Hi.

I’ve been thinking about something recently. Graduating from university gave me enough distance to finally see what I was too busy living through to understand.

Serving in university was doing something to me.

At the time, I thought I was just holding positions. Attending meetings. Planning events. Following up with people who had seen the message but were spiritually committed to ignoring it. 😂

But I was learning. A lot.

I currently serve as a Human Resources Co-lead in a leadership and personal-development community. And this experience has made me grateful for my university years, not just because I graduated, but because I had opportunities to serve in ways that actually built something.

I think we underestimate what service does to a person.

University Is More Than the Classroom

There are things you learn in lectures. And then there are things you only learn when someone hands you responsibility and says: “Handle this.”

That sentence is humbling.

Suddenly it’s not theory. People are waiting. A deadline is approaching. Someone went offline. The plan changed. The budget is smaller. And everybody is looking at you.

Welcome to leadership. 😂

But here’s what I want students to understand: the positions you hold in school often mirror real professional functions.

If you serve as Secretary-General, you’re developing administration, documentation, coordination, communication, and organizational governance. Real organizations have people doing this work.

If you’re a Financial Secretary, you’re not just tracking contributions. You’re learning financial management, record-keeping, accountability, budgeting, and reporting. With the right additional education, that foundation becomes valuable in finance, accounting, fintech and related fields.

If you’re a Follow-Up Coordinator, you’re learning something critical: people management. You’re tracking engagement, understanding why someone disengaged, communicating with different personalities, maintaining relationships. That matters in HR, People Operations, Talent Management, Customer Success and Community Management.

If you’re an Organising Secretary, you’re learning project coordination—timelines, logistics, resources, people, vendors, communication, execution. That’s project management.

If you’re a Publicity Secretary or Media Director, you’re developing communication, content, branding, audience engagement, storytelling, and digital strategy. That translates into communications, marketing, PR, media and brand work.

If you’re a Welfare Officer, you’re learning how to identify needs, advocate for people, manage sensitive situations, communicate with empathy. That’s relevant in people operations, employee experience, community management and social impact.

If you’re a Departmental President, you’re coordinating people, managing stakeholders, making decisions, delegating, negotiating, representing a group, solving problems, managing conflict. Those competencies exist in almost every serious organization.

If you’re a class representative, you’re already learning stakeholder representation, communication, feedback collection, conflict management and information dissemination. That’s an organizational function—it just looks ordinary because the stakes are smaller.

If you’re a project lead, you’re getting perhaps the clearest introduction to professional work. You have an objective, people, constraints, deadlines, and deliverables. You have to make it all work. That’s project management—the title is just different.

Take the environment away and examine the actual work. A Secretary-General is administrating. A Financial Secretary is managing financial processes. A Follow-Up Coordinator is managing relationships. A President is leading people and making decisions. A Project Lead is driving execution.

These are real organizational functions. The university simply gives you a lower-risk environment to practice them.

That’s a privilege.

Of course, a student position doesn’t automatically qualify you for a professional role. Being a Financial Secretary doesn’t make you a fintech executive. Being a Follow-Up Coordinator doesn’t automatically make you an HR professional.

Experience isn’t a substitute for expertise. You still need education. You still need technical competence. You still need certifications. You still need mentorship and professional experience.

But you should not ignore the experiences you’re already accumulating. Sometimes you’re building the first layer of a career without knowing it.

The Funny Thing About Transferable Skills

I understand this differently now because I’m experiencing it.

I’d never worked in HR before. But as I step into this role, I’m realizing that my time as Follow-Up Coordinator at CFI IUO was already teaching me how to think like an HR person.

At the time, I didn’t see it that way. I thought I was just coordinating. But what I was actually doing was managing people.

I had to communicate with members, understand why people weren’t showing up, follow up on commitments, encourage participation, work with completely different personalities. I had to figure out why someone disengaged. I had to reach someone who’d gone silent. I had to know who to push and who to support and who needed clarity versus who needed autonomy.

That’s not “just following up.” That’s people management.

I didn’t realize it then because I wasn’t working under the title “HR.” But looking back, I was already building competencies in engagement, communication, accountability, and retention. I was learning what it takes to keep people invested.

Here’s where I see the real shift:

In CFI, I was mostly reactive. Where’s this person? Why haven’t they responded? Did they forget? Let me follow up again. That works when your organization is small enough to manage through individual relationships.

But that’s not scalable. And it’s not sustainable.

What I want to do differently at G.R.I.T. is move from reactive follow-up to proactive systems.

Rather than constantly chasing people, asking “Where is this person? Why hasn’t this been done?”—I want to build enough clarity around roles, timelines, communication channels, and accountability that people understand what’s expected and have the support they need to deliver.

That’s the shift from “I’m doing the work” to “I’m creating conditions where people can do the work.”

At CFI, I learned what people need. At G.R.I.T., I want to design for it.

That’s how a Follow-Up Coordinator becomes an HR person. Not by changing the environment. But by changing how you think about the problem.

And here’s where I need to be honest: not every student skill transfers equally.

I knew a Publicity Secretary who treated the role like a portfolio builder. Pretty photos, zero strategy. The title didn’t teach them communication. Their lack of intentionality did.

I knew a President who delegated everything and called it leadership. They left that position exactly as they arrived, still unable to make difficult decisions or take real responsibility.

The position doesn’t teach you. Your choice to learn teaches you.

There’s also something uncomfortable: student leadership is forgiving. You can fail a major event and still graduate. Your organization survives without you. In HR, mistakes affect people’s paychecks, career trajectories, mental health. The learning curve isn’t just steeper—the consequences are real. You can’t approach it the same way.

But here’s what does transfer: the fundamental skill of working with human beings.

Research on student leaders shows they consistently develop competency in problem-solving, interpersonal communication, and decision-making—the exact competencies employers rate as most critical for professional roles. Two years after graduation, former student leaders report significantly higher confidence in crisis management and stakeholder communication than their peers.

That’s not magic. That’s practice.

You still have to understand people. You still have to communicate clearly. You still have to solve problems without a manual. The boardroom is different from the fellowship classroom. But the core skill, leading people without always having formal authority is the same.

And when you leave that student position, you don’t lose it. You keep it.

But Let’s Not Romanticise Leadership Positions

Here’s the important part: a leadership position does not automatically produce a leader.

You can occupy a title for an entire year and learn absolutely nothing. Attend meetings. Take pictures. Make announcements. Put the position in your bio. And leave exactly the same person you were when you entered.

The value isn’t in the position. It’s in what you do with it.

Did you actually learn? Did you ask questions? Did you take initiative? Did you reflect on your mistakes? Did you learn how to work with difficult people? Did you become better at communicating? Did you learn to manage your time? Did you become more emotionally intelligent? Did you learn to distinguish between urgency and importance? Did you make better decisions? Did you become better at taking responsibility? Did you leave the organization better than you met it?

That’s where the real value lies.

I’ve seen people hold multiple prestigious positions and build almost nothing. I’ve seen others take a single organizing role and develop genuine capacity. The difference wasn’t the title. It was the commitment to actually learn.

I Wish I Had Served More

Honestly? I’m grateful I served. Very grateful.

In fact, I’m now at a point where I can say: I wish I had served even more.

Not for more titles. Please. 😂 I had enough to last me a small lifetime.

I mean that I wish I had deliberately pursued more opportunities to build capacity. Because nobody really cares that you were the Publicity Secretary three years ago. The title has expired. The tenure ended. The organization moved on.

But what did the experience produce in you? That’s the real question.

If being a Publicity Secretary taught you how to communicate under pressure, build a team, manage stakeholders, meet deadlines and think strategically—that experience is still working for you long after the title disappeared.

If being a Departmental President taught you how to negotiate, resolve conflict and make difficult decisions—you kept those skills.

If being a Welfare Officer taught you empathy, discretion, emotional intelligence and how to genuinely care for people—you kept those too.

The position was temporary. The capacity wasn’t.

The Title Expires. The Capacity Remains.

One of the biggest lessons from university: opportunities to serve are also opportunities to develop yourself.

So if you’re currently serving somewhere, don’t only ask: “What am I gaining from this?”

Ask: “Who am I becoming because of this?”

What skills are you developing? What weaknesses are you discovering? What kind of leader are you becoming? What have you learned about people? What have you learned about yourself?

Because one day you will leave that campus. You may never hold that particular title again. You may never attend another meeting in that room. You may never coordinate that particular group.

And you may never again have to chase someone for a report at 11:47 p.m. 😂

But if you served well, you won’t leave empty-handed.

You’ll leave with judgment. Experience. Relationships. Resilience. Communication skills. Emotional intelligence. Problem-solving ability. The ability to lead. The ability to collaborate. The confidence to walk into unfamiliar rooms and figure things out.

You’ll leave with capacity. And capacity travels.

Maybe That Was the Point All Along

There were experiences I went through in university that I didn’t understand at the time.

Some responsibilities felt inconvenient. Some meetings seemed unnecessary. Some situations frustrated me. Some leadership lessons came through mistakes I’d rather not repeat.

But perhaps that was the point. I was being formed. Not perfectly. Not linearly. But deliberately.

Every responsibility stretched something. Every difficult conversation taught something. Every deadline demanded something. Every person I worked with revealed something about leadership and about me.

I didn’t recognize it while it was happening. I do now.

And that’s why I’m genuinely excited about this new chapter in HR. In some ways, it feels like I’m seeing the fruit of seeds I planted years ago without fully understanding what they would become.

University wasn’t merely preparing me to graduate. It was preparing me to become useful.

And I think there’s a profound difference.

A degree tells people what you studied. Your capacity tells people what you can do. Your character tells people what they can trust you with. Your experience teaches you what to do when nobody gave you a manual.

So, If You’re Still in School…

Serve. But don’t just collect positions.

Build capacity.

Don’t chase titles. Chase competence.

Don’t just occupy rooms. Learn from them.

Don’t just ask whether the position looks good on your CV. Ask whether the experience is making you better.

Because you really don’t know what you’re being prepared for.

That student organization may be teaching you how to manage a team.

That fellowship role may be teaching you how to communicate under pressure.

That project may be teaching you how to solve problems without perfect information.

That difficult person may be teaching you emotional intelligence.

That failed event may be teaching you resilience.

That responsibility you almost didn’t want may be developing a capacity you’ll desperately need five years from now.

Sometimes, what looks like “just school leadership” is actually preparation.

Preparation for rooms you haven’t entered yet. For responsibilities you haven’t carried yet. For people you haven’t met yet. For the person you’re becoming.

I left university with more than a degree.

I left with experiences. With relationships. With lessons. With scars. With stories. With competence. With perspective. And hopefully with enough wisdom to know that there’s still so much more to learn.

The titles are gone. The positions are over. The tenure ended.

But the capacity remains. And capacity travels.

So yes, I’m grateful I served.

And honestly? I wish I had served even more.

We’ve laughed at “small small lies” for so long that we’ve forgotten what honesty feels like.

Lying is Cute!

At least…

That’s what we’ve made it look like.

Not because lying is actually cute.

But because we’ve wrapped it in humor, memes, and “small small” excuses until it no longer feels like dishonesty.

“I’m outside.”

You’re still in your towel.

“I just saw your message.”

The message has been waiting for your reply since Tuesday.

“I’m on my way.”

Your slippers are still under the bed.

😭

We laugh.

We quote them.

We repost them.

We call them “relatable.”

Somewhere along the way, lying stopped feeling wrong and started feeling… cute.

Harmless.

Normal.

Almost expected.

I know because I used to be that person too.

One thing about me?

I used to lie.

Not because I was evil.

Not because I enjoyed deceiving people.

Just… because it was easy.

One Sunday morning, I was running late for church.

Very late.

Then my phone rang.

It was the Pastor Secretary General. If you’ve never been part of a campus fellowship, think of the Secretary General as one of the student leaders who helps keep everything running smoothly. They coordinate activities, communicate important information, and make sure services don’t descend into beautiful chaos.

“Where are you? You’re late o.”

Without even thinking, I replied,

“I’m on my way.”

😭

On my way to where, abeg?

I hadn’t even started getting ready.

My clothes were still lying on the chair.

I hadn’t stepped outside.

I wasn’t even close to leaving.

After I ended the call, I just stood there for a moment.

Then one question entered my mind.

“Why did I just lie?”

Nobody put a gun to my head.

Nobody threatened me.

Nobody said I’d be punished for telling the truth.

I could have simply said,

“I’m so sorry. I’m still in my room. I overslept. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Would they have been disappointed?

Probably.

Would the world have ended?

Absolutely not.

That moment stayed with me because it exposed something deeper.

Sometimes we don’t lie because we’re trying to manipulate people.

Sometimes we lie because we’ve become more comfortable avoiding discomfort than embracing honesty.

And that’s dangerous.

Because after a while, lying stops feeling like a decision.

It becomes a reflex.

The lie leaves your mouth before the truth even gets a chance to introduce itself.

As I thought about it, I realized I wasn’t the only one.

As children, someone asks,

“Who broke this plate?”

Suddenly everyone develops the spiritual gift of confusion.

“It wasn’t me.”

“I don’t know.”

“I wasn’t there.”

😭

Then we become adults.

“Have you left the house?”

“Yes, yes. I’m almost there.”

Meanwhile, your towel is still wrapped around your waist.

Your Uber driver would be shocked to know he’s supposedly driving you.

Someone sends you a message.

You ignore it for three days.

Then you finally reply,

“OMG! I just saw this.”

No, you didn’t.

You saw it.

You just didn’t want to reply.

😂

The funny thing is that nobody teaches us these lies anymore.

They’re almost… cultural.

They’re so common that they don’t even feel like lies.

They feel like social etiquette.

Like we’re all participating in one giant game of “Let’s Pretend.”

And that’s scary.

Because when something becomes normal, you stop questioning whether it’s healthy.

For a long time, I didn’t.

Then somewhere along the journey, I started asking myself one question.

Make I dey lie… for wetin?

Seriously.

For what?

To protect my image?

To avoid one uncomfortable conversation?

To escape temporary embarrassment?

At some point, I realized something.

Lying gives immediate relief.

But it invoices your future self.

And one day, the bill always comes due.

The truth does the opposite.

It may create temporary discomfort.

But it gives long-term peace.

That’s a trade I’ll choose every single time.

You know what’s exhausting?

Trying to remember lies.

“This person knows Version A.”

“Wait… did I tell her Version B?”

“Hold on… what did I tell him last week?”

😭

Why am I managing storylines like I’m the director of a Netflix series?

The truth has only one version.

It doesn’t need editing.

It doesn’t need updates.

It doesn’t require a group chat to keep everyone on the same page.

It simply exists.

The strange thing about telling the truth is that life becomes quieter.

You stop rehearsing conversations in your head.

You stop checking whether your stories match.

You stop panicking when your phone rings because you’re wondering who knows which version of the story.

There’s a certain peace that honest people understand.

It’s the peace of having nothing to protect except the truth.

And honestly?

That peace is addictive.

I’ve also noticed something else.

Many lies are born from fear.

We’re afraid people will reject us.

We’re afraid they’ll be disappointed.

We’re afraid we’ll look irresponsible.

So instead of saying,

“I forgot.”

we produce a full documentary featuring traffic, network issues, fuel scarcity, one imaginary emergency, and somehow… our village people.

😭

Meanwhile…

“I forgot.”

…would have ended the conversation in ten seconds.

These days, I genuinely ask myself,

Make I dey lie?

Oga…

The truth will set me free.

And it will set you free too.

Now, if you’re reading this and you’re thinking,

“Chidera, I actually struggle with lying.”

Thank you for admitting it, even if only to yourself.

That’s where change begins.

People don’t usually lie because they’re monsters.

Most people lie because somewhere along the line, they became convinced that the truth wasn’t safe.

Maybe every mistake was met with shouting.

Maybe honesty always came with punishment.

Maybe pretending became a survival skill.

If that’s your story, this isn’t condemnation.

It’s an invitation.

You don’t become an honest person overnight.

You become honest one conversation at a time.

One “I forgot.”

One “I was wrong.”

One “I don’t know.”

One “I’m sorry.”

One “I can’t.”

One truthful answer after another.

Maybe that’s why Jesus said,

“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Not because the truth is always painless.

But because freedom has never been found in pretending.

So today, choose one truth.

One honest conversation.

One sincere apology.

One simple admission.

It may feel uncomfortable.

But I promise you this.

The freedom that comes with honesty is worth every uncomfortable second.

Because maybe lying looks cute.

Maybe it’s funny.

Maybe it’s relatable.

But peace?

Peace is far more beautiful.

The kind of peace that comes from having nothing to protect except the truth.

So these days, whenever I’m tempted to tell a lie, I smile and ask myself,

“Make I dey lie… for wetin?”

After all, I’d grown up hearing things like:

“Just forgive and forget.”

“If you’ve forgiven them, act like nothing happened.”

“If God forgave you, why can’t you just move on?”

It sounded beautiful.

It also sounded… incomplete.

Then life became my teacher.

And life has a way of asking questions theology classes sometimes don’t.

Picture this.

You’re driving your father’s car.

He specifically says,

“Please don’t take this road. They’re repairing it.”

You nod confidently.

“Daddy, relax. I’ve got this.”

Five minutes later…

KPAAAM!

You have introduced the front bumper to a concrete barrier.

Congratulations.

The car now has a new shape.

You call your father.

Your voice immediately changes from adulthood back to childhood.

“Daddy…”

Every Nigerian parent knows that “Daddy…” with a trembling voice means, Prepare your heart.

He arrives.

Looks at the car.

Looks at you.

Looks at the car again.

That silence alone can lead someone to genuine repentance.

You begin apologizing before he even speaks.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have taken that road.”

Now imagine your father sighs and says,

“I forgive you.”

Your shoulders relax.

Your heartbeat returns to normal.

Then he adds,

“Now let’s figure out how we’re paying for this bumper.”

Wait…

I thought you forgave me?

He smiles.

“I did.”

“But forgiveness doesn’t magically repair damaged metal.”

That was the first lesson.

Forgiveness and consequences can exist in the same sentence.

We know this instinctively.

If your friend borrows ₦500,000 and gambles it away, you may forgive them.

You’re probably not giving them another ₦500,000 next week.

Not because you’re wicked.

Because wisdom also has rent to pay.

If your lecturer catches someone cheating during an exam, he may genuinely believe the student deserves another chance in life.

He can still award that student a zero.

Compassion doesn’t rewrite the answer sheet.

Even hospitals understand this.

A doctor may forgive the patient who ignored every medical instruction.

He will still insist they complete the treatment.

Because forgiveness heals relationships.

Consequences often heal character.

Then something happened while reading Scripture.

David’s story stopped being a Sunday school story.

It became painfully human.

Here was a man after God’s own heart.

A worshipper.

A king.

A poet.

A man who loved God deeply.

Yet in one terrible season, he committed adultery, manipulated power, and arranged the death of an innocent man.

When Nathan confronted him, David didn’t make excuses.

He simply confessed.

“I have sinned against the LORD.”

Nathan replied,

“The LORD also hath put away thy sin.”

Imagine hearing those words.

Your greatest failure…

forgiven.

Your relationship with God…

restored.

What incredible relief.

Then Nathan continues explaining that painful consequences would still follow.

At first, I thought,

“God, isn’t that harsh?”

Then I realized something.

If forgiveness erased every consequence, nobody would ever learn responsibility.

If every lie disappeared without damage…

If every betrayal left no scars…

If every reckless decision automatically reset itself…

The world would become a playground where actions carried no weight.

That isn’t love.

That’s chaos.

Then my perspective shifted completely.

I stopped asking,

“Why didn’t God remove all the consequences?”

I started asking,

“Why wasn’t David struck dead immediately?”

Because according to justice…

he deserved death.

That…

is mercy.

And suddenly I realized something uncomfortable.

I’ve been praying for mercy almost every day without calling it mercy.

Think about yesterday.

You crossed the road while looking at your phone.

Mercy.

You forgot to pray before leaving the house.

Mercy.

You made a decision that could easily have gone terribly wrong.

Mercy.

You sent a message to the wrong group…

then deleted it before anyone saw it.

If that has ever happened to you, don’t shout.

Just whisper,

“Thank You, Lord.”

That…

is mercy.

Some of us have testimonies we call “good luck.”

Heaven calls them mercy.

Here’s another funny one.

Have you ever sent a risky text?

You typed,

“Can we talk?”

Then accidentally sent it to the family WhatsApp group instead of your best friend.

Immediately your soul leaves your body.

You begin speaking in tongues.

You try deleting it before Auntie Esther, who reads messages at the speed of light, opens the chat.

If it disappears in time…

you don’t deserve applause.

You received mercy.

Then I thought about Peter.

Peter denied Jesus.

Three times.

Not privately.

Publicly.

Loudly.

With confidence.

Imagine denying your best friend while making eye contact.

Yet after the resurrection, Jesus didn’t begin with,

“Peter, explain yourself.”

He cooked breakfast.

Who does that?

The One who understands mercy.

Then He restored Peter.

Not because Peter had earned restoration.

But because love pursued him before perfection ever could.

And then…

there was the cross.

The place where every question finally finds an answer.

Justice stood there.

Mercy stood there.

Grace stood there.

Forgiveness stood there.

All at once.

Justice said,

“Sin must be paid for.”

Mercy said,

“Let the guilty go free.”

Grace said,

“Give them what they could never earn.”

Forgiveness said,

“Welcome home.”

The cross did not ignore justice.

It satisfied it.

Mercy was not God pretending sin didn’t matter.

Mercy was God saying,

“It matters so much that I will bear its cost Myself.”

That changes everything.

Maybe that’s why I no longer say,

“God has been good to me.”

Not because it’s untrue.

But because it’s incomplete.

The more accurate statement is,

“God has been merciful to me.”

Because if I received only what I deserved…

I wouldn’t be writing this.

Neither would you be reading it.

Every heartbeat is mercy.

Every sunrise is mercy.

Every second chance is mercy.

Every unanswered prayer that would have destroyed us if God had said yes…

mercy.

So here’s the lesson life whispered to me.

Forgiveness says,

“I release the offence.”

Mercy says,

“I withhold the judgment.”

Grace says,

“Come and receive what you never deserved.”

And the Gospel says something even more astonishing.

It says that the God we offended became the One who paid our debt.

That is why Christianity is not merely a religion of moral improvement.

It is the story of a holy God who refused to leave guilty people without hope.

And perhaps that is why the prophet Micah asked,

“Who is a God like unto thee… that delighteth in mercy?” (Micah 7:18)

Because every other king delights in power.

Every other empire delights in conquest.

But our God…

delights in mercy.

So the next time someone says, “God gave me what I deserved,” smile gently.

If that were entirely true, none of us would still be here.

We are standing.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Learning.

Trying again.

Not because we have exhausted God’s standards…

but because we have never exhausted His mercy.

And if that doesn’t make you love Him a little more today, I don’t know what will.

She simply asked,

“I’m new to Nigeria. What is akara?”

And I smiled.

Because that’s such a beautiful question.

It’s one of those questions Nigerians don’t even think to answer because akara is just… akara. It’s always been there. Like traffic. Like “Good morning” from strangers. Like NEPA reminding you that nothing in this life is permanent.

So Yolanda, this one’s for you.

Welcome to Nigeria.

And welcome to one of our greatest breakfast inventions.

Now…

If you know me personally, you already know this newsletter was inevitable.

I love akara like madddddd.

No exaggeration.

Imagine the confidence of the first person who said, “Hear me out… let’s peel these beans, blend them into a paste, whisk air into it, and then drop spoonfuls into hot oil.” That’s not cooking. That’s vision.

When that person says,

“Lord, can I have some bread?”

God should be like,

“Bread? My child, after akara? Take the whole bakery. In fact, own the franchise.”

Because that level of creativity deserves generational rewards.

So… what exactly is akara?

First of all…

Forget everything you think you know about breakfast.

Because one random morning, you’ll be minding your business and suddenly…

“Akara! Hot akara!”

Then it happens.

That smell.

Warm oil.

Fresh beans.

Pepper.

Breakfast.

Hope.

You’ll literally start walking toward the aroma like somebody remotely activated your spirit.

No be jazz.

Na akara.

Picture this.

It’s around 7 a.m.

The streets are already awake.

Danfo buses are arguing with each other using only horns.

One person is shouting about fresh bread.

Another is selling pap.

Then there’s one aunty.

Every neighbourhood has that aunty.

She’s sitting behind one giant black pot of hot oil like she’s guarding the nation’s gold reserve.

Then she reaches for that legendary iron spoon.

You know the one.

The spoon that looks like it has survived three generations.

The one that has probably fried enough akara to feed an entire local government.

The kind of spoon that looks like it could knock sense into Goliath…

…I’m joking. (Or am I? 😂)

She scoops the fluffy batter.

Plop.

It enters the oil.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Another one.

Another one.

Within seconds…

Perfect little golden balls begin floating to the top.

Omo.

Cinema.

Christopher Nolan couldn’t direct this scene better.

But what is it actually made of?

Akara starts as humble black-eyed peas.

Ordinary beans.

Nothing dramatic.

Then the glow-up begins.

The beans are soaked.

The brown skin is removed completely.

They’re blended with fresh pepper, seasoning and…

sigh…

Onions.

Yes.

Onions.

Now, if you’ve been here long enough, you already know I don’t like onions.

I respect people’s rights to enjoy them.

I simply choose peace.

Unfortunately…

Akara and onions have signed a lifelong covenant.

They’re inseparable.

I’ve accepted my fate.

So yes…

The onions are there.

I just pretend they aren’t.

Character development.

Then the batter is whisked until it becomes ridiculously fluffy.

Because see ehn…

If your akara batter isn’t fluffy…

Respectfully…

What exactly are we doing?

That air inside the batter is what gives akara its signature personality.

The outside becomes beautifully crisp.

The inside stays soft.

Warm.

Cloud-like.

It’s basically the introvert with a confident LinkedIn profile.

Hard launch outside.

Soft babe inside.

Nigerians don’t just eat akara.

We have history with it.

This isn’t merely breakfast.

This is nostalgia.

This is Saturday morning.

You’ve just survived family morning devotion.

Your parents have already preached three sermons, quoted seventeen Bible verses, and somehow used your entire life as a case study for “reaching your full potential.”

Your father has asked, “Do you think life is a joke?” at least twice.

Your mother has sighed the sigh that makes you question every decision you’ve made since birth.

You’re emotionally recovering.

Then…

You hear it.

“Akara don ready!”

Suddenly everybody that claimed they weren’t hungry develops ministry.

Peace returns.

Suddenly, life is worth living again.

This is “Mummy bought breakfast.”

This is standing beside the frying pot because you want the first batch.

This is burning your tongue because patience is apparently optional.

This is, “Blow am small before you chop!”

This is, “I’m broke but I refuse to starve.”

University students?

Akara has carried more GPAs than group projects.

Five pieces.

One loaf of bread.

You’re sorted till afternoon.

Budget secured.

Academic destiny preserved.

In fact…

I’m convinced that if Jesus had carried out the feeding of the five thousand in Nigeria… the disciples would’ve brought five pieces of akara and one loaf of Agege bread.

And somehow…

There would still be leftovers.

Don’t argue with me.

I’ve seen what akara can do.

Let’s discuss one of humanity’s greatest discoveries.

Bread and akara.

Omooooooooo.

Whoever invented this combination deserves to have a national monument.

Fresh Agege bread.

Still warm.

Slice it open.

Stuff two or three hot akara inside.

If pepper sauce enters the conversation…

Just know productivity for the next thirty minutes has been cancelled.

That first bite?

Crunch.

Softness.

Pepper.

Warm bread.

Then everything just comes together like the Avengers.

You’re no longer eating breakfast.

You’re having a spiritual encounter.

One thing I absolutely love?

Akara no dey discriminate.

Poor?

Come.

Rich?

Come.

Student?

Especially come.

CEO?

Bring your suit.

Mechanic?

Abeg sit down.

Pastor?

Two extra pieces.

Professor?

Join us.

Everyone is welcome.

You’ll find akara everywhere.

Roadside stalls.

Markets.

Schools.

Bus stops.

Office junctions.

Even fancy restaurants trying to convince you that artisanal bean fritters deserve luxury pricing.

Meanwhile one aunty outside has been doing Michelin-star work since 1998.

Fancy restaurants trying to charge ₦4,000 for what one aunty outside is selling for far less.

Life no true true balance sometimes.

Plot twist.

Akara isn’t only Nigerian.

Different versions exist across West Africa, including Ghana, Benin and Togo.

Then history took this humble breakfast across the Atlantic during the transatlantic slave trade.

Today, Brazil has acarajé, a close relative of akara that became an important part of Afro-Brazilian culture.

Imagine that.

One humble bean fritter crossed oceans carrying memories, resilience, identity and culture.

That’s beautiful.

So… what does akara taste like?

Imagine crispy and fluffy becoming best friends.

Imagine comfort with a golden crust.

Imagine taking one bite…

…then unconsciously closing your eyes because your brain needs a few business days to process what just happened.

That’s akara.

Simple ingredients.

Extraordinary result.

No unnecessary packaging.

No expensive branding.

Just beans.

Pepper.

A little onion that I continue to tolerate against my will.

Generational excellence.

Final thoughts.

I think akara perfectly represents Nigerians.

Resourceful.

Creative.

Warm.

We can take the simplest things and create something unforgettable.

That’s the Nigerian spirit.

So if you ever find yourself in Nigeria and someone says,

“Have you tried akara?”

Please don’t say,

“Maybe later.”

Later is dangerous.

Later becomes next week.

Next week becomes never.

Collect the akara.

Take the bite.

Burn your tongue a little because you couldn’t wait.

It’s part of the experience.

And just like that…

You’ll understand why an entire newsletter exists because one woman simply asked,

“What is akara?”

Yolanda…

I hope this answers your question.

And to everyone else…

If you haven’t eaten akara this week…

This is your sign.

P.S. If a Nigerian texts you, “Abeg buy akara when you’re coming,” understand that this is no longer an errand.

It is a sacred assignment.

Don’t fail us.

And finally…

To the anonymous genius who looked at a bowl of beans and said,

“Hear me out…”

Thank you.

Humanity owes you one.

Your bakery in heaven is waiting.

A Reflection on Formation, Intimacy, and What Shapes the Human Person

Before anything is concluded too quickly, it is worth slowing the instinct to label.

This is not a protest.

Not moral panic dressed as conviction.

Not purity culture repackaged in theological language.

It is something quieter and more demanding.

A question about formation.

Because beneath every argument about sexual ethics, beneath every cultural disagreement about what is “allowed,” there is a deeper question often avoided:

What is shaping the human person and in what direction is that shaping moving them?

Paul once wrote:

“I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” (1 Corinthians 2:2)

The cross is not only where sins are forgiven.

It is where human life is reinterpreted.

It does not only ask, “What have you done?”

It also asks, “What is being done to you?”

And that question is harder to escape.

The Ordinary Moment That Opened an Ancient Question

It began, not in a sermon, but in a room filled with laughter.

A delivery had just arrived. Products unboxed. Voices overlapping. Curiosity disguised as jokes—the kind of atmosphere where nothing feels serious until something suddenly becomes too serious to ignore.

And somewhere in the noise, a question surfaced:

“Are sex toys bad?”

The room split immediately.

Some dismissed it.

Some condemned it.

Some laughed it off.

But underneath the noise, something else was happening, something less about objects and more about anthropology.

Because the real question was not about a product.

It was about what kind of human being we are becoming in our understanding of desire.

A Personal Memory, and the Logic of Culture

Years ago, in a season marked by ambition and survival, a suggestion was made almost casually:

“Why not sell them? You understand marketing. You can package anything well.”

And strangely, it did not arrive sounding immoral.

It arrived sounding intelligent. Strategic. Profitable. Normal.

That is how culture often works.

Not every distortion enters dressed as darkness.

Some arrive dressed as opportunity.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly,what once required moral reflection becomes reduced to market logic.

This is how formation begins: not with rebellion, but with repetition. Not with outrage, but with normalization.

The Real Question Beneath the Debate

The issue is not merely whether something is “bad” or “allowed.”

That framing is too small for what is actually happening.

The deeper question is this:

What kind of imagination of intimacy is being formed?

Because Christianity has never treated sexuality as a private recreational zone.

It has treated it as a formative space, one that shapes how love, union, and even selfhood are understood.

Sexual Ethics as Formation, Not Merely Behavior

Modern conversations often reduce sexuality to consent and preference.

But biblical imagination moves further. It insists sexuality is not only about what is done, it is about what is formed.

Not merely behavior.

But the architecture of desire itself.

And Scripture consistently frames sexual wholeness around covenantal patterns:

• Mutuality — shared union, not isolated fulfillment

• Self-giving love — surrender, not control

• Relational embodiment — communion, not abstraction

In this light, the issue is not first pleasure.

It is direction.

1. When Intimacy Becomes Self-Contained

One of the quietest shifts in modern sexuality is this:

Intimacy becomes detachable from relationship.

Pleasure becomes achievable without presence.

Satisfaction becomes possible without communion.

Release becomes independent of relational responsibility.

And slowly, the body begins to learn a new language:

“I can experience fulfillment without becoming vulnerable to another.”

But biblical intimacy resists this fragmentation.

It insists that the body is not merely a site of sensation but of covenant encounter.

2. When Desire Learns Control Instead of Communion

There is a subtle but decisive difference between control and communion.

Control asks:

• When do I want this?

• How do I want this?

• Can I regulate the outcome?

Communion asks:

• How do I give myself?

• How do I receive another?

• How do I remain open, not self-contained?

One trains self-mastery.

The other trains self-giving love.

And the concern is not that control is evil in all form but that when control becomes the dominant shape of intimacy, it begins to redefine love itself.

3. When Desire Becomes Detached from Covenant Logic

In Scripture, desire is rarely isolated.

It is embedded in responsibility, relationship, and covenant accountability.

But when desire becomes self-contained, something subtle happens:

It teaches the heart that fulfillment does not require covenant.

And once that idea is internalized, it does not remain in private spaces.

It begins to shape how one sees people.

Because what is learned in solitude eventually becomes expectation in relationship.

4. When Imagination Is Quietly Disciplined

Perhaps the most invisible form of formation is imagination.

Because the mind does not merely respond to reality, it rehearses it.

Repeated patterns of satisfaction begin to teach the imagination what “normal” desire looks like.

And over time, a competing script emerges:

“I can access sexual fulfillment outside relational union.”

Not as ideology.

But as instinct.

And instincts are often where discipleship becomes invisible.

5. Not Everything Culturally Normal Is Spiritually Neutral

Paul’s tension is helpful here:

“All things are lawful for me, but I will not be dominated by anything.” (1 Corinthians 6:12)

Christian discernment is not only about permission.

It is about formation under lordship.

The question is not merely:

• Is this allowed?

But also:

• What is this doing to me over time?

• What kind of desires is this training in me?

• What kind of love is this preparing me for?

Because something can be culturally normal and still spiritually formative in the wrong direction.

A Final Clarification: This Is Not Condemnation

This is not an argument that collapses into shame.

Desire is not evil.

The body is not shameful.

Pleasure is not inherently sinful.

And God is not portrayed as reacting in anger to every human struggle with sexuality.

The issue is more precise than that.

It is about formation.

Because not everything that does not immediately harm you is spiritually shaping you well.

The Conclusion That Does Not Try to Be Final

So I cannot call it neutral.

Not because condemnation is the goal.

But because formation is never neutral.

It always moves in a direction.

And the real question is not whether desire exists.

It is what desire is becoming.

One of your next birthdays, get ready to see yourself on a billboard.

1. Deborah is kind.

Not nice but kind.

Because there’s a difference.

Niceness is often polite, situational, sometimes even performative. It knows how to respond well on the surface.

But kindness? Kindness is deeper. It is intentional. It is rooted. It is who you are when there is nothing to gain and no one is watching.

Kindness is a fruit of the Spirit, meaning it is not forced, it is formed. It is evidence of a heart that has been shaped, softened, and aligned.

And Deborah carries that kind of kindness.

The kind that is not loud, not trying to be seen, not trying to impress but you feel it.

In the way she speaks.

In the way she responds.

In the way she holds people with care, even when they don’t deserve it.

She has that deep, genuine, almost “too soft” kind of kindness, the type that could easily be mistaken for weakness by people who don’t understand depth.

But it’s not weakness. It’s strength under control. It’s love with discernment.

Deborah’s kindness feels like peace.

Like safety.

Like being seen without being judged.

And in a world where a lot of people are just trying to be “nice,”

Deborah has chosen to be kind and that makes all the difference.

I pray that your kindness will not make you vulnerable to harm, but instead, it will be preserved by wisdom and discernment.

That you will know when to give, how to give, and where to draw boundaries without ever losing the beauty of who you are.

2. Deborah is intentional.

And I don’t mean that in the casual “she tries” kind of way, I mean she lives life on purpose.

She doesn’t just show up, she shows up aware.

Aware of people. Aware of moments. Aware of impact.

With Deborah, things are not random.

The way she checks on you, the way she gives, the way she serves, the way she even listens—there is thought behind it. There is meaning behind it. There is heart behind it.

She doesn’t move absentmindedly through life.

She pays attention. She considers. She chooses.

And that’s what makes her different.

Because a lot of people act… but Deborah acts with intention.

She is deliberate with her energy, deliberate with her relationships, deliberate with how she shows up in people’s lives.

Being around her will literally teach you to be more intentional, to stop doing things just because, and start doing things with purpose, depth, and clarity.

Deborah is not just living life… she is living it consciously. And that’s rare.

I pray that your intentionality will never fade or become weary. That as you continue to live life on purpose, God will order your steps and align your decisions with His perfect will. I pray that God will honor your heart, the way you think things through, the way you consider people, the way you choose to show up meaningfully. May He send you people who are just as intentional with you. And in moments where you feel tired of always “being the one who tries,” I pray that God Himself will meet you there and remind you that your intentionality is not in vain.

3. Deborah is very intelligent.

And I don’t say that lightly.

It’s not just about knowing things, it’s the way she processes things.

The way she thinks, understands, and connects ideas… there’s depth to it.

She doesn’t just hear, you can tell she’s actually thinking.

Analyzing. Interpreting. Seeing layers that other people might miss.

There’s a quiet sharpness to her mind.

The kind that doesn’t always need to be loud to be evident but when she speaks, you know.

She carries both intelligence and understanding, which is rare.

Because it’s one thing to be smart, it’s another thing to be aware and Deborah is both.

Ah… I really have to give it to her.

She’s not just intelligent she’s deeply intelligent.

I pray that you will never doubt the brilliance God has placed inside you.

In moments of uncertainty, may confidence rise not from pride, but from a deep knowing of who you are and what you carry.

4. She is protective of the people she loves.

And I don’t mean it in a loud, aggressive way, I mean it in that quiet, firm, deeply rooted way that makes you feel safe without her even trying to prove anything.

If you are hers, you are covered.

Not just emotionally, but in the way she pays attention, the way she stands in the gap, the way she doesn’t easily let people she loves get mishandled or overlooked.

There’s a loyalty in her protection.

Not the kind that is performative or emotional in the moment but the kind that stays. The kind that watches. The kind that notices when something is off before you even say it.

She doesn’t just love people casually she holds them in her heart with responsibility.

And once you’re there, she doesn’t treat you lightly.

It’s the kind of protection that doesn’t always announce itself, but you feel it in the way she shows up, the way she defends without noise, and the way she simply refuses to be indifferent about your well-being.

If you are hers, you are not alone in battles you are covered.

I pray that your protective nature will never be taken for granted or misused.

That those you care for will not wound your heart, but will learn to value the depth of your loyalty.

5. We are very much alike 😭

And I don’t even know how to explain it without laughing, because it’s one of those rare connections that doesn’t feel like effort, it just exists.

If I don’t like something, she most likely doesn’t like it either.

If I like something, chances are she already resonates with it too.

It’s like our preferences, instincts, even our quiet reactions… are somehow aligned.

It’s not forced agreement, it’s natural similarity.

Our pastor used to say we behave the same, just in two different bodies.

And honestly? That description is painfully accurate 😂

Because even the way we think through things, respond to people, or just interpret situations, there’s a familiar rhythm to it. Like we’re different expressions of the same frequency.

It’s not just that we get along… it’s that we mirror in a way that feels almost intentional.

I pray that God will continually bless our friendship with wisdom, so we both know how to love each other well, honor individuality, and grow without losing the beauty of what you share.

6. Deborah has honor.

And it’s not something she announces, it’s something you observe the longer you know her.

There’s a weight to the way she carries people.

Not in a burdensome sense, but in a respectful, thoughtful, and intentional way. She doesn’t treat relationships casually. She handles people with a kind of dignity that makes you feel valued, even in small interactions.

She doesn’t just relate, she regards.

Her sense of responsibility is the same. When she is trusted with something, she doesn’t approach it lightly. There’s a quiet seriousness to her commitment, like she understands that what is given to her deserves care, not convenience.

And that’s where her honor shows most clearly, not in big gestures, but in consistency. In how she shows up. In how she speaks. In how she holds what and who matters to her.

Deborah doesn’t just have relationships, she honors them.

I pray that your integrity will continue to speak for you even when you are not in the room.

That your name will be associated with trust, reliability, and grace wherever you go.

7. She has structure.

And there’s something about people with structure that you can’t easily explain, but you feel it the moment you’re around them.

Deborah doesn’t move randomly through life.

There’s order in how she thinks, how she plans, how she responds, and even how she handles people and responsibilities.

She is grounded not easily scattered by emotions or pressure.

Steady not easily shaken by chaos or uncertainty.

Dependable, you don’t have to guess where she stands or whether she will show up; she simply does.

Her structure is not rigidity, it’s intentional stability.

It’s the ability to carry responsibility without breaking, and to stay consistent even when things around her are not.

And that kind of presence is rare.

Because in a world where many people are driven by impulse, Deborah carries herself with clarity, balance, and order.

She doesn’t just exist in spaces she holds them together.

I pray that the structure in your life will never become a burden, but a strength that continues to guide you with peace and clarity.

8. I love how God loves her.

Not in a distant, general way but in a personal, intentional, deeply attentive way.

The kind of love that notices her details, her growth, her struggles, and even the quiet things she doesn’t say out loud. The kind of love that doesn’t just celebrate her strengths, but also gently shapes her in places where she is still becoming.

God’s love for her is not conditional or seasonal. It is steady. It is patient. It is consistent even when she is not.

And I find comfort in knowing that before anyone ever loved her well, she has always been held by a love that is perfect, one that guides her steps, protects her heart, and keeps calling her deeper.

It’s beautiful to think that her kindness, her structure, her honor, and everything she carries… all flow from a life that is already deeply loved by God.

And that love is not finishing with her, it is still working in her.

I pray that His love will not just be something you believe, but something you feel in your daily life, steadying your heart, calming your thoughts, and reassuring your steps.

9. She takes my pictures like she understands me 😭📸

And it’s not just about snapping photos, it’s the awareness behind it.

The way she notices angles… not randomly, but thoughtfully, like she already sees the version of me that I’m trying to express before I even pose. The way she waits for the right moment, not rushed, not careless but intentional timing that captures something real, not forced.

With her, it’s never just “take a picture.” It feels like she is interpreting me through the lens. Like she understands the mood, the energy, the essence I’m trying to carry in that moment.

Angles? Always right.

Timing? Always intentional.

Energy? Always understood.

She doesn’t just take pictures, she sees people, and then translates that into images. And somehow, she just gets it 😭📸

I pray that your ability to notice details and capture moments with such intention will not only bring joy to others, but also open doors for you into greater creativity, influence, and expression.

10. She can take correction easily.

And that alone says a lot about her character.

Because it’s one thing to be capable, it’s another thing to be teachable. With Deborah, you don’t have to walk on eggshells or fear how she will react to feedback. She doesn’t turn correction into offense or pride, she turns it into understanding.

She listens.

Not just to respond, but to receive.

She processes what is said, holds it with maturity, and allows it to refine her rather than resist her. That kind of posture is not common, especially in a world where people often equate correction with attack.

But Deborah understands growth.

There’s a quiet humility in her that makes correction safe, not threatening. And there’s also maturity in her that allows her to separate emotion from development.

You’re not afraid to correct her because she doesn’t shut down or shut you out, she opens up, learns, and grows.

And that balance of humility and emotional maturity? It’s rare.

I pray that your heart will always remain teachable and open to growth, and that correction will never harden you but refine you.

11. Her heart 🤍

Not nice, kind. Deeply kind.

Because “nice” can be easy. It can be situational, polished, and sometimes even distant. But kindness is different; it is rooted, intentional, and deeply human.

Deborah’s heart is not surface-level. It doesn’t just respond well; it feels well. It carries people with care, even when it is inconvenient. It sees beyond behavior and responds with understanding, not just reaction.

There is a depth to her kindness that you don’t fully explain, you experience it.

It shows in how she listens, how she considers, how she chooses softness even when firmness would be easier.

Her heart doesn’t just do good things, it becomes a safe place for people.

And that kind of kindness is not common. It is cultivated. It is rare. It is beautiful.

I pray that your heart will remain soft in the right way, never hardened by disappointment, never closed by pain, and never reduced by what you’ve experienced.

12. She is dynamic.

And that word barely scratches the surface.

Because Deborah is not one-dimensional, you don’t get to fully “figure her out” in one encounter or one description. There are layers to her that unfold with time.

There is strength in her; quiet, steady strength that holds things together even when she doesn’t say much.

There is softness in her, the kind that makes people feel safe enough to be real around her.

There is wisdom in her, the kind that doesn’t just come from knowledge, but from discernment and lived understanding.

And there is depth in her, that emotional and spiritual weight that makes her presence feel meaningful, not just casual.

She doesn’t switch between these qualities, they coexist in her.

That’s what makes her dynamic.

She can be gentle and firm, quiet and expressive, playful and serious, all in the same person, in a way that feels balanced, not confusing.

And the more you know her, the more you realize she is not someone you can fully summarize, you just keep discovering new dimensions.

I pray that every layer of who you are will continue to grow in harmony, your strength will not overpower your softness, and your softness will not weaken your strength.

13. Her compassion towards people

It’s beautiful. It’s intentional. And it’s not the kind that is driven by emotion alone or momentary sympathy; it is thoughtful care in action.

She doesn’t just feel for people, she considers them. She pays attention to what they need, not just what is obvious. There’s a depth to the way she responds that shows she doesn’t treat people as cases or moments, but as humans with layers, stories, and feelings that matter.

Even in how she speaks or shows up, there is gentleness without carelessness, and understanding without losing discernment. She knows how to be soft without being shallow, and present without being intrusive.

The way she sees people and the way she chooses to respond to them, honestly should be studied.

I pray that your compassion will never grow cold or become heavy, but will remain pure, wise, and life-giving.

14. She has a giver’s heart.

And it’s not the kind of giving that is forced, performative, or driven by expectation. It flows from something deeper; something sincere, steady, and deeply rooted in love.

She gives freely, not because she is trying to prove anything, but because it is who she is. There is no hesitation in her generosity when her heart is moved; she responds naturally, without calculation or pressure.

What she gives is not just material; it is attention, presence, time, care, and emotional availability. And the way she gives carries dignity. It is thoughtful, not careless; intentional, not impulsive.

There is sincerity in how she releases what she has to others, like she understands that giving is not loss, but expression. And that makes her generosity feel pure, not transactional.

She doesn’t give because she has too much, she gives because her heart is open.

God will continue to supply all you need; emotionally, spiritually, and physically, so that your generosity will never come from lack, but from abundance.

15. She gives people second chances.

And that kind of grace is not common at all.

Because it takes emotional maturity to not reduce people to their mistakes, and it takes a soft but wise heart to believe that someone can still grow beyond what they’ve done. Deborah doesn’t easily discard people. She doesn’t rush to conclusions or shut doors permanently just because of one wrong moment.

She allows room, for reflection, for learning, for becoming better.

That doesn’t mean she is careless with boundaries; it means she understands that people are not always finished stories. There’s a patience in her grace, a quiet hope that people can still evolve if they are willing.

And that balance is rare, being open without being naive, and being gracious without losing discernment.

It says a lot about her heart: she believes in people longer than most would.

I pray that as you continue to give second chances, God will also surround you with people who recognize your heart and never treat your kindness cheaply. Also that your discernment will grow stronger, so you will know not just who deserves access, but who is truly ready for growth.

16. She listens… and she doesn’t judge.

And that is a rare kind of presence.

Because many people hear to respond, but Deborah listens to understand. She doesn’t interrupt people’s vulnerability with assumptions or conclusions. She allows people to speak fully, to be honest, even when it is messy, uncertain, or difficult to articulate.

She creates space.

Not just physical space, but emotional safety. The kind that makes people feel like they can drop the pressure of pretending and just be real.

And even when she hears things that could easily push someone into judgment, she chooses something deeper, understanding. Not because she ignores truth, but because she sees beyond the surface of a moment into the possibility of a person.

She has a way of holding people that says, “I hear you, and I still see you.”

And that ability, to listen without judgment, to hear beyond words, and to still choose grace is not common. It is a reflection of emotional depth, wisdom, and a heart that has learned how to carry people gently without losing discernment.

I pray that your listening heart will never become weary, and that you will never lose the ability to hear people deeply and truly.

I pray that as you create space for others, God will also create safe spaces for you, where you can be heard, understood, and not judged.

I pray that your openness will not be taken advantage of, but will attract people who are sincere, honest, and worthy of your trust.

I pray that your discernment will grow stronger even as your compassion remains soft, so you will always know when to listen, when to speak, and when to guard your peace.

And I pray that the same understanding you freely give to others will return to you in relationships filled with patience, kindness, and grace.

May your heart remain a safe place for others, and may your own heart always be safely held.

17. She buys me ice cream ooooo 😭🍦

And it’s not even about the ice cream itself, it’s the thought behind it. The way she remembers without being reminded, the way she pays attention to small details, the way she gives love in such simple but meaningful expressions.

With her, it’s never just a “gesture.” It’s intentional care. It’s her saying, “I see you, I know you, I thought about you.”

And somehow, something as simple as ice cream becomes a reminder of how deeply she loves in quiet, thoughtful ways that stay with you long after.

I pray that your life will always be filled with little joys that make your heart smile the same way you make others smile.

18. Her advice is top notch.

And it’s not the “say something to fill space” kind of advice, it’s thoughtful, processed, and deeply considered.

When she speaks, you can tell she doesn’t just react; she reflects. She takes time to understand the situation, weigh perspectives, and then respond with clarity that actually makes sense.

There’s wisdom in the way she breaks things down. Not complicated or overwhelming, but simple enough to understand and deep enough to shift your thinking.

And what makes it even more valuable is that her words don’t just sound good, they realign you. They help you pause, rethink, and sometimes even reset your decisions with more clarity and maturity.

With her, advice isn’t noise. It’s guidance.

I pray that wisdom will never depart from your mouth, and that when you speak, your words will continue to bring clarity, healing, and direction to those who hear you. God will keep sharpening your understanding so that your counsel remains sound, balanced, and deeply rooted in truth.

19. And finally… she is an Abinibi 😭😂

(If you know, you know.)

And honestly, that one doesn’t even need too much explanation, it’s just her essence showing up in full expression. The personality, the energy, the uniqueness… that “you cannot confuse her with anyone else” kind of presence.

It’s that final touch that reminds you she’s not just one thing, she’s a whole experience.

Happy birthday IGINLA DEBORAH MOYOSOLAOLUWA!

I love you!🩷

Let me explain what JAM Summit is first.

JAM stands for Jesus And Me and honestly, when they say “Summit,” they are not using big grammar for nothing. It is exactly what it sounds like: a gathering of believers, especially young believers, who are not performing Christianity… they are living the Gospel.

No religious show.

No “let me appear holy.”

No stage-managed spirituality.

Just raw, real, unashamed Jesus culture.

It’s that kind of atmosphere where faith is not whispered, it is expressed. Loudly. Freely. Creatively. Like people have finally found the space where their love for God is not too much, not too extra, not “calm down”, it is actually celebrated.

It’s not about looking spiritual.

It’s about being alive in Christ.

No filters. No pretense. Just believers showing up fully; heart, voice, body, and all for Jesus.

And the creativity??

Omo.

It is like God is actively creating in real time, and humans are just catching the signal and responding:

“YES LORD, TAKE THE STAGE AGAIN.”

Because the drama??

Ah.

It doesn’t just entertain you, it rattles you.

Like, one moment you are laughing… next moment your chest is tight… next moment you are silent, just staring… next moment you are wiping tears you didn’t plan to release.

And the wild part is, whatever you feel during that live stage play is valid. Because they are not just acting.

They are ministering through art.

Then worship enters the room like thunder.

Heavy. Unignorable. Alive.

Dance???

Please.

People are not just dancing.

They are tearing steps.

Like choreography is not enough, some people have decided that the floor must understand revival personally. They are breaking the steps, rebuilding them, and breaking them again for Jesus.

And the media team???

Whooshhhh.

Gloryyyyy.

Everything is intentional. Clean transitions. Visuals that feel like they are preaching on their own. Excellence everywhere you turn. You are just there wondering, “who trained these people??” because even the cameras are behaving like they are anointed 😭

The structure alone will humble you.

And don’t even get me started on the free concert; JAM EXPERIENCE.

Free.

But spiritually expensive in impact.

With hype men that make you question reality like:

“Am I in church… or did I accidentally enter the holy version of a global music festival?”

Because honestly… it feels like church and concert had a baby and that baby is on fire, in purity, in excellence, in expression.

At some point you just stop pretending you are not impressed.

Because nearly everybody there is a content creator without even trying.

Tor.

Everything is giving: capture this moment, but also don’t distract yourself from God.

It is overwhelming in the best way.

Then the choir.

Ah.

We saved the best for last.

The mass choir was not just singing, they were choiring.

Like sound itself had structure, fire, and glory arranged into harmony. Every note felt intentional. Every voice felt like it had found its place in something bigger than itself. It wasn’t just music, it was atmosphere.

People could not stop talking about the music director. She is not just a conductor; she is an enigma. An expressive force. The kind of woman who lifts her hands and suddenly it feels like heaven understands instructions. Like she conducts and heaven responds in agreement, as though it was rehearsed before time began.

And the choristers ???

Omo.

They were not just blending voices, they were building sound.

Layer upon layer of glory. Fire upon fire. Precision upon precision.

At some point, you just stop trying to analyze it and start receiving it.

Because what even was that sound???

Like how do humans produce something that feels that eternal??

Honestly, I’m convinced even God was like:

“Wait… let me stand up and give them gbozaaaaa.”

Because what was that???? 😭

And then the Word.

The Gospel.

Undiluted. Unfiltered. Unapologetic.

Rhema upon rhema. Word upon word. Light upon light.

It wasn’t just preaching, it was revelation being released in real time. The kind of message that doesn’t politely enter your ears and leave… it sits. It settles inside your bones and begins to rearrange your thoughts, your language, your desires, your understanding of life itself.

Omo.

My God.

You are not just hearing it, you are being reformed by it.

And right under that atmosphere…

Of glory.

Of sound.

Of fire.

Of encounters that feel like heaven briefly touched earth and didn’t even try to hide it…

I found my huzzzzbainddddd.

Yes.

My husband.

Like, be serious.

Because how do you explain that your boyfriend sponsored the journey…

And destiny used it as a bridge?

My boyfriend gave me transport fare.

But destiny looked at it and said:

“Thank you for the seed. I will handle the harvest.”

Because in one gathering of worship, Word, creativity, and glory…

A simple trip became a turning point.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just JAM Summit anymore.

It was a divine interception.

See you in JAM Summit 2027 😂🔥

Whether I actually found husband or I just found deeper purpose, abeg, that one no be your assignment.

Your own assignment is simple:

Just come JAM Summit first 😭

Come and experience the drama that will confuse your emotions, the worship that will reset your chest, the choir that will make you question human vocal capacity, and the Word that will rearrange your entire thinking system.

Because honestly?

JAM summit no be event… it’s an encounter with extra seasoning of glory.

So whether I came back with testimony, husband, or just a fresh fire…

What matters is:

you showed up.

See you in JAM Summit 2027 😭🔥

“Pastor, is it okay if I get a tattoo? Or multiple piercings?”

The room shifted immediately. Some people sat up straighter. A few exchanged knowing looks. Before the pastor could even respond, whispers began to travel across the hall.

“Christians don’t do that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Your body is God’s temple.”

“We’re under grace.”

Within seconds, the atmosphere turned into a quiet debate; rules versus freedom, holiness versus self-expression, tradition versus modernity. Everyone seemed ready with an answer.

But as the opinions flew around the room, something became obvious: almost nobody stopped to ask why the question itself felt so heavy.

Divine wasn’t trying to rebel. She wasn’t searching for loopholes either. She was trying to reconcile two realities she genuinely cared about; her faith and her expression. She wanted to honor God, yet she also wanted to understand where personal freedom fits into Christian living.

And that’s where the real issue lies.

Because maybe the biggest problem isn’t whether tattoos are sinful. Maybe the real problem is that we keep asking the wrong question.

When believers ask, “Is this a sin?” we often reduce Christianity to a checklist of permitted and forbidden actions. But the gospel revealed through the cross shifts the conversation entirely. The cross does not merely answer questions about behavior; it reshapes how believers understand identity, freedom, and righteousness itself.

So before we rush to yes or no, approval or prohibition, perhaps we should pause and ask a deeper question—the one Divine’s moment quietly exposed:

What does the finished work of Christ actually say about how believers live in their bodies today?

Every time the topic of tattoos and piercings comes up in Christian spaces, the room splits. One side is loud about Rules!. The other is loud about “Freedom!”. But very few people pause to ask the more important question: What does the cross actually say about this?

Because if we’re serious about following Jesus, we don’t start with culture, trends, or even personal preference. We start with what Christ finished.

The question of whether Christians should get multiple piercings or tattoos often stirs more emotion than clarity, largely because it is usually discussed from the wrong starting point. Some approach it from fear, others from rebellion, and many from cultural pressure. But for the believer, every serious question must begin and end at the cross. The finished work of Christ is not a side note in Christian ethics; it is the foundation upon which all Christian living rests.

At the cross, Jesus did not merely forgive sins. He brought an entire system of relating to God to its end. The believer is no longer measured by outward conformity to rules, rituals, or physical markings. Righteousness is no longer achieved through abstaining from certain external acts but is received as a gift through faith in Christ. This is essential, because it means that God does not evaluate a Christian’s spirituality by the condition of their skin, the presence of ink, or the number of piercings on their body. Salvation was settled once and for all when Christ declared, “It is finished.” Nothing added to the body can improve what the blood of Jesus has already perfected.

Much of the resistance to tattoos and piercings is rooted in Old Testament law, particularly passages that prohibited markings on the body. Yet those commands were given within a specific covenant, to a specific people, for a specific purpose. They were part of Israel’s ceremonial and cultural distinction from pagan nations whose body markings were tied to idol worship, mourning rituals, and spiritual allegiance. The New Testament makes it clear that believers are no longer under that covenant. Christ fulfilled the law in its entirety, and the believer now lives under grace. To return to those laws as a measure of righteousness is not spiritual maturity; it is a misunderstanding of the gospel.

However, freedom under grace does not mean carelessness. The cross did not remove wisdom, discernment, or responsibility. It removed condemnation. The New Testament never reduces the Christian life to the question of what is technically permitted. Instead, it consistently draws the believer into deeper questions of motive, identity, and purpose. The body is described as the temple of the Holy Spirit, not in the sense of fragile sacredness that forbids any form of expression, but in the sense of ownership. The believer’s body no longer belongs to the self; it belongs to God. This shifts the conversation from legality to stewardship.

Under the New Covenant, the issue is not whether tattoos or piercings are sinful by default. They are not. The issue is whether a believer’s choices flow from faith, align with their identity in Christ, and reflect the wisdom of someone who understands that their life communicates something beyond personal preference. Christian freedom is powerful, but it is never self-centered. It is always governed by love, love for God, love for others, and love for the gospel’s witness.

There is also the matter of motive, which the cross exposes with brutal honesty. Why does a believer desire certain forms of body modification? Is it an expression of creativity and personal style, or is it driven by insecurity, pressure, or a longing to be affirmed by the world? The gospel insists that Christ is sufficient. Any choice that subtly contradicts that sufficiency deserves careful reflection. Not because God will withdraw His love, but because the believer is called to live from wholeness, not from lack.

Context and calling matter as well. A Christian does not exist in isolation. Influence, leadership, and visibility introduce another layer of responsibility. Paul was clear that even though he was free, he often chose restraint so that nothing would obstruct the message of Christ. This was not weakness; it was maturity. Sometimes the most Christlike use of freedom is not exercising it publicly, but laying it down intentionally for the sake of others.

None of this means that Christians with tattoos or multiple piercings are less spiritual, less holy, or less loved by God. That conclusion would be anti-gospel. Holiness is not achieved through unmarked skin, and rebellion is not defined by body art. Christ dwells in believers who are inked and uninked alike. The presence of the Holy Spirit is not threatened by aesthetics.

What the finished work of Christ calls believers into is a higher conversation. Not “Is this allowed?” but “Does this reflect a life that knows it is already complete in Him?” Grace does not police the body; it transforms the heart. And when the heart is anchored in Christ, decisions, whether about piercings, tattoos, or anything else are made with peace, clarity, and reverence rather than fear or defiance.

In the end, the gospel does not produce rule-keepers or rule-breakers. It produces sons and daughters who live thoughtfully, freely, and responsibly before God. The cross has settled the matter of acceptance. What remains is wisdom in how that freedom is expressed.

Subscribe

So, what does all of this mean for Divine and perhaps, for you?

Her question was never really about ink or jewelry. It was about identity. It was about how a believer learns to live in a world full of voices while remaining anchored in Christ. And in truth, Divine’s question is not unusual. Many believers quietly wrestle with the tension between personal expression and spiritual devotion, between individuality and discipleship, between freedom and faithfulness.

The cross speaks directly into that tension. It reminds us that our identity, worth, and righteousness were settled long before we ever made decisions about appearance, style, or self-expression. Christ did not wait for outward perfection before offering acceptance; He secured acceptance first. Because of this, tattoos, piercings, or any external expression neither add to nor subtract from the believer’s standing before God. The gospel frees us from performing spirituality through appearances.

Yet the same cross that gives freedom also gives direction. Christian freedom is not empty autonomy; it is freedom shaped by love, wisdom, and belonging. The believer no longer asks merely, “What can I do?” but “What reflects who I have become in Christ?” Decisions about the body, style, or expression become less about asserting independence and more about stewarding a life that now belongs to God.

Divine’s story could easily be your story. Every generation of believers must learn how to live visibly in culture without being defined by it. Every choice; whether simple or significant, becomes an opportunity to communicate something deeper than preference. Our lives preach quietly long before our words do. The question, then, is not whether expression exists, but what that expression reveals about the One we belong to.

The gospel does not produce people obsessed with rules, nor does it produce people careless with freedom. It produces sons and daughters; secure in love, thoughtful in action, and mature in judgment. People who understand that they are already complete in Christ, and therefore no longer need to use appearance to prove worth, seek validation, or construct identity.

The cross has already settled the matter of acceptance. What remains is learning to live from that acceptance with wisdom, reverence, and intentionality.

Share

Reflection Questions:

• If your body is a canvas, what story does it quietly tell about Christ and your identity in Him?

• Are your choices in style and self-expression flowing from freedom rooted in love—or from fear, pressure, or the need for affirmation?

• In what ways can your personal expression reflect both your individuality and your stewardship as someone who belongs to God?

Message me

Rediscovering the Fatherhood of God

Here is a dangerous truth many religious systems unintentionally hide: If your relationship with God is primarily driven by fear, pressure, or the need to prove yourself, you may be practicing Christianity without experiencing the Fatherhood revealed by Jesus. Because the gospel was never an invitation to perform for God, it was an invitation to come home to a Father.

There is a quiet exhaustion many Christians carry but rarely admit.

We pray — but feel it’s not enough.

We serve — but wonder if God is still disappointed.

We try to live right — yet constantly feel spiritually behind.

So we do more.

More fasting.

More guilt.

More effort.

Because somewhere along the journey, Christianity stopped feeling like a relationship… and started feeling like a performance review.

If this sounds familiar, you are not alone.

Many sincere believers love God deeply but unknowingly relate to Him through performance instead of fatherhood.

And this misunderstanding changes everything.

It changes how we pray.

How we see failure.

How we understand holiness.

Even how we experience God’s presence.

Until God is known as Father, faith often feels heavy, even when the heart is sincere.

The Question We Rarely Ask

What if the biggest problem is not your discipline…

…but your understanding of who God is?

Most believers know God as:

• Creator

• Judge

• King

• Almighty

• All true.

But Jesus emphasized one name above all:

Father.

Not occasionally.

Consistently.

When Jesus taught prayer, He did not say:

“Our Sovereign in heaven…”

He said:

“Our Father in heaven.” — Matthew 6:9

This was revolutionary.

Because Christianity was never meant to begin with rules.

It begins with relationship.

Not duty first.

Not performance first.

Family first.

And until God is understood as Father, spiritual life easily becomes an attempt to impress a God who was always inviting us to belong.

Before Sin, There Was Family

Many people think God became Father after salvation.

Scripture shows otherwise.

Adam himself is called:

“the son of God.” — Luke 3:38

This means God’s original design for humanity was not servanthood — but sonship.

Human beings were created for belonging.

The fall did not just make humanity sinful.

It made humanity orphan-minded.

Adam’s first reaction after sin was not rebellion.

It was hiding.

“I was afraid… so I hid.” — Genesis 3:10

Fear replaced intimacy.

Distance replaced trust.

And ever since, humanity has tried to earn what was originally given freely — acceptance.

Religion Teaches Performance. Jesus Revealed a Father.

Religion says:

Behave well so God will accept you.

The gospel says:

You are accepted in Christ — now live from that reality.

Notice how Jesus lived.

Before performing a single miracle, heaven declared:

“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” — Matthew 3:17

Jesus had not healed anyone yet.

Had not preached yet.

Had not proven anything yet.

Affirmation came before performance.

This reveals a divine principle:

Identity comes before assignment.

God establishes who you are before asking what you will do.

Why Performance Christianity Is So Exhausting

When believers don’t understand God as Father, they unknowingly live like spiritual employees.

Every mistake feels like termination.

Every struggle feels like disqualification.

But Scripture says:

“You did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’” — Romans 8:15

“Abba” is not formal language.

It is relational language.

It communicates closeness, safety, and belonging.

God did not save you to relate to Him through fear.

He brought you into family.

The Cross Was More Than Forgiveness

Many Christians stop at forgiveness.

“Yes, my sins are forgiven.”

But forgiveness was never the final goal.

It was the doorway.

Galatians explains:

“God sent forth His Son… to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption as sons.” — Galatians 4:4–5

Notice the purpose:

Not just redemption.

Adoption.

God did not simply clear your record.

He changed your position.

You are not a tolerated sinner.

You are a received child.

Holiness Looks Different Under Fatherhood

Some fear that emphasizing grace removes holiness.

The opposite is true.

When you know God as Father, obedience stops being forced.

It becomes natural.

Children resemble their parents because they share life, not because they are threatened.

Scripture says:

“Be imitators of God, as beloved children.” — Ephesians 5:1

You live right not to become loved.

You live right because you are loved.

Love produces transformation faster than fear ever can.

What Changes When You Understand Fatherhood

1. Prayer becomes conversation, not performance. (Hebrews 4:16 — come boldly.)

2. Failure no longer equals rejection. (Romans 8:1 — no condemnation.)

3. Obedience becomes response, not pressure.

4. You stop striving for approval and start living from acceptance.

5. Your identity becomes stable.

And stability is where real spiritual growth begins.

The Invitation Many Christians Have Missed.

Christianity is not primarily about becoming better behaved.

It is about becoming aware of belonging.

Jesus did not die merely to improve your conduct.

He died to bring you home.

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God.” — 1 John 3:1

Not workers.

Not projects.

Children.

Subscribe

Maybe God is not waiting for you to perform better.

Maybe He is waiting for you to understand who He has already made you.

You are not approaching a distant judge.

You are coming to a Father.

And once that revelation settles in your heart, Christianity stops feeling heavy.

Because sons don’t strive for a place in the house.

They live from it.

Take a moment to let this sink in: You are not trying to earn your Father’s love — it’s already yours. What does that make you feel? How does this change the way you see God, yourself, or your faith journey?

I’d love to hear your thoughts, questions, or even doubts. Drop them in the comments — let’s explore this together.

Comment

I thought it was about vision, passion, and raising voices that would shake the atmosphere. I thought it was about leading prayers, organizing meetings, and watching God move in visible ways.

But ten months later, I have learned something deeper.

Pastoring on campus is not loud.

It is not glamorous.

It is not sustained by excitement.

It is quiet obedience.

It is hidden tears.

It is loving people who may never understand the cost of loving them.

It is carrying responsibility among your peers while still being processed by God yourself.

There are things student pastors know in their hearts but rarely say.

Not because they are hiding but because leadership teaches you restraint.

This is not a celebration post.

It is a reflection.

An honest one.

Because somewhere between preaching and praying…

between planning and processing…

between showing strength and feeling stretched…

God was not just building a fellowship.

He was building me.

And I have learned that campus pastoring is less about influence and more about formation.

By the way… how was your Valentine’s Day? 🌚😂

Mine?

I was in church.

Not just church — Word College.

Our church’s foundational school. The place where you don’t just “feel” God… you understand Him.

While some people were collecting bouquets and teddy bears,

I was collecting questions about 1 Corinthians 12.

While some were receiving gifts…

I was teaching on the Gifts of the Spirit.

The irony was actually loud 😭🤣

No roses.

No chocolates.

Just “What is the difference between word of wisdom and word of knowledge, ma?”

Instead of “Will you be my Valentine?”

It was “Is this gift for today or has it ceased?” 😂

And we didn’t stop at theory o.

We had practical sessions.

“Ovie, come and give Diamond a word of wisdom.”

“Diamond, you too — give Ovie a word.”

Valentine’s Day turned into activation service 😭🤣

No “Say something sweet to me.”

It was “Speak as the Spirit gives utterance.”

And you know what?

I was happy.

Because Word College is foundation.

It’s where believers are built properly.

No vibes. No confusion. Just doctrine, structure, and understanding.

Some people posted soft life.

I posted spiritual life.

Some people had candlelight dinners.

I had fluorescent light teaching.

But honestly?

I felt fulfilled.

Because love is not only romance.

Love is service.

Love is stewardship.

Love is pouring into people so they grow.

So yes… while others were unwrapping boxes,

I was unpacking Scripture.

What an irony.

What a life.

I genuinely love being a pastor 🤭🤣

Okay… Valentine’s Day broadcast ended. Back to real talk. Student pastoring is more than prayers, teachings, and selfies.

Ten months into campus pastoring, here’s what nobody tells you…

These are not lessons from a book.

These are lessons from the fire.

Things I’ve seen, felt, and carried… but rarely spoken aloud.

1. The Loneliness No One Sees

Campus ministry looks loud; meetings, prayer nights, pictures, testimonies.

But leadership is quiet.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel alone because:

• You can’t vent carelessly.

• You can’t react emotionally.

• You can’t afford to be spiritually inconsistent.

Sometimes you wish someone would pastor you the way you pastor others.

And the irony?

The stronger you look, the less people check on you.

This is why you should never be a pastor without a pastor.

Someone who will correct you, guide you, and pour into your life when no one else notices.

Mini takeaway: Loneliness doesn’t mean absence of people; it means carrying responsibility that others cannot carry for you. And having a pastor keeps you anchored while you carry others.

2.You See More Than You Can Say

Because of that loneliness, you also start seeing more than you can speak.

As a student pastor, you see:

• Hidden relationships.

• Secret compromises.

• Inconsistent prayer lives.

• Leadership insecurities.

• Silent competition.

• Emotional manipulation disguised as spirituality.

And you can’t address everything.

Because timing matters. Wisdom matters. Preservation matters.

So you carry knowledge quietly.

And sometimes that knowledge is heavy.

Being a leader means seeing the unseen and holding it with discernment, knowing when to speak, when to act, and when to wait. True influence often lives in restraint, not in words.

3. People Project Their Expectations On You

Some see you as:

• Too strict. Lol… “Chai, why she dey stress us like say homework na life or death?”

• Too spiritual. “Assistant Jesus”

• Not spiritual enough. E don be… “Pasteyy fit even sleep during Bible study 😭.”

• Too bold.

• Too soft.

• Too visible. “This pastor is just too loud…”

• Not visible enough.Too quiet… “She dey ghost us or na her mood?”

Everyone has an opinion.

Very few understand the cost.

Campus leadership is unique, because many of the people you lead are your mates.

You attend lectures together.

You walk the same roads.

You sit for exams.

Yet spiritually, you carry responsibility for their growth.

That tension is real.

Leadership on campus means balancing friendship and responsibility. People will project their expectations, but your growth and integrity must stay non-negotiable. You’ll always be “too much” or “too little” for someone. The key? Stay anchored to God’s calling, not clout or opinions.

4. The Pressure to Always Be “On”

Being a student pastor carries a unique kind of pressure.

You quickly learn that certain mistakes are no longer minor.

• Your attendance matters. 📅

• Your presentation and demeanor matter. 👗🗣️

• Your words and tone matter.

• Your social media presence matters. 📸

• Even your friendships and associations matter.

One misstep, a poorly chosen word, a late reply, or a misunderstood post and suddenly, the rumor mill spreads faster than revival night.

Leadership, you realize, is not only spiritual.

It is reputational stewardship. Your life is public content, whether you intend it or not. Every choice, every reaction, every private moment leaks into how people perceive your leadership.

True leadership is 24/7, requiring vigilance and intentionality. The private disciplines you cultivate; prayer, reflection, integrity are what sustain your public influence. ✨

5. The Pain of Loving People Who Leave

This one cuts deep.

You pray for them.

You fast for them.

You counsel them.

You believe in them.

And yet… they drift.

They disappear.

They choose another fellowship.

They prioritize relationships over discipleship.

Or they simply stop responding altogether.

And you smile through it. You keep teaching about commitment, faithfulness, and perseverance, all while your heart quietly aches.

No one talks about the hidden grief of ministry.

Especially when the love you gave was genuine, sacrificial, and without expectation.

True pastoral love is costly. It doesn’t always get returned, acknowledged, or celebrated, but it shapes both the leader and those they serve.

6. The Internal War

Sometimes the battle isn’t external.

It’s internal. Quiet. Persistent.

• “Am I actually called to this?”

• “Am I doing enough?”

• “Why is growth so slow?”

• “Why are some people unteachable?”

• “Why do I feel dry even when I preach powerfully?”

There are days you minister from conviction.

There are days you minister from discipline.

And there are days you minister purely by obedience.

And often, only God knows the difference.

Leadership is as much an internal journey as it is external. The real growth happens in the silent battles of your heart, where faith, obedience, and perseverance are refined beyond what anyone else sees.

7. The Subtle Pride Trap

Campus leadership can quietly become your identity.

People greet you with honor.

They seek your advice.

They quote you.

They screenshot your messages.

If you’re not careful, you’ll begin measuring your worth by their validation.

And then the Holy Spirit will gently, yet firmly, ask:

“Would you still serve if no one clapped?”

That question humbles you.

True leadership is tested not in applause, recognition, or social proof, but in faithfulness when no one is watching. Pride hides subtly in influence, and only intentional self-examination keeps it in check.

8. Financial & Academic Tension

You’re a student.

You have assignments.

Tests.

Financial pressures.

Family expectations.

And on top of that, you’re responsible for:

• Meetings.

• Structure.

• Department coordination.

• Follow-ups.

• Maintaining the spiritual atmosphere.

You don’t always say it, but sometimes, you’re exhausted.

And yet… you still show up.

Student leadership requires balancing personal responsibilities with ministry demands. The quiet discipline to show up despite fatigue is where character and faith are truly refined.

9. The Silent Maturity

Here’s the beautiful part.

Ten months in, something quietly shifts in you.

You:

• React less.

• Discern faster.

• Speak slower.

• Pray deeper.

• Forgive quicker.

• Think long-term.

Leadership stretches your emotional intelligence.

It forces spiritual growth.

It refines your motives.

It exposes your wounds.

It confronts your insecurities.

And if you allow it, it makes you gentle.

True maturity is rarely loud. It grows in the silent, uncelebrated spaces of leadership, where patience, discernment, and self-awareness are forged.

10. The Sacred Reality

At the core of it all…

You realize this was never about position.

It was always about:

• Stewardship.

• Formation.

• Obedience.

• Hidden consecration.

Campus ministry is temporary.

But the character it builds is permanent.

And ten months in, you probably understand something you didn’t at month one:

This is less about leading people…

And more about God shaping you while you lead them.

True leadership is ultimately about surrender. Titles, influence, and applause are fleeting but the inner transformation God accomplishes through service lasts forever.

In the quiet of hidden labor, in the tension of unseen battles, and in the discipline of unwavering obedience, something extraordinary happens:

You are shaped. Not for applause.

Not for recognition.

Not even for influence.

You are shaped for faithfulness, for character, for God.

Ten months of pastoring students teaches you that leadership is never about titles or positions. It is about who God is forming you to be while you serve others.

And if you allow it, that transformation lingers long after the lectures, the meetings, the calls, and the posts fade.

Because ministry that begins in service becomes eternity in formation.

Hi guys, I’m Dera.

a 21-year-old student pastor!

And these are my honest reflections.

Ciao! ✨

Dear God, I Hate How Intentionally You Loved Me

I hate You, God.

I hate how You saw me when no one else did.

I hate how You noticed every broken piece of me.

I hate how You refused to leave me alone, even when I begged for distance.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

I don’t have to wonder what You are…

Because Abba, You revealed Yourself so clearly in the person of Christ and that revelation has haunted me ever since.

And here’s my complaint:

It would have been easier if Your love were vague.

If it were distant.

If it allowed me to hide.

But You didn’t.

You loved me with terrifying precision.

You loved me with knowledge of all my fragility, all my tears, all my insecurities, all my contradictions.

You loved me while seeing my fears before I could even name them.

You did not wait for me to become strong.

You did not wait for me to “get it together.”

You stepped directly into my humanity , trembling parts and all — and called me worthy of dying for.

And that, God, is what leaves me both angry and undone:

Your love is not casual.

It is not performative.

It is deliberate.

It is calculated.

It is intentionally disruptive.

It destroys my excuses.

It silences my pride.

It confronts every lie I tell myself about who I am.

And yet… somehow, in all of this, it is the most comforting thing I have ever known.

I am writing this openly because I am a loud lover.

Silence has never been my language when it comes to love.

If I love You, I will speak of You.

I will announce You.

I will testify about You without shame or restraint.

I am profoundly moved by how intentional You have been about me.

Not just about my blessings.

Not just about my outcomes.

But about my formation.

You did not merely save me, You curated me.

You were deliberate about my growth.

Precise about my process.

Patient about my transformation.

And today, I — Chidera Roseline Enebeli — stand in awe of Your frighteningly personal kindness toward me.

You loved me with full awareness of my fragility.

You sent Your Son not as a gesture, but as a permanent declaration that my life was worth the ultimate cost.

You placed people in my life who challenged me, stretched me, corrected me, and elevated me.

You cultivated wisdom in me long before I knew how to use it.

You remained committed to my growth even when I doubted myself.

You never gave up on me not once.

And that realization leaves me both trembling and secure:

I am profoundly safe in You.

Not safe from life’s storms but safe from abandonment.

You know me fully, and yet Your love never wavered.

Because Your love for me has never been generic.

It has always been deeply specific.

You loved me while seeing my fears before I could articulate them.

You loved me knowing how sensitive I am, how easily I cry, how deeply I feel, how much I wrestle internally.

You did not wait for me to stabilize emotionally.

You did not wait for me to become strong.

You did not wait for me to “get it together.”

You stepped directly into my humanity — trembling parts and all — and You called me worthy of dying for.

And this is the part that humbles me the most:

You did not simply say You loved me.

You demonstrated it with irreversible action.

You sent Your Son.

Not as a symbolic gesture.

Not as a temporary rescue.

But as a permanent declaration that my life was worth the ultimate cost.

So every day I live with You is richer than any earthly celebration of love could ever be.

Because Your love is not performative.

It is covenantal.

It does not fluctuate with my consistency.

It does not shrink in response to my weaknesses.

It does not withdraw when I am overwhelmed by my emotions.

Your love is steady, intelligent, and fiercely intentional.

I will keep choosing You, consciously, deliberately, repeatedly.

Because long before I made a decision toward You,

You had already chosen me through love.

And Lord, I must also acknowledge the precision of Your care in the people You have sent into my life.

You did not surround me randomly.

You positioned men whose presence has shaped my thinking, stretched my capacity, corrected my blind spots, and elevated my growth.

Men who did not merely exist around me ;

They superimposed maturity over my life.

That level of intentionality tells me something profound:

You are not only concerned with where I am going.

You are deeply invested in who I am becoming.

I also thank You for every life that has encountered the gospel through me , whether through my words, my teaching, or my lived expression.

Because if I am honest, I know this is not self-manufactured.

People may think I “just became like this.”

But I know the truth:

I did not construct this life.

You cultivated it.

You planted wisdom in me long before I understood its value.

You protected seeds inside me before I knew how to steward them.

You remained committed to my growth even in seasons when I doubted myself.

You never gave up on me — not once.

And that realization creates the deepest form of security within me:

I stay in You because in You I am profoundly safe.

Not safe from life’s challenges — but safe from abandonment.

You know me completely.

And yet, You have never withdrawn Your love.

That kind of love changes a person permanently.

It is why I will keep choosing You — consciously, deliberately, repeatedly.

Because long before I ever made a decision toward You,

You had already decided for me through love.

So I choose You, Jesus not just as Savior, but as the defining center of my existence.

I choose You as Truth in a world full of shifting realities.

I choose You as my Way when I cannot see clearly.

And Holy Spirit, I choose You as my constant companion, the One who interprets my heart to me when I cannot even understand myself.

In You, I am not striving for fulfillment.

I am already satisfied.

Thank You for trusting me enough to use me as a vessel, imperfect, emotional, still growing, yet deeply loved.

Every testimony attached to my life belongs to You.

Every impact traces back to You.

Every glory returns to You.

So to You, my God, my Lover, my intentional Father ;

be all the glory, honor, and adoration forever.

Thank You, Jesus.

I love You my God with a love that is loud, aware, and deeply rooted in the knowledge that I am first loved by You.

Colossians 2:13-14 – “…God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the charge of our legal indebtedness… he has taken it away, nailing it to the cross.”

A friend sent me a Substack link.

She didn’t send it casually. She sent it because she needed a safe place; someone who would listen without judgment, someone who wouldn’t reduce her struggle to clichés or quick fixes. She needed understanding, not correction.

So I opened the link.

https://open.substack.com/pub/itunuoluwababalola/p/self-pleasuring-and-lust-as-a-christian?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=45u7l6

“Self-Pleasuring and Lust as a Christian” — by Itunuoluwa.

I paused.

Then I read.

And as I read, I realised something unsettling and beautiful at the same time: I understood every word. Not intellectually alone but experientially. The cycles. The shame. The moments of resolve followed by quiet collapse. The spiritual exhaustion that comes from fighting the same battle again and again and wondering if God is tired of you yet.

I originally planned to drop my thoughts in the comment section. But somewhere between the first paragraph and the last, I felt compelled to write more, to let this become a letter, a reflection, a gospel-anchored response that might reach more than one heart.

So, dear Itunuoluwa,

Nothing in your confession surprised God.

Not the pornography.

Not the intentional moments.

Not the cycles of repentance and relapse.

Not the seasons where forgiveness itself feels exhausting.

Not the nights spent awake and the Sundays spent half-present in church.

Not even the part of you that wants “free access” to sin while still hoping God will show up when life demands help.

None of it caught Him off guard.

Jesus went to the cross already knowing all of it.

He did not die for a future, improved version of you.

He did not wait for consistency, discipline, or spiritual stability.

He carried the full weight of your struggle; its repetition, its complexity, its shame, into His body before you ever learned to name it.

This is why the gospel is not advice.

It is not a moral upgrade.

It is not God helping us manage our desires better.

It is rescue.

And the cross stands as proof that your struggle does not disqualify you, it explains why grace was necessary in the first place.

“While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

Not after we improved.

Not after we became disciplined.

Not after we grew consistent.

Not after we finally stopped relapsing.

While. Still. Sinners.

The cross is not God responding to your failure.

The cross is God anticipating it and choosing love anyway.

It is not a reaction.

It is a decision.

A decision made with full knowledge of our weakness, our patterns, and our repeated need for grace.

The cross does not exist because we failed.

It exists because God knew we would and refused to abandon us.

Lust is not the problem—death is.

Here’s the gospel truth that changes everything:

Lust is not your deepest struggle.

Spiritual death is.

Lust is merely a symptom, not the disease. It’s the smoke that signals the fire. And the fire is what the cross confronts.

The cross was never about God helping you manage desire.

It was about putting your old self to death, once and for all.

“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live…” (Galatians 2:20)

When you ask,

“Why do I keep doing what I hate?”

You are asking a question Paul asked in Romans 7. And notice his answer: he did not turn to stricter discipline or moral effort. He turned to a Person.

“Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:24–25)

The cross does not offer mere behavior modification.

It offers execution and resurrection.

Your old self; its lusts, its shame, its compulsions was nailed to the cross.

Your new self, your true self in Christ was raised in resurrection power.

This is the gospel: not a struggle solved by effort, but a life transformed by the Person who died for you while you were still powerless.

You are not a “perpetual sinner”—that lie died at the cross.

The devil’s strategy is never just temptation.

It is accusation.

Think of the cycle you described:

1. You fall.

2. Shame rushes in.

3. Prayer becomes distant.

4. You whisper, “What’s the point?”

5. You isolate from God.

6. You fall again.

This is not conviction.

This is condemnation.

And condemnation has already been defeated at the cross.

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

The cross does not wait for you to “get it together” before offering love.

It does not say:

“Stop sinning, and then I’ll accept you.”

It says:

“I accepted you at your worst. I knew your failures, your cycles, your hidden shame and I died for you anyway. Now, come. Be healed. Be restored. Be free.”

The gospel does not measure you by your consistency.

It measures you by His mercy.

At the cross, the verdict was clear: your sin has been judged, your shame has been paid for, your place in God’s love is secure.

Not because of you. Because of Him.

Repentance is not proving you won’t fail again

This is a truth worth pausing over. Read slowly, and let it sink in.

You wrote:

“I feel asking for forgiveness is not enough — I have to show I’ve truly repented by not doing it again.”

This is not the gospel speaking.

This is self-atonement, trying to earn what was freely given.

Repentance is not:

“I won’t do it again.”

Repentance is:

“I cannot save myself.”

It is the humble turning away from self-reliance and the deliberate leaning into Christ-dependence.

“Godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted.” (2 Corinthians 7:10)

Notice the difference:

• If your sorrow drives you away from God, it is not godly.

• If your sorrow drives you back to the cross, repeatedly, humbly, honestly, it is.

Repentance is not perfection.

It is not a checklist.

It is a direction of the heart, a posture of dependence that says, “I need the One who has already carried my sin, even in my weakness.”

True repentance meets grace, not guilt.

It returns you to the cross, again and again, because that is where freedom begins.

The Cross Already Settled the Forgiveness Question

You asked:

“Will God continue forgiving me?”

Look to the cross and consider this carefully:

Did Jesus die once, or multiple times?

“By a single offering He has perfected forever those who are being sanctified.” (Hebrews 10:14)

Your forgiveness is not something that must be renewed every time you fall.

It was secured once and for all, by the blood of Christ.

What unfolds in your daily life is not the granting of forgiveness;

it is the working out of your freedom.

Forgiveness is a finished reality.

Freedom is a process.

It is not a moment, but a journey, a daily learning to live from the victory already won at the cross.

The cross does not demand perfection before grace.

It delivers forgiveness first, and shapes your freedom after.

You Are Not Fighting Lust — You Are Learning to Live from Resurrection

You wrote something profound without realizing it:

“Lust enters when I feel like a piece of shit.”

Yes.

Because lust is rarely about sex alone.

It is a hunger for relief, escape, comfort, and validation; a craving to soothe the weight of shame, failure, and unmet needs.

And the cross speaks directly to that hunger.

“He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree…” (1 Peter 2:24)

Jesus didn’t merely take your guilt.

He bore the weight of the brokenness that drives you to flee reality, the heaviness that makes temporary pleasures so tempting.

The cross does not say:

“Come to Me when you’ve fixed yourself.”

It says:

“Come to Me as you are burdened, broken, and weary. I will carry it. I will heal it. I will give you rest.”

Fighting lust is not primarily about discipline.

It is about learning to live from resurrection—to let the life of Christ shape your desires, satisfy your longings, and free you from the cycles of shame.

Christianity Is Not About Sinless People — It’s About Dependent People

You asked:

“What is the point of being a Christian when I sin intentionally?”

Here’s the gospel truth:

Only Christians run to God after sin.

Everyone else hides.

That tug you feel; the shame, the discomfort, the longing for forgiveness, is evidence of life, not hypocrisy.

Dead people don’t wrestle.

Dead people don’t grieve sin.

Dead people don’t cry out for help.

Your struggle does not signal the absence of grace.

It is a signal that grace is working against resistance; slowly, persistently, and patiently shaping your heart.

Christianity is not about achieving perfection.

It is about learning to depend on the One who sustains you, even in the midst of failure.

The Cross Says: Come Dirty, Not Distant

You asked:

“What is a sinner like me doing in church?”

The cross answers with clarity:

“Exactly the kind of person this place exists for.”

Church is not a reward for holiness. It is a hospital for the wounded, a sanctuary for those whose hearts are broken, whose souls are weary, and whose lives are messy.

Jesus never said:

“The healthy don’t need a doctor.”

He said:

“I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

The cross is an open invitation: come as you are, not as you wish you were.

It is not a call to perfection first. It is a call to presence, honesty, and dependence.

It is a reminder that God’s house is not for the flawless, but for the forgiven, the struggling, the desperate, and the humble.

The beauty of this truth is profound: your shame does not disqualify you. Your mess does not push God away. In fact, it draws you into the very place where grace meets need, where healing begins, and where resurrection power flows into broken lives.

Church is not a stage.

It is a lifeline.

It is where grace is tangible, where the cross is real, and where a sinner can become a witness to the transforming power of Christ.

Here Is the System That Actually Works — Cross-Centered

This is not about rules.

This is not about willpower.

This is not about pretending you are stronger than you are.

This is about living from the cross, letting the work of Christ shape your daily walk, even in failure.

1. Run to God immediately after falling.

Do not wait until you “feel bad enough” or “worthy enough.” Run now. His arms are open; His grace is ready.

2. Confess without drama.

Honesty, not self-hatred, is the key. Say the truth to God simply and clearly, and let His mercy wash over it.

3. Stay in the Word even when you feel unworthy.

Those feelings of unworthiness are the exact reason you need the Word. The Scriptures are not a trophy for the faithful, they are a lifeline for the fallen.

4. Remove access, not just desire.

Grace empowers wisdom. Make practical choices that protect your heart while relying on God’s power to transform it.

5. Walk with people.

Sin thrives in secrecy. Healing thrives in light. Surround yourself with those who will love you honestly, pray with you faithfully, and speak truth with gentleness.

But hear this clearly: none of these steps earn grace.

They are not tickets to God’s approval. They are responses to the grace you already have, a grace purchased at the cross, freely given, unshakable.

Final Word from the Cross

You are not disgusting.

You are not hopeless.

You are not beyond forgiveness.

You are not wasting God’s time.

You are being sanctified.

“He who began a good work in you will carry it to completion.” (Philippians 1:6)

The cross guarantees it: your worst season does not get the final word.

Jesus does.

And He has already said:

“It is finished.”

You are not alone.

Grace is not tired of you.

You do not need to earn it, prove it, or pretend it.

If you want to talk practically about how to live this out, we can, but we never leave the cross.

Because everything you need to overcome, to heal, and to thrive is already there.

To You Who Are Wrestling

To you who are wrestling with lust, shame, cycles of failure, or secret struggles, hear this clearly: you are not beyond God’s reach.

You are not a perpetual sinner.

You are a child of God.

Your failures do not define you; the cross does. Christ’s work is the final word over your life, your mistakes, your shame, and your wandering heart.

Yes, you may stumble.

Yes, you may relapse.

Yes, you may question whether forgiveness still applies to you.

Let the gospel speak louder than your doubts: it does.

Your forgiveness was secured once, fully, eternally; before you even thought to turn back, before you even tried to hold on. It is not earned by discipline, measured by performance, or conditioned on perfection.

Grace is not a license to sin.

Grace is the power to live free, one day at a time, one choice at a time.

So to all the Itunus out there: hear this like a prophetic word over your lifeyou are not broken beyond repair, not hopeless, not too far gone.

You are invited, again and again, to the cross, where freedom waits, mercy flows, and transformation begins.

Let this be your anchor:

“He who began a good work in you will carry it to completion.” (Philippians 1:6)

You are not alone.

You are loved.

You are being made new.

And the God who calls you to Himself

is faithful to finish what He has begun.

I know, the title already offended you.

Good.

Because offense has a way of waking people up, pulling them out of autopilot, and forcing them to confront the things they normally scroll past.

Sometimes we need to be shaken before we can be awakened.

Sometimes a jolt is the only way to start a conversation everyone has tiptoed around for years.

Before you drag me, cancel me, or start rehearsing a Twitter thread in your head, breathe… and hear me out.

Let me be painfully clear:

I do NOT support abortion.

Not morally, not spiritually, not personally.

But here is what I do support:

I support the conversations people avoid because silence is breeding ground for confusion, shame, and secrecy.

I support the truth people are scared to say out loud because pretending doesn’t protect anyone, it only blinds us.

I support the souls who are silently struggling, carrying memories they have never dared to articulate.

I support the women who walk around with guilt buried so deep in their chest that even their closest friends will never know the battles they fought alone.

I support the ones who didn’t choose casually, but chose under pressure, fear, or survival.

I support the parts of their stories no one claps for, no one asks about, and no one sits long enough to understand.

And I support the unborn lives that never get a voice; the destinies written but never lived, the purposes knitted in the womb but never expressed, the futures that existed only in God’s mind.

So maybe…

just maybe…

I support something deeper than a stance.

Something deeper than politics or arguments.

I support people.

I support truth.

I support healing.

I support light entering dark places.

I support the kind of honesty that sets people free; even if it makes them uncomfortable at first.

Because that’s where transformation begins.

1. I Support Abortion… Conversations

Because silence has never saved anybody.

Silence has never healed a wound.

Silence has never corrected a culture.

And pretending abortion “isn’t happening” has never stopped the thousands who face the decision every day.

People don’t just “find themselves” in this situation; they are shaped into it by fear, shame, misinformation, pressure, trauma, loneliness, and desperation.

And when society refuses to talk, people are forced to navigate life-altering decisions with nothing but confusion and a heartbeat full of panic.

People are hurting, quietly.

Carrying questions they’re too scared to voice.

Carrying guilt they don’t know how to release.

Carrying stories they’ve buried so deeply they can’t tell where the memory ends and the shame begins.

People are confused, not because they are ignorant, but because abortion is where emotions, morality, culture, religion, and survival collide.

It is not a “simple” issue.

It is a storm of internal conflict,

and storms become more violent when no one is allowed to speak.

People are pressured by partners, by parents, by friends, by fear, by finances, by timelines, by medical concerns.

Some are pressured into keeping pregnancies.

Some are pressured into ending them.

Either way, pressure is not wisdom.

And pressure is not clarity.

People are scared; scared of judgment,

scared of failure,

scared of responsibility,

scared of being alone,

scared of disappointing family,

scared of becoming a statistic,

scared of the unknown.

And people are making life-altering decisions in silence;the kind of silence that is loud,

the kind that echoes,

the kind that manipulates,

the kind that isolates,

the kind that convinces you that you have no options and no voice.

That silence is not neutral.

It is not harmless.

It is a spiritual weapon.

Because silence is where the devil thrives.

Shame keeps people quiet.

Ignorance keeps people confused.

Fear keeps people hidden.

And hidden battles are the ones that destroy destinies.

So yes;

I support abortion conversations.

Not because I support abortion, but because people deserve truth, compassion, guidance, and a safe space where light can enter the places darkness has occupied for too long.

So what is abortion?

Abortion is the deliberate termination of a pregnancy; a medical, emotional, moral, and often spiritual decision that ends the life of a developing embryo or fetus before it can survive outside the womb.

It is not just a “procedure.”

It is the intersection of biology, choice, fear, pressure, belief, and circumstance.

Medically, abortion involves either:

• A medical method (using prescribed pills to end a pregnancy), or

• A surgical method (a clinical procedure to remove the fetus from the uterus).

Biologically, it stops the growth of a developing human life that has already begun forming organs, identity markers, and a unique genetic blueprint.

Socially, it reflects the realities many people face: financial limitations, cultural pressure, relational instability, trauma, shame, or unpreparedness.

Emotionally, it can leave deep footprints: relief for some, regret for others, and a lifetime of quiet reflection for many.

Spiritually, Christians believe it interrupts a life God has intentionally formed, a destiny written before birth.

So abortion is not a light matter.

It is a decision wrapped in layers of complexity, consequence, vulnerability, and silence.

2. I Support Abortion… Healing

Because behind every statistic is a soul.

Behind every decision is a story.

Behind every “I don’t want to talk about it” is a night that changed someone’s life forever.

There are women who still cry quietly at night over a decision they made years ago, not because they are weak, but because memory has a way of revisiting you when the world goes silent.

Women who carry their pain like a secret tattoo: invisible to the world, but etched deep into the heart.

There are women who feel disqualified from grace, who believe that what they did places them outside the borders of God’s mercy.

They sit in church but feel like outsiders.

They pray, but with hesitation.

They worship, but with a sense of unworthiness trailing behind them like a shadow.

There are women who think God has put them aside, women who interpret their current struggles as punishment,

women who see every delay as divine disappointment,

women who believe they have been silently benched by heaven.

There are women who think they have no right to pray, serve, or be loved because shame told them they forfeited those privileges.

Because guilt told them they crossed a line that holy hands don’t reach beyond.

Because the enemy whispered that their story disqualifies them from God’s presence forever.

But to every woman carrying that silent weight, I say this: God is not intimidated by your past.

There is no sin powerful enough to make Him hesitate.

There is no stain deep enough to make Him step back.

He does not flinch at your history; He responds to your heart.

You are not too stained for His mercy.

Mercy was designed for people who needed it desperately.

It is not fragile.

It does not crack under the weight of your mistakes.

It was built for moments exactly like yours.

You are not too damaged for His love.

God’s love is not a human emotion that gets exhausted or disgusted.

It is eternal, consistent, and stubbornly determined.

He does not love the edited version of you, He loves you with full knowledge of your story.

If Jesus could restore the woman caught in adultery;

a woman dragged into public humiliation,

a woman condemned by society,

a woman shamed for her choices, then surely He can restore the woman caught in regret.

Because regret is still a place of brokenness,

and brokenness is where Jesus does His best work.

So yes,

I support abortion… healing.

Not because the decision was right, but because God’s mercy is bigger than the decision, and His love is stronger than the shame that followed it.

3. I Support Abortion… Awareness

Because ignorance is not innocence, and silence is not neutrality.

People speak about abortion as though it were nothing more than a “procedure,” an appointment on a calendar, a clinical event you can emotionally detach from.

But abortion is never just a procedure.

It is a life interrupted.

A destiny cut short.

A story God Himself authored; a story that never got the chance to unfold on earth.

It is not simply biology;

it is divine intention.

It is not simply pregnancy;

it is purpose in formation.

It is not simply cells;

it is identity, design, and potential waiting to manifest.

But awareness requires honesty, and honesty requires courage.

So let’s say the hard things people avoid:

The world calls it “tissue.”

A mass.

A cluster of cells.

A stage of development that supposedly has no meaning or value.

But Scripture doesn’t agree.

Scripture calls it “knit together in the womb,” a phrase that reveals artistry, intention, detail, and divine involvement.

The world calls it “choice,”

as though purpose can be voted on,

as though destiny is something we can opt out of,

as though the will of God is subject to human preference.

But Scripture calls it purpose,

a life planned, loved, and ordained before it ever touched the earth.

The world calls it “timing,” as if the value of a life depends on whether the calendar is convenient.

But Scripture calls it appointed; meaning God has placed this life in a specific moment of history, with a reason, an assignment, and a future already mapped out.

Awareness means acknowledging that abortion does not happen in a vacuum.

It happens in a world where language is used to soften truth,

where culture replaces conviction with convenience, and where spiritual significance is disguised by medical neutrality.

But we must tell the truth:

Abortion ends a life.

A real one.

One that God formed with care.

One that heaven had plans for.

One that was never an accident in the eyes of the Creator.

Yet even in truth, we must remember this:

Abortion does not end God’s compassion.

His mercy extends into the deepest places

into regret, into trauma, into secrecy, into pain.

God knows how to redeem stories that were cut short, and heal hearts that were left bruised by decisions made in fear or confusion.

Awareness is not about condemnation;

it is about clarity.

It is about telling the truth with love.

It is about acknowledging the weight of what abortion really is, while holding tightly to the reality of a God whose forgiveness is stronger than any darkness we face.

4. I Support Abortion… Prevention

Because prevention is not about fear; it’s about foresight.

It’s not about controlling people; it’s about equipping them.

And it’s not about shouting rules; it’s about shaping hearts.

Abortion doesn’t begin in a clinic.

It begins long before; in the absence of wisdom, in the absence of guidance, in the absence of healthy community, in the absence of boundaries, and in the presence of pressure, loneliness, confusion, and unpreparedness.

That’s why prevention cannot rely on fear.

Fear may stop an action temporarily, but it cannot transform a life.

At best, fear produces silence.

At worst, it produces rebellion.

True prevention comes through:

Wisdom; the kind that shapes your decisions before emotions get loud.

Wisdom that sees consequences at the beginning, not in hindsight.

Wisdom that turns conviction into clarity, and clarity into courage.

Purity; not as a punishment, not as denial, and not as shame but as protection.

Purity is not about what God wants to keep from you; it’s about what He wants to keep you for.

It is the discipline that preserves purpose, dignity, and destiny.

Discipleship; because people don’t rise to the level of their intentions; they rise to the level of their training.

Discipleship teaches you why boundaries matter,

how temptation works, and where to anchor your identity so you don’t look for validation in the wrong arms.

Accountability; the kind of relationships that don’t judge you, but won’t let you destroy your future either.

People who ask the hard questions,

people who pull you back when emotions pull you forward, people who love you enough to confront you.

Learning to say “no” earlier, not “God forgive me” later because the strength to refuse the wrong thing at the right time is one of the greatest spiritual disciplines a young person can develop.

Young people need more than “don’t do it.”

That message is incomplete.

It tells them what not to do but never teaches them how to stand.

It points out danger but does not show direction.

It warns them about the cliff but does not give them a map.

They need teaching; real, practical, honest conversations about sex, purpose, temptation, identity, boundaries, emotions, and spiritual maturity.

They need community; a tribe that reminds them who they are when their feelings try to redefine them.

A place where they are seen, supported, corrected, celebrated, and strengthened.

They need conviction, not borrowed beliefs, not inherited rules, but a personal revelation of God’s heart for them.

Conviction that is strong enough to withstand pressure, and rooted enough to resist compromise.

They need vision for their future, a sense of destiny so powerful that momentary pleasure loses its appeal.

When a person has seen where God is taking them, they stop trading destiny for distraction.

And they need courage ;

courage to choose wisely,

to walk away,

to wait,

to stand firm,

to honor God even when their emotions don’t cooperate,

to protect their future when compromise feels easy.

So yes,

I support abortion… prevention.

Not through judgment,

but through empowerment.

Not through shame,

but through strategy.

Not through fear, but through the kind of wisdom that preserves purpose long before temptation ever arrives.

5. I Support Abortion… Redemption

Because redemption is the language of God.

It is the melody of Scripture,

the heartbeat of grace,

the very essence of the gospel.

We serve a God who turns graves into gardens literally and figuratively.

A God who steps into the darkest chapters of our lives

and rewrites them with mercy.

A God who specializes in taking the very thing the enemy intended for destruction

and transforming it into a testimony.

Destinies are not canceled because of mistakes.

Your purpose is not that fragile.

Heaven did not design your future on a thin thread that snaps the moment you fall.

God does not abandon His plans because you stumbled; He restores, redirects, realigns, and reclaims.

Purpose is not aborted because of one moment.

Your calling doesn’t evaporate.

Your identity doesn’t expire.

Your assignment doesn’t disappear.

The gifts of God are without repentance; meaning He doesn’t snatch back what He gave simply because you passed through a painful chapter.

Grace is not fragile.

It is not a glass that shatters when pressed by human failure.

Grace is steel wrapped in compassion

unyielding, unbreakable, unchanging.

It meets you exactly where you fell

and lifts you back to where you belong.

Mercy is not temporary.

It does not have an expiration date.

It doesn’t run out on the days you need it most.

Mercy renews itself every morning; new strength, new cleansing, new tenderness from God’s heart to yours.

And God’s love is not a mood swing.

It doesn’t fluctuate based on your behavior.

It doesn’t weaken because of your past.

It doesn’t retreat because of your mistakes.

God’s love is steady, mature, unwavering; a covenant, not a reaction.

There is life after abortion.

Not a half-life.

Not a survival mode.

A full, vibrant, restored, God-breathed life that still carries meaning and beauty.

Because your story does not end where shame tried to bury you.

There is healing after pain.

Not the surface-level healing that pretends the past never happened, but the deep kind; the kind that transforms guilt into testimony, fear into wisdom, and regret into compassion for others.

There is purpose after sin.

God is the only One who can take broken pieces and create something more beautiful than the original design.

There is redemption after regret.

Redemption means God doesn’t just forgive you;

He restores the years that were lost, rebuilds what was damaged, and breathes new meaning into the parts of your story you thought were ruined forever.

The devil wants women to stay in shame because shame silences,

shame isolates,

shame suffocates potential,

shame convinces you that you are unworthy of anything holy,

shame makes you hide from the One who came to heal you.

But God wants them to step into freedom, the kind of freedom that makes you lift your head again,

the kind of freedom that lets you pray without fear,

the kind of freedom that restores your confidence,

your identity,

your voice,

your joy.

So yes,

I support abortion… redemption.

Because God writes stories that rise from ashes.

Because mercy rewrites narratives.

And because no one is ever too broken for the healing hands of a compassionate God.

So no…

I don’t support abortion.

Not because I lack empathy.

Not because I ignore the struggles, the fear, the pressure, or the pain.

I don’t support abortion because life, every life, is sacred, intentional, and loved by God.

But I do support truth.

The kind of truth that doesn’t hide in euphemisms,

the truth that meets hearts, not just minds,

the truth that honors God while still honoring the human story.

I do support compassion.

The kind of compassion that walks alongside women,

that listens before judging,

that comforts before condemning,

that extends grace into broken spaces.

I do support clarity.

Because clarity illuminates choices,

reveals consequences,

and points people toward paths that preserve life, dignity, and purpose.

I do support God’s heart for both the woman and the unborn child.

Because His love is never one-sided,

His mercy never partial,

His purpose never abandoned.

And if you are pregnant… please hear me:

Do not abort that child, no matter the circumstance.

Every life is a gift, even in the hardest situations.

If your pregnancy is the result of rape, and the situation feels impossible,

you do not have to carry the burden alone, give that child to an orphanage.

God will take care of that life.

He will provide, protect, and preserve the destiny of that child.

Your choices matter, but God’s sovereignty is greater, and His love is unfailing.

And if supporting this; truth, compassion, clarity, God’s heart; makes me controversial, so be it.

I’d rather stir hearts awake than let silence and convenience numb the conscience.

I’d rather provoke thought than settle for polite avoidance.

I’d rather speak God’s truth with love than remain quiet in a world that desperately needs it.

Let me say something most people are too timid to voice:

You cannot construct a meaningful, lasting life on vibes, aesthetics, or sheer confidence alone. Yes, you are brilliant; innovative, witty, quick-thinking, emotionally aware. But brilliance is not a substitute for discipline. Creativity is not a stand-in for consistency. Emotional intelligence cannot cover up irresponsibility. And that charming, “I’ll figure it out” energy? It only works if you actually figure it out.

We live in a generation that knows how to perform, how to curate, how to trend. We craft soft-life moments, aesthetic feeds, and personality brands like masterpieces but we often avoid the quiet, unglamorous workrooms where real growth is forged. The truth? Life doesn’t reward potential or promise, it rewards cultivation. It honors the hands that plant, water, and till, not the ones that simply dream in the sunlight.

This is why I’m saying: stop trying your best.

Because “trying your best” often becomes an excuse to stay in comfort zones, to coast on charm, talent, or good intentions, without ever building the foundation your future self needs. Stop assuming effort alone is enough. Stop confusing intention with progress. Real growth demands more than trying, it demands consistency, discipline, teachability, and the courage to face uncomfortable truths.

Stop trying your best. Start showing up fully. Start doing the work that doesn’t make for Instagram highlights but will build the life you actually want. Stop hoping potential will carry you, and start cultivating it.

Your feelings matter but your feelings are not a strategy.

Feelings are signals, not blueprints. They are the internal compass pointing toward what needs attention: grief signals loss, anger exposes injustice, joy affirms alignment. Honor them. Name them. Sit with them. Validate them. But do not mistake them for a map, you cannot build a life on feelings alone. They indicate needs; they do not pay bills, finish projects, or sustain relationships. Crying, overthinking, and processing trauma are valid and necessary acts of care. But when the tears dry, when reflection ends, you must still make decisions that honor your future. Healing is a sacred part of your journey but it is not a justification for stalling or hiding from responsibility.

Self-awareness without self-discipline is not wisdom,it is self-sabotage. You can understand every nuance of your life, your emotions, and your choices, but without converting insight into deliberate action, understanding becomes paralysis.

This is why I say: stop trying your best. Trying your best often becomes an excuse to linger in comfort, to feel deeply without acting, or to think intention is enough. Real growth requires more than effort; it requires discipline, courage, and deliberate action. Self-awareness without self-discipline is not wisdom, it is self-sabotage. You can understand every nuance of your life, your emotions, and your choices, but without converting insight into deliberate action, understanding becomes paralysis.

Healing is preparation, not permission to pause. Growth demands that you move forward while carrying your lessons, not while clinging to comfort. Stop trying your best. Start doing your best; intentionally, consistently, and courageously.

Learn to take correction without being offended.

Correction is not an attack on your identity, it is a divine tool for shaping your destiny. Not everyone who points out your mistakes is trying to wound you; many are sent to guide, refine, and help you grow. If every critique feels like a personal insult, you risk closing doors God intended to open, and stunting the growth He is calling you into. Gold shines under fire and so will you if you receive guidance with humility and intentionality, rather than defensiveness.

Here’s the truth: trying your best is not enough if it means resisting correction or avoiding discomfort. Growth requires more than good intentions; it requires listening, adjusting, and acting. Stop trying your best. Start doing your best, by receiving feedback, learning, and implementing it with courage and consistency.

I want to be transparent: this is something I am genuinely learning myself. God is teaching me how to receive correction without taking it personally, how to allow His wisdom to work through others’ words, and how to turn moments of discomfort into opportunities for growth. Every time I feel a flicker of defensiveness, I pause and remind myself: this is not rejection, this is refinement. And slowly, I am learning that the more I embrace correction with a teachable heart, the more I step into the person God has designed me to become and the more I stop settling for merely “trying my best.”

Not everyone who loves you can mentor you.

This is a truth many people shy away from because it feels harsh, but it’s essential for growth. Love and mentorship are not the same thing. Someone can care deeply about you; cheer for you, support you emotionally, and even sacrifice for you but that does not automatically make them equipped to guide you into the next level of your life. Mentorship requires perspective, wisdom, experience, and the ability to give honest feedback, sometimes even when it’s uncomfortable. Love alone cannot do that. A loved one might protect you from criticism to spare your feelings, encourage comfort over challenge, or unintentionally shield you from growth. And that is not malice, it is human instinct. But it can limit your potential if you rely on it exclusively.

Here’s the nuance:

1. Love is emotional; mentorship is intentional. Love says, “I care about you.” Mentorship says, “I care about your growth and your future, even when it hurts.” Love can soothe and nurture; mentorship challenges and sharpens.

2. Love can celebrate; mentorship can correct. A loved one might applaud every idea, protect you from difficult truths, or avoid uncomfortable conversations. A mentor will speak honestly, even if it’s hard because they see the person you can become, not just the person you are now.

3. Not all love aligns with vision. You may love someone and trust them deeply, but their life experience, worldview, or priorities may not align with the direction you need to grow. That’s not a rejection of love, it’s a recognition that mentorship requires intentional alignment.

4. Mentorship often involves tough love. True mentors will correct, redirect, and sometimes challenge you in ways that feel uncomfortable or even confrontational. If we confuse mentorship with mere emotional support, we risk mistaking comfort for growth and comfort rarely produces greatness.

Practical takeaway:

You can love and appreciate the people in your life without depending on them for guidance that shapes your destiny. Seek mentors intentionally; those who have walked the path, see your potential, and are willing to guide you honestly. Protect your growth by recognizing the difference between someone who wants to support you emotionally and someone who is equipped to challenge and elevate you.

And here’s the key: stop trying your best with the wrong people or in the wrong spaces. Stop settling for comfort, passive encouragement, or vague support. Growth requires intentional alignment, accountability, and guidance that stretches you beyond your current limits. Trying your best in the wrong environment will only keep you stagnant; doing your best with the right mentorship will elevate your life.

In short: Love is beautiful. Mentorship is necessary. And not everyone who loves you is meant to mentor you but the right mentor will change the trajectory of your life.

You are not too young, you are just too distracted.

This is a truth that most people avoid saying because it feels critical, but it’s one of the most freeing realizations you can have. So many of us in this generation believe we are “too young” to be serious, to make big decisions, or to take ownership of our future. That’s not entirely true. Youth is not an excuse, it is a gift. The real obstacle is distraction. Distraction comes in many forms: endless scrolling on social media, comparing yourself to highlight reels, chasing validation from peers, bingeing trends, or being emotionally entangled in things that don’t align with your vision. These distractions steal time, energy, and clarity, creating the illusion that you are too young to act when, in reality, your potential is being quietly wasted. Stop thinking of your age as the barrier. Stop letting external noise dictate your choices. You are not “too young” to start building, learning, or stepping into your purpose. You are simply too distracted. Redirect your attention, protect your focus, and watch how quickly youth becomes your advantage rather than your excuse. Distraction is the enemy of progress not youth. And when you master your attention, your age becomes irrelevant, you are ready for greatness now.

Dear Gen Z,

Your confidence is beautiful. Your voice is powerful. Your ideas are golden. But the version of you that will truly change the world is not the one “just trying her best.” It is the one that is consistent when no one is watching, teachable when correction stings, grounded when chaos surrounds her, correctable when she errs, and courageous enough to face truths most avoid.

You owe your future self discipline.

You owe your destiny seriousness.

You owe God, life, and yourself stewardship.

Start walking in that maturity today. Build habits, set boundaries, and make decisions that honor the life you are meant to live. Everything you are praying for; your dreams, your breakthroughs, your purpose, will have a place to land. But it will only land on a foundation strong enough to hold it.

Grow wisely. Grow intentionally. Grow fearlessly.

With all my love and belief in you,

Stop trying your best, start doing your best.

Your Wise Gen Z Aunty 🩷✨

Dera.

I’m on my bed; phone plugged in, screen glowing faintly against the evening light, and for the first time in a while, I told myself, “Let’s just write.”

No filters. No drafts. No curated perfection. Just honesty; the raw, unpolished kind that doesn’t care about coherence or structure.

Because honestly? I miss this. I miss writing here.

There’s something about opening a blank page and letting your thoughts stretch their legs; no agenda, no audience expectations, just you and your brain trying to make sense of each other. It feels like breathing again.

I don’t even have a topic for this, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe not every piece of writing needs a direction. Sometimes it just needs a pulse; a quiet, steady beat that says, “I’m still here.”

I Miss My IT Days

I miss my six months of Industrial Training. Everything about it — the rhythm, the tiny bursts of excitement, the feeling that I was doing something that mattered.

Now I’m back in school, final year, and honestly? I want to enjoy it. I really do. But lately, I just feel… off. Like there’s this invisible weight sitting on my chest project defense, financial stress, expectations from every corner. It’s like adulthood is slowly tightening its grip and whispering, “Welcome.”

Sometimes, I catch myself thinking wild thoughts like, “What if I just… scammed my dad a little?” 😭

Wait, don’t judge. Hear me out.

If my defense budget is ₦150,000, I might tell him it’s ₦300,000. Why? Because final year isn’t just about the project; it’s about the memories; the activities, the dinners, the class pictures, the last laughs with people you may never see again. And all of that costs money.

Do I actually want to scam him? Not really.

But here’s the thing: if I tell him the exact amount, he’ll give me that exact amount; nothing more, nothing less. No allowance for life’s extras. No space to breathe.

So maybe it’s not “scamming.” Maybe it’s preemptive budgeting for emotional well-being 😭.

Maybe it’s me trying to stay afloat in the chaos of final year without feeling guilty for wanting to live a little.

School Feels Weird Lately

Lately, school has felt… strange. Not bad, just strange. Like everything is happening too fast, too loud, too close. There’s this constant overstimulation; noise, deadlines, people, responsibilities and it’s like my brain is permanently buffering.

Even when I try to pray, my mind drifts. I start dozing off mid-prayer or zoning out like Alice in Wonderland, except my wonderland is made up of unfinished assignments, voice notes I haven’t replied to, and an open Google Doc I’ve stared at for 30 minutes without typing a word.

It’s exhausting to feel disconnected from the things that once grounded you.

And then there’s this new twist: I’m a student pastor… and my lecturers found out.

The Day They Found Out

So here’s how it happened.

I was with my coursemate, her name’s Elisa-Rex (yes, like a Marvel character or some kind of academic superhero). We went to my course advisor’s office, but he was outside making a call, so we stood there waiting.

Then out of nowhere, one of my lecturers walked up and said,

“I heard you’re a pastor. Is it true you have anointing?”

Excuse me? 😭

I froze. Every molecule in my body froze.

In that moment, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Who told this man? And why “anointing,” of all words? 😂

Before I could even recover, he said he’d tell my course advisor and project supervisor. And guess what? He actually did. So now, everyone knows.

I used to think I could blend in, just be another student hustling through deadlines and PowerPoint slides. But I guess light doesn’t exactly come with a “stealth mode” option.

Looking back now, maybe this is God’s gentle reminder that visibility isn’t always a curse. Sometimes, being seen is the assignment.

Closing Thoughts (Or Whatever This Is)

I’m not even sure what this piece is; a rant? a confession? a brain dump? Maybe all three.

But writing it feels good. It feels like unclogging my thoughts, like giving chaos a microphone and letting it speak.

Maybe I’ll figure things out soon.

Maybe I won’t.

And maybe that’s fine.

Either way, it’s currently 6:30 p.m. there’s no light, the heat is relentless, and I’m just a final-year student sitting on her bed, phone plugged currently unplugged, trying to make sense of life one paragraph at a time.

Somewhere between the noise, the deadlines, and the heat, I think I’m learning that sometimes surviving the day is enough.

Bye!✌🏽

I believe it’s a safe place to share, so let me open up about something real.

By nature, I’m a very content person. I’ve never been the type to measure my life against others or to secretly wish I had what they had. Envy and jealousy rarely come near me or so I thought. I’ve always taken joy in celebrating people, especially when they’re my friends or family. Their wins feel like my wins, and I’ve been genuinely satisfied with what God has given me.

That’s why this moment caught me off guard. Envy was one of those emotions I believed I was immune to. I thought my heart was safe from it, covered by gratitude and contentment. But then, in the middle of an ordinary evening conversation with a friend, something shifted. Their words weren’t malicious; they were just casual remarks about people we both knew. Yet, as the names rolled out and mine was missing, I felt something stir inside me, something I didn’t want to name.

I brushed it off at first, but the feeling grew. It was as though comparison slipped in quietly, whispering questions I didn’t even realize I had: Am I not enough? Do I not measure up? That’s when it hit me: Wait… is this envy?

But before I share my story, let me pause and clear up something that’s often misunderstood. Many of us use jealousy and envy interchangeably, but they are not the same thing. The difference is subtle, yet important.

• Jealousy is about guarding what you already have. It usually shows up as fear; the fear that someone or something might take away what belongs to you. For example, a person might feel jealous if they sense their friend is getting closer to someone else, or if they think their position, relationship, or recognition is being threatened.

• Envy, on the other hand, is about desire. It’s not about protecting; it’s about longing. Envy happens when you look at what someone else has; their beauty, their opportunities, their achievements, their possessions and you wish it were yours. Unlike jealousy, envy is less about defense and more about dissatisfaction with your own portion.

When you see the difference clearly, it makes you more self-aware. You begin to understand the root of what you’re feeling and can name it for what it really is.

Now, story time.

One evening, around 8 pm, my friend called me. (Side note: I honestly dislike phone calls. But if you’re my friend, I’ll answer, even if my phone is on DND, just call me twice and I’ll pick!) We started gisting, hopping from one random topic to another, when suddenly he shifted the conversation to how beautiful some people in our community were.

Truthfully, he wasn’t lying — they are beautiful, and I agreed with him. But as he continued to mention name after name, something unexpected happened: mine never came up. With each name he listed, the silence around my own name grew louder. A quiet question began to rise in me: Am I not part of the fine girls in this community? His omission wasn’t intentional, but it triggered something I didn’t even know was sitting inside me. Am I not beautiful enough? Am I not worthy of being counted?

And that was when it happened. To my own surprise, envy crept in. Not jealousy, but envy; the kind that makes you long for recognition someone else is getting. My emotions felt bruised. Why did I suddenly need someone else to affirm my beauty in order to believe it myself? This wasn’t me. Chidera doesn’t get envious. Yet there I was, quietly resenting an innocent girl, not because she had done anything wrong, but simply because she was celebrated and I wasn’t.

It became obvious when I started scrolling past her posts on social media without engaging, not because I didn’t see them, but because I refused to. That was when I knew the feeling had gone deeper than I wanted to admit. Something was definitely wrong.

Thankfully, God has blessed me with wise sisters who show up at the right time. I decided to open up to one of them, and that single conversation changed everything. She didn’t condemn me or make me feel less-than; instead, she spoke with so much love and understanding. The very first thing she told me was:

“It’s such a good thing that you noticed this in yourself and decided to talk about it. Do you know what you just did for yourself?….”

Her words stopped me in my tracks. I had been so focused on the shame of feeling envious that I hadn’t realized the courage it took to admit it and seek help. By bringing it into the light, I had already taken the first step toward healing.

She went on to share her own experience with me, and it was exactly what I needed in that moment. She told me how she too had faced seasons of comparison and silent envy, but how God walked her through them. Then she said something that struck me like lightning: “True contentment comes from God’s Word.”

That line pierced my heart. I realized I had been waiting for human words; someone else to call me beautiful, to affirm me, when in reality, God had already spoken over me. His Word says I am fearfully and wonderfully made. His Word says I am chosen, loved, and accepted in Christ. And if that’s true, then no human omission or oversight should shake my identity.

So I went back to the place I knew healing always comes from — prayer. I laid my feelings honestly before God, without pretending or sugarcoating. I admitted, “Lord, this hurt me. This stirred something in me I don’t like.” And then I began to speak His Word over myself, reminding my soul of who I am in Him. Little by little, the resentment melted away, like ice under the warmth of the sun. My joy returned, and with it, peace.

But just when I thought I had won the battle, another test came.

Today, I opened Instagram and saw a friend’s post. She was pictured with a popular celebrity. She had been invited to an event, networking, shining, stepping into opportunities — and there it was, right on my feed. That subtle voice crept in again: “God, when? What am I not doing right? Why her and not me?”

For a moment, I almost went down that same path. But this time was different. This time, I caught myself quickly. Instead of entertaining the thought, I rebuked it. I paused and prayed:

“Thank You, Jesus, for the life of my friend. She is going places, and I rejoice with her. And when it is my turn to be celebrated, it will surely come. I am content with where I am. I may not be where I want to be yet, but I am not where I used to be.”

Immediately, my spirit shifted. The weight lifted. I even congratulated her sincerely, from a genuine place in my heart. And right after that, joy came flooding back. That’s when I knew , the Word was working.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Here’s what I’ve learned: envy and jealousy are emotions we will all feel at some point in life. Experiencing them doesn’t make you less spiritual, less mature, or less loved by God; it simply makes you human. The danger, however, is when we allow those emotions to linger. If left unchecked, envy becomes a seed that grows into bitterness, comparison, and resentment. And that’s not who we are in Christ. The key is not to deny or suppress the feeling but to respond wisely: take it back to God in prayer, pour out your heart honestly, and keep declaring His Word until your heart aligns again with truth.

One biblical story that shifted my perspective was shared by Apostle Emmanuel Iren at WOFBEC 2025. He spoke about Joseph and his brothers, and it painted envy in a whole new light for me. At just 17, Joseph had dreams that his brothers would one day bow before him. Instead of celebrating God’s vision for their brother, envy blinded them. They stopped seeing Joseph as family and began to see him only as a threat. That envy matured into hatred, and soon, they sold him into slavery.

Joseph’s journey afterward was anything but easy. For 13 long years, he endured slavery, false accusations, and prison before finally stepping into his God-ordained destiny as prime minister of Egypt. From the outside, Joseph looked like the favored one — the chosen star, the man everyone else had to watch rise while they stayed in the shadows. But here’s where Apostle Iren highlighted something profound: Joseph’s brothers didn’t exactly “lose.” Their father Jacob was wealthy. Even during the famine, they had resources to survive. And when they finally came to Egypt, desperate for food, they didn’t meet an enemy — they met their brother, now positioned by God to preserve them.

Here’s the shocking twist: you would think the Messiah’s lineage would come through Joseph, the dreamer, the visionary, the prime minister who endured and triumphed. But God, in His mysterious wisdom, chose Judah , one of the very brothers who envied Joseph, as the tribe through which Jesus would come.

The lesson is crystal clear: the people we envy are often the very “Josephs” God has raised, not to diminish us, but to preserve us, protect us, and even bless us. Sometimes their rising is not competition but provision for us. Sometimes their assignment is tied in ways we cannot yet see to our own destiny. And sometimes, like Judah, even those who once struggled with envy are still written into God’s redemption story.

So, the next time envy whispers in your ear, pause and remember: someone else’s rising does not cancel your purpose. Their light doesn’t dim yours. In fact, God may be weaving their story and yours together in ways that will make sense only in hindsight.

So today, I make a choice of gratitude. Thank You, Jesus. I refuse to entertain envy in my heart — not because I am perfect, but because I am secure in Your love. I choose contentment, not comparison. Whether it’s beauty, material things, leadership opportunities, or visible growth, I know this one thing: God has been good to me. His plans concerning me are deliberate. His timing is flawless. And His love is far too consistent for me to ever think I have been forgotten.

To you reading this: if you’ve ever wrestled with jealousy or envy, hear me clearly; you are not strange, and you are not less spiritual. These emotions don’t define you; they are simply signals pointing you back to God. The danger is not in feeling them, but in allowing them to take root. Don’t stay there. Don’t let silent comparison rob you of joy. Run back to His Word, pray through your emotions, confess His promises until your spirit realigns, and watch how peace returns.

Because here’s the truth: God writes stories with intention. He lifts some today, not to overshadow you, but sometimes to preserve you, inspire you, or even prepare the path you will one day walk. When it’s your turn, nothing will delay it. When it’s your time, no one will deny it. Until then, keep your eyes on Jesus, stay rooted in gratitude, and celebrate others genuinely because their rising is not your fall, and your turn is not behind schedule.

God bless you richly. 🌸

“Sope purrrr! Purrrr!!!!”

Hello dear Christian lady; let me speak to you with love, clarity, and boldness: you are not a Christian baddie. Yes, I said what I said.

“Baddie” is a slang term that originated in African American Vernacular English (AAVE) and later spread through rap, hip-hop culture, and social media. It comes from the word “bad,” which in street culture was flipped from its literal meaning (not good) to describe someone who is attractive, stylish, and desirable. Sounds exciting, right? Trendy, bold, even empowering. You’ve probably seen the phrase floating around social media bios, captions, or TikTok videos. At first glance, it feels harmless; even cool. After all, who wouldn’t want to be stylish, confident, and radiant while still loving Jesus?

But here’s the problem: the word baddie isn’t as innocent as it looks. It didn’t come from Scripture, and it definitely didn’t come from God. It was birthed in a culture that glamorizes vanity, sensuality, and self-promotion. And no matter how much we try to sugarcoat or rebrand it with “Christian” in front, its root meaning can never be divorced from bad.

So before you proudly crown yourself a Christian baddie, pause and ask: Is this really who God called us to be?”

Over time, bad girl evolved into baddie, usually referring to a woman who is:

• Fashion-forward, with makeup, hair, and nails always on point

• Confident and bold in looks and attitude

• Social media–savvy, presenting a glamorous aesthetic

• Often associated with materialism, sensuality, and self-promotion

In short, “baddie” = a stylish, confident woman but rooted in a worldly standard of beauty and influence.

No matter how much you polish the word or try to rebrand it, the reality doesn’t change: “baddie” is still rooted in the word bad. You can dress it up, give it a new spin, or attach positive traits to it, but its foundation remains the same. And as believers, we cannot build our identity on a name that carries the weight of something God never called us to be.

The phrase “Christian baddie” does not appear anywhere in Scripture, and for good reason. The very word baddie is born out of a secular, worldly culture; one that glorifies vanity, sensuality, and self-centeredness. It is a term shaped by trends, not by truth. So when we attempt to merge it with Christian, what we end up with is a contradiction. It’s like trying to join holiness with clout, or blending consecration with compromise. The Bible is clear: “What fellowship has light with darkness?” (2 Corinthians 6:14). Attaching Christ’s name to a term rooted in worldliness doesn’t sanctify it; it dilutes our witness and blurs the lines of our true identity in Him.

When people use the term Christian baddie, they often explain it this way:

• A woman who loves God deeply and prioritizes her walk with Him.

• Someone who carries herself with confidence, class, and grace.

• Stylish and put together, but in a way that seeks to honor her faith.

• A balance of boldness with humility; standing out without compromise.

In other words, they describe it as a fusion of faith, excellence, and aesthetics. To them, it’s not about being worldly but about reclaiming confidence, beauty, and influence for Christ. Some even frame it as a type of “kingdom branding”, a way of showing that you can glow, look good, and still live with impact while honoring God. The interesting thing is, many people don’t even fully understand what the term means. They just pick it up and use it because it sounds trendy. You see it casually dropped in social media bios, captions, and conversations, as if it’s harmless.

I’ll be honest: I once used the word on myself too. I tried to make sense of it, tried to give it a positive spin. But deep down, it never sat right with me. There was always that nudge in my spirit reminding me that no matter how I dressed it up, it wasn’t a name that aligned with my true identity in Christ.

I have come to believe that this term is not just a harmless trend; it is a strategic lie of the devil, cleverly packaged to manipulate and water down the identity of Christian women. By masking it as confidence or kingdom branding, the enemy seeks to shift our focus from being set apart daughters of the King to being redefined by culture.

But let me be clear: we are not Christian baddies. That label is too shallow, too compromised, and too inconsistent with Scripture to capture who we truly are in Christ.

So today, I boldly rebuke that term in the name of the Lord! It has no place in defining us. We are not bound to cultural labels or shallow titles. Our worth is not measured by trends, hashtags, or rebranded slang.

We are far greater than the small, compromised explanation of a “Christian baddie.” Our identity is eternal, royal, and divine. We are not of the world, so we refuse to be named by the world.

Thank You, Holy Spirit, for this revelation.

If you have ever called yourself a Christian baddie, please stop. I once did the same; trying to give the word a holy gloss, but by God’s grace I was corrected. That correction brought clarity: names matter, and our name comes from Him.

You are not a Christian baddie.

You are a Christian Queen, a daughter of the King, clothed in dignity and strength, set apart for His purposes. We refuse titles that shrink us or dress holiness in worldly clothes. We will not be renamed by trends, hashtags, or shallow slogans.

So let us renounce that label now, in the name of the Lord. We rebuke the lie that seeks to redefine our God-given identity. We are far bigger, far higher, and far purer than any trendy phrase could ever capture. Walk in that truth. Walk as royalty. Amen.

And let’s settle this once and for all: you were never called to be a Christian baddie.

That label is too shallow for the weight of your destiny, too temporary for the eternal crown on your head, too worldly for the holiness you carry.

You are not a Christian baddie.

You are a Christian Queen; set apart, unshakable, royal, and radiant with the glory of God.

Case closed. Mic dropped.

But honestly, If you had seen me in 100 level, “pastor” would have been the last word you’d use to describe me. I was living my version of the “baddie life”; short gowns, attention, and insecurity wrapped up as confidence.

Back in 100 level, I was really caught up in what I would call “baddie things.” For me, short gowns weren’t just fashion choices; they carried a hidden motive. They became like a mask I wore; an outward expression to cover up the emptiness and insecurity I felt within.

It wasn’t truly my style, but it was how I chose to feed a desire of the flesh. I thought it gave me a sense of attention, acceptance, and confidence, when in reality, it was a reflection of how I didn’t feel good enough in myself. Every time I dressed that way, it wasn’t just about clothes, it was about me trying to fill a void, prove a point, and project an image that deep down I wasn’t even at peace with.

Looking back, I realize how easy it is to mistake fashion for fulfillment, or to confuse confidence with performance. My love for those short gowns wasn’t about beauty; it was about a hunger for validation. And the truth is, no amount of external adornment can ever cure an internal struggle.

Now, this is not in any way to downplay short gowns or those who choose to wear them; to each their own. Fashion is personal, and everyone has their reasons. But for me, it was never just about fashion; it was about what I was seeking through it.

I’m simply sharing my story to emphasize that growth is possible if you yield yourself to it. The Holy Spirit has a very unique way of dealing with us individually, peeling off layers we thought we needed and teaching us that true identity isn’t stitched into the fabric we wear.

Some habits, desires, or even ways of expressing ourselves may feel natural in one season, but when you truly give yourself to His leading, you’ll notice how He gently but firmly causes you to outgrow them.

It’s not about condemnation, it’s about transformation. And transformation often looks like outgrowing a version of yourself you once thought you couldn’t live without.

There was a season where even something as simple as getting dressed became a genuine battle for me. My newfound reality in Christ had shifted my perspective, but it also left me standing at a crossroads. On one hand, I wanted to look good, because there’s nothing wrong with beauty or excellence in appearance. But on the other hand, I didn’t want to appear dull, lifeless, or like I had lost every sense of style.

It often felt like I was caught between two worlds.

• I would see how people outside the church dressed, and honestly, it stirred conflicting emotions. A part of me hated it because I knew what it represented, yet another part of me secretly liked it and missed it.

• Then, I would observe how some people in the church dressed, and I felt equally unsettled. I wasn’t drawn to it either; it just didn’t align with the image I envisioned for myself. It felt too far removed from the balance I was searching for.

I didn’t want to swing to either extreme, but I didn’t yet know what “my middle” looked like. That tension made getting dressed an act of wrestling rather than joy.

Even with my Pastor, Chide, (God bless her soul), my dressing was often a point of tension. We had very big differences, and honestly, I felt misunderstood. At the time, I thought she just didn’t want to see things from my perspective, and I’m sure she must have felt the same about me; that I wasn’t willing to understand her either.

But one thing I’m truly grateful for is that we didn’t leave those differences hanging in silence. We eventually had real conversations, and those moments shifted everything. Talking openly gave us room to listen, not just to respond, but to actually understand where the other person was coming from.

That experience taught me something priceless: growth is not about shutting people down or proving you’re right; it’s about opening your heart to learn. Sometimes, God uses the very disagreements we struggle with to shape us, refine us, and stretch our perspectives. What once felt like conflict became an avenue for deeper clarity, humility, and mutual respect.

So yeah, looking back, I can boldly say that my style over the past few years has truly improved; if I do say so myself. And the beauty of it is, I know this is just the beginning. Growth in style, much like growth in Christ, is never a one-time event. It's a continuous journey of refinement, discovery, and alignment. You keep evolving, you keep learning, and with every season, you shed old skins and embrace new layers of expression.

There are people whose sense of style genuinely inspires me. Pastor Sarah Jakes Roberts, for instance; if you take a moment to scroll through her Instagram, you'll understand what I mean.

Her style is bold yet elegant, modest yet modern, expressive yet refined

Then there's Aunt Popo, Powede Awujo; her poise, class, and timeless sense of fashion always leave me in awe. I love how she manages to balance sophistication with simplicity, showing that true elegance doesn't have to scream to be heard.

But above all, there's the quiet, steady voice of the Holy Spirit. He's not only guiding my convictions but also shaping my taste, gently reminding me of my new reality in Christ.

Sometimes it's in subtle nudges, sometimes in stronger convictions, but always in love. And often, I don't even realize how much He's reshaping me until I look back and notice how far I've come.

Is it always easy? Honestly, no. But does it get better? Absolutely, yes. There are still days when I see a crop top and something in me goes, hmm, I would really love to wear this. And to be fair, it's not because I dislike them, in fact, I genuinely love crop tops. But my convictions have reshaped the way I see and express myself.

Now, when I pick up a crop shirt, I don't just throw it on bare like I used to. I style it differently; more thoughtfully, more intentionally. Because for me, it's no longer just about wearing what looks good; it's about wearing what reflects who I'm becoming.

This isn't about erasing my personality or pretending I don't like certain things anymore.

It's about alignment; aligning my style with my convictions, my fashion with my faith, and my outward appearance with the inward work God is doing in me. Growth doesn't mean you stop liking the things you once loved; sometimes it simply means you love them differently, through a new lens.

And to anyone who finds themselves where I once was; caught in that tension between the world's style and your newfound reality in Christ, please hear me: you are not alone. I know the conflict, the confusion, the tug-of-war between wanting to look good and wanting to honor God. I've wrestled with it too.

But here's the good news: you will be fine. Growth takes time, and the Spirit is patient with you. With grace, with surrender, and with the gentle leading of the Holy Spirit, you'll begin to discover a new balance. You'll learn how to express beauty without compromise, how to embrace elegance without guilt, and how to let your style reflect the woman or man you are becoming in Christ.

It won't happen overnight, but with each step, you'll see that your style doesn't have to clash with your faith; it can actually evolve beautifully alongside it. And in that journey, you'll come to realize something freeing: you don't have to sacrifice you to follow Christ; you just become a truer version of yourself in Him.

So yes, Ibilate’s pictures of myself made me both cringe and laugh. They were a mirror, showing me a girl who thought she had it all together, yet was searching for validation in all the wrong places. But they also reminded me how far I’ve come. From “forming baddie” to walking in purpose, it has truly been a journey marked by style, grace, and growth.

I still love looking good, there’s nothing wrong with that. But now I understand that beauty isn’t found in the cut of a gown, the length of a hemline, or the attention it draws. True beauty is rooted in wholeness, in knowing who I am beyond the fabric I wear. And that identity is not something I had to create for myself; it was given to me by God.

What once was a mask to cover insecurity has become a canvas to express confidence in Christ. My style has evolved, but more importantly, so has my heart. I’ve learned that when God clothes you with grace, you walk differently. You shine differently. You carry yourself with a boldness that no outfit could ever manufacture.

I am not a baddie pastor because that would reduce me to a trend, a title, or an image I have long outgrown. I am a pastor filled with far more: a wisdom refined in the secret place, a purpose anchored in eternity, a depth shaped by both breaking and healing, and a confidence that does not waver because it flows from Christ Himself.

What I carry cannot be boxed into aesthetics or fleeting labels. It is substance over surface, glory over glamour, and grace that clothes me far better than any fabric ever could. That is infinitely greater than any name the world might try to pin on me. ✨

You know how people usually have one figure in scripture they gravitate toward, someone they admire, look up to, or even secretly aspire to emulate? The answers are often the usual suspects: Father Abraham, the great patriarch of faith. King David, the psalmist-warrior after God’s own heart. Jacob, whose life was a testimony of God’s transforming power. Paul, the tireless apostle to the Gentiles. John and let me be honest here, I actually like John. He carries that “last-born energy,” the confidence of someone who knows without question that he is loved, treasured, and secure. Peter? I’ll respectfully skip. Mary, the mother of Jesus, the picture of grace and obedience. And then there’s King Solomon and listen, if Solomon happens to be your favorite Bible character, I’m judging you respectfully, but I’m judging you all the same 😂.

These names are inspiring, no doubt. They are pillars of faith, people whose stories we draw strength and lessons from. But as for me, none of them ever felt personal. I admired them, yes. I understood their significance, yes. But I couldn’t quite connect. I couldn’t find myself in their stories.

That changed when I came across the Samaritan woman in John 4. Her story isn’t polished. She isn’t celebrated in the same way Abraham or David is. In fact, if her life were laid bare in today’s world, she would be reduced to whispers, gossip, and ridicule. Yet, for me, her encounter with Jesus makes her the most relatable, human, and hope-filled character I’ve met in scripture. For now and perhaps for a long while, she is my favorite.

But here’s the twist—

I also hate her.

I hate her because she exposes me.

I hate how her story mirrors my own brokenness, my own shame, my own tendency to hide. I hate how she reminds me that Jesus won’t let me stay buried in my silence.

Her Story of Brokenness

Scripture tells us she had been married to five husbands — five! (We listen, we don’t judge.)

Now pause and think about that for a second. If she were Nigerian, that means five bride prices would have been paid for her. Omo, a typical Nigerian family would never let her hear the end of it , her name would be premium gist at every wedding, burial, and market square. If she were Indian, five dowries would have been exchanged — five! The sheer financial and social weight of that is overwhelming. And if it were one of those Zee World storylines, by the third husband she would already have been written into a family conspiracy plot 😭😂.

But beyond the humor, let’s take a closer look.

Five marriages. Five ceremonies. Five times standing before people, being declared “wife.” Five cycles of hope, only to end in heartbreak. That is not just a number, that is years of disappointment layered upon disappointment.

Can you imagine the mental exhaustion? The emotional toll? The inner chaos? With every failed marriage came the unspoken, haunting question: “What’s wrong with me?” The weight of shame. The sting of failure. The condemnation that doesn’t just come from people’s whispers but from your own thoughts.

And at the very moment Jesus met her, she wasn’t just scarred by her past, she was living in another complicated present. She was staying with a man who wasn’t even her husband. It’s almost as if her story was saying: “She had given up on the idea of being made official. She was just surviving.”

A Well at Noon

The Bible tells us she went to fetch water at noon.

That detail is not trivial , it’s loaded with meaning. In her culture, no one fetched water at noon. The sun was merciless, blazing overhead, with no shade, no relief, no sunscreen to guard against the burn. Women usually went early in the morning or later in the evening, when the air was cooler and the well became a social gathering spot. But this woman? She chose the very hour everyone else avoided.

Why? Because the silence of the afternoon was safer than the voices of the crowd. She couldn’t bear the whispers, the pointed glances, the quiet but cutting mockery that came with being seen. The well, a place of fellowship for other women had become for her a place of exile.

And let’s not forget the layers of her identity. She wasn’t just a Samaritan , part of a people already despised and rejected by the Jews. She wasn’t just a woman in a culture where women were often silenced, sidelined, and treated as lesser. She was a scandalized woman among scandalized people, bearing stigma within a community that already bore stigma itself.

It was condemnation within condemnation. Rejection layered upon rejection.

Every step she took toward that well in the harsh midday sun was not just about fetching water. It was about surviving shame. It was about hiding. Each step was a step away from people, away from community, and ultimately, away from dignity.

A Divine Necessity

But John 4:4 tells us something striking: “And He must needs go through Samaria.”

That simple phrase carries weight. Jesus didn’t just happen to pass by Samaria; He had to. This wasn’t about geography; it was about destiny. It was not convenience — it was necessity. There was a divine appointment scheduled at Jacob’s well, and the one person society had dismissed was the very reason heaven marked the route.

When He arrived, Scripture specifies that the well was in a town called Sychar. The name itself is significant ; it means “intoxication” or “drunkenness.” Some scholars even associate it with confusion, instability, or being under influence. Isn’t it remarkable that Jesus chose to meet her there?

Think about it. Of all the places He could have chosen, He showed up in a town whose very name reflected disorientation. He came to meet a woman whose life was equally disoriented; broken cycles, tangled choices, quiet shame. The setting of the encounter mirrored the state of her heart.

And that is exactly how He meets us. He doesn’t wait until we’ve cleaned up, figured it out, or arrived at a “respectable” place. He doesn’t demand we come to Him polished, put-together, or socially acceptable. Instead, He steps into our Sychar ;our seasons of confusion, our places of exhaustion, our hidden battles and He meets us there.

Jesus shows us that grace is not about waiting for you at the finish line; it’s about finding you in the middle of your mess.

A Conversation that Changed Everything

When Jesus finally spoke to her, His words carried a shocking gentleness. He didn’t condemn her. He didn’t scold her. He didn’t give her a lecture on morality or a sermon on failure. Instead, He crossed every line that society had drawn to keep her out — cultural lines, social lines, gender lines — just to reach her.

And in that moment, He saw her.

Not the gossip that followed her name.

Not the labels stamped on her by neighbors.

Not the scars of five broken marriages or the quiet compromise of living with a man not her husband.

He saw her.

And what He offered her was nothing she had ever known before. Not another man to lean on. Not another temporary fix. Not another ritual that could only soothe for a while. He offered Himself — living water that would satisfy the thirst she kept trying to quench in all the wrong places.

That conversation did something profound. It peeled back the thick, heavy layers of shame she had been carrying for years. It revealed a truth deeper than her failures: her worth, her purpose, her identity. For the first time, she didn’t see herself through the distorted mirror of rejection or through the accusing eyes of her community. She saw herself through the eyes of God’s love and that changed everything.

From Shame to Boldness

The result? Transformation.

The very woman who once timed her life around avoiding people, creeping to the well at noon just to escape the stares and whispers , suddenly became the loudest voice in the city. The one who hid in silence found her tongue loosed with testimony.

She ran into the very crowd she had been running from, and with boldness declared:

“Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?”

That is the power of an encounter with Jesus. He didn’t just quench her thirst; He rewrote her story.

From hidden to seen.

From shame to proclamation.

From rejected to redeemed.

From being the subject of gossip to being the messenger of the gospel.

The outcast became the first evangelist in her city. The woman who was once avoided became the one people came to hear. The one who was once defined by her failures was now defined by her Savior.

That’s what happens when Jesus meets you at your well. You never leave the same way you came.

The Truth for Us

I don’t know what you’re carrying right now, maybe exhaustion, anger, bitterness, a quiet shame, or a heaviness you can’t name. But this is certain: just as He went to Sychar for her, Jesus must needs come to you.

He finds you necessary. He meets you exactly where you are; in your confusion, your weakness, your hiding place. He doesn’t wait for you to be presentable or put together. He meets you in the noon of your life, in the place you thought safest to hide. And when He meets you there, you do not leave unchanged.

Because when Jesus meets you at your well, kaiiii!!! everything changes.

The Woman Who Made Me See Me

I realize now, I don’t truly hate the Samaritan woman.

What I hate is the reflection of myself she forces me to confront: the mistakes I’d rather bury, the shame I’d rather silence, the thirst I pretend doesn’t exist. But that’s the beauty of her story, isn’t it?

Because at the very well where shame tried to hide her, Jesus met her. And just like her, He meets me. Not when I’ve gotten it together, not when my story is polished, but right in the middle of my confusion, my exhaustion, my thirst.

So no, I don’t hate her. I love her.

Because her story tells me that if grace could rewrite hers, then it can rewrite mine too.

My 6-month IT kicked off on April 7th, and honestly… it was so boring at first. I came three times in five days, mostly mornings, just trying to survive the monotony. Then I met someone, let’s call her Nasara.

Nasara is my first Muslim friend, not even Nigerian, studying at the University of Ilorin. We met on April 11th, and immediately, it clicked. Like, that instant “we just get each other” vibe; you know the one. No explanations needed, no awkward small talk, just pure, effortless connection. That was us.

Nasara told me that some of her coursemates were also doing IT at the same place—lucky her, she didn’t have to navigate the whole thing alone. Me? I didn’t even spot a single familiar face from my university. It was kind of… isolating, low-key intimidating, but also a vibe I had to survive.

She said there were about three of them, but I ended up meeting only two: a guy and a girl. And yes… the guy is the one I had this whole experience with. Let’s call him Mr F.

Honestly, I can’t even remember if Nasara properly introduced us. At first, we barely spoke; just awkward small talk, the kind of conversations that don’t really go anywhere. Nothing meaningful. No sparks, no connection… yet.

Then May rolled around, and that’s when things really started.

It was time to go home for the day, and we realized we followed the same route. He asked for my number and mentioned my name, Chidera, and I joked, “You can save it as Chidera (Company Name),” because, honestly, I assumed I wouldn’t be the only Chidera he’s ever met.

Surprisingly, according to him, he didn’t have a single Chidera in his contacts, I rolled my eyes. How is that even possible? But okay… fine. That’s how proper conversations began.

He asked how I usually went home, and I told him I took the Iyana Ipaja bus from Ikeja. He asked how much, and I said 300. He was shocked, he’d been paying 500 from the office side. I explained my route required a bit of trekking, and honestly… what’s a little trek if you can save small change, right?

That’s how we started going home together almost every day.

My respect for him began the very first time we went home together. It was drizzling, Lagos buses were pure chaos (you know how it gets during rainy season 😅), and finally, we spotted one heading to Iyana Ipaja. The conductor shouted, “Na Just 1 seat!”

I internally braced myself, he might just leave me, and honestly, I wouldn’t have judged him. Rain was falling, people were pushing, it was pure madness.

But he stayed calm. The conductor and passengers started yelling, “make Una lap Una sef na!” And in my head, I was screaming, AS HOW??? Lap what? Who should lap who? Two people who barely know each other, being told to “lap”? The audacity.

Let me digress for a sec—call me traditional or petty, but there’s no way I’d let a guy sit behind me on a bike. Either I come down, or the guy does. (Story for another day 😏) I just… find it off.

Anyway, we decided not to enter the first bus. Then another one came, and this time there was space for two. And here’s the part that really got me: he made sure I stepped in first, made sure I was settled and comfortable before even thinking about himself.

I thought to myself, Ehn… maybe it’s his first time going home with me, he’s trying to make a good impression. But honestly? That little gesture, it mattered. I was genuinely pleased, and not in a “surface-level” way. There’s something about small, thoughtful actions that just sticks with you, you know?

Going home together quickly became a thing, and that’s when I started noticing the little things about him—the quiet, effortless gestures that don’t demand attention but somehow make someone unforgettable.

He’s kind.

He’s respectful.

He just knows how to treat people right; not in loud, dramatic ways, but in the small, thoughtful details that speak louder than words.

He’s funny, too, and so relatable; the kind of humor that turns even the most boring bus rides into moments you actually look forward to.

The way he moves; it’s subtle, but it hits differently. I enter the bus first, and when it’s time to leave the office, he opens the door, and I step out first (ladies first, obviously 😏). And I think to myself… Oh my God. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, doesn’t make a show of chivalry. He just makes sure I’m safe, comfortable, and genuinely taken care of.

The little things? They got me. How he makes sure I walk on the safer side of the road. How he buys me water without me asking. The quiet way he notices details about me, without ever needing applause or acknowledgment.

I kept thinking, “This guy… this guy really has a beautiful heart.” And it wasn’t about grand gestures or flashy acts, it was about the way he sees people, how he chooses to show up, quietly, intentionally, and without making a spectacle of it.

Next thing I knew… I caught feelings. 😭 Not sure if I hid it well, but there it was—stubborn, sneaky, undeniable. I told myself I could handle it, and maybe I did… kind of.

Then the thought hit me like a bus on Third Mainland Bridge: What if he has a girlfriend? I needed to know, even if I wasn’t ready for the answer. So I had to bring it up, in that awkward, “by force” kind of way that makes your stomach tie itself into knots.

And… he did.

My chest tightened, like someone had put a weight on it. Small laugh, small cry, small everything—simultaneously. I was sad, and not the fleeting kind of sadness. It was the kind that sinks in your bones and lingers in your thoughts, the kind that makes you pause mid-breath and just feel.

I knew I had to kill the feelings ASAP. And that part? That hurt like hell.

Seeing how amazing, intentional, and genuinely sweet he was… I caught myself wishing he was mine. Low-key envying the girl he was with. Thinking, “Wow… this is what some girls have, and others just pray for.”

I mean, some people experience the “sons of Pharaoh,” and some are blessed with their Moses. Omo… I felt that.

But even with all that, I refused to be the girl falling for someone who was already taken. I had to sit with myself, face my feelings head-on, and be honest about them, while still respecting what was right.

It wasn’t easy. I had to sit with my feelings, wrestle with them, and figure out how not to let them control me. So, I turned to people I trusted; those voices of reason, those who could see clearly when my heart couldn’t. They gave me wise counsel, and slowly… I felt okay again. I made a decision: I would see him only as a friend. And somehow, just making that choice brought me peace.

I even started feeling genuinely happy for his girlfriend because… why not? She’s lucky. Seriously lucky.

I didn’t hold back from appreciating the good I saw. I complimented him, and I complimented her too; through him, of course. Even without me asking, he sometimes paid for my transport, and I noticed. I appreciated it. Truly.

But then… something shifted.

One day, I realized he was different. Cold. Subtle, but undeniable. The warmth, the small gestures, the quiet attentiveness—they were no longer there. It was like the air between us had changed. My chest tightened, my mind raced… What happened?

And just like that, the story I thought I understood began to twist in a way I wasn’t expecting.

The little gestures that made me smile, the laughs we shared, the warmth I took for granted… all gone. Suddenly, it felt like I didn’t even know him anymore. And honestly? It hurt more than I expected.

Have you ever had someone in your life who made you feel safe, cared for, and then… just changed?

What would you do in my place?