Disclaimer: This is a real-life story that happened during my NYSC year in 2025. I'm changing the names of everyone involved and some identifying details because, abeg, I'm not here to expose anybody. 😭

For this story, I'm A. The main person in the story is B, but I'll call her Maya, and the other friend is C, but I'll call her Zara.

And before I start, let me say this: I don't remember everything. That is actually one of the things that pains me the most. I have pieces. Random conversations. Certain incidents. Things people told me. Things I remember feeling. Things that happened at work. Things that happened at home. But the entire story? Gone. 😭 It's like my brain saved screenshots but deleted the WhatsApp conversation.

I think the whole experience was so emotionally exhausting and, at some point, genuinely frightening for me that I blocked out a lot of it. But I'm going to tell you what I remember. Maybe writing it down will make the remaining pieces come together.

How We Met

I met Maya after NYSC camp. Our first interaction wasn't even anything special. Someone who was supposed to make her hair was at my place, so she came over to see her. We barely had a conversation. It was more like an introduction.

"Oh, hi."

"Hi I'm B."

"You're A?"

"Yes."

And that was basically it.

Later, I found out that we had been posted to the same PPA. For those who aren't Nigerian or have never done NYSC, PPA means Place of Primary Assignment. After the NYSC orientation camp, corps members are posted to an organisation, school, office, hospital, government agency, company or establishment where they carry out their actual service for the rest of their NYSC year. So, basically, camp ends and you go to your PPA to start the real-life part of NYSC. And in our case, there were only three of us at our PPA. So naturally, we became quite close.

But before we even became friends, I'd already started hearing things about Maya. People told me she was rude. Saucy. Blunt. That she didn't really listen to other people's opinions. That she liked having things her own way. That she could be difficult.

And me? I didn't listen. 😭 Because I like to form my own opinions about people. And to be fair, Maya wasn't completely horrible. She had her good sides. She could be funny. She could be nice. We genuinely had good moments together. So I didn't understand why people were always warning me. In fact, one of my closest friends specifically warned me about her. I still didn't listen. God was trying to save me and I was busy doing character development. 😭

We Actually Became Friends

Maya and I got really close. She'd come to my house. We'd gist. Make videos. Eat. Laugh. Just do random things together. Sometimes I'd cook and, if I was going to work, I'd pack some for her and take it along. There were days she'd literally tell me what she wanted and I'd get it. Snacks? Fine. Food? Fine. Something she needed? If I could help, I'd help. I wasn't keeping score because that's how I am with people I consider my friends.

At some point, I genuinely thought: "Yeah, this is my girl."

She knew where I lived. She had been in my house. We spent time together outside work. She knew parts of my life that weren't visible at the PPA.

So imagine my shock when there was a meeting at work that I wasn't present for. Our boss asked Maya about me because she knew how close we were. And this girl... DENIED ME. 😭😭😭

Not just "Oh, we're not that close." No. She basically denied the entire friendship. She said she didn't know my house. She said she didn't know me like that. She made it sound like the only time we ever spoke was when we came to work.

Excuse me??? Ma'am? You don't know my house? The same house you have entered? The same house you've sat in? The same person you've collected food from? The same person you've spent time with outside work?

Even our boss was shocked. And honestly, I was too. Because this was the same period when I had gone out of my way to make sure this girl had a good birthday. She wanted to do a photoshoot, and I had to beg Zara to help her with her makeup. Zara was reluctant at first, and I didn't understand why. Later, I found out that Maya had already been showing Zara shege, but Zara didn't want to tell me because she was scared I'd change the way I felt about Maya.

Meanwhile, I was out here defending this woman. I was literally vouching for somebody who was simultaneously pretending I barely existed. 😭

That was one of the first moments where I thought: "Okay... something is not right here."

Then I Started Noticing The Competition

At some point, I started feeling like Maya saw me as competition. And I didn't understand it. Because... competition for what? We're doing NYSC. What exactly are we fighting for? Best Corps Member Award? 😭 I wasn't even trying to compete with anybody.

One funny thing was that Maya didn't know I owned an iPhone. She had apparently formed an idea of me based on what she saw me carrying around. Until one day she was scrolling through my gallery and saw pictures and videos from vacations with my family. And I remember feeling like something changed.

Because before then, she'd already been telling people that I was always spending money on "maintenance" every month. And she'd ask who the man giving me money was. That one annoyed me. Because why is your first assumption that a man is responsible for whatever I have? Why can't you think: "Maybe her parents are taking care of her?" Why does a woman having nice things automatically have to mean there's a man behind it?

And honestly, Maya was very man-centred in the way she viewed certain things. A lot of conversations somehow came back to men, relationships and what men could provide. And that wasn't how I saw life.

So I started noticing little things. Little comments. Little comparisons. Little digs. Things that could easily be dismissed individually but started looking different when you put them together.

My Mum Had Already Warned Me

The funny thing is, I hadn't even told my mum much about Maya. One day, my mum asked me who she was. I explained. And my mum simply said: "Be very careful with her. She doesn't wish you well."

And me? I said okay... and continued the friendship. 😭 Because sometimes when you're inside a situation, everybody outside can see what you can't.

Then Zara finally became vulnerable with me. She started telling me about her own experiences with Maya. And suddenly, some things started making sense. Maya didn't particularly like Zara either. And honestly, I could understand why they clashed. Zara was a goal-getter. Hardworking. Faith-based. She had her own opinions. She wasn't the kind of person you could easily dominate. And Maya had a very dominant personality. She liked having control. She liked being the person whose opinion carried weight. So there was already tension between them that I didn't fully understand because I was caught in the middle.

Even The Children Were Giving Me Signs 😭

There was also something else I noticed. The children around the neighbourhood didn't particularly like Maya. And ehn... children are very funny. They don't have the social filter adults have. If they don't like you, they won't sit down and calculate whether the friendship is beneficial. They'll just carry their little legs and disappear. 😭

And I remember thinking: "Wait o... even these children?"

Now, obviously, a child not liking someone doesn't automatically mean that person is bad. Children can dislike people for the most random reasons. 😂 But when you're already noticing a pattern in how different people respond to someone, you start paying attention. Because at some point, I'm like: "The moment children start avoiding you in the neighbourhood, then maybe there's something about your energy we need to investigate." 😭 I'm not saying children are spiritual detectives, abeg. But sometimes their reactions make you pause. And there were just so many little things I kept dismissing.

Then She Started Making New Friends

At some point, I noticed Maya becoming distant. And honestly? I didn't chase her. I didn't confront her. I didn't ask: "Why are you behaving differently?" I just allowed her.

Apparently, she thought I'd be jealous because she had started making new friends. Girrrrrl. 😭 You're actually doing me a favour. Go ahead! Make all the friends you want! Nobody is fighting you for friendship.

But the funniest part? I didn't even confront this girl about anything. And suddenly, she was in my DM apologising. 😭😭😭 But she was trying to make it look like it wasn't really what it looked like. And I'm just there thinking: "But who told you I was fighting you?" If you want space, babe, take it. Nobody is holding you hostage.

The Fruit Salad Incident

Now this one... 😭😭😭

There was a period when I was warned not to take fruits from anybody for a certain amount of time. I don't remember every detail around the warning anymore, but I remember being told very clearly not to accept fruits from people. And then Maya, who wasn't exactly known for spending her money on people—including me—suddenly bought me a whole fruit salad. A WHOLE FRUIT BOWL. 😭😭😭

I was looking at this fruit bowl like: "Sister... what's going on?" Because YOU? Buying ME fruit? A whole bowl? When you don't even like spending your money on people?

I just looked at it like: "You sha wan see my end by force." 😭

And again, let me be clear. I'm telling you how I experienced and interpreted these things at the time. I cannot prove that someone was trying to harm me. I don't want to turn suspicions into facts. But when you're already uncomfortable with somebody, certain things start feeling louder. And that was one of those moments for me.

Then Came The Rat

I had never had a rat in my apartment before. Not one. Until one day. This rat started disturbing my sleep so badly. And the crazy thing? It seemed to have a schedule. It would come around a particular time. Every day.

I complained to Zara. She had noticed things too. We talked about getting rat poison. But somehow, whenever the subject came up around Maya, she'd find a way to talk us out of it. We'd say we'd get it. She'd say something. The conversation would move on. And we'd forget.

Looking back, I'm like: Why were we allowing somebody else to negotiate rat poison with us? 😭 But that's genuinely what happened.

Then one night, I was so frustrated that I started talking to the rat like it was a human being. At that point, I was tired. I was confused. I was angry. And I prayed. I prayed and commanded the rat to leave. And after that, I stopped seeing it.

Could there have been a normal explanation? Of course. Could rats simply stop coming because something changed in the environment? Absolutely. But at the time, with everything else happening, it affected me deeply.

And then came the soldier ants. For almost two straight weeks, I was killing soldier ants in my house. Every. Single. Day. I'd wake up and see them. Again and again. And at some point I was like: "God, what exactly is happening in this house?" 😭

The Dream

Then came the day I had that dream. Omo. That dream felt REAL. It wasn't one of those dreams where you wake up, check your phone and forget about it five minutes later. No. I woke up with this heavy feeling. That kind where you're still trying to figure out where the dream ends and reality begins.

And that's when Psalm 23 hit differently for me. Because I've always known: "The Lord is my shepherd..." But that day, it wasn't just something I recited because I'd memorised it. It became something I was holding onto.

And I remember thinking: "Abi na sleeping paralysis I wan talk?" Because there were experiences around sleep that genuinely frightened me. "Abi na everyday soldier ants I wan talk?" What exactly was happening?

And please, I'm not saying every strange thing has a supernatural explanation. Sometimes an ant is just an ant. Sometimes a dream is just a dream. Sometimes sleep paralysis is a real sleep phenomenon. But when you're already going through something emotionally overwhelming, you start connecting things. And spiritually, I became much more intentional about praying. Because regardless of what I could explain and what I couldn't, I knew one thing: I needed God.

Pray Oooo!

This whole experience taught me something: PRAY. I'm serious. Pray when you're happy. Pray when you're confused. Pray when everything seems fine. Pray when something feels off. Pray before you sleep. Pray when you wake up. Pray over your home. Pray for wisdom. Pray for discernment. Pray for protection. And don't ignore your instincts.

But also, don't allow fear to turn your suspicions into facts. There's a difference between: "Something doesn't feel right, so I'll be careful." and: "I know exactly what this person is doing." I learned that difference the hard way.

The Part That Still Hurts

What I remember most about this entire experience isn't even one particular incident. It's how confused I was. Because I genuinely considered this person my friend. I showed up for her. I cooked for her. I bought things for her. I helped her. I defended her. I tried to make her happy. And then I started discovering things that made me question the entire friendship.

I remember calling my parents crying. Like, proper crying. The situation had gotten to a point where, in my mind, it felt like a life-and-death situation. And that's one of the reasons I think I've forgotten so much. It was traumatic.

Sometimes I remember a tiny detail and I'm like: "Wait. This happened too?" Then another memory comes. Then another. It's like my brain kept the emotional receipts but deleted the transaction history. 😭

What I Wish I Had Done Differently

Looking back, I think my biggest mistake was ignoring my instincts because I wanted to believe the best about someone. People warned me. My closest friend warned me. Zara eventually told me her own experiences. Even my mum, without knowing everything, told me to be careful. And I still kept making excuses.

"Maybe that's just how she is."

"Maybe people misunderstand her."

"She's actually nice to me."

And maybe that's the problem. Sometimes somebody can be nice to you and still not be good for you. Those two things can exist at the same time. You can have beautiful moments with somebody and still eventually realize that the friendship isn't healthy for you. You can love someone as a friend and still need distance. And sometimes, the biggest red flag isn't one huge dramatic incident. Sometimes it's the accumulation of tiny things you keep explaining away.

And Then I Lost The Timeline

The crazy thing is, this all happened in 2025, but I'm sitting here in 2026 trying to reconstruct it. And I hate that I can't remember everything. Because I know there were more incidents. I know there were more conversations. I know there were things that happened between Maya, Zara and me that I've completely forgotten.

I remember the feeling more than I remember the details. And maybe that's what happens when something is genuinely overwhelming. Your brain doesn't necessarily preserve everything in chronological order. Sometimes it just preserves what it needs you to remember.

So this is me trying to put the pieces together. Not because I want revenge. Not because I want to drag anybody. Not because I want people to take my suspicions as facts. But because this happened to me. It was real. It affected me. And I don't want to pretend it didn't just because I've forgotten half of it.

What NYSC Taught Me

My NYSC year taught me a lot. About friendship. About boundaries. About discernment. About competition. About trusting myself. And about how sometimes you can be so busy trying to see the good in someone that you ignore everything else.

I also learned that distance isn't always rejection. Sometimes distance is protection. If someone decides they don't want to be close to you anymore, let them. Don't compete. Don't chase. Don't beg. Don't try to prove that you're better. Don't ask why they suddenly have new friends. Don't lose sleep. Just say: "Oh, okay." Because sometimes... they're actually doing you a favour. 😭

And if somebody thinks you're supposed to be jealous because they've found new friends? My sister, please. Go and enjoy your friendship. I have things to do. 😭

And Finally... Pray.

I started this story by saying I don't remember everything. I still don't. Maybe more memories will come back. Maybe they won't. But one thing I remember very clearly is how much I prayed during that period. And that's why, when I say "The Lord is my shepherd," I don't say it casually. There are seasons where a Bible verse stops being a verse and becomes your reality. That was one of those seasons for me.

I saw things I couldn't explain. I experienced things I didn't understand. I was scared. I cried. I called my parents. I questioned people. I questioned myself. And through all of it, I kept praying.

So yes... PRAY OOO. 😭 Pray when you're happy. Pray when you're confused. Pray when you don't know what to do. Pray for discernment. Pray for protection. Pray for the wisdom to recognize people. And pray for the strength to walk away when God—or your instincts—tells you something isn't right.

Because before this experience, I'd see people online talking about how spiritual life can get and I'd just scroll. "Okay o." Until I experienced my own little chapter and suddenly understood. Life is deeper than what we can see. But one thing I'm certain of? God kept me. And honestly, that is the part of the story I don't need to remember every detail to know. 🤍

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A little over three weeks ago, I created that name for myself. I birthed it from parts of who I already was—a name that carried pieces of my identity, my story, and the woman I am slowly becoming. "Mola" from Oyindamola. "Fẹ́" from Ifẹ́—love. Mòlafè. A name that feels like softness. A name that feels like home. A name that feels like a reminder that love has always been a huge part of who I am. To me, Móláfe means "love in prosperity" or "love surrounded by abundance." Mólá carries the idea of wealth and prosperity from Oyindamola, while Ifé simply means love. Put together, it's a beautiful reminder of a life filled with both love and abundance.

But before there was Mòlafè, there was Oyindamola. A girl in her early 20s, still figuring things out, still becoming, still learning that life is not always about having all the answers. A girl with many dreams. Maybe too many. But I have never believed that wanting more is a bad thing. I have always wanted to do it all.

I am the kind of person who struggles to explain herself because there are too many versions of me living together. I am soft and strong. Independent and deeply sentimental. A homebody who wants to see the entire world. A quiet observer who becomes the biggest yapper when she feels safe. A serious dreamer who can also be extremely unserious. A person who loves deeply but sometimes retreats when emotions become overwhelming. I am a collection of contradictions. And I think that is what makes me me.

Before you meet the woman I am becoming, you have to understand the girl I was. I was the firstborn. The only girl. And that identity shaped me more than I realized. There is something about being the first child that teaches you responsibility early. You learn to observe. You learn to adapt. You learn to carry things. And being the only girl among boys gave me a unique balance of softness and strength.

I learned independence. Maybe too much independence. I became the person who figures things out. The person who says, "I'm fine," and sometimes actually means, "I'll handle it myself." The person who rarely wants to inconvenience others.

But underneath that independence is a girl who still wants to be cared for. A girl who wants someone to notice when she is tired. A girl who wants to be reminded that she doesn't always have to be strong. Because the truth is, being independent does not mean you don't want love. Sometimes it means you appreciate love even more when it arrives.

My childhood was not perfect. There were things I experienced too young. Things no child should have to carry. I experienced abuse at an early age. But I made a decision that my pain would not become the foundation of who I became. It would be a chapter. Not the entire book.

I refused to allow that experience to determine how I saw myself, how I loved, or how I viewed an entire gender. Because the truth is, the men God placed around me have shown me something different. They have shown me kindness. They have shown me protection. They have shown me that character is individual. One person's actions do not define everyone else.

I am grateful that God did not allow my painful experiences to become my only experiences. He surrounded me with evidence that love exists.

And speaking of love… I am incredibly blessed in that department. God gave me amazing parents. The kind of parents who make home feel like home. He gave me siblings and family who remind me that I belong. He gave me friendships that have carried pieces of my heart.

I know what it feels like to be loved. Not perfectly—because no family is perfect. But genuinely. I love family time. I love sitting with my people. I love conversations that go nowhere and everywhere. I love laughter around a table. I love the comfort of being around people who know where you came from. No matter where life takes me, I know there will always be a part of me that runs back home.

My relationship with God is the centre of everything. Before my dreams. Before my ambitions. Before my plans. God. I am a Christian, and my faith is not just something I practice—it is something I live.

I talk to God about everything. The big things. The small things. The confusing things. The things I cannot explain to anyone else. I have learned that faith does not mean you never struggle. It means you know where to return when you do.

My church, Celebration Church International, is a special part of my life. It represents community, growth, and a deeper understanding of what it means to love God and love people. I never want success to take me away from the One who gave me the ability to dream in the first place.

And oh, my dreams… My dreams are probably bigger than my sleep schedule allows. I am a storyteller. A creator. A builder. A person who sees possibilities everywhere. I love communication, creativity, ideas, and bringing things to life.

I have always been fascinated by stories—human stories especially. The way people think. The way brands communicate. The way one idea can become something that touches thousands of lives. My mind is always creating.

Sometimes I think God gave me the interests of five different people. One minute I am thinking about media. The next I am thinking about entrepreneurship. The next I am imagining solutions that could change people's lives. Then randomly, I am thinking… "Maybe I should become a lawyer someday." And honestly? Maybe I will. I have learned not to limit myself. I don't think we are meant to become just one thing.

I love people. Really love people. I love hearing people's stories. I love making people feel seen. I love deep conversations—the kind where you forget to check the time because the conversation is too good. I am a listener first. I observe. I notice things. I notice when someone's energy changes. I notice things people don't say. But when I am comfortable? Please prepare yourself. Because I can talk. A lot.

I am a romantic. A hopeless one, maybe. I believe in handwritten letters. I believe in thoughtful gifts. I believe in long hugs. I believe in holding hands while walking. I believe in words that reassure you. I believe love should feel like peace. Not confusion. Not anxiety. Not constantly wondering where you stand. I love words of affirmation. I love quality time. I love people who say, "I saw this and thought of you." The little things mean everything to me.

I love my space. I am a homebody. I enjoy being alone. Not because I dislike people, but because solitude restores me. My space is where I think. Where I pray. Where I dream. Where I dance in front of my mirror. Where I listen to music. Where I write random thoughts in my notes app. Where I become myself again.

But I also love travelling. I want to see the world. I want museums, beaches, new cultures, new food, different cities, different stories. I want a life filled with memories.

I am someone who romanticizes life. I find beauty in ordinary things. Sunsets. A good perfume. A quiet morning. Fresh nails. Gold jewellery. Soft colours. A good book. A beautiful song. A meaningful conversation. Grapes. Shawarma. Kilishi. Beans and corn. A glass of fruit juice. Small joys are not small to me.

I am also a work in progress. I overthink. I cry over little things. I detach easily when I feel unsafe. I struggle with maintaining relationships sometimes because I retreat into myself. I am learning. Learning how to communicate better. Learning how to stay present. Learning how to receive love without questioning it. Learning that strength does not mean carrying everything alone.

So who is Oyindamola Mary Olawumi? She is a young woman in her early 20s trying to build a meaningful life. She is a daughter. A sister. A friend. A believer. A dreamer. A creator. A romantic. A storyteller. A woman still becoming.

And maybe that is the most beautiful thing about her. She is not finished. She is not supposed to be. Because life is not about arriving at one perfect version of yourself. It is about meeting yourself again and again in every new season.

And right now? I am meeting Mòlafè. A softer version. A braver version. A version who knows that every part of her story—the beautiful, the painful, the confusing, the joyful—has made her who she is.

So if you knew me at all… you would know this: I am a girl held by God, loved by family, shaped by experiences, and still becoming. And I cannot wait to see who I become next.

But maybe the most beautiful part of this story is understanding that Oyindamola and Mòlafè are not the same person. Oyindamola is the girl who lived through every chapter that brought me here. She is the little girl who dreamed, the young woman who survived, the daughter who was deeply loved, the friend who cared deeply, the believer who kept returning to God, the storyteller who found meaning in words, and the woman who kept choosing hope even when life gave her reasons not to. She carries my history. She carries my memories. She carries every lesson, every scar, every prayer, every laugh, every moment that shaped me.

But Mòlafè? Mòlafè is the woman I am intentionally becoming. She is the name I birthed three weeks ago. She is the creative, the builder, the storyteller, the dreamer, the woman with endless ideas and a heart full of possibilities. She represents growth. She represents expansion. She represents the parts of me that are still unfolding.

Oyindamola gave Mòlafè a foundation. Mòlafè is building on it. And the beautiful thing is… they're both still writing. The story is not finished. The chapters are still being written. There are still dreams waiting to come alive, places waiting to be explored, people waiting to be loved, stories waiting to be told, and versions of myself I have not met yet.

So, if you meet me today, you are meeting someone in progress. A girl who became a woman. A woman who created a name. A name that carries a story.

My name is Oyindamola Mary Olawumi. But you can call me Mòlafè. AND THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

There's a specific kind of self-sabotage that looks like ambition. You decide to build a habit, and instead of starting small, you start big. An hour of exercise. Ten pages a day. A full hour of prayer. Thirty minutes of reading.It feels serious. It feels like you mean it. It feels like this time, you are finally ready to become the person you've always wanted to be.

And then, three days later, life happens.

You're tired. You're busy. Your schedule gets messy. Your motivation disappears. Suddenly, the habit that once felt exciting starts feeling like a burden, and because you can't do the full version, you do nothing at all.

That is how all-or-nothing thinking quietly becomes all-then-nothing. The problem was never that you didn't care enough, the problem was that you created a habit that only worked on your best days.

When you're building a habit, the first goal isn't transformation. It's trust. You are teaching yourself that you are someone who shows up.

You're not trying to become an author in your first month; you're trying to become someone who sits down and writes, even if it's only a few sentences.

You're not trying to become the healthiest person overnight; you're trying to become someone who moves their body, even if it's just a short walk.

You're not trying to become someone who prays for hours every day; you're trying to become someone who remembers to spend a few minutes with God, even on difficult days.

The beginning of a habit is not where you prove your strength. It's where you build your foundation. A lot of habits fail because people try to build intensity before they build consistency.

They want the results of a disciplined person without first becoming the kind of person who keeps small promises to themselves. A one-push-up habit. A one-sentence journal entry. A two-minute prayer. They sound almost ridiculous when written down.

That's the point.

They're small enough that your excuses have nothing to hold onto. Nobody spends twenty minutes debating whether they should do one push-up. But plenty of people will negotiate with themselves about doing fifty.

I used to think the smaller version of a habit was a lesser version. Something you did when you failed to do the "real" thing. If I only read one page instead of ten, I thought I had fallen short. If I only prayed for five minutes instead of thirty, I thought I didn't do enough.

But I've changed my mind.

The small version isn't a replacement for the habit. It is the habit because consistency is the skill you are actually building. The goal is not to prove that you can be perfect when life is easy. The goal is to prove that you can still show up when life is hard.

Think about a rope.

A rope isn't strong because of one massive strand. It's strong because hundreds of tiny strands are woven together. Each strand alone looks weak but together, they create something that can carry weight.

Habits work the same way.

One page today.

Five minutes tomorrow.

One small action repeated again and again.

Individually, these moments seem insignificant. But over time, they become the foundation of who you are.

Take the habit you're trying to build and ask yourself:

What is the smallest version of this that I can still do on my worst day? Not your most motivated day. Not the day when everything goes according to plan. Your worst day because that is the version that keeps the habit alive.

Maybe reading ten pages becomes reading one page.

Maybe an hour at the gym becomes putting on your workout clothes and doing five minutes.

Maybe writing a whole article becomes writing one paragraph.

The bigger version can still exist.

On good days, do more.

Push yourself.

Grow.

mprove.

But your smallest version is your foundation.

It is your floor.

And floors are what keep you standing.

We often believe the things that change our lives have to be dramatic.

A major decision.

A sudden breakthrough.

A complete transformation.

But most change happens quietly. It happens in the small promises we keep when nobody is watching.

The page you read when you were exhausted.

The prayer you whispered when you didn't feel spiritual.

The workout you almost skipped but completed anyway.

The sentence you wrote when inspiration never came.

Those moments don't look impressive.

They won't always get celebrated.

But they count.

Because the habit you can repeat will always take you further than the habit you keep abandoning.

So maybe the question isn't:

"How can I do more?"

Maybe the better question is:

"What is the smallest version of this habit that I can keep showing up for?"

Because sometimes the smallest thing you do consistently becomes the biggest thing that changes your life.

Everybody talks about "surrendering to God" like it's one dramatic moment—you fall on your knees, cry a little, and boom, you're free.

Nobody tells you it's actually Tuesday morning, 6:15 a.m., you're staring at a bank alert that makes no sense, and in that ordinary moment, you have to decide whether you still trust God.

That's the part nobody prepares you for.

Surrender isn't a single altar moment. It's a decision you keep making, quietly, in situations too small to preach about.

It's Smaller Than You Think

I used to imagine surrender as something you do with the big things—your career, your marriage, your health. And yes, it includes those. But most days, surrender shows up in tiny, almost embarrassing ways.

It's letting go of how you wanted a conversation to go. Not checking your ex's WhatsApp status. Not sending that message that would "put the person in their place." Waiting one more day before making the decision you're impatient to make.

Nobody claps for those moments. There's no testimony service for, "I didn't respond to that text the way I wanted to."

But that's where the real training happens.

The same way you don't build strength by lifting the heaviest weight once, you build it by lifting a manageable weight, again and again, until your body simply knows what to do. Faith works much the same way.

Why It Feels Like Losing, Even When It's Not

Here's the honest part: surrender feels like loss before it feels like peace.

When you let go of controlling an outcome, your mind interprets it as danger—like you're leaving yourself exposed. That panic is real. It doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It simply means you're doing something your heart isn't used to yet.

Think about Abraham with Isaac.

Scripture doesn't record him feeling calm and fearless the whole way up the mountain. The text is quiet about his emotions, but if you've ever had to release something you deeply loved without knowing how the story would end, you already understand what that silence must have cost.

Surrender wasn't the absence of grief.

It was obedience carried alongside grief.

What It Looks Like Practically

If I had to describe surrender in ordinary terms, it looks like this:

Praying about something and then resisting the urge to engineer the answer yourself behind the scenes.

Applying for the job, sending the proposal, doing the work—and genuinely not checking your phone every ten minutes for a reply.

Saying, "Lord, if this isn't for me, close the door," and actually meaning it, even if it's the very door you wanted opened.

Sitting with uncertainty one more day instead of forcing a decision simply because discomfort feels unbearable.

Letting someone misunderstand you for now instead of exhausting yourself trying to correct every assumption.

None of these make dramatic sermon illustrations.

They're too ordinary.

Too domestic.

Too hidden.

But this is where trust is built—not in one spectacular leap, but in a hundred quiet refusals to grab the steering wheel back.

The Trap of Performing Surrender

There's another danger we don't talk about enough: performing surrender instead of living it.

Saying, "God, I release it," in the group chat, in your journal, or in your Notes app while your hands are still white-knuckled underneath.

Real surrender is usually much quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like doing absolutely nothing dramatic.

No public declaration.

No emotional speech.

Just a quiet decision made in your spirit that nobody else witnesses—and a body that slowly, slowly begins to unclench.

If you find yourself needing an audience for your surrender, don't hear that as condemnation.

Hear it as information.

Sometimes we perform peace because actual peace still feels too fragile to trust.

What Changes Over Time

Here's what I've noticed.

The first few times you surrender something, it feels like death.

By the twentieth time, it feels more like exhaling.

You begin recognizing the moment sooner—that tightening in your chest, the urge to control, the temptation to force an outcome.

Not because you've become spiritually superior.

But because you've practiced the muscle.

And slowly, something else changes.

You start trusting the process more than the outcome.

You stop needing every situation to end exactly the way you imagined because you've lived through enough surrendered moments to know that God's definition of "resolved" is often kinder, wiser, and better than the version you were gripping so tightly.

Open Your Hands Again

You won't surrender perfectly.

Some days you'll grab the wheel back within the hour.

Some days before breakfast.

That's okay.

You'll still catch yourself replaying conversations.

You'll still overthink decisions.

You'll still wonder if you should "help God" a little.

When that happens, don't mistake it for failure.

Simply open your hands again.

Again.

And again.

Because surrender isn't one unforgettable moment at the altar.

It's Tuesday morning.

It's the ordinary.

It's trusting God when nothing around you suggests you should.

It's choosing obedience before you have explanations.

And perhaps that's where faith grows best—not in the spectacular, but in the quiet places no one else sees.

One ordinary moment at a time.

With love,

Mòlafè. 💕

You know that feeling when someone asks "how far?" and you just say "I'm managing" — even though inside, you're juggling faith, money, work, and that one habit you keep starting and stopping like NEPA taking light? That's life. It's not a straight road. It's more like Lagos traffic — some days you're moving, some days you're just parked, engine running, waiting on something you can't control.

I've learned one thing this year: you don't need to have it all figured out before you move. Our parents' generation will tell you, "at your age, I already knew exactly what I wanted." Meanwhile, you're here changing your mind every six months, feeling like something's wrong with you. Nothing is wrong. Growth isn't a straight line — it's more zigzag. One step forward, a little step back, then a jump that surprises even you.

On faith and waiting

Someone once told me faith isn't the absence of fear — it's doing the thing anyway while your chest is still tight. You pray, you trust God, but your legs still shake as you walk. That's not weak faith, that's real faith. Scripture is full of people who waited long before anything changed — Abraham, Joseph, even the disciples after the cross. Waiting doesn't mean you've been forgotten. Sometimes the waiting is what builds the person who'll eventually carry the blessing.

On habits and showing up

Nobody claps for you the day you wake up at 5am to read or write your one page. Nobody sees the day you resist the thing that almost pulled you back. But that's exactly where the real work happens — in the quiet, boring corner no camera is watching. You don't need to do it perfectly, just do it today. Little by little, it adds up. Even that road construction near your house that's been "ongoing" forever — they're still chipping away at it, bit by bit.

On money and comparison

We're in a generation where everyone shows their "arrival" on Instagram, but nobody shows the years of struggle behind it. You see the new car, not the months of managing transport fare to save for it. Comparison is a thief — it steals today's joy because you're measuring your chapter one against someone else's chapter twenty. Face your own race. Your testimony is coming; just keep running.

On rest

We've glorified "hustle" so much that rest starts to feel like a sin. But even land needs to lie fallow before it yields well again. You're not a machine, you're a person. Take the nap. Put the phone down for a bit. Even God rested on the seventh day — not because He was tired, but because rest has its own value.

The one thing I want you to carry

Whatever you're wrestling with right now — business, faith, habits, or just figuring out who you are — know that you're not behind. You're exactly where your story needs you to be. The chapter you're writing today will make sense later, even if it doesn't now.

So don't put too much pressure on yourself. Just do the next right thing. One honest step at a time — that's really all life is asking of us.

If this spoke to you, share it with someone who needs to hear it today. And if you're new here, welcome — make yourself at home.

With love,

Móláfẹ́ 💕

There's a kind of spiritual struggle nobody prepares you for. It doesn't look like rebellion. It doesn't announce itself with a dramatic fall or a public sin. It looks like showing up, physically, while your spirit quietly disconnects from everything happening around it.

The last two months taught me that.

I was praying, but the words felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling. I still joined morning devotionals, but my heart wasn't in the room, even when my body was. Worship songs, the ones that used to move me to tears, became background noise I barely registered. Any video, any post, anything that had God's name attached to it, I scrolled past without a second thought. For the first time in a long time, I stopped pretending to be "fine spiritually," because I wasn't, and I was tired of performing peace I didn't feel.

I posted things I would never normally post. I listened to things I knew, deep down, I shouldn't have been listening to. Not because I suddenly hated God. Not because I decided faith wasn't real anymore. But because something inside me had gone tired, distant, and genuinely hard to put into words.

And here's the part that scared me most: I couldn't even tell you why.

There was no major tragedy. No scandal, no falling out, no single moment I could point to and say "that's when it started." Just a strange heaviness that settled in and a silence in my spirit that I didn't invite and didn't know how to evict.

Nobody Talks About This Kind of Struggling

We talk a lot about backsliding like it's always loud and obvious — the dramatic exit, the public unraveling. But most spiritual exhaustion isn't loud. It's quiet. It's a person still attending every service, still saying "Amen" on cue, still posting a verse here and there, while something underneath is fighting a battle they can't fully explain, even to themselves.

I've learned that not every struggling believer is backsliding on purpose. Some people are simply exhausted, spiritually depleted in a way that doesn't come with a clear cause or a clean explanation. And when there's no obvious "why," it's easy to assume something is deeply wrong with you rather than accepting that seasons like this exist, and that they eventually pass.

The People Who Chose Covering Over Criticism

One thing I will be grateful for the rest of my life is this: I wasn't left to navigate that season alone, even when I wasn't asking for help.

My friends noticed before I said a single word. They didn't wait for a confession. They didn't corner me with questions or make me explain myself. And when they did notice, they didn't respond with judgment or that quiet, holier-than-thou distance that makes struggling people retreat further into hiding.

Instead, they chose to intercede. They prayed. Some of them fasted. They checked in on me consistently, not in a suspicious "are you still saved" way, but in a steady, patient way that said, without saying it outright: *we see you, and we're not going anywhere.*

They reminded me, just by how they treated me, that sometimes people don't need correction. They need covering. There's a difference between someone pointing out your flaws and someone standing between you and the fall until you're steady enough to stand on your own again. My friends chose the second one, and it changed everything.

God Is Not Intimidated by Weak Seasons

Somewhere in the middle of that heaviness, I started to understand something I hadn't fully grasped before: God is not shocked by our silence. He is not offended by our confusion. He doesn't abandon His children the moment they stop having the right words to say.

There's a verse that carried me more than any other during that time:

"A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench." — Isaiah 42:3

A bruised reed is already damaged, already close to snapping. Smoking flax is a wick that's stopped producing real flame, just a thin trail of smoke where fire used to be. And yet God doesn't finish either one off. He doesn't discard what's almost broken. He protects what little is left, even when what's left doesn't look like much.

That's the God I met in that season. Not one standing at a distance waiting for me to get my act together, but one who stayed close to the smoke, patient with what was barely burning.

Sometimes the strongest prayer you can offer isn't eloquent. It's something closer to: *"Lord, I don't even know what's wrong, but please don't let me drift too far."* And that's enough. That's a real prayer. That's faith, even when it doesn't feel like it.

Scriptures That Held Me Together

A few verses became anchors during those two months, ones I returned to when I had nothing else to hold onto:

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God…" — Psalm 42:11

"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand." — Psalm 37:24

"My soul melteth for heaviness: strengthen thou me according unto thy word." — Psalm 119:28

"Simon, Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you… but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not." — Luke 22:31-32

That last one stayed with me the longest. Jesus didn't stop Peter's failure from happening. He didn't shield him from the moment he would deny even knowing Him. What Jesus did was pray that Peter's faith wouldn't fail completely, that even after the fall, there would be enough left to rebuild on. Sometimes that's exactly what's happening for us too. The failure isn't prevented. The total collapse is.

The Danger Was Never the Struggle. It Was the Isolation.

If there's one thing I want someone reading this to walk away with, it's this: you don't have to pretend to be spiritually strong all the time. The struggle itself isn't the danger. Struggling in silence, alone, convinced that no one would understand, is the danger.

Sometimes God heals people through community before He ever gets around to healing them privately. He sends the friend who notices something is off before you've said a word. He sends the group chat check-in, the unexpected phone call, the person who says "I've been praying for you" when you didn't even ask them to. That's not coincidence. That's mercy, wearing a familiar face.

And honestly, sometimes the clearest proof that God is still holding you is the simple fact that people are still praying for you, even in the moments you don't have the strength to pray for yourself.

Looking Back

Looking back now, I realize I was never as abandoned as I felt in the middle of it. Even in my distance, heaven was already moving toward me. In rooms I wasn't in, my name was being whispered in prayer. In moments I was convinced I was slipping completely, God was quietly placing His hands beneath me, holding steady what I couldn't hold myself.

Maybe that's what mercy actually looks like sometimes. Not a harsh pulling back. Not a lecture. Just a patient, gentle holding, until your heart remembers the way home on its own.

Mine did.

And if I'm honest, love prayed me back. 💕

I've never really liked small talk.

Don't get me wrong, I understand its place. You ask someone where they are from, what they do, their favorite color, their favorite food, and somehow you feel like you've learned something about them. These questions are easy, familiar, and they give us something to talk about when we are meeting someone for the first time.

But I don't think people truly live in those answers.

People live in the pauses. They live in the stories behind those answers, in the experiences that shaped them, in the moments they rarely get the chance to explain. That's where I think you begin to meet the real person.

If I genuinely wanted to know someone, I wouldn't just ask about their favorite color. I would ask questions that make them pause, reflect, and open up parts of themselves that aren't always visible.

What's something you've had to unlearn to become who you are today?

I love this question because everyone is carrying beliefs they didn't necessarily choose. We inherit ideas from our families, our environment, our culture, and our experiences. Some of those beliefs help us grow, while others quietly hold us back.

Some people grew up believing they had to earn love before they deserved it. Some learned that asking for help was a sign of weakness. Others were taught that crying was a form of vulnerability they should hide or that making mistakes meant they weren't good enough.

But then life happens.

People happen.

Grace happens.

And slowly, we begin replacing survival with healing. We start questioning the things we accepted without thinking and creating new beliefs that align with who we are becoming.

I think the things we've had to unlearn say just as much about us as the things we've learned. They reveal our growth, our courage, and the quiet battles we fought that nobody else saw.

What makes you feel most alive?

Notice I didn't ask what makes you happy.

Happiness comes and goes. Feeling alive is different. It is that thing that makes you forget to check your phone. The thing that makes time move differently because you are completely present in the moment.

For me, it's writing.

It's taking random thoughts in my head and turning them into words. It's watching an idea slowly become something real. Sometimes it feels like I am not even searching for the words; they just find their way to me.

It's also meaningful conversations. The kind where you leave with a new perspective, where you continue thinking about what was said long after the conversation has ended.

I always wonder what that thing is for other people. What is the one thing that makes them forget the world around them for a while?

When was the last time you changed your mind about something important?

I admire people who can say, "I used to think this, but I was wrong."

That takes humility.

It is easy to defend what we have always believed, but it takes courage to admit that our experiences, conversations, and encounters with people have changed us.

I don't want to become someone who is too proud to grow. I hope I never reach a point where I believe I have figured everything out because life has a way of constantly teaching us.

Growth often begins when we allow ourselves to be curious instead of certain.

What do you wish people understood about you without you having to explain it?

I think everyone has something they wish people could see without needing an explanation.

Maybe someone wishes people understood that they are trying their best, even when it doesn't look like it. Maybe someone wants people to know that their silence isn't arrogance. Maybe someone wants people to understand that their smile doesn't mean life has always been easy.

If I answered this question, I would probably say I wish people understood that when I care, I care deeply.

That my questions come from genuine curiosity, not because I am trying to fill silence.

That sometimes I disappear into my thoughts, not because I don't care about people, but because that is where I process life, create ideas, and make sense of the world around me.

What kind of person do you hope to become?

• Not what career do you want?

• Not how much money do you want to make?

• Not where do you want to live?

• Who do you hope you are?

I think about this question often because achievements are only one part of a person's story.

I want to become someone whose presence feels safe. Someone who keeps their word. Someone who listens, learns, and continues to grow. Someone who chooses kindness even when it is inconvenient. Because eventually, titles change, jobs change, circumstances change, but character has a way of following you everywhere.

What's a question you wish someone would ask you?

This might be my favorite question because sometimes people are carrying stories they are waiting for someone to notice.

Maybe there is someone with a business idea they've never shared. Someone writing a book quietly. Someone carrying a dream they are afraid to say out loud. Someone holding onto a prayer they are still waiting to see answered.

Sometimes all it takes is one thoughtful question for someone to feel seen but I also think deep conversations are a two-person effort.

Sometimes people don't have deep conversations, not because they don't have depth, but because the person they are talking to isn't willing or able to meet them there.

Some people don't know how to listen. They are only waiting for their turn to speak. Some people hear words but don't pay attention to the emotions behind them. Some people rush to give advice when what someone really needs is to feel heard.

And sometimes, people are not used to being asked meaningful questions. They have never been around someone who made them feel safe enough to open up.

A great conversation is not just about asking interesting questions. It is about curiosity, patience, and genuine attention. It is about someone asking, "Tell me more," and actually wanting to hear the answer because the right questions can open a door, but the right person makes you feel safe enough to walk through it.

Maybe that's why I've never believed knowing someone is about collecting facts. It is not just about remembering someone's favorite color, favorite food, or favorite movie. It is about discovering how they think, what they have survived, what they value, and who they are becoming.

And if we are lucky, finding someone who is just as curious about us as we are about them because the best conversations don't end with, "Nice talking to you."

They end with, "Tell me more."

I have a confession: I am a very ambitious person.

The kind of ambitious person who thinks about the future constantly. The kind of person who imagines the woman she wants to become, the things she wants to build, the impact she wants to make, and the lives she hopes to touch.

In my head, I am already successful.

I can literally picture myself giving interviews about my journey, talking about how I started with nothing and how God carried me through.

The only problem?

The woman in my imagination is far more disciplined than the woman writing this.

The woman in my head wakes up at 5am, reads books, works out, builds businesses, responds to emails immediately, drinks enough water, and probably has her life planned until 2040.

Meanwhile, the woman in reality sometimes needs a motivational speech before leaving her bed.

Honestly, it’s confusing.

How can someone want so much from life but also have such a strong emotional attachment to doing nothing?

My brain is basically a CEO.

My body is an intern waiting for instructions.

My brain says, “We need to build an empire.”

My body says, “Absolutely. But can we start after a little rest?”

And somehow that “little rest” has turned into a full documentary series.

The Serious Girl Everyone Thinks I Am

One of the funniest things about me is that people have a very different perception of who I am.

Some people see me outside and think, “Damola is so serious. She’s so disciplined. She has everything figured out.”

Oh.

What a beautiful view from afar.

Because if only they knew.

If only they knew that this same person they think is so strict can spend hours standing in front of a mirror.

Dancing.

Performing.

Creating imaginary concerts where the audience is just me and my reflection.

At that moment, I am Beyoncé, Burna Boy, and the headliner of a sold-out show nobody bought tickets for.

Then suddenly, my brain remembers I have goals.

And it’s like:

“Damola… you do know you could have used these three hours to do something meaningful, right?”

And you know what makes it worse?

Instead of actually doing something meaningful, I’ll open TikTok and start creating videos.

Videos that will never leave my drafts.

My drafts probably have enough content to become a successful creator, but unfortunately, they are currently enjoying early retirement.

My Relationship With Productivity Is Complicated

The funny thing is, I hate unproductive days.

I really do.

There is nothing worse than getting to the end of the day and knowing I could have done more.

I hate that feeling of looking back and thinking, “What exactly did I achieve today?”

But somehow, those days still happen.

A lot.

And that’s the contradiction I live with.

I am someone who dreams big, but sometimes my energy doesn’t match my dreams.

But before anyone thinks I’m completely unserious, let me explain.

When I say I don’t always have productive days, I don’t mean I’m not productive.

I am.

It’s just that out of the 24 hours God gives me every day, I probably only use about 6 hours 47 minutes doing something truly meaningful.

The remaining hours?

Let’s just say they are between me, my phone, my bed, and God.

But those 6 hours?

I lock in.

And when I lock in, it’s almost scary.

Suddenly, I’m planning, creating, researching, learning, replying messages, and moving like someone who has her entire life together.

The same girl who spent three hours dancing in front of a mirror is suddenly acting like she has a board meeting in 10 minutes.

The Opportunities I Told to “Wait”

My friends know I have dreams.

Sometimes they’ll call me and say things like:

“Damola, I have a job for you.”

Or:

“Damola, you need to start your own thing. You need to become your own CEO.”

And my response?

“Hmm… let me think about it.”

Very calm.

Very mature.

Very responsible.

Except…

Sometimes that “let me think about it” is actually the last conversation we’ll have for three months.

Not because I don’t appreciate the opportunity.

Not because I don’t want success.

But because somehow, my brain likes putting amazing opportunities in a folder called “I’ll come back to this.”

A folder that sometimes disappears.

Let’s not even discuss the time I almost lost a $11,000 gig because of my famous “I’ll think about it.”

Did I just say almost, I LOST IT!

Till today, I still wonder who gave me that level of confidence.

Imagine praying for opportunities and then when they arrive, telling them:

“Please wait. I need time to process.”

My guardian angel definitely had to sit down that day.

My Biggest Fear: Ambition Without God

But beyond the jokes, there is something I genuinely think about.

One of my biggest fears is becoming ambitious without involving God.

Because what is the point of achieving everything I ever dreamed of if I lose the One who gave me those dreams?

I don’t want to become so focused on becoming “someone” that I forget whose I am.

I don’t want success to become my identity.

I don’t want my achievements to become louder than my relationship with God.

Because I know myself.

Give me dreams, give me ideas, give me a little confidence, and before you know it, I’m trying to build an entire empire.

But God has to be involved.

I cannot be out here planning my life, building my future, and making big moves while leaving the One who knows the future out of the conversation.

My Guardian Angel Deserves a Raise

And honestly?

I know my guardian angel is tired of me.

Imagine receiving an assignment like:

“Watch over Damola.”

Simple, right?

Wrong.

Because one minute I’m praying about my purpose.

The next minute I’m overthinking my entire existence.

Then I’m making plans.

Then cancelling plans.

Then making new plans.

Then asking God for confirmation.

Then asking again because I’m not sure the first confirmation was clear enough.

My guardian angel is probably somewhere saying:

“God, she has another idea again. Should I prepare myself?”

But thankfully, God is patient with me.

He knows my heart.

He knows that behind the procrastination, the dancing, the overthinking, and the random moments of unseriousness is someone who genuinely wants to live a meaningful life.

Still Becoming

Maybe the goal is not to suddenly become a perfect, disciplined person overnight.

Maybe the goal is to keep becoming.

To learn discipline.

To learn consistency.

To learn that dreams don’t move because we have them. They move because we show up for them.

So yes, I am ambitious.

Yes, I love my bed.

Yes, my productivity sometimes needs divine intervention.

Yes, my guardian angel probably needs a vacation.

But I am learning.

I am learning to dream big while staying grounded.

To chase purpose while staying close to God.

To build something meaningful without forgetting who gave me the vision.

And hopefully, one day, my guardian angel can finally say:

“Thank God. She finally got it together.”

I graduated from university in 2024.

Like many students, I thought graduation would feel like arriving at a destination. Four years of lectures, deadlines, exams, internships, sleepless nights, group projects, and finally, a degree. I imagined that once I walked across that stage, life would somehow become clearer.

Instead, it became blurrier.

No one really prepares you for life after school. Not your lecturers. Not your parents. Not even the people who keep telling you, "You'll be fine." Because "fine" looks different when you're the one living it.

One thing I've always wanted is to become someone who can stand on her own. Not because my parents have ever made me feel like a burden. Quite the opposite.

Whenever I go two weeks—or even a whole month—without asking them for money, they become suspicious.

"Are you okay?"

"Is everything alright?"

They genuinely worry because I've stopped asking for anything.

I remember having a serious conversation with them shortly after I graduated. I told them I didn't like how dependent I still was. Even though I had started getting freelance gigs that paid fairly well, it wasn't enough to make me feel independent.

My parents looked at me almost confused.

"You are our responsibility. Even after you get married, you'll still be our responsibility."

I know how privileged I am to hear words like that. Many people don't have parents who can say it. Many don't even have parents. And I'll forever thank God for mine.

But gratitude and ambition can exist in the same heart.

You can appreciate being supported while still desperately wanting to build something of your own.

One of the biggest lies school accidentally teaches us is that life is linear.

Study hard.

Graduate.

Get a job.

Become successful.

Reality laughs at that formula.

It doesn't ask whether you graduated with a First Class, a Second Class, or a Pass. It doesn't care how many awards you won. It introduces variables no classroom ever mentioned: rejection, waiting, uncertainty, comparison, starting over, learning skills you never thought you'd need, and finding opportunities where there seem to be none.

And somehow, you're expected to navigate all of that while pretending to have your life together.

People often assume I have everything figured out.

I laugh every single time because the truth is...

I'm still figuring it out too.

When people ask me, "So, what do you do?" I never really know how to answer.

One day I'm managing social media for a brand.

Another day I'm developing content strategies.

Sometimes I'm behind a camera taking photographs.

Other times I'm filming videos.

I'm writing.

I'm consulting.

I'm brainstorming ideas.

And somewhere in between all of that, I'm trying to build something that matters deeply to me.

For months now, I've been working on a health-tech idea that was born from asking a simple question:

What happens when someone has a medical emergency and doesn't know where to turn?

It isn't just another project to add to my résumé. It's something I genuinely hope can improve lives. The idea excites me.

It also terrifies me.

Because building something from nothing means constantly questioning yourself.

Am I good enough?

Do I know enough?

Will anyone care?

Can I actually pull this off?

No one talks enough about how entrepreneurship isn't just a business journey.

It's an emotional one too.

What's funny is that people see snippets of my life and assume they've seen the whole story.

They see me attending conferences, sitting in stakeholder meetings, networking with professionals, dressing nicely, carrying my camera, and walking into rooms that look important. What they don't see is that sometimes I stare at the guest list for a few extra seconds because I still can't believe my name is on it. And somehow, they've mistaken that for having life all figured out.

I wish that were true.

Oh well...

Come here.

I'll hug you while I say this because holding your hands isn't enough.

I don't have anything figured out.

I'm simply saying yes to opportunities, learning as I go, making mistakes, asking questions, and trusting God to guide me through rooms I've never been in before.

Some days I feel confident.

Other days I wonder if I'm doing enough.

Most days, I'm just trying to become a little better than I was yesterday.

Sometimes I call friends who are older than I am—people in their late twenties, early thirties, late thirties, and even forties. I tell them how overwhelmed I feel.

Without fail, they smile and say,

"You're still young."

"You have time."

Can I be honest?

I hate hearing those words.

Not because they're wrong, but because when you're in the middle of trying so hard, "you have time" doesn't always feel comforting. Sometimes it feels dismissive, almost like the weight you're carrying isn't real.

But maybe they're saying it because they've survived seasons I'm only just entering. Maybe they're reminding me that life isn't a race. Maybe they're trying to lend me perspective that only time can give.

I'm still learning to believe them.

One thing adulthood has taught me is that success rarely arrives looking the way you imagined.

Sometimes it looks like sending one more application after ten rejections.

Sometimes it's saying yes to freelance work you never planned to do.

Sometimes it's learning a completely new skill because the old one isn't paying the bills.

Sometimes it's celebrating small wins nobody else notices.

Sometimes it's simply refusing to give up.

If you're around my age—or even younger—let me tell you something I wish someone had told me.

Don't make your twenties about looking successful.

Make them about becoming capable.

Learn everything you can.

Say yes to opportunities that stretch you.

Don't be ashamed if your career doesn't fit neatly into one sentence.

Don't compare your behind-the-scenes to someone else's highlight reel.

Don't think you're behind simply because your life doesn't look like someone else's on LinkedIn or Instagram.

Some of the people you admire are figuring things out one day at a time too.

They're just doing it more quietly.

As for me...

I'm still becoming.

I'm still dreaming bigger than my current reality.

I'm still praying.

Still applying.

Still learning.

Still failing.

Still trying again.

Maybe that's what life after school really is.

Not arriving.

Not having all the answers.

Not becoming successful overnight.

But waking up every day, choosing to try again, and trusting that one day, all these scattered pieces will make sense.

So if you ever see me dressed up at a conference, confidently walking into a meeting, speaking with professionals, or sharing another milestone online...

Celebrate with me.

Be proud of me.

But don't assume I've figured life out.

Because I haven't.

I'm still becoming.

And I think...

Maybe that's enough for now.

P.S. If you're reading this and you've ever felt like everyone else received a manual for adulthood except you, I hope this reminds you that you're not alone. None of us really has it all figured out. We're simply doing our best with the version of life we're living today, trusting that one day we'll look back and realize these uncertain years were quietly shaping us into the people we were becoming.