

We have been taught to look outward for approval, inward with suspicion, and at ourselves with constant correction. We have been trained to police our bodies, our hair, our voices, and our confidence, while placing others on pedestals they never asked for.

This is not a call to hate people. This is not a call to reject admiration. Appreciation is normal. Curiosity is human.

This is a call to unlearn worship. God never intended this. No scripture tells us that certain people were blessed with more intelligence than others, simply because of their skin color. God doesn’t reject anyone because of how they look, so why should we?

We need to stop shrinking ourselves in rooms we built. To stop assuming we are behind simply because someone else arrived first. To stop enforcing rules on ourselves that we excuse in others.

I’ll end with this:

Galatians 3:28 says “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

The day we begin to accept that we are not less simply because of our heritage, is the day we begin to heal.

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It hurts more because I am in Nigeria. I do not have the luxury of saying it may be cold here, but at least I have good living conditions. No. I am facing this cold within the confinement of a bad economy. Dear Father in Heaven, please help us.

On top of all this, my mid semester exams are approaching, and I am actively praying against anxiety.

These are the kinds of things I could easily turn into a funny write up. I could joke about the weather, the stress, the irony of everything. But not today. This time, it is something raw.

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Hello, dear reader. You are about to get a glimpse into the mind of an almost eighteen year old who somehow has more stories to tell than an eighty year old man. While reading this, you may feel like I am trauma dumping on you. Please do not stop reading.

I am not entirely sure where I am going with this either, but maybe you will find something familiar here. Maybe you will learn something. Maybe I will too.

Last week was one of the most emotionally chaotic weeks of my life. Not physically chaotic. Nothing dramatic happened on the outside. But inside me, everything felt loud and heavy and unsettled. A lot happened. I cried more times than I would like to admit. And in the middle of all that emotional noise, I came to a realization that hurt in a quiet way.

I have not been appreciating the right things, I have been fixated on the wrong ones.

Yesterday, I was heading back to my hostel when my phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from Temini.

First, his message appeared.

Bisola, I have gist.

Then, a missed call.

I called back immediately, but the call did not go through. Network issues. I sighed, slipped my phone into my pocket, and decided to wait until I got to my room where I could use my roommate’s hotspot. Some things are worth waiting a few more minutes for. When I finally called again, the line connected.

What I assumed would be a quick conversation stretched into almost an hour. It felt effortless, like time was not being counted. We talked slowly, comfortably, without rushing or checking the clock every few minutes. At some point, I started eating while we talked. I mentioned it casually, half expecting him to complain or lose interest. He did not. He stayed. The conversation did not thin out. It did not become awkward. It simply continued, steady and warm, like it was meant to be there.

During the call, I ended it dramatically, claiming he had said something that hurt my feelings. It actually did not. I just wanted to be playful. He did not take offense. A few seconds later, my phone rang again. He was calling back. We both laughed about it.

Temini told me everything. Every detail of what had happened to him. We laughed, paused, digressed, returned. Time slipped by quietly. And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary talking, something startling hit me.

I was having a really good time. A good time that I did not have to beg for. A good time that I did not initiate.

Wow. Someone did this? And… for me?

And suddenly, all the emotions I had been bottling up came rushing back.

Last week, I went through a heartbreak. Not the romantic kind people write songs about. This one came from a very close friend. Someone I trusted. Someone whose actions hurt me repeatedly. I tried to ignore it at first. I tried to excuse it. But eventually, it became too much. I found myself confiding in two close friends, something I rarely do. I replayed the situation over and over again in my mind. I talked about it for hours. I thought about it obsessively. The more I spoke about it, the more it tore my heart into smaller pieces.

They say a problem shared is half solved. But they do not always tell you how terrifying the sharing part is. Saying it out loud forces you to relive it. It makes the pain fresh again. It gives it a voice.

Pain is normal. Pain is part of being human.

But obsession over pain is not.

After all the emotional drama, I went to my favorite place. Church. While I was praying, I surprised myself with the words that left my mouth.

Lord, I forgive this person for what they did, and I also forgive in advance for all they will do.

I said it without rehearsing it. Without planning it. And in that moment, I understood something important. Holding on to hurt does not punish the person who caused it.

It punishes me.

As I write this, I feel disappointed in myself. Not because I felt pain, but because I allowed that pain to consume so much of my attention that I failed to notice what was quietly happening around me. I focused so much on who hurt me that I almost missed who stayed. Who called back. Who listened. Who showed up without being asked.

And that brings me to this realization.

How is it that I can remember who pulled my hair in Primary Three, yet I failed to notice the people who showed up for me in quiet, unwavering ways?

I did not notice how Feyi was willing to drop whatever she was doing the moment I said, “I need to talk to you, let’s call.” No hesitation. No bargaining. Just presence.

I did not notice how Bukunmi said, “Don’t be stupid, Bisola,” but what he truly meant was, “I love you too much to watch you be taken advantage of. Wisen up.” My pain had hurt him too, and he carried it like it was his own.

I did not notice how Treasure listened to me rant about the same issue for days without once complaining. How she flared up at someone on my behalf even after I had forgiven them, simply because they had hurt me.

I did not notice how Temini nearly swallowed his words in panic because he thought he had offended me, or how Ayo always had a quote for me.

The list goes on.

Yet none of these were what I focused on.

No. I was fixated on the pain. On the hurt. On the wound that kept replaying itself in my mind, demanding attention, demanding space.

And if I am being honest, my friends deserve more than that.

But even more importantly, I deserve more.

I deserve to choose myself, and my mental health.

I deserve to stop revisiting places that only reopen wounds.

Holding on to hurt does not make me strong. It only makes me tired. When I trap the people who hurt me in a cage inside my heart, I am the one who ends up feeling locked in. They move on. I stay stuck, guarding a prison I never needed to build.

So I am learning to release them.

Not to excuse what they did.

Not to pretend it did not hurt.

But to free myself from the weight of carrying it.

Choosing yourself sometimes looks like letting go. Sometimes it looks like turning your attention toward those who stayed, who loved you loudly and quietly, who protected you even when you did not realize it. And today, I am choosing that.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is not confronting the person who hurt you. Sometimes, it is confronting your own attachment to the pain. Sometimes, healing begins when you stop replaying the wound and start releasing it.

So this is me choosing to release you from my mind.

Shocked? I am too.

But this next step, I need it.

Thank you for reading my newsletter, dear reader, please remember that I love you. Always.

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“If I slap you, you will know how to enter the kitchen and do what makes you a good wife.”

“But my love, you know I am sick. I cannot cook.”

“And so what? do you know My mother was nine months pregnant with me and still cooked. In fact she went into the labor room directly from the kitchen.”

“My love please nau.”

That was my egbami moment.

I thought nobody could be more foolish than Ose who dated a girl in SS2 that everybody knew was cheating on him and collecting his money, simply because he believed his love alone could sustain a relationship. But whoever this woman was, still calling this man “my love” had broken bars.

The bars of sense that are meant to restrain human beings from nonsense.

Against my better judgement that normally prevents me from doing amebo, I decided to check what was happening. My grandmother glared at me and asked me to go back. But as I noticed her own neck stretching like NEPA pole to see better, I told her not to worry. Let me be the amebo for both of us.

I might just settle whatever was going on. Who knows?

I was wrong.

I wish I did not see.

The sound came from the house directly behind ours. Climbing the crates beside my dog’s cage, I could easily see what was going on.

Daddy Rola had already lifted his walking stick with intention. Dangerous intention.

That day I learnt something important. Wickedness does not announce itself with horns. Sometimes it comes wearing wrapper and shouting submission.

Now hold that thought. I’ll be right back.

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You see, there are three reasons I liked taekwondo classes.

The first is simple.

It is a source of exercise. You release steam while learning the basics of Korean fighting culture.

The second is also simple.

I made a friend. Her name was Chiamaka. She had a charm about her that made you feel safe immediately. Maybe she also happened to have a very handsome curly haired brother but that is not the point. Focus please.

The third.

Well the third is very amazing.

Taekwondo equipped me with the skills to beat the insanity out of any man that ever proposes to me and says “I love you and wish to marry you but you must do whatever I say whenever I say it.”

My instructor would probably faint if he reads this. After all we took an oath to use taekwondo only for self defense. But this is self defense. I am defending my future self from nonsense she does not deserve.

It does not make sense yet? Relax. It will.

Growing up, my grandmother was and still is my favorite extended family member. She is more interesting than all of them including my immediate family. She is small in size but very mighty in spirit. Nobody took advantage of her.

Once a boy slapped me. My grandmother beat him. When she finished, she told him to go and call his mother. She would beat her too. The boy was dumb enough to slap me, but not dumb enough to bring his mother. Good for him. You get sense small

Mama taught me self defense. She taught me when and where to hit a man if he tries rubbish. Yes it is exactly what you are thinking.

She taught me never to accept oppression and never to shrink myself. She’s one of the people that taught me how to rise above oppression.

But as I grew older, I realized that she did not learn these things in school or seminars. Life taught her. Pain taught her.

She married young and she went through a lot in that marriage. Eventually, she packed her things, rented a house and raised her children by herself even while her husband was still alive. She fed them, clothed them and trained them. As she always told me, she waited for no man.

But here is the part that used to confuse me.

Despite doing everything alone she still fed her husband.

Why?

She worked multiple jobs, took care of children and still added the duty of submissive wife to it. And I kept asking myself why.

Was it duty? And if so, is this what the Bible meant when He said wives submit to your husbands?

Because if that is the case then submission must be suffering with branding.

There is an ideology that has survived centuries without being questioned properly. The idea that men deserve service simply because they exist. That marriage automatically hands a man a full time cook cleaner nurse and punching bag. No breaks. No gratitude. No concern.

If there is one sentence that irritates me, it is when a woman says proudly:

“Even when I was sick and almost dying I still entered the kitchen to cook for my family.”

Madam.

Who did this to you?

Why are you glorifying neglect?

That same ignorance was why Mummy Rola was almost beaten while sick.

Let’s go back to the story.

Oya abeg nau😔🫶

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Daddy Rola did not wait for an answer.

From where I stood, I saw daddy Rola pick up his walking stick and tap it twice on the ground. Not because he needed support, but because he was trying to make a point. Mummy Rola stood at the doorway, one hand holding her wrapper, the other resting on the wall for balance.

She said she was not feeling well.

She said it softly. Almost like a suggestion.

Daddy Rola moved outside and sat on the wooden bench by the window. The same bench he used every evening to enjoy fresh air and announce hunger. He crossed his legs slowly, settled properly, and faced the shared kitchen in the compound. Other women passed by, none of them said a thing. Maybe it’s because they were going through the same thing, or maybe they secretly supported Daddy Rola. Either way, all of them must go to jail once I grow up and gather enough money to hire a lawyer.

From time to time, he cleared his throat.

That was his reminder.

Mummy Rola entered the kitchen. From outside, all I could hear were sounds. A pot dropping. A spoon scraping the bottom of a bowl.

Every few minutes Daddy Rola would shout

Is it ready?

And every time her voice would float out weakly

Almost.

“Almost since morning?”

At some point there was a sound like something heavy being dragged. I imagined her pulling the pot closer because lifting it was too much work. I imagined her sitting down briefly. I imagined her telling herself just finish this one thing.

Daddy Rola adjusted himself on the bench and sighed loudly.

More people passed by. Nobody stopped. Hunger in a man’s house is apparently more important than sickness in a woman’s body.

When the food was finally ready, Mummy Rola came out slowly. She was sweating. Her wrapper was loosened. She served him with both hands. Daddy Rola tasted it and shook his head.

Too much water.

She apologized.

He ate everything anyway. Then complained that his stomach felt somehow. Mummy Rola nodded and said sorry again.

Right then, I screamed, but quickly ducked behind the cage. When I stood up again, Mummy Rola saw me. She looked at me cautiously, a silent warning to keep quiet. My stubbornness was no news to her. She knew I would talk. She knew I could rally people and turn the whole street upside down if I wanted to. But she shook her head once more, slow and deliberate, and I nodded.

Daddy Rola did not seem to care. He continued eating, unbothered, while his wife stood there.

After standing for a while, waiting for instructions, she soon turned back into the kitchen and did not come out again.

From outside, I could see her shadow on the wall. It slid down slowly until it stopped moving.

I knew what would come next. Gossip.

People would say things like:

At least he did not beat her.

Marriage is endurance.

Our mothers did worse.

But nobody asked why she had to prove strength by suffering.

Nobody asked why love sat comfortably on a bench while sickness labored in the kitchen.

And that is how Mummy Rola survived another day.

Not because she was strong.

But because she was taught that rest was disobedience.

Is her story an isolated incidence?

Most certainly not.

We all watched the tragedy of Osinachi Nwachukwu. A woman with a powerful voice who sang about God but died under the weight of abuse because she never spoke up. Because she was told submission meant silence. Because she was told marriage must be endured at all costs.

But the Bible did not stop at wives submit to your husbands.

It continued.

Ephesians‬ ‭5‬:‭24‬-‭25

“Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her”‭‭

Christ did not beat the church.

Christ did not starve the church.

Christ did not demand service without sacrifice.

Submission was never meant to be offered to tyranny. It was designed for love that is worthy of it.

That is why both instructions exist. One without the other is dangerous.

So no. I am not dramatic. I am observant. I am paying attention. I am looking at the future and choosing it carefully.

Because love without kindness is not love.

And submission without safety is oppression

yes, mummy Rola’s story was exaggerated to prove a point here, but I’m sure many women out there have suffered more than this.

Mummy Rola represents every woman out there who is being forced to endure this. Every woman who bends, sacrifices, and suffers because she was taught that endurance is virtue and silence is holiness.

The neighbours? That is us. We watch all of this unfold. We hear the sighs, we see the exhaustion, we notice the unfairness, but we cross our arms, look away, and say it does not directly affect us.

And Daddy Rola? He represents every man who believes that a wife is a free ticket to unpaid servitude. Every man who thinks love is entitlement, effort is optional, and gratitude is unnecessary. Every man who forgets that marriage is a partnership, not a throne.

This story is bigger than one household. It is about patterns, culture, and choices.

Do you see how enraged you were reading that story? Good. That is exactly the point. That anger is proof that something is very wrong. If we all pay attention, if we all speak up, and if we all refuse to normalize cruelty disguised as duty, we can make a little impact. Change begins with noticing what should never be ignored.

Let me be very clear: this article is not saying women should not submit or fulfill their responsibilities. Responsibilities are part of life. Submission is part of love. But there must be balance. There must be gratitude. There must be consideration.

If your wife cooks for you, say thank you. If she is taking care of the baby, offer a hand. Sometimes, scrap the cooking entirely and order takeout. Let her rest. Let her feel seen. Let her know that her effort matters and that her wellbeing is not optional.

Marriage is not a one-way street. Love is not measured by how much someone suffers in silence. Respect, kindness, and appreciation are not luxuries. They are the foundation. And maybe, just maybe, if we remember that, future Mummy Rolas will stand with strength, not exhaustion, and future daughters will grow up knowing that being cared for is not a weakness, and caring for others is never a duty done in fear.

So yes, watch, notice, feel enraged. And then do something.

Till I write to you again, my dear reader. Stay safe, and do what you can to make the world a better place. I love you.🤍

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A year ago, one of my closest friends had an admirer.

He was a writer.

He wrote her letters. Real letters.

In a generation of “what’s your snap score?,” someone sat down and chose to write to the girl he admired. That alone felt rebellious.

This boy must have spent days praying before meeting my friend, because he chose the perfect girl to do that for.

As God would have it, the girl he admired was not only a hopeless romantic, but also had a close friend slash sister who buried her face in romance novels right alongside her.

Coughs. Yes, it’s me. Don’t judge me. That is not even the point of this article. Where was I again?

Oh yes!

She shared the letters with me, and we read them together, side by side, with the kind of focus usually reserved for exam halls. Honestly, if we were this serious about our textbooks, we would have finished reading them all by now. Kai. God help us.

With each letter he sent, I became more convinced that he was a fine man. Not fine as in physically attractive. I could not possibly know that. But fine as in well polished, well bred, a fine piece of creative mental work.

I saw him only once. But long before that moment, I had already met him. Through his words.

And that was the problem.

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I did not need to see his face. His words had already introduced him. They were thoughtful. Measured. Alarmingly aware. He wrote like someone who paid attention, and that kind of attention is disarming if you are not careful.

Oh no.

This is beginning to sound wrong.

I was not in love with him oo. Surely that would make me a terrible friend. Oya, release that breath you were holding.

Done? Good. Let us continue.

What I was in love with, were his words.

The way he spoke. The way he captured her essence. The way he noticed things that often go unnoticed and turned them into sentences that felt deliberate. He wrote her like someone who understood that to be seen properly is a form of intimacy. And it was beautiful.

To have someone write about you.

To be loved with language.

But as time passed and more letters arrived, something subtle shifted in me.

I became cautious.

It was not that he was bad. That would have been easier.

The issue was that he was good.

Too good.

And that unsettled me.

You see, writers understand words. They understand timing, tone, and silence. They know how to soften difficult truths and wrap vulnerability in eloquence. They know how to apologize beautifully. They know how to explain themselves in ways that make you feel heard.

And I am not sure that is always safe.

Because what happens when things are not good?

What happens when there is conflict?

What happens when the words arrive before the work?

Even more unsettling is this question.

What if what I actually like is the adoration I receive from their words, and not even the person himself?

This reminded me of M.

M was not the best of boys. History would agree.

But M knew how to write.

We were children. Children’s church children. While lessons were being taught, M was passing me folded pieces of paper. Notes written hurriedly, secretly, with the confidence of someone who believed words were enough.

They were grammatically incorrect. Poorly structured. Short. Ridiculously funny.

But he wrote something.

To me.

And looking back, the bar was underground. But at the time, the fact that someone chose words, however chaotic, and directed them at me felt like a Disney moment I took way too seriously.

M had many red flags, though I did not even know what those were then. However, It is honestly scary how all it took for me to swoon were folded pieces of paper.

And I know what you are thinking. You were a dumb kid.

If that is your thought, then perhaps, dear reader, you have never encountered the power of words.

I am sure I would have done something very foolish with M if my mother had not caught his hands on my shoulder one Sunday afternoon. But let us leave that gist for another newsletter.

That experience taught me something uncomfortable. How easily words can move us. How quickly attention can feel like affection. How easily writing can be mistaken for depth.

This is not to say you will not meet a writer who genuinely loves you with his soul. But what if you settle for less while searching for perfect words? Or worse, what if you do not even love him back but think you do?

These were the questions that made me hesitant about my friend’s admirer.

And before you assume this article is advising you to delete every writer from your list of possible suitors, please hold on and grasp my point.

I do not want to fall in love with a writer.

I want to be in love with a writer.

There is a difference.

Falling suggests losing balance. Losing clarity. Being undone by delivery instead of truth. Falling suggests it was the words that carried me, not the person.

To be in love with a writer means I chose him deliberately. It means I saw him outside the page. In how he shows up. In how he listens. In how he behaves when words are not enough to smooth things over.

It means I closed my ears for a moment and opened my eyes.

I do not want to be undone by eloquence.

I want to be undone by authenticity.

Because words are powerful. They can dress inconsistency in charm. They can make absence sound intentional. They can make apologies feel complete even when change has not happened.

And I want more than beautifully arranged sentences. I want consistency. Presence. Alignment. A life that matches the language.

So yes, I want to love a writer. Deeply. Intentionally. With my eyes open. I have never been a fan of falling anyway.

I do not want to fall.

I want to stand. I want to see him, know him, and then be charmed by the words. Not in love with the words, but head over heels with the writer himself.

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What are your thoughts on this article, I’d really like to hear them. Am I alone on this?

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Tonight, my mom and I cooked together.

Because my cousins are around, we decided to make a very large pot of jollof rice.

When it was time to serve, I held the spoon while my mom directed the portions. A little here. A little there. Everyone must eat. Everyone must be satisfied. But confidence can be deceptive, because the pot began to finish faster than expected.

By the time we got to my younger brother, my mom reduced the quantity she would normally give him. Maybe she was trying to manage what was left. Maybe she assumed he would not notice. Maybe she believed children have flexible stomachs.

I noticed. I refused.

I sat there with the spoon in my hand and insisted. I did not argue loudly. I just refused to move. After a bit of persuasion, I added to his portion. Not because I wanted to be dramatic or heroic, but because I didn’t what to see that look. The quiet disappointment of a child staring at food that would not satisfy him. The kind of disappointment children do not always voice, but carry.

I wanted him full. I wanted him content.

After we were done serving, this coconut head walked over to collect his food and thanked my mom, only.

Maybe it was because she told him where to pick it up. Maybe it was because she is the mother. Or maybe it was because he is a younger brother and younger brothers come with a factory installed audacity. Ugh.

When I asked him if he would not thank me too, he refused.

I hit his butt. He ran away. No apology.

And there I sat, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, but mostly struck by a thought that refused to leave me.

Little did he know that I was the reason his plate was not embarrassing. I was the one who insisted on that extra scoop. I was the one who quietly fought for him. Yet the gratitude went to the person he saw, not the person who intervened behind the scenes.

And suddenly, it did not feel like just a sibling issue.

It felt like a mirror.

That is how we often live our lives.

We thank the person who hands us the opportunity. We praise the one who makes the announcement. We applaud the face we can see. And we completely forget the One who arranged the timing, softened the hearts, and ensured the portion was enough.

The One who stood quietly in the background, nudging decisions, influencing outcomes, adding just a little more so we would not go hungry.

But gratitude should not be given only to the hands that fed us, but also to the one that ensured we have food to eat.

Some months ago, during Bible study, I came across a scripture that has refused to leave me.

Daniel 1 verse 9 in the Passion Translation says, “Then God moved on the heart of the chief official to show Daniel favor and compassion.”

Read that again.

God moved on the heart.

Daniel did not argue his way into favor. He did not charm his way into compassion. God worked behind the scenes and adjusted someone else’s heart on his behalf.

Think about Daniel. A young man in a foreign land. Surrounded by unfamiliar customs and strange gods. Yet he kept finding favor before kings.

It would have been easy for him to assume it was brilliance. Or discipline. Or maybe even good looks. But scripture makes it clear. Something greater was at work.

God was moving hearts.

At this juncture, allow me to share a story to further buttress my point.

When I was in primary three, I did something crazy. I skipped a class and moved straight to primary five. Now, primary five was not just any class. It was the class. The most competitive class in the entire school, full of brilliant kids who were also popular. Kids like Mariam, David, and Nathan. They were popular for their brilliance, they were smart, confident, and seemingly untouchable.

As if that wasn’t enough, the guy who used to compete with me in my own class also skipped a class. (My “why me” moment 😭)

For the first time in my life, I felt the sharp, scary edge of academic danger. I was genuinely terrified.

Not that I wasn’t smart, but these were not just geniuses. These were geniuses with an entire year of knowledge that I had somehow skipped. And I had to catch up with all of that.

I confessed my fear to my mum, hoping she would calm me. She told me that God, who had always been helping me, would continue to help me. That I had nothing to worry about.

I wish I could say that reassured me. It didn’t. I was still terrified.

You see, one of my life goals even then was that at every end-of-year event, my parents would stand up and snap proudly when my name was announced as one of the most outstanding students. I loved that recognition. And now, it felt like it was slipping away from me. This was it. This was the year I might not achieve it.

And so, for the first time in my life, I prayed like my life depended on it. I cried. I fasted. I called on God’s name with everything I had. I had private moments with Him, pouring out my heart, asking Him to show Himself in my life through this challenge.

Guys, I almost gave up hope.

I tried my best, but I almost came fourth.

Guess what?

Right before the final accumulation of scores, Mariam left the school that term.

Yes. Mariam left.

Who did it?

I honestly believe that God did.

That moment taught me so much. It was the beginning of a long journey with God, a journey of trusting Him, of learning to seek His help, and of understanding that sometimes, things work out in ways we could never plan.

And from that day on, I knew that I was not alone in my struggles. God was quietly guiding me, even when I was scared out of my mind. And honestly, that made all the difference.

Now, anyone who didn’t hear this part of the story, would probably assume that it was my brilliance that helped me. No, it wasn’t.

Our inability to recognize the hand of God in our everyday victories might be the highest form of disrespect. Not because God is insecure, but because gratitude is acknowledgment. And acknowledgment is honor.

If I felt a sting when my brother did not acknowledge me, I wonder how God feels when we celebrate the gift and forget the Giver.

When we clap for the spoon and ignore the hand that filled the pot.

When we thank everyone involved and overlook the One who made sure the portion was enough.

God, teach us to see beyond what is visible. Teach us to recognize You, even when You work quietly. Because not every blessing is loud.

Some are just extra scoops, added in secret, so we do not leave the table empty.

Learn to give God thanks. He has feelings too.

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After months of conversing, joking, and even sharing of personal thoughts, I realised he only wanted me for peanuts.

Literal peanuts.

I am not even exaggerating.

Dearest reader, have you ever felt like an ATM? The kind that people keep around not because they like you but because of what they can withdraw from you. And once the money finishes, the card is quietly removed.

Not just money though.

Your ideas.

Your presence.

Your jokes.

Your emotional availability.

Your ability to always show up.

Well. I most certainly have.

And it is only now that I realise I have been quietly compiling memories. Storing them like receipts. Each one adding a brick to a wall of fear that many people now cannot get past, no matter how genuine they are.

No, I am not going to go straight to the point. You know me. I always share the gist first. So let me give you backstory.

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Some weeks ago, I got upset with a friend of mine. I was genuinely angry. I refused to confront him because I had done it before and it felt like he did not understand my point then. I thought he betrayed me, and honestly, it broke my heart.

Instead of talking to him, I spoke to our mutual friend. We talked, and he listened. Proper listening. When I finished pouring everything out, he shared his thoughts calmly.

And somewhere in that conversation, a very uncomfortable realisation hit me.

The problem was not my friend.

The problem was me.

I had trained my mind to interpret the slightest actions as betrayal. I had become so alert, so defensive, that anything even slightly off felt like confirmation of my fears. I flared up at something that was not even supposed to offend me.

Eventually, I admitted it. I told him I was just trying to guard my heart because I am scared of being taken for granted. And the truth is, it is not fair to my friends to make them pay for experiences they were not part of.

That conversation forced me to finally acknowledge something I had been avoiding.

I am afraid of being used.

So how did this fear even start?

Let us go back.

Growing up, I noticed how people gravitated towards me for what I could offer. Not always intentionally, not always maliciously, but consistently. I was the helpful one. The one with ideas. The one that listens. The one that always helps. Somewhere along the line, I started equating usefulness with love.

Then there was this boy in my street.

He was not particularly attractive, but he had charm. The funny kind. The type that sneaks up on you. He knew how to talk, how to smile at the right moments, how to make ordinary conversations feel like something special. We spoke often. We joked. We laughed. Nothing serious, but enough to make me notice him.

At that age, that was enough to start imagining small things. Maybe he liked me. Maybe this was how something begins. Maybe I was not crazy for thinking there was a vibe.

Turns out, there was a vibe.

A peanut vibe.

My mum had a shop. At the time, it was still a small one, but stocked enough for temptation. Somewhere along the line, this boy realised that proximity to me meant proximity to free snacks. At first, it was subtle. Casual comments. Light jokes about hunger. Innocent remarks about how nice peanuts taste.

Then one day, he crossed a very unserious but very loud line.

He asked me to give him peanuts.

Not buy.

Not help him ask my mum.

Give.

As in, take it from the shop and hand it over. As in, steal.

I remember staring at him, trying to understand if this was a joke that had not landed properly. It was not. He was very serious. Very relaxed. Very comfortable asking me to compromise myself so he could chew groundnuts in peace.

In that moment, everything rearranged itself in my head.

The conversations.

The laughter.

The sudden friendliness.

The charm.

It was not about me. It was about access.

I was not a girl he liked. I was a connection. A supply route. A middle man between him and peanuts. I had been romanticising small talk while he was calculating snacks.

It was funny. It was embarrassing. It was painful. And it was formative.

Because that was the time it clicked that people can be close to you not because they value you, but because you are convenient. Because you make life easier. Because you have something they want.

I laughed it off then. Of course I did. But somewhere inside me, something hardened. A small wall went up. And over the years, more bricks were added. Different faces. Different situations. Same lesson.

It sounds funny now, and it is, but that moment stayed with me. Because it was not just about peanuts. It was the realisation that sometimes, people get close to you because of access, not affection.

Since then, the pattern kept repeating in different forms. People who only show up when they need something. Conversations that are one sided. Friendships that feel transactional. Smiles that disappear the moment you stop giving.

So yes, I built walls. Tall ones.

And now I find myself stuck between two extremes. Wanting to give people a chance and wanting to guard my heart with my life. Wanting connection but being scared of intention. Wanting friendship but questioning motives.

It is not as though I have not made genuine friends. I have. People who show up. People who listen without calculating what they will gain. People who care even when I have nothing to offer. I am grateful for them, deeply.

But even with that, this fear still sits with me.

It whispers when someone is kind. It taps me on the shoulder when someone gets too close. It asks questions I do not always want to answer.

What do they want? Why now? What happens when I stop giving?

And I am learning that healing does not mean pretending the fear never existed. It means acknowledging it without letting it rule every decision I make.

So now, I am learning to give people grace. To allow room for sincerity. To understand that not every act of kindness is a transaction. Not every friendship is a setup. Not everybody wants me for peanuts.

Some people simply want me.

I am also learning that my past experiences were lessons, not life sentences. They were moments, not prophecies. And I refuse to let old blunders dictate future growth. I refuse to punish new people for wounds they did not cause.

To anyone reading this who has ever felt used, drained, or reduced to what you can offer, hear this. You are allowed to protect your heart and still believe in people. You are allowed to set boundaries without building prisons around yourself. You are allowed to grow without dragging old pain into every new room you enter.

Yes, I’ll still be cautious, but I’ll give my FRIENDS grace.

Fear may still show up, but it no longer drives.

And that, to me, is growth.