I can’t point to one conversation or one heartbreak and say, “That’s when everything changed.” But somewhere between crying over people who couldn’t love me properly and pouring more into myself, I think I found peace.

Not perfect peace.

Just enough to notice that I don’t feel the way I used to.

For so long, I was so male centered without even realizing it. My mood depended on whether someone texted me back. I’d analyse conversations with my friends like they were detectives because surely he meant something by that one message. If someone pulled away, I’d immediately ask myself what I’d done wrong.

I never stopped to ask whether they were even right for me.

I was too busy trying to be right for them.

The hardest thing to admit is that I would go to ridiculous lengths to prove myself to people who had already shown me they didn’t want me.

I’d become more understanding.

More patient.

More available.

I’d tell myself they were just busy or scared or emotionally unavailable. I’d make excuses for behaviour I would tell my friends to run away from.

Because deep down, I thought if I could get someone who didn’t want me to finally choose me, then maybe that meant I was worth choosing after all.

Looking back, that wasn’t love.

It was validation.

I wanted someone else’s decision to fix the way I saw myself.

And that’s such a heavy thing to expect another person to carry.

Now, when I think about it, I don’t even want that anymore.

I don’t want someone I have to convince.

I don’t want to earn love.

I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly auditioning to be someone’s girlfriend.

Love shouldn’t feel like a reward for suffering long enough.

The funny thing is, I spent so much time looking for things in men that I’d completely ignored the people who’d been giving me those things all along.

My friends celebrate every win like it’s their own.

They’re the people I call when something exciting happens.

They’re the people who sit with me when life falls apart.

They’re the ones sending me voice notes, checking in on me, reminding me who I am when I forget.

I kept searching for love in the wrong places while it was infront of me.

It just didn’t look the way I’d imagined.

National Girlfriends Day is coming up, and usually I’d probably roll my eyes every time I saw another couple on my TikTok fyp .

I’d compare.

I’d wonder why it wasn’t me.

I’d feel like everyone else had figured something out that I hadn’t.

This year feels different.

I watch those videos and I actually smile.

Not because I suddenly don’t want love.

I do.

I hope one day someone looks at me like they’ve found home.

I hope I experience the kind of love that feels safe instead of confusing.

But I’m not in a rush anymore.

I’m 19.

Nineteen.

When I say it out loud, it makes me laugh that I ever convinced myself I was running out of time.

I have my whole life ahead of me.

There are people I haven’t met yet who will change my life forever.

There are friendships I haven’t made.

Places I haven’t travelled to.

Dreams I haven’t yet achieved.

Versions of myself I haven’t even become yet.

Why was I acting like my story was over before it had really started?

Right now, I’m more excited about becoming the woman I’ve always wanted to be than I am about finding someone to love me.

I’m building something.

A career.

A life.

Memories.

Confidence.

A relationship with myself that doesn’t disappear the moment someone leaves.

And maybe that’s the biggest difference.

I don’t need someone to choose me so I can finally believe I’m enough.

I’m learning to believe that before they ever arrive.

Because when love does find me, I don’t want it to meet the girl who spent years begging to be chosen.

I want it to meet the woman who already chose herself.

I think that’s what growing up has looked like for me.

Not deciding I don’t want love.

Just deciding that my life doesn’t have to wait for it.

In all honesty this feels like the most peaceful thing I’ve ever experienced.

They see the posts, the excitement, the confidence, the movement. They see you organising things, showing up, smiling, leading, speaking, creating. And because you make it look effortless, they assume it must be.

But behind all of that, I think I’ve spent most of this year quietly trying to prove to myself that I’m still worthy despite everything that has happened to me.

If I’m being honest, the EASOC running became bigger than just a position or leadership opportunity. Of course I cared about building community and creating something meaningful for East African students. But underneath all of that was something much more personal.

I wanted to win because I wanted proof that despite every difficult thing I’ve experienced this year, I was still someone people could believe in. Someone people could choose.

Because grief changes the way you see yourself especially the kind of grief you never fully allow yourself to process.

This year forced me through experiences that changed me more than I let people see. There was a moment where I almost lost my life in an accident, and even after that, I never really paused long enough to acknowledge how much fear, anxiety, and exhaustion stayed with me afterwards.

Instead, I kept moving.

I became productive. I stayed ambitious. I threw myself into creating things, helping people, building communities, staying busy enough to outrun my own thoughts.

And I think somewhere along the way, I started believing that achievement could compensate for pain. That if I could lead people successfully, build something meaningful, become “someone,” then maybe nobody would notice how overwhelmed I actually felt underneath.

Then came one weekend.

And suddenly everything I had carefully kept behind closed doors felt like it was trying to escape all at once.

Someone I never expected to move against me did, and the chaos that followed shook me more than I want to admit. Not just because of the situation itself, but because it reopened insecurities I thought I had already learned how to silence.

For the first time in a while, I doubted myself both publicly and privately.

I saw different sides of people during all of this too. Some people became supportive in ways I’ll never forget. Others became distant. Others became what I can only describe as double agents they were people reassuring me to my face while moving differently behind closed doors.

And although people kept telling me, “Monica, you’ve got this,” very few people truly understood what carrying all of this actually felt like firsthand.

There’s a loneliness that comes with being perceived as strong.

People stop checking whether strength is becoming survival.

I think that’s why these past two months have changed me so deeply. Because they forced me to confront the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life trying to earn worthiness instead of believing I already had it.

And maybe that’s the real lesson hidden underneath all this chaos.

That leadership, validation, success, popularity none of it can heal the parts of yourself you refuse to sit with honestly.

But maybe acknowledging that pain instead of outrunning it is where healing finally starts.

In theory, I know exactly who I’m supposed to be.

I’m supposed to wake up early, before the world gets loud.
I’m supposed to journal, reflect, be intentional with my thoughts.
I’m supposed to have discipline, not the fake kind, but the consistent, quiet kind that builds a life.
I’m supposed to become “that girl” the one who has it together, who moves with purpose, who is always one step ahead of her own chaos.

That version of me exists. I can see her so clearly.
She drinks her water, goes to her lectures, sets boundaries, protects her peace.
She is calm. In control. Evolving.

And then there’s my actual life.

Missed lectures because I stayed up too late overthinking something that didn’t even matter by morning.
Random emotional situations that come out of nowhere and completely throw me off for days.
Messy friendships, complicated dynamics, and dating situations that don’t follow any of the “rules” I’ve learned.
Days where the goal isn’t growth or optimization it’s just surviving, getting through, making it to the next day slightly intact.

And the strangest part is that I’m aware of it the whole time.

I know what I SHOULD be doing.
I just don’t always do it.

There’s this quiet pressure at uni to be in a constant state of self-improvement. Like every habit, every morning, every decision should be building towards your “best self.” But university doesn’t really work like that.

It’s not structured. It’s not calm.
It’s unpredictable, social, overwhelming, and sometimes a bit chaotic.

You’re living with people, around people, constantly influenced by people all while trying to figure out who you even are. You’re learning in real time, making mistakes in real time, feeling everything in real time.

It’s not the controlled environment that self development thrives in.

So maybe the problem isn’t that I’m failing at becoming my best self.
Maybe it’s that I’m trying to apply a perfect system to an imperfect phase of life.

Because this version of me the one who is a bit inconsistent, a bit emotional, a bit all over the place is still learning. Still adjusting. Still noticing.

And maybe that counts for something.

I’m not waking up at 6am every day.
I’m not journaling consistently.
I’m not always disciplined.

But I’m aware. I’m trying. I’m reflecting.

And maybe in your youth, especially at uni, that’s what growth actually looks like.

Not perfection. Not control.
Just slowly figuring it out in the middle of the mess.

It’s a question that’s been sitting with me for a while now especially when it comes to literature. Because there are so many brilliant African authors whose work carries depth, history, culture, and storytelling that feels both intimate and expansive and yet, they’re often overlooked.

Worse than overlooked sometimes they’re dismissed.

I’ve had conversations where you ask someone if they’ve read Kinyanjui Kombani , Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Mia Couto or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and the response is almost immediate: “No, I don’t really read African authors.” And it’s not even said with curiosity or openness it’s said like a conclusion. A quiet assumption that African literature is somehow less.

But less than what?

Less complex? Less intelligent? Less worthy?

And that’s where it starts to feel like something deeper than just “preference.” It starts to feel like conditioning. Like the residue of something we haven’t fully unlearned. It’s starting to feel like neocolonialism.

Because what does it mean when we instinctively trust stories from “out there” more than stories from home?

There’s something unsettling about the idea that a book written by a Western author is automatically seen as more “universal,” while African stories are seen as niche, or cultural, or only relevant to “us.” As if our stories don’t carry the same weight, the same humanity, the same literary brilliance.

But they do.

They always have.

African literature is not lacking it’s layered. It’s political, poetic, raw, and deeply reflective of realities that are often ignored or misunderstood. Writers like Chimamanda don’t just tell stories: they challenge entire narratives. They rewrite the lens through which Africa is seen not just by the world, but by us too.

And yet, many of us don’t even start there.

We skip over our own. We build reading habits rooted in external validation, measuring “good writing” against standards that were never designed with us in mind. And without realizing it, we participate in something that feels a lot like modern-day erasure.

Because when we say, “I don’t read African authors,” what we’re really saying whether we mean to or not, is that African voices are not our first choice.

And that matters.

It matters because representation isn’t just about being seen it’s about being valued. It’s about choosing to engage with stories that reflect us, challenge us, and ground us in our own narratives.

This isn’t about rejecting non-African literature. It’s not about limiting what we read or boxing ourselves in. It’s about balance. It’s about intention.

It’s about asking: why is “home” not where we begin?

Why do we need external validation before we believe in the richness of our own voices?

And maybe this is where we start to shift things not on a global scale, but personally.

By picking up that African novel.

By recommending it.

By talking about it with the same excitement we reserve for internationally recognized books.

By unlearning the quiet bias that tells us excellence only exists elsewhere.

Because it doesn’t.

It exists here too. It always has.

And maybe reclaiming that through something as simple as what we choose to read is its own form of resistance.

Because from where I’m standing, it feels like trying to solve a chemical equation that refuses to balance. The numbers look right, the effort is there, the intention is pure but somehow, it still doesn’t add up.

I think what makes it more confusing is that I have experienced good friendship. Real friendship. The kind that feels easy, grounding, and safe. I have people from my childhood who still know me in a way the world hasn’t been able to distort. I’ve found good people in adulthood too people who show up, who care, who remind me that not everything is broken.

And yet.

The worst parts of friendship have been really bad. The kind that lingers. The kind that makes you question not just other people, but yourself. I’ve felt used more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve felt like the friend who gives and gives and gives only to realize I’m pouring into cups that were never meant to hold me.

The highs have been so high. But the lows? They’ve been devastating.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from feeling like you’re always the second choice. Like you’re good enough to be around, but not good enough to be chosen. I once saw a TikTok that said, “I don’t think I’d have a bridesmaid at my wedding because I don’t think anyone would pick me to be theirs.” And it stayed with me longer than I expected. Because somewhere deep down, I understood it.

I’ve been the friend who listens, who shows up, who remembers the small things. The one who would cross oceans for people who wouldn’t step over a puddle for me. And for a long time, I didn’t question it I just thought that’s what love looked like.

But now I wonder: was I giving because I genuinely wanted to, or because I thought that’s what made me worthy?

Because if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that believes that if I’m not constantly offering something my time, my energy, my support then there’s nothing about me that’s enough on its own.

And that’s a hard thing to sit with.

Friendship, at its core, shouldn’t feel like a transaction you’re constantly trying to prove yourself in. But when you’ve been the one who feels everything deeply, who notices shifts, who internalizes silence it’s hard not to overcompensate. It’s hard not to try harder when things feel like they’re slipping.

I’ve also realized how much my fear of confrontation has shaped my friendships. How many times I’ve stayed quiet to keep the peace. How many times I’ve swallowed discomfort just to avoid the possibility of losing someone. But what I didn’t realize is that in avoiding conflict, I was slowly losing myself anyway.

This year, I’ve been trying to change that. To have the uncomfortable conversations. To say the things I’d usually bury. And it’s not easy. It feels unnatural, almost wrong. But I’m starting to understand that honesty is the only way to build something real or to recognize when something isn’t.

I think part of growing up is learning to separate friendship from familiarity. Not everyone who has access to you is meant to have closeness with you. Not everyone who calls you a friend is capable of being one.

And maybe that’s where I start.

By redefining what friendship actually means to me.

By accepting that a small circle doesn’t mean a lacking one.

By recognizing that being chosen by a few people who truly see me is worth more than being half-seen by many.

And maybe, most importantly, by understanding that my worth is not measured by how much I give but by who I am, even when I give nothing at all.

I don’t have all the answers. Clearly.

But maybe friendship isn’t something you “figure out” once and for all. Maybe it’s something you keep learning, unlearning, and reshaping as you grow.

And maybe the goal isn’t to solve the equation perfectly but to stop pouring into places that keep leaving you empty.

Maybe the goal is to finally choose yourself the way you’ve been choosing everyone else.

We talk a lot about celebrating wins. Birthdays, graduations, achievements, milestones and yes people show up for those. But hardship is a different kind of invitation. It reveals love without performance. Care without applause. Presence without benefit.

During this time, I’ve seen people go above and beyond for me in ways I will never forget. Messages. Check-ins. Sitting with me. Advocating for me. Making sure I was okay not because they had to, but because they wanted to. That kind of support is priceless.

And I’ve also seen silence.

Not the peaceful kind the kind that stings. The kind where someone you thought would care can’t spare a minute to ask if you’re alive, if you’re healing, if you’re okay. That realization hurts more than people admit. When you come close to losing your life, indifference feels louder than words.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

Do not normalize the bare minimum. Do not shrink your expectations of care. Do not convince yourself that neglect is “just how people are.”

The people who love you will show up not perfectly, not always with the right words but sincerely. Consistently. Intentionally.

Surround yourself with people who treat your pain as real, your presence as valuable, and your life as worth protecting. Community is not about proximity it’s about response. I have family and friends who are still back home made an effort to check up on me with every chance they got.

If you have people who showed up for you in your hardest moment, hold them close. Tell them thank you. That is your real circle.

And if you discovered gaps let that knowledge refine your boundaries, not harden your heart.

I am still healing. Still processing. Still grateful. And more certain than ever that the right people are not loud they are present.

We grow up hearing “don’t ask for too much” like it’s good advice, but it isn’t the truth it’s fear passed down. The universe is not on a budget. There isn’t a limited supply of chances that runs out if you speak up too often. Asking does not make you greedy it makes you active in your own life. But many of us, especially women, are taught early to be quiet and submissive, to be easy to manage, to not “cause trouble.” Confidence gets called attitude. Directness gets called disrespect. I remember in primary school when I would speak up simply because I wanted to be heard, and I’d be called rebellious. Not wrong just too vocal. Too firm. Too unwilling to shrink down to fit in the cage that they set for me. Moments like that teach you to second-guess your voice, and a lot of people carry that lesson into adulthood without even noticing.

Another layer of silence comes from the fear of being judged. People want to look cool, unbothered, so they start filtering themselves. They stop reacting honestly. They pretend not to care. They choose what sounds impressive instead of what feels true. Over time, everyone starts sounding the same, acting the same, playing it safe in the same way. It becomes generic. You can feel it rooms full of people and seeing them performing instead of being. In trying to look cool, people slowly lose what makes them real.

Confidence is usually the first thing people notice about me before my achievements, before my background, before anything else. Not because I’m the loudest person in the room, but because I’m present in it. I speak directly. I ask directly. I don’t hide my interest or shrink my thoughts to make others comfortable, I always say be comfortable with being uncomfortable and be uncomfortable with the being comfortable. Confidence isn’t thinking you deserve everything it’s knowing you deserve to ask. It shows in how you walk in, how you look people in the eye, how you say what you mean without apologizing for your expression.

When people are afraid of judgment, they hesitate everywhere in interviews, in relationships, in creative work, in leadership, in everyday chances that could change their lives. They don’t send the message. They don’t apply. They don’t follow up. They talk themselves out of trying. They reject themselves before anyone else can. And later, what hurts isn’t the rejection they avoided it’s the opportunity they never gave themselves a shot at. The email not sent. The idea not shared. The door not knocked on.

For generations, women were taught to endure quietly to hint instead of ask, accept instead of negotiate, swallow instead of speak. Every time a woman asks clearly, speaks firmly, or takes up space without apology, she breaks that pattern a little more. Audacity becomes more than a trait it becomes repair work.

Being audacious is not about having no fear. It’s deciding your voice matters more than your fear. Say the thing. Ask the question. Send the message. Claim the space. Because a quiet hunger stays hungry but a spoken one has a chance to be fed.

I remember saying out loud, “I love how even here, thousands of miles away, we still have our own language. We can speak Kiswahili out of nowhere and understand each other completely.” They agreed immediately. One of them said something that stayed with me: “Now is when I really see the value of it.” And honestly? Same.

Because when we were younger, we didn’t always see it. Some of us didn’t even like speaking Kiswahili. I didn’t. I genuinely thought English was the way English was the goal, the marker of intelligence, polish, modernity. My English is good, and I’m grateful for that. But Kiswahili is where I came from, and I didn’t realize how much I was quietly distancing myself from it.

Even deeper than that, I think about my traditional language too Kikuyu. My dad tried to teach me he really did. He would speak it to me, encourage me, remind me that it mattered. And when I didn’t pick it up, when I didn’t try hard enough, he said something simple but true: it was about interest.

At the time, I didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. Because I did have interest… just not in Kikuyu. I had interest in Spanish. I downloaded Duolingo, I took lessons, I was excited to learn a language from somewhere else something that felt impressive, global, admired. But my own language? I treated it like an optional extra, like something that could wait, like something less than.

And looking back, I can name it for what it was: neocolonialism. That quiet belief that the closer you are to English, the closer you are to success. That African languages are informal, secondary, not as valuable. And I fully accepted that mindset without even realizing it.

Until now. Until I’m abroad and Kiswahili suddenly feels like a warm home I didn’t know I missed. Until I hear it in the middle of a foreign street and it feels like music. It’s strange how you only understand the weight of something once you’re far enough away to feel its absence.

I’m sad I didn’t listen harder. I’m sad I didn’t try more. But I also know this: it’s not too late. I still want to learn Kikuyu. I want to reclaim what I ignored not out of guilt, but out of love.

And one thing I know for sure is this: when I have children, they will know Kiswahili. One way or another. They will know the language of their country, their people, their roots. Because language is not just vocabulary it’s memory, it’s identity, it’s belonging.

And I don’t understand how people think not knowing Kiswahili is a flex. It’s the national language. How can you live in Kenya and proudly say you don’t know it? Of course, there are circumstances maybe you were raised abroad, maybe you never had the chance. That’s understandable. But when you are surrounded by it and still dismiss it, that isn’t cool anymore.

That’s not sophistication. That’s loss.

Kiswahili is not something to outgrow. It is something to return to. And maybe part of growing up is realizing that the things we thought made us superior were sometimes the very things pulling us away from ourselves.

In Kenya, it is easy to feel frustrated. We speak out and complain about the government, the economy, corruption, and systems that seem to fail us repeatedly. Over time, that frustration begins to sound like hatred. But the truth is, we do not hate the country we hate how it is being run. We hate watching something so rich and beautiful be mismanaged. When you are at home, that difference is hard to see.

It is only when you leave that clarity comes.

In my very first week in the UK, I moved into my flat carrying a Kenyan flag my dad had gifted me, a gift I never truly understood at the time. Back home, it felt almost unnecessary. Without much thought, I hung it right next to my bed. It became the first thing I saw every morning and the last thing I saw every night.

What surprised me most was the reaction it received. My friends were genuinely happy to see it. Some asked where it was from and why I chose to bring it with me. For the first time, being Kenyan felt like something to share rather than something to downplay like I thought I would.

I began wearing my Kenyan bracelet everywhere the same one I used to judge people for wearing back home . It stopped being just an accessory and became a marker of identity. In social gatherings I would notice someone else wearing a similar bracelet, and instantly I would start speaking Kiswahili without hesitation, and an immediate connection would form due to a shared sense of home in a foreign space.

That pride followed me into my first day of freshers week. I wore my Kenyan jersey once again from my dad (he truly saw the future ) something I never imagined I would do back home. I got so many compliments and even got featured on a brand’s account cause they liked it . What once felt ordinary suddenly felt powerful.

Living abroad also exposed me to realities I had never fully considered. You begin to see how many people are weighed down by debt, capitalism, isolation, and constant pressure. You can walk the streets of London for ten minutes without seeing someone smile. Conversations are rare. Everyone is always rushing to go somewhere looking guarded and closed off. Life feels heavy, even when it appears successful.

And then suddenly you remember home.

In Kenya, there is a sense of freedom that I always tell people, conversations with strangers , laughter, and community. People speak to each other. Strangers feel familiar. For me, that freedom is a luxury I once took for granted .

Distance changes what you miss. I began craving the foods I once overlooked the ugali and chapati I would complain about. Suddenly, no amount of fast food could replace what felt familiar and grounding. I missed speaking Kiswahili with my relatives but it wasn’t just about the language, but the comfort it carried I found myself gravitating toward other Kenyans, laughing at shared jokes, shared memories, and shared understanding.

That is when I realized something had shifted, patriotism had sparked in me.

Back home, I had once been vocal about distancing myself from being Kenyan. I remember conversations where people said that if they ever went abroad, they would rather identify as anything but where they were truly came from. I understood that mindset then. Dissociating felt easier than carrying the weight of a complicated national identity.

But going abroad taught me that patriotism is not blind loyalty. It is not ignoring flaws or excusing poor leadership. Patriotism is understanding that a country is more than its government. It is the people, its culture, its language and the way it shapes you long before you realize it.

Sometimes, you have to leave home to finally see it clearly.

And only then do my dad’s words make sense: East or west, home is the best.