I mean a life of abundance—of discipline, opportunity, impact, and the freedom to build the kind of life I imagine for myself.

I say it often enough that it has begun to feel like a promise.

But lately I have been thinking about the uncomfortable gap between the person I say I want to become and the choices I sometimes make.

A year ago, after reading Atomic Habits by James Clear, I decided to change certain things about my life.

I began waking up at 5 a.m. I started going on morning runs. I aimed for 10,000 steps a day. I read books for pleasure, even while managing the demands of school.

I became more intentional about my health and more deliberate about my relationship with God.

These habits did not appear overnight. They required effort and consistency and Over time, they became part of my routine.

And I was proud of that….

But recently I realized something about myself that I had not considered before. I am very good
at maintaining the routines that I have chosen. What I struggle with is adapting when something disrupts that routine.

My final year project has forced me to confront this truth.
My supervisor is very strict. She expected all five chapters of my long essay to be completed by January. When she realized I was not finished, she gave me an additional three weeks to complete everything. Three weeks felt like a generous extension.

And yet, it is now March, and I am only just beginning Chapter Four.

For a long time, I told myself I was procrastinating. It is the word we often use when we delay something important.

And people say procrastination is simply laziness. But I do not think I am lazy. At least, that explanation feels too simple.

Instead, I suspect that what I am experiencing is fear.

Fear is a strange thing. It does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it appears quietly,
disguised as distraction or delay. Sometimes it convinces you that you will begin tomorrow. And tomorrow becomes another tomorrow.

I have started to wonder if part of me is afraid of the expectations that come with success.

Afraid that once I prove what I am capable of, the pressure to maintain it will grow heavier. It sounds irrational when I say it out loud. But fear is rarely logical.

The difficulty with procrastination is that it quietly erodes your confidence.

Each delay becomes a small reminder of what you have not done. Gradually, the goals that once felt within reach begin to feel further away.

There is a verse in Proverbs that often stays in my mind: “By making excuses you’ll learn what it means to go without.

“Poverty will pounce on you like a bandit and move in as your roommate for life.” The verse frightens me. Not because I believe poverty is always the result of laziness.

But the verse reminds me that our habits matter. The small decisions we repeat each day eventually shape the lives we live.

And so I find myself in a strange position. I am ambitious. I have big dreams for my future.

I know what I am capable of. But sometimes I watch myself delay the very work that could bring those dreams closer. It is a frustrating kind of self-awareness—knowing the pattern, recognizing the behavior, and still feeling stuck inside it.

C for Mental Health

Provides resources to help you prioritize your mental well-being. If you’d like to be part of a vibrant community of young people who openly share their struggles and support one another, join our community group! We meet every Friday!!

I often admire people who can multitask. It looks so effortless when they move from one task to another and do many things at once without looking overwhelmed. Sometimes I wonder if it’s something they learned early in life, or if it simply comes naturally to them. I don’t know. I just know that it never really comes easy to me.

Even as a child, I was easily overwhelmed. School alone drained me. I remember coming back from school completely exhausted; so tired that all I could do was sleep. I’d wake up, go back to school, return home, and I’d feel tired all over again. I never seemed to have enough energy left for anything else. During tests and exams, the overwhelmingness of life got worse. Studying felt heavy, so heavy that sometimes I skipped school just to have enough quiet time to read. Some of my friends knew that whenever I said I was “sick” during exam periods, it wasn’t illness; I was just trying to cope. I skipped weekend extracurriculars too, not because I didn’t care, but because I needed all the time I could get to focus. And I did pass. I actually passed well but I knew it wasn't supposed to be that exhausting.

I’m not sharing this to dwell on my secondary school days. I’m sharing it to show that my struggle with being overwhelmed didn’t start recently. It has always been part of my story. I’ve never been great at juggling many things at once. When there’s too much happening, my system shuts down.

University didn’t change that. If anything, it magnified it. I wanted to do other things alongside school; explore interests, build skills, live a fuller life but school alone already felt like too much. I was struggling to keep up with classes and studying, and it became even harder because I had little interest in what I was studying. Every day felt like pushing against something that wasn’t aligned with me. Eventually, I left university. And instead of feeling like I had failed, I felt relief. A deep one. It felt like stepping out of bondage, like finally being able to breathe.

Maybe things would have been different if I had studied something I was genuinely interested in, or if I had been more actively engaged in work or activities that taught me how to manage multiple responsibilities. Maybe. But this is my reality. I’ve completed my undergrad studies now, and for the first time, I feel like I’m actually living my life. Slowly learning how to hold more than one thing at a time.

The truth is, you can’t expect yourself to suddenly be good at something you’ve never really practiced. You can’t wake up one day and assume you’ll be able to juggle many responsibilities effortlessly when your system has always needed slowness and focus. Capacity is built over time.

I have a mentor who seems incredibly good at multitasking. She’s always on one task or another, and for a long time, I thought she had always been that way until I asked her about it. And she told me that she learned it. She trained herself. And there were seasons when she didn’t have it together at all. She rested. She paused. She picked herself up again. She isn’t productive all the time and that’s part of why she can show up so well when it matters.

I once read that when you focus on too many things at once, you risk becoming mediocre at all of them while still ending up completely exhausted. That thought stayed with me. It reminded me how important it is to understand where you are, to be honest about your limits, and to stop forcing yourself into capacities you haven’t grown into yet.

If you’re like me struggling to keep up, feeling overwhelmed by even the things that matter to you, it might help to start by focusing on what is most important right now. Not everything. Just the next thing. Balance is something you learn over time and excellence is something you build slowly.

What’s helping me cope lately;

• Doing one important thing at a time, instead of trying to do everything at once

• Being honest about my capacity, without comparing it to others

• Allowing rest as part of growth, not a reward for burnout

• Letting skills develop gradually, instead of expecting instant mastery

• Trusting God with the parts I can’t control, even when it’s uncomfortable

Because most times, we usually see from the main character’s perspective, the one leveling up, the one leaving. But I’ve realized that every “leveling up” leaves someone else in the basement, and that perspective is often where the most complex, messy human emotions hide.

It’s a heavy thing to consider, isn't it?
To realize that while you’re celebrating your new wins, someone else is mourning the loss of the person who used to walk beside them.
Imagine standing in that basement, looking up, and seeing the light of the person you love getting smaller as they climb. You feel the temperature drop, you notice the shift in the frequency even before you see the change in their lifestyle.

It’s in the way they look at you, with a kind of gentle, distant pity. And honestly, that pity feels heavier than any insult they could ever hurl at you.

I’ve realized that being outgrown is a quiet, eroding kind of grief. It’s the realization that the jokes that used to keep you both laughing for hours now land with a dull thud. You see them curate a life you don't fit into, or set boundaries you didn't think were necessary. To you, it feels like they are building a wall to keep you out. To them, they are simply building a ladder to get where they need to go.

The sting comes from realizing you are the “old habit” they are trying to break, you are the comfort zone they’ve identified as a trap. And when you realize you can no longer keep up, your ego doesn't always react with a round of applause.

Sometimes, you react with a sharp tongue, you tell them they’re “acting different,” or that they’ve “forgotten where they came from.” You use your shared history as a tether, trying to pull them back down to the floor where things were familiar and safe. Because if they stay, you don’t have to admit to yourself that you are standing still.

It is usually a desperate attempt to stop them, because you start to see their growth as a personal rejection. You start to think, “If I were enough, they wouldn’t need to seek more.” But the truth is, you are not being rejected; you’re being surpassed. And oh, yes it hurts, because you are grieving a future that they have already decided doesn’t include the current version of you.

There’s a silent ache of being a “stepping stone”, the person who was necessary for one chapter but is an anchor in the next. They are moving into a room you don't have the key to, and the door is closing so softly you almost don't hear it click.

So yes, I’ve realized that being outgrown hurts, it hurts deeply. Being outgrown feels like a rejection of the soul. It’s the realization that you are the “Before” in someone’s “After.” It’s hard to be the person who is part of the chapter someone else is trying to finish, it really is.

So, if you are the one doing the outgrowing, please, have some grace. Don't mistake their lashing out for hatred, it’s almost always just fear. They are watching their world get smaller while yours gets bigger.

We can have compassion for the view from the rearview mirror, but we can’t stop the car, because the road only goes one way, and sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is keep driving.

C for Mental Health

Provides resources to help you prioritize your mental well-being. If you’d like to be part of a vibrant community of young people who openly share their struggles and support one another, join our community group! We meet every Friday!!

Most of us start the year with so much hype. New goals we want to smash, new heights we want to reach. January is our tester month, the month where we either take strides that make the end goal feel achievable, or get crushed under pressure and come to the realization that the new year is really just the same year with a different number, and we are still the same person after all.

If January did not go as planned, if your goals remain unreached, if progress has stalled, or if the excitement of the new year has worn off and you are back to your usual melancholy, let me introduce you to the concept of micro wins.

Micro wins are small, achievable actions that give you a sense of progress, even when big goals feel overwhelming. They are tiny victories that are easy to overlook but over time stack into something meaningful.

The biggest mistake we make is deluding ourselves into thinking we can change overnight, that we can be happy instantly, or that a huge leap forward is possible all at once. Micro wins shift the focus from the end goal to what is within our control right now.

Examples of micro wins:

• Completing one small task toward a bigger project

• Sending an email you have been putting off

• Making your bed each morning

• Reading just one page of a book

• Doing five minutes of stretching or movement

• Writing a short journal entry

• Saying no to something that drains you

These matter because they reduce overwhelm and make our goals feel surmountable. Every small win encourages the next step, and before you know it, you are moving forward, building momentum without even realizing it.

So how do you use micro wins?

• Break your big goals into tiny, actionable steps

• Track and celebrate them, even just mentally ( I prefer physically: write them in a book)

• Stack them overtime. Small, consistent actions accumulate and eventually create significant progress

• Focus on consistency, not perfection. Perfectionism slows you down. Do not aim to be the ideal version of yourself, just aim to be a little better than you were yesterday

So yes, maybe January did not go as planned. But February is here, and the year is far from over. Start small. Celebrate the little wins. They may seem tiny now, but by the end of the year they will add up to something remarkable.

C for Mental Health

Provides resources to help you prioritize your mental well-being. If you’d like to be part of a vibrant community of young people who openly share their struggles and support one another, join our community group! We meet every Friday!

Do you remember a time when you could have changed your position, when you could have become a different, not necessarily better, version of yourself, and your mind rebelled against the idea? When you did nothing, until eventually the opportunity passed you by? Do you remember sabotaging yourself out of opportunities you would have been incredible at, simply because of fear?

Fear of trying and failing, and realizing that the identity you crafted for yourself might not be true after all. Fear of trying and succeeding, and having your world tip on its axis, turning into something vastly different, even if immensely better than your present reality.

Sometimes we cling to certain versions of ourselves because we are afraid of change. We repeat the same life over and over again because it is familiar. Comfortable. Today, I want to talk about that fear and how we can make confronting it much easier.

A couple of days ago, I was about to apply for an opportunity. Actually, the deadline for it is today. And I have known about this opportunity for almost a month. Every time I tried to sit down and write, my brain would completely shut down. I would hit a block and nothing would come. Eventually, just thinking about the application made me feel empty. Scared. Like I had somehow lost my zing. Not necessarily my ability to write, but the essence of it.

And that terrified me, because I consider myself a good writer. I write academic essays. I write reflective pieces. I enjoy having a different perspective. So being in a place where I was not performing at my usual level, where I could not ideate or express myself, was deeply unsettling.

I knew what I wanted. I knew why I wanted it. But I could not translate any of it onto paper. Every time I approached the application questions, it threatened the identity I had built for myself. So I avoided it. Over and over again.

Unironically, today is deadline day. And despite knowing about this opportunity for nearly thirty days, I still have not submitted anything and most likely will not. This is how we miss life changing opportunities, because we are afraid to confront the unknown.

Because if I had written, even if it were not great, I would have seen where the gaps were. I would have realized that maybe months of not writing had affected my flow. And then I could have taken steps to improve. The worst case scenario would have been writing something terrible and discovering a deficit in my skillset or knowledge.

And honestly, that would not have been the end of the world. But instead, the opportunity passed.

And this would not hurt as much if it were a one off. But it has been a pattern across many things I want to do. I start motivated, then run out of gas. I eliminate myself before anyone else gets the chance.

A few days ago, I got tired of doing that. I decided to try again with a different opportunity. Not because I was suddenly confident, but because I was exhausted from opting out of my own life. At some point, you want to know how you are actually rated. You want to try, even imperfectly.

One reason applications drain me so much is because they feel like they have an unspoken formula. A winning structure I do not know. There is always the fear that I am winging it while someone else has cracked the code.

Then I remembered something.

Almost eight months ago, I had bought a course from someone I deeply admired on writing winning applications. I had had it since August. A gold mine sitting untouched. Last night, well into the early hours of the morning, I finally watched it.

And it gave me clarity. Confidence. Enough courage to try.

The application is not finished yet. I actually paused it to write this because these are lessons I feel you needed to hear.

Sometimes you have to confront the problem head on. Let it disrupt your identity if it must, but confront it anyway. You will find gaps. You will become aware of what you do not know.

And that is okay.

The internet is a vast, generous place. There is a solution for almost everything. A course you can take. A person you can ask. A resource you can learn from.

You are not alone. This is a global village.

I do not know exactly where this message applies in your life, but I hope it gives you the courage to move when on the precipice of something great!

C for Mental Health

Provides resources to help you prioritize your mental well-being. If you’d like to be part of a vibrant community of young people who openly share their struggles and support one another, join our community group! We meet every Friday

In my life, I’m the captain of my own ship. Traipsing waves with the confidence of a seasoned sailor. Moving through obstacles with laser precision. Angling toward my goals with rigid fierceness.

Then… the wreckage ensues.

One day you wake up and the plates have formed a small mountain in the sink. Your room feels like it’s closing in on you. Tasks pile up, emails are unsent, deadlines missed, ideas half-formed are abandoned.

You want to start. You think about starting. You rehearse starting in your head over and over again. But somehow, no matter how hard you try, you cannot summon the mental energy to begin.

If you’ve ever felt like you’ve suddenly lost control of your life (like you’re stuck watching it unravel in slow motion), let me introduce you to a term you might recognize far too well.

Executive dysfunction isn’t laziness or a lack of ambition. It’s a breakdown in the brain’s ability to manage, organize, prioritize, and initiate tasks. It affects the “executive functions” of the brain. Skills that help us plan, focus, regulate our emotions, remember instructions, and follow through. It’s commonly associated with conditions like ADHD, depression, anxiety, autism, and burnout but… it can also show up during periods of prolonged stress, grief, or major life transitions.

And suddenly, the idea of being the “master of your own ship” feels like a lie.

Because in executive dysfunction, you’re no longer the captain, you’re the passenger. And, there is no other captain on this ship. No steady hand at the wheel. Instead of the suave confidence and accuracy of a self-driving Tesla, your ship is at the mercy of the waves, tossed and pulled in every direction with no clear destination in sight.

The worst part?

Even as the ship spirals toward chaos, you’re still sitting in the passenger seat. You know what needs to be done. You have the blueprint. The plans. The ideas. You know exactly how to enter the captain’s deck and steer your life back on course…but your body refuses to move. So you wait. And you watch. And you brace yourself for impact.

That’s exactly what executive dysfunction feels like. The inability to take control of your life when it matters most.

As 2026 rolls in with its clean slates, new year resolutions, and loud insistence that this is the time to get your life together, executive dysfunction feels especially cruel. You want the reset. You crave the structure. You envision the version of yourself who finally has it all figured out.

But somehow, starting feels impossible.

If this is you, please know that you’re not broken. You’re not failing the new year. You’re not lacking discipline or willpower. There’s still enough time to get things in order.

Sometimes, reclaiming the captain’s seat doesn’t start with steering the ship.

Sometimes, it starts with acknowledging why you’re still in the passenger seat at all.

So, dear reader: Why are you in the passenger seat?

C for Mental Health

Provides resources to help you prioritize your mental well-being. If you’d like to be part of a vibrant community of young people who openly share their struggles and support one another, join our community group! We meet every Friday

I’ve been feeling something lately… and I don’t really have the right words for it yet, but it’s been weighing heavily on my chest. And I think it started the moment I walked into that room, a room that used to feel like mine.

It was just Bimpe’s room, it was a normal day, nothing special. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew something had changed.

They were all there; Bimpe, the Muslim girl from my class… and Tayo. And the truth is that the atmosphere wasn’t actually hostile, neither was it cold. I feel like it was something worse, because the atmosphere was actually warm… just not towards me.

They were laughing, talking, flowing into each other so effortlessly, like their hearts were somehow aligned in a rhythm I couldn’t hear anymore. But there I was, sitting quietly in a corner, I was smiling when necessary, I nodded when expected… but I was feeling completely detached.

It’s not like they pushed me away, or that I tried to make things awkward, it’s just that, the moment I stepped in, I felt like a stranger in a space I helped build. Because the thing is, I used to be part of this trio(we were four then). We used to talk, joke, do life together. And now, I could disappear for ten minutes, and no one would even notice my absence.

But what hurt the most wasn’t even that they ignored me, it was that they didn’t need me.

And the truth is, it doesn’t make them bad people. I mean they’re all growing, they’re thriving, they’re becoming better versions of themselves, they’re maturing, and they are aligning with each other in a way that makes sense for who they’re becoming.

But me… I feel like I’m growing too, but just in a completely different direction. I feel like we’re all taking separate roads, but their roads still meet… and mine doesn’t connect to theirs anymore.

And the most painful thing I’ve never been able to say out loud is that; when I was in that room, I felt like I was watching my own absence take shape. I mean, seeing them so close (especially Tayo and Bimpe) twisted something inside me. Because Tayo met Bimpe through me, because once upon a time, I was the link, because I used to be the one bridging all our worlds. But that day? I felt like the extra chair in the room, I felt useful, but not needed.

I went there again the next day, thinking maybe it was just my mood the first time. But guess what? It was the same feeling, the same ache, and the same distance.

And maybe this is where the bitterness creeps in, because I’ve been avoiding that Muslim girl too, it’s not like she did anything wrong, but because I can’t stand seeing how comfortably she fills the space I used to occupy. It might sound childish, I know, but it’s honest.

And with Tayo, it’s even messier. Because whenever she enters the room, my heartbeat skips. And it’s not even because I still care in that soft way, but because my body reacts before my mind can control it. Whenever she’s around, I go quiet, I withdraw, I feel small. And honestly, it just happens subconsciously, but it happens. And then I force myself to start humming or singing or doing something… just anything that reminds me I’m not scared of her presence.

It’s not like I hate, or fear her, it’s something more like grief. Grief, because I’m not angry at her,
I feel like I’m just grieving what the relationship used to be, I’m grieving the comfort that died quietly between us, I’m grieving the version of myself that existed when we were still aligned.

And the truth is… they haven’t done anything wrong. We’re all growing, we’re just not growing together.

And so now I’m here, feeling out of place everywhere, feeling alone even when I’m surrounded by people I once called home.

It feels like everyone else is moving smoothly into their next season, and I’m dragging my feet through mine, trying to understand why my heart aches over friendships that didn’t end… they just shifted.

It’s such a strange pain, you know. I’m grieving people who are still alive, I’m drifting from people who are still around, I’m losing my place in rooms I used to fit into without even trying. And maybe that’s what hurts the most: Realizing that they didn’t push me out, I just no longer fit.

Not because any of us is wrong, or that they’ve changed in a bad way, it’s simply because we’re no longer aligned.

And maybe you know what that feels like too, to sit in the middle of familiar faces and feel like your presence is nothing but a shadow of who you used to be.

I don’t have a wise ending, or a lesson tied neatly with a bow. But I just know that sometimes you don’t lose people, you just lose the version of yourself that existed with them. And honestly, nobody talks about how painful that kind of loss is.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

There’s a kind of tiredness nobody warns you about. I don’t mean the physical one where you sleep and wake up okay, I mean the kind of tiredness where even when you hear people speaking to you, your mind is somewhere far away, not ready to come closer.

These days, that’s where I’ve been. It’s the kind where I reply to texts, I post, I show up in public places, but I can feel that something inside of me is… off, like my heart is a few steps behind my body.

It’s the kind where, when someone talks to you, you can hear them perfectly, but you can’t seem to meet them emotionally. And the thing is, it’s not even intentional, it’s not pride, it’s not anger, it’s what psychologists call emotional fatigue, where your feelings are simply too tired to show up the way they normally would.

But for many people, it is sometimes mixed with sensory overwhelm, when your mind is already running on low battery and even the smallest things feel like too much; the sound of conversations around you, bright lights, phone notifications, even the expression on someone’s face asking “Are you okay?” when you don’t have a language for what’s going on inside.

It’s strange, because you’re functioning, you’re actually there, you’re doing the right things, you’re nodding at the right moments, but deep down, you’re longing for silence to finally hear yourself again.

These days, I’ve been speaking to people, but not with them. I’ve been responding to conversations from a place of survival. Even with someone I used to be close to, everything felt heavier than it should have. And it’s not because I don’t care, but because I didn’t, (and still do not) have the emotional capacity to care in the way I normally would. And later, when I reflected on it, I realised it wasn’t an attitude, nor ego, it wasn’t that I had become cold, it was just exhaustion wearing the mask of distance.

And maybe you’ve been here too, that place where you’re not trying to be rude, or cold, or distant… you’re just running on a kind of emptiness that nobody can see unless they look closely.

So, how do people handle someone like this, someone like me right now?

They don’t push, they don’t demand explanations, they don’t try to squeeze out emotions I don’t have the strength to show. Instead, they give space but without disappearing, they stay soft without asking me to match their softness.

Because the truth is, if you’ve been exhausted like this, you know that the worst thing someone can do is take your quiet personally.

Right now, I’m writing this from inside that quiet.
Not because I want pity or advice, but because maybe you are here too, maybe you’ve been having conversations while feeling nothing, maybe your body is reaching for connection while your mind is curled up somewhere else, or maybe you’re just tired of being misunderstood, or labelled, or expected to be “fine.”

Sometimes exhaustion doesn’t look like collapsing, it looks like continuing, like being present with half your heart, like answering calls but praying they end soon, and sometimes, it looks like wanting comfort but not wanting to be perceived.

I just want you to know that you’re not a bad person, you’re just overwhelmed in a way that doesn’t show up on your face. And maybe the most honest thing I can tell you is that you don’t need to “fix” yourself right away, you don’t need to force your emotions to catch up, you don’t need to pretend your chest isn’t tired. Because some days, the victory is simply that you made it through the day, without falling apart.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Really… maybe that’s enough.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

Some of us didn’t really escape our childhoods, we just learned how to live with what once broke us.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how our childhoods never really leave us.
Not the good parts, not the bad ones either.
You grow up and think you’ve moved on; you’ve learned how to laugh, how to work, how to show up. But then, something really little happens, like a raised voice, a tone, or a look, and suddenly, you’re that child again. The one who learned to stay quiet, to make yourself small, to keep the peace.

I recently spoke with someone who said, “I don’t talk about it anymore.

I just decided to stop thinking about it.” But as she said it, tears were falling from her face, the kind of tears that tell you the wound never really closed, it just learned how to hide.

She told me stories, the kind that make you realize how cruel love can sound when it’s filtered through pain. Her father wasn’t physically violent, but he broke her in other ways. With words, with silence, with absence, with control.
And somewhere along the line, she learned to confuse fear with respect.

That’s the thing about childhood trauma, you don’t always recognize it until you start seeing it in how you love, how you parent, how you pull away when people get too close. It shows up when you over-apologize, when you assume you’re always the problem, when you crave peace but don’t know how to live without chaos.

Some of us were told to “be strong,” but what that really meant was “don’t feel.” Some of us were “good children,” but only because we were scared to be anything else.

And now, as adults, we call it personality. We say “I just like being alone,” or “I don’t get attached easily,” when what we really mean is: I learned early that love wasn’t safe.

The hardest part about growing up with wounds like that is realizing no one is coming to apologize for them. Healing becomes something you have to choose, even when it feels unfair that you’re the one cleaning up a mess you didn’t make.

But I guess that’s the beauty and the heartbreak of growing up; learning that survival isn’t the same as healing.

So, if you’re reading this and maybe you’ve been carrying things you never named… the fear, the silence, the ache of never feeling enough, I just want you to know that you deserved better, and it’s okay to start giving yourself what you needed all along.🫂

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

Sometimes, a nation’s soul fractures quietly. Not with the sound of gunfire or the collapse of walls, but with the slow, deliberate silence that follows injustice.

I think of Ochanya Ogbanje, a name that should have been just a name, belonging to a bright young girl with laughter in her voice and promise in her eyes. But her name became a symbol. A wound. A question that refuses to heal: How many more will we fail before we finally learn?

Ochanya was only thirteen when the world taught her what it means to be unprotected. She lived through unspeakable abuse, died from the scars of it, and even in death, was betrayed by a system that should have stood for her. Her story did not end with justice. It ended with silence.

But silence, I have learned, is not neutral. Silence is the accomplice of violence. It is the soft spoken killer of truth. And we, we who read, who post, who whisper our outrage and then move on, we are often complicit in that silence.

In African homes, we do not talk about mental health. We wrap pain in the language of faith and endurance.

We tell survivors of abuse to be strong, as though strength means pretending the trauma never happened. We pray for healing but forbid the words that name our wounds.

We are a people who fear shame more than we fear suffering. And so, we silence the broken hearted. We tell the girl who has been abused not to bring disgrace to her family.

We tell the boy who has been violated to “man up.” And in doing so, we cultivate generations of people who smile beautifully in public and fall apart in private.

Ochanya’s story is not only about abuse. It is about what happens when a society chooses denial over empathy. It is about the mental toll of injustice, how the mind crumbles when it realizes that truth does not always win, that pain does not always move hearts, that even death can be met with apathy.

We must talk about the mental health of survivors, not as a side issue, but as the very heart of justice. Because justice is not only about punishment, it is also about healing. What good is a verdict if the soul remains shattered? What comfort is a law if the mind still trembles in the dark?

To honor Ochanya is to confront our complicity. It is to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions.

How many Ochanya’s live among us alive, smiling, studying, praying and yet dying quietly in their minds because they were never believed?

Let Ochanya’s name be a reckoning, not just for the men who harmed her, but for all of us who allowed silence to thrive. Her story should haunt us, move us, and ultimately change us.

Because until we begin to heal the minds of the broken, justice will always be incomplete…

Hi, I’m Lucy Anih

I share real stories about life; the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My hope is that my words encourage you to embrace your journey and know that even in your hardest moments, you are enough.

Have you ever noticed how, when an artist paints pain, people call it “beautiful?” How, when a poet writes about heartbreak, they call it “brave,” and when a singer turns grief into melody, everyone claps.

Sometimes, I wonder if the world only knows how to love our wounds when they’re wrapped in beauty… And maybe that’s why so many of us are tired, tired of performing our hurt until it sounds like healing.

I think about the painter who keeps brushing over memories just to make them softer, about the writer who turns heartbreak into metaphors so no one sees how deep it really goes, and also, the singer who hides her tears under the sound of applause.

I think that’s what no one says about artists. We’ve learned to bleed neatly, to call it expression, to say, “this is art” when what we really mean is “this still hurts.”

I’ve been there too, so many times, I’ve written, not because I felt inspired, but because it’s the only way I knew to survive the noise in my head.

People read my words and say “nice write up,” or “this is beautiful,” and I smile. Because what I really wanted to tell them, is that beauty wasn’t the point, it was just the shape the pain took when I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

And isn’t it really strange, how pain can look so gentle on paper, how brokenness can pass for depth, and how exhaustion can wear the face of strength…

But the truth is, we don’t always have to turn our pain into poetry. Sometimes, we’re allowed to just feel it, raw and unpolished, without making it pretty for anyone else to understand.

So, if you’ve been bleeding quietly and the world keeps calling it beautiful, I see you.

I know what it’s like to write through pain and watch people call it ”art”.

And maybe that’s what we all are; walking canvases, carrying stories that hurt to tell.

But maybe the point of awareness isn’t to stop creating, it’s to remind the world that behind every “beautiful piece” is a human being who is still learning how to breathe through their own masterpiece. Maybe it’s time we stopped romanticizing pain long enough to see the people inside it.

We are not just poets, or painters, or performers, we are people trying to make sense of what life has done to us. And maybe that’s what makes art sacred after all; not the applause, but the courage it takes to create even when it hurts.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

There’s an unpopular opinion whispered in churches, preached on some pulpits, and silently believed by many; that Christians who get depressed are not praying Christians.

That if your faith were strong enough, anxiety would not find a home in you. That you do not need therapy, you only need prayer.

I once believed that too.

When I first became serious about my walk with God, I wanted my life to reflect unwavering faith.

So, when I started to feel the weight of depression and anxiety pressing down on me, I denied it.

How could I, a believer, admit to being mentally unwell? Wouldn’t that mean I didn’t trust God enough?

I convinced myself that if I just prayed harder, fasted longer, and quoted more Scripture, the sadness would disappear.

But it didn’t.

Instead, my silence and denial made things worse. My mental state began to affect my schoolwork. I was constantly tired, distracted, and overwhelmed.

I prayed and prayed — not out of peace, but out of fear. I was terrified that acknowledging my pain would mean I lacked faith.

By the end of that semester, I had the worst result I’d ever had.

It took me a while to realize that faith and therapy are not enemies. Seeking help does not mean you’ve stopped trusting God. It means you recognize that healing can come through many channels, including the wisdom He gives to others.

If we can visit a medical doctor when our body aches, why do we hesitate to see a mental health professional when our mind is in distress? The truth is, a therapist is also a doctor.

I’ve come to understand that our faith was never meant to silence our pain; it was meant to give us strength as we face it. Even Elijah, one of the greatest prophets, once begged God to let him die.

David cried out in anguish countless times. Jesus Himself was “sorrowful unto death” in Gethsemane. If the Son of God could acknowledge His anguish, why can’t we?

To the Christian struggling with depression, anxiety, or burnout:

You are not less spiritual for needing help. You are not faithless for feeling overwhelmed.

You are simply human and God’s love is big enough to meet you in both your prayers and your therapy sessions.

Hi, I’m Lucy Anih

I share real stories about life; the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My hope is that my words encourage you to embrace your journey and know that even in your hardest moments, you are enough.

Sometimes, I think being the strong one is both a blessing and a curse. Because, you become the safe place, the listener, the one who says “it’s okay” when everything is breaking apart. You become the one people call at midnight, the one they cry to, the one they trust with their chaos. The one who listens, who shows up, who gives… over and over again, because you know what it feels like to be alone, and you don’t want anyone else to feel that way.

But here’s the part no one talks about:

Who do you call when it’s you who’s breaking?

Who do you text when your own chest feels heavy?

It’s strange, isn’t it?

People look at you and assume you’re fine, just because you always seem fine. They mistake your composure for peace, they don’t realize that the smile you wear is often a shield, that “I’m fine” sometimes means “I don’t think anyone would believe me if I said otherwise.”

I guess I’m just used to being the one everybody leans on, instead of being the one doing the leaning. And maybe that’s why I sometimes see being strong as a weakness; because somehow, it makes you invisible.

Imagine being out there saving everybody but yourself. It’s like carrying people through storms while quietly drowning under your own rain.

The truth is, it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to always be the one holding it together. Sometimes, I want someone to look at me and say, “You don’t have to be strong today, you can just be. You’re allowed to rest, to break down, to say “I’m not okay, because you deserve care too.”

But there’s a kind of ache that comes with being needed all the time, it teaches you to hold others, but never yourself. But the truth is, strength was never meant to be loneliness in disguise, and even the strong ones need soft places to land, too.

So, while you’re trying to be there for everybody else, make sure you’re looking out for you. Because pain is always hardest for the ones left standing.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

All across the world, more people continue to struggle with mental health challenges like depression and anxiety, yet many suffer in silence because of stigma and shame.

This is not just any campaign! This is a movement to raise awareness about mental health, break harmful stereotypes that keep people silent, and encourage more open & honest conversations

We’ve made joining super simple! If you’re a young person who wants your voice to be heard, all you have to do is place your photo in, write your name, and share on any social media platform of choice.

🎗️ HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE MENTAL HEALTH IS NOT TABOO CAMPAIGN 2.0🎗️

Step 1: Get Your Flier

Click on the provided link(s) to access a range of flier options.

Flier 1 Flier 2 Flier 3

Step 2: Personalize Your Flier

Upload your photo and input your name.

Step 3: Download Your Flier

Crop the Watermark

Step 4: Share Your Flier

Post your personalized flier on your social media platforms (Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, WhatsApp)

Use the hashtags #MentalHealthisNotTaboo and #WorldMentalHealthDay to spread the message.

Step 5: Get Reposted!

Tag us on Instagram (@cformentalhealth) for a chance to be featured and reposted on our official pages.

🎥Want to Take It Further?

Your story matters, and it can heal.

If you’d like to share a short video (30–60 seconds) about what mental health means to you or how you’re breaking the stigma, we’d love to hear it.

Kindly fill out this short form to submit your video and we will repost it on our social media

Your words could help someone heal or find courage to speak up.

Lastly…Get Your Friends to Join in!

Share the participation flier with a friend, colleague or family

By participating, you’re helping to break the stigma around mental health. Let’s get the conversation going and support each other!

Join Our Community

To stay connected beyond this campaign, we’d love to have you join the C for Mental Health WhatsApp Community.

It’s a safe, supportive space where we hold mental health conversations, share coping resources, and work together to create awareness all year round.

I will always envy those who grow up with parents who understand that mental health is just as important as physical health. Because for many of us raised in African homes, nothing feels heavier than battling invisible wounds in households where parents dismiss, minimize, or outright deny the reality of mental struggles.

Of course, not all African parents fall into this category. But the truth is, many do. Many glorify suffering, consciously or not, because suffering is what shaped them. Most of our parents grew up in scarcity, walking miles to school, working from childhood, raising siblings, enduring silence about pain.

They embody the “from nothing to something” narrative, hardened by experiences where there was no space for weakness, let alone therapy. Their own parents had little to no language for mental health, and that generational silence echoes loudly today.

And while I empathize with that history , my heart breaks for the hurt they carry , I struggle to understand why so many choose to repeat the cycle instead of breaking it.

Why they dismiss their children’s cries as laziness, weakness, or a lack of faith. Studies have long shown that mental health struggles are leading causes of suicide, yet in many African households, depression, anxiety, or ADHD are waved away as excuses.

I think of my friend’s younger brother, struggling in school with grades so low it alarmed everyone. When I sat with him, it was clear: he wasn’t lazy; he was wrestling with what looked like ADHD. His restless speech, his fractured attention , his mind was a battlefield.

I told my friend my concerns, and she admitted she felt the same. But her mother dismissed it every time, insisting he was “perfectly fine” and simply needed to work harder. Her father? Untouchable on the subject. Even mentioning ADHD would provoke anger, denial, or shame. And so the boy suffers, not just from the condition, but from being unseen.

Then there’s another friend, a medical student in the UK. Overwhelmed by pressure, she broke down and called her father, her last resort after others couldn’t pick up. She was in tears, hoping for comfort. Instead, he scolded her: “Stop crying, are you a baby?” “Toughen up” “Work harder”, “Pray more.”

Each word stripped away her humanity. And I wonder, if tomorrow he were to hear she had taken her life, would he ever connect that outcome to his refusal to see her pain?

This is what many of us face: a culture that treats mental health as shameful, as a crack in the armor of success, rather than what it truly is, an inseparable part of human well-being.

It is heartbreaking, because behind every suicide, every breakdown, every silent struggle, there is often a history of invalidation from the very people meant to be our first safe place.

But I refuse to believe the cycle must continue.

My prayer is that our generation chooses differently , that we create homes where children are safe not only in body but also in mind, where feelings are not dismissed but understood, where empathy replaces denial.

And for our parents, I pray for grace, that they may unlearn the silence they inherited and see that love, real love, means caring for the heart and mind as much as the body.

Because hurt people may hurt people, but healed people can heal generations.

Hi, I’m Lucy Anih

I share real stories about life; the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My hope is that my words encourage you to embrace your journey and know that even in your hardest moments, you are enough.

There were seasons of my life where I felt invisible. Like the world kept moving, people kept laughing, and I was just standing still, carrying a weight no one else could see.

I remember wishing someone would notice. Not the version of me who said “I’m fine,” but the version who was exhausted from always being strong. I didn’t need anyone to fix my problems, I just wanted someone to sit with me, to remind me I wasn’t alone.

And for a long time, I didn’t have that. I thought being strong meant keeping everything to myself. I thought asking for help meant weakness, but silence has a way of building walls around the heart.

Then slowly, I began to discover the power of community. A space where I could show up as I was; messy, vulnerable, tired, unsure, and still be accepted. A space where people listened, not to reply, but to understand. Where one kind word was enough to steady me. Where one listening ear made the weight feel lighter.

It wasn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes it was just a check-in: “How are you, really?” Or the relief of hearing someone say, “I’ve been there too.” And in those moments, I learned that carrying each other doesn’t always mean solving each other’s problems. Sometimes it simply means being present.

That’s the beauty of community. It’s not about pretending the hard days don’t exist. It’s about creating room for both; the joy and the pain, the laughter and the tears. It’s about being human together, no masks, no filters.

And that’s what I hope you find here. Not just a group to belong to, but a safe place to breathe. A place where you can lay down your armor, where your voice matters, where your story is welcome. Because life is heavy enough as it is, we were never meant to carry it all alone.

So, if you ever feel like the weight is too much, remember: there’s a hand reaching out. There’s a circle of people who will stand with you, listen to you, and remind you that you’re not invisible. Because sometimes, all it takes is a single conversation to feel lighter, and that’s what we’re here for.

If you’d like a space where you can talk, listen, or simply be yourself on both the heavy and the light days, our WhatsApp community is open to you:

https://chat.whatsapp.com/H7xVcbW5QMWB 0FeUzbxvN2

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

For years, I carried a quiet shame, believing something was wrong with me. I could not connect with men, could not let my guard down, could not soften into romance.

At one point, I even wondered if perhaps I was gay, but that didn’t fit either, because I was not attracted to women. I felt like an outsider to love itself, someone fundamentally flawed.

Then I stumbled across the theory of attachment styles. Reading about the anxious-avoidant type was like looking into a mirror for the first time. Suddenly, I wasn’t “broken”, I was traumatized.

The Institute for Life Coaching describes this attachment style as the paradox of craving closeness yet fearing vulnerability. The same caregiver who should have been a source of safety became a source of fear, leaving the child both longing for comfort and terrified of it.

In adulthood, that conflict grows into the infamous “push-pull” dance: desperate for intimacy but equally desperate to escape it.

That was me.

I grew up in an abusive home where safety was a myth, where fear was my daily bread.

My inner child never knew tenderness, only survival. Men, especially, became figures of danger. And so I learned to be hyper-vigilant, mistrustful, closed off.

Now, at 23, I find myself afraid that I will grow old never having loved or been loved by a man. I have never had a boyfriend, never truly fallen for anyone. The few men I did talk to lost interest once they discovered I was abstaining. And the two I actually liked turned out to be avoidant

themselves, they were a mirror of my own wounded patterns.

With them, I was a storm of contradictions. I wanted connection but ghosted them when it felt too close. I longed for affection but recoiled at the first hint of intimacy. I feared being abandoned, yet I was the one running away.

My coping mechanisms were sharp and defensive: passive aggression, stonewalling, blocking, disappearing. One man told me, “You’re unstable.

One minute you want me, the next you can’t stand me.” I wanted to scream that I did like him but my fear of rejection stole the words from me.

Therapy has helped me peel back these layers. My therapist once told me I gravitate toward emotionally unavailable men because, in truth, I am one of them. She said,“Emotionally, you remind me of a man.”

That cut deep but she was right.

The anxious-avoidant lives in a push-pull cycle: hot one moment, cold the next. Yearning and retreating, loving and fleeing.

Hi, I’m Lucy Anih

I share real stories about life; the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My hope is that my words encourage you to embrace your journey and know that even in your hardest moments, you are enough.

“Half light, half shadow,” Tennyson wrote.

And isn’t that what we become, when we’re told to hide half of ourselves?

For too long, men have been asked to carry the unbearable. Asked to tough it out, to push down the tears, to laugh when it hurts, to smile when something inside is breaking…

Strength has been mistaken for silence, and vulnerability, for weakness.

But what if the bravest thing a man could ever do is to feel?

I think about how often boys grow into men with the same unspoken rule stitched into them: “Don’t cry. Man up. Don’t let them see you break. Be strong.” And so they carry pain like armor, laughing louder, standing taller, pretending that nothing has touched them, when in truth, everything has.

I’ve seen it in the subtle ways, in conversations. In the way a laugh sometimes covers the weight in a voice. The way “I’m fine” has become the most believable lie. I’ve heard it in the pauses between words; the way a voice cracks, then recovers quickly, as if to say, I shouldn’t let this show.

But why shouldn’t it show?

Why do we still believe that the heart is any less strong because it weeps? Why do we call it courage when men are crumbling inside, yet still pretend they’re fine?

I really can’t help but wonder…how much pain is sitting in men’s chests, waiting, yearning for a safe outlet?

Maybe this is why so many walk around with a heaviness that words can’t reach. Because little by little, they’ve started to believe that being human is somehow a flaw, that showing softness makes you less.

But it doesn’t.

Your feelings are not proof of weakness, they are proof that you are alive, they are proof that you care, that you’re touched by the world around you, that your heart is not numb. To me, that is the opposite of weakness, that is strength.

I know there are so many people carrying so much, even more than anyone realizes. You get up every morning, wear your smiley face, and go through your daily routine; you joke, you listen, you contribute, and yet deep down, maybe you are asking yourself: Does anyone see me? Does anyone know how heavy this is?

I may not know the details of your story, but I see the weight. And if no one has told you this before, let me be the first: you don’t have to hold it all alone.

It doesn’t make you less of a man to admit you’re hurting. It doesn’t make you fragile to let tears fall. It doesn’t strip away your dignity to say, I need help. In fact, there is something really courageous about being honest with yourself, about breaking the silence that has been forced on you for so long.

You don’t have to keep pretending, you don’t have to keep swallowing the words that are begging to be spoken, you don’t have to keep hiding the part of you that aches.

Because strength is not the absence of struggle. Strength is showing up, even when you’re breaking. Strength is being honest enough to say: This is hard, and I need to breathe.

So if today you feel like you’re holding too much, let yourself loosen the grip. If the tears come, don’t fight them back. If the words rise, let them find a way out. Give yourself permission to feel what you feel, without shame, without apology.

Because “they never learned to love, who never knew to weep” ~ Tennyson.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️

What began as a harmless distraction quickly grew into something heavier. A few minutes of scrolling between tasks, a quick peek before bed, that was how it started. But before long, those “few minutes” became hours, and the screen wasn’t just something I looked at. It was something that began to look back at me, shaping how I thought, how I felt, and even who I believed I was.

In the beginning, it seemed like fun. I was laughing at jokes, keeping up with friends, feeling part of conversations that everyone was having online. But slowly, underneath the laughter and the updates, cracks began to show. My attention span grew shorter, my confidence grew shakier, and little by little, my sense of self was slipping away, traded for likes, comments, and the endless pressure to measure up.

When “Perfect” Became My Prison

Instagram was my most beautiful cage. I didn’t post all the time, but when I did, everything had to be flawless; the angle, the outfit, the hair, the makeup. To the world, I was an “IG baddie.” But behind the edited and carefully staged pictures, I was someone who doubted her own reflection.

Every like became a vote on my worth. If a post didn’t do well, I felt ugly, inadequate, almost invisible. So I adjusted, edited my skin smoother, posed harder, smiled less naturally. Without realizing it, I stopped being myself and started performing for strangers. The scariest part? I thought this was normal.

And then came the algorithm. The less I wore, the more I was rewarded. Bikini photos exploded with attention, comments declaring me “perfect body” or “a doll.” I let it feed my ego, but deep down, I hated that my confidence was tied to how much of my body I revealed. Instagram was quietly teaching me that beauty mattered more than brains, more than kindness, more than the real me.

The Loneliness Behind the Likes

The most unsettling thing wasn’t the comments, it was the silence behind them. I could be breaking inside, but as long as I posted a polished photo, people assumed my life was perfect.

“Hottie.” “Unreal.” “Goals.” They never knew I was hurting and the truth is, I didn’t want them to.

But it showed me how easy it was to fake happiness online, and how fragile we become when validation comes from people who don’t truly know us.

My breaking point came on my mom’s birthday. The whole family was laughing, eating, celebrating and I was glued to Instagram, refreshing likes on a picture I had just posted.

I didn’t even notice when everyone went to take photos without me. Later, scrolling through the album and not seeing my face in those memories, I felt a pain I’ll never forget. I had chosen a screen over my own family. That night, I realized Instagram wasn’t harmless anymore, it was stealing moments I could never get back.

A Toxic Kind of “Connection”

Social media also distorted my idea of connection. I obsessed over celebrities’ lives as if I knew them. I spiralled when an old classmate unfollowed me. I kept up with people I hadn’t spoken to in years, people who no longer played any role in my life.

Looking back, it was absurd but inside that bubble, it felt so real. My world was full of noise, but empty of genuine presence. Social media made me feel connected to everyone and no one at the same time.

Life After Quitting.

It’s been a year since I walked away, and I’ve never felt lighter. My time is now filled with hobbies instead of scrolling. I laugh more with my family. I’m present with my friends. I can focus on school, on my future, and most importantly, on myself.

The biggest change is my self-worth. For the first time in years, it isn’t tied to a screen.

I don’t need edits or likes to feel beautiful.

I don’t need strangers to remind me I’m enough. I wake up knowing it already.

And I need to be clear, I don’t think social media is evil. For some people, it’s a tool for business, creativity, or community. But for me, it became toxic, draining, and dangerous. If you see even a little of yourself in my story, please know this: stepping away is not weakness. It’s freedom.

You’re not missing out instead you’re gaining back your life. The laughter with your family, the hobbies that make you lose track of time, the peace of knowing you’re enough without anyone’s approval; that’s where real living is.

Because at the end of the day, your worth isn’t measured by followers or likes. It’s measured by how you treat yourself, how you love others, and how present you are in the moments that truly matters.

Hi, I’m Lucy Anih

I share real stories about life; the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My hope is that my words encourage you to embrace your journey and know that even in your hardest moments, you are enough.

Not at the beginning, not at the end. Just here… in the middle of figuring things out.

Sometimes, I wonder if life enjoys pulling the rug from under my feet. One moment, I'm convinced I have it all figured out – my dreams, my path, all the little details... And for a moment, it feels like I can finally rest, like maybe I've arrived at a place that feels steady.

But then, almost without warning, it all shifts again. Everything I thought was certain suddenly feels fragile, and I'm just there, staring at the mess, wondering how I ended up back at square one again. It feels unfair. No, it feels like betrayal – not from anyone else, but from life itself. And sometimes, most painfully, from myself.

Because I thought I was past this. I thought I was done falling into old patterns, done with the confusion, done with the back-and-forth. But here I am again, picking up pieces of myself that I thought I had already glued together. It's exhausting, you know – this cycle of building, crumbling, and rebuilding, over and over again.

And sometimes, I catch myself thinking, "Maybe I'll never break free from it. Maybe this is all I'll ever be – someone who tries, then fails, then tries again." And that thought alone feels really scary. But the more I think about it, the more I realize... maybe that's just what life is.

Not this perfect, straight line where we arrive and never move again, but this messy, unpredictable cycle of falling apart and learning to rebuild. And maybe rebuilding doesn't even mean we've failed. Maybe it just means we're still alive, still trying, still refusing to give up on ourselves, even when it feels like we're repeating the same old chapters.

I honestly don't have answers. I don't have a neat ending tied up with hope and certainty. But I just know that I'm still here, still trying, still picking up the pieces, even when I'm tired of rebuilding. So, if you're in this same place – where everything feels messy and uncertain – maybe we can remind each other that we're not failures for being here; we're just human.

And maybe being human means starting over more times than we thought we would. And maybe that's enough for now.

Hi, I’m Zainab Oderinlo.

I write real stuff about mental health and life. I talk about my struggles, my thoughts… all of it. I sincerely hope it helps you feel less alone…❤️