I’m caught up in a casual conversation with my sister, when all of a sudden, I hear myself telling her “I think I want to manage a music artiste, not as in be their MANAGER, but rather, the PR and COMMS side of things.”

Yeah, I said that!

And that’s because in the few months I’ve been working where I’m at currently, I’ve seen the flaws of more than one “up-and-coming artiste” who comes in for a session. Dangggg, even I get bored out of my mind listening to their answers to some questions, their repetitive sentences and predictable sequences. But I try not to blame them too much. Starting out can be one hell of a ride!

You can’t afford to have too many people on your “management team” especially when they expect to be paid and you don’t have the budget for it. It takes time and a lot of money. But for most of those who rise from the title of “up and coming artiste” they eventually make it possible.

To my surprise, the next morning, she’s sends me the music of an “up and coming artiste” she knows, so I can start my newfound “dream” as she calls them.

I am sure this is the part where you expect me to say the grass is greener now and my artiste has risen up the ranking table, lol. I got you there, right?

Well, this note is rather taking a slight turn down a different curb.

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From that conversation onward, little did I know everyone else in my life who was/is deeply rooted in and invested in my future had been wondering “What do you want to do with your life now?”

I swear I have heard that phrase more than I’ve heard “How much money do you need?” in the past few days. (And honestly, I do need money now, more than ever) So I guess we are back here

But I’m not fazed, as it’s mostly asked out of love and with deep concern.

In the past few months, I’ve gone from developing a concept for a podcast, trying to start a new podcast (one that was never started), directing a podcast show (not yet out, still in the works), designing wedding banners, invitation cards, and literally acting as a wedding planner atp, then to managing social media pages, writing a PR and Marketing Masters exams, thinking of a good research paper to sumit for my certificate, while managing a podcast studio.

Oh, and I drive too. (Not that I even have a car of my own, my uncle just thinks with everything I do and the fact that I also know how to drive, I am doing too much and apparently that surprises him, so allow me add that)

And so I guess with my varying interests and ability to do this lot, everyone is worried I may be lost. And that should perhaps worry me too, right?

Yet, if you met me today and decided to join the bandwagon of people asking “What do you want to do with your life and your many capabilities?”, I’d answer you with my silly laughter and say, “honestly I don’t know but I’m enjoying what I’m doing currently”

And obviously that alone isn’t a sufficient answer !

We live in a fleeting society, yet we’re expected to have a five-years-from-now life plan at our fingertips. For a life whose tomorrow isn’t promised but something we hope for, I fear I would rather do everything I am capable of than doing one thing or none at all.

Because, honestly, we all don’t know what tomorrow brings.

I swear I don’t know what I would prefer eating tomorrow, but trust that I’ll eat. I can’t promise I’ll wake up fit enough to go to work on Tuesday BUT if that is possible, I surely will make an appearance at work.

Hence my ask too; “Why must I have a plan? Why must I anticipate a specific path I want to be on in the next five years?! Whyyyy can’t I be all I want to be today, and be whoever tomorrow presents me with the oppotrunity to become?”

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You’ve heard the infamous quote that reads: “If you fail to plan, then, you plan to fail” Yes, it’s guided me every step of the way through this life’s journey. But I fear I am also drawn towards the scripture passage in Matthew 6, specifically the closing verse, which reads “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. ...”

I want to be everything I feel the need to be, so far as it glorifies God and presents an opportunity to create impact.

But I worry that’s a bubble I exist in, alone.

I doubt my boss thinks I want to manage the studio forever . I doubt my sister thinks I will forever design wedding invitation cards and backdrop designs. And I certainly doubt my colleagues at work think I will forever manage social media pages, coordinate post schedules and cordinate content types.

If anything, know that I transitioned from what might have landed me a CAREER in Data Science to explore a said interest of mine: Media and Comms.

At some point in my life I was a travel coordinator at a church organisation. Before I realised it, I hit a curve ball and ended up as an international student’s success advisor.

Fast forward, I went on to becoming a programme administrator for an academic year. So I can advice anyone about school’s abroad, requirements and what not. I will flat out tell you, “Be willing to pay” if you can’t bag yourself a full fund scholarship.

Why do you think I’m peacefully studying in my home country, SIMPLY because I eat where I can afford, without having to beg too much. It really is that SIMPLE.

And on the flip side of life, I write. Trust me, I write more than I talk, so you can imagine.

I remember even when I started writing, my friend advised that I picked a niche and stick to it. Apparently, it would help me build my audience base. So intuitively, I chose to write on “Tech” because, of course that was the path I was hopping onto.

At that time in my life, a career in tech seemed ideal for me. The goal was to graduate with a laudable class of honours, serve the Lord, return, apply to further my studies abroad, shoot for the stars, land myself a career in Data Science and eventually work my way up the Tech and Data Science ladder.

That seemed like an easy to-do list, right?

But along the way, I picked an interest that piqued my curiosity about storytelling and I have been exploring that massively.

Now the not-so-difficult-to-execute goal of becoming a data scientist with it’s amazing and very easy-to-achieve plans, has been sidelined. Or not! (Let’s not judge too soon!)

They have been coined into a bigger goal. One that needs the kind of experience I am acquiring now. (At least that’s what I believe)

But not everyone will understand that. Even I myself still don’t know exactly when it will all come together and eventually make sense. But I know someday it will.

Now, back to when I was advised to pick a niche.

After a few posts on “Tech” (latest trends in technology) I realised for myself that as much as I understood what it all was about in that space, I wasn’t ever excited to tell the story. That’s also because the kind of audience I had, about 10 of them would find the topics interesting.

Although the comment section for this post looks great and supportive. I would like to assume a few people were impressed but never thought tech reads were something they’d spend about six minutes reading. And honestly, that’s fair.

So I decided to tell stories I found enjoyable and interesting. Writing about myself, my life’s experiences, my causal romantic relationships, my family even my everyday living and my thoughts were so fun to share.

I enjoyed writing them the most so I stuck to them. I decided to just tell any story I felt inspired to. I wasn’t going to bottle myself up in the name of “picking a niche”, and as you can tell it seems that has worked somewhat in my favour.

Perhaps this tangible experience is why I fear having to stick to one thing and doing it for the most part of the rest of my life.

No. That would bore me out of my mind.

At the end of the day , I want to live rich and happy. Oh I swear I do.

I want whomever I bring to this world—nurture into this world—to have a life beautiful than the one I had; a life easier than the one I’m living.

I want to know people whose access to certain spaces is unquestionable and unstoppable.

Actually, I want to be that person.

One whose name is mentioned in great rooms and higher places.

But, I want to live for myself too.

For the version of me who never imagined life’s storms would hit me strong at 15 and weaken my potential. I want to live for the version of me in whom everyone trusted and believed was destined for greatness but who within herself doubted it. The version of me bottled in fear, rage and doubts.

So yes there you have it: who I want to be!

And perhaps if that’s not enough; I just want to live, learn, laugh and love!

And oh, I do want to be someone greater than who I am now.

But wait, What if I woke up tomorrow and decided I want to become a DISC JOCKEY (DJ)?

Take me back to: My Fear of Not Succeeding!

Dang, remember you said this while you were in primary school moving to Junior High School? Or both, right?

Now looking back on those days, what exactly was that? Who coined that silly quote?

Some say they never heard the : “Have s*x with your pen” part. Sad, cos I promise I did!

I am sure in that moment it sounded like the most encouraging thing to say to a child to keep them motivated. We really thought motivation alone could carry us through the school life, didn’t we?!

But, hear me out.

We really wrote the wildest things on the first page of our notebooks like some philosophers trapped inside twelve-year-old bodies. You’d fold a sheet in the front page of your new foolscalp notebook and write :

“WELCOME TO TERM 2” “No Pain, No Gain”

What pain erh?

Mind you, we were children. We were too young to understand marriage and definitely too young to understand sex. But somehow we were educated enough to beleive that suffering plus commitment and discipline would give birth to success in someway.

So we just went with it. And for a while, TRUST ME, it worked! It actually did.

Then for some of us, Senior High School days came by and the romance with education started fading. Because how exactly were we going to marry our books when we had to survive long hours at the Biology lab studying dead rats and snakes? Disgusting right?

It also didn’t help that both genders existed in the same environment (once again, for me at least) So who I wanted to marry was more tangible than my textbooks, puh-lease.

Suddenly, “marry your books” lost all meaning. And eventually, we abandoned the plenty motivations.

The new craze then was writing with red and black pens together as though that would guarantee entry into the university. If your headings were not underlined twice in red, were you even serious about your future?

Then there were some other trends like owning scrapbooks, some people even had lucky calculators. Others had “exam sandals.” Chaale.

What were we thinking errrrr? Ei!

At this point, we had no care for any form of motivational quotes. Especially not ones that had to do with “marrying our books.”

Because then, education stopped becoming a marriage and started becoming spiritual warfare.

And now at the Master’s level? Heiiiiiiii.

The fantasy of education being a marriage no longer exists. Rather, it is now that relationship where both of you know it ended four years ago but you are “staying for the children.”

Every morning you wake up and stare at your cieling and try to motivate yourself with words like: “We can make this work.”

And oftentimes, it doesn’t help that classes are online. You sit there staring at your laptop screen five minutes before class start while the laptop is also staring back at you like: “Please stop pretending.”

I am now at a point in my life where it feels like I am no longer studying because I am passionate. I am studying mostly because I have already paid tuition and cannot disgrace my family name. (leaving room for passion, please.)

At this point, the books are not even my spouse anymore. They are that emotionally demanding partner that keeps saying: “If you loved me, you would finish this 4,000-word literature review by Sunday.”

And somehow the stress is seemingly becoming my entire personality.

Trust me, when you are there, you will know. You will feel it and you will understand it.

You start saying things like: “I cannot come out this weekend, I have a deadline.”

Meanwhile the deadline is just one PDF sitting quietly in your laptop since beginning of the month. You were well aware of it but you procrastinated and now it’s catching up with you.

The funniest part is that success still stands there in the distance (just about some five months away) smiling like an innocent child while you are fighting for your life academically.

Because deep down, you still want the flying colours.

And also want the black musty gown, the customised mortarboard, the graduation pictures with some random captions (once again like a philosopher) and your tiny village proudly claiming you on the socials. That’s success too!

You want it all.

And you will do everything to get it. It’s somewhat a MUST at this point.

But, you just no longer want the marriage that comes with Education.

“Mum said don’t even think of calling her this mother’s day or buying her any gifts, she don’t need anything from you, or me. US!”

And that was the kind of instruction I got from my sister after about a 30 minute disturbing call with my mum the day before this disappointing message came in.

Now, you may wonder, WTH! What’s going on?! Yeah, me too. I wondered and still wonder. But if there’re any conclusions I drew from the message, it is that, MY MUM IS TIRED and that was perhaps, her best way of saying it. And fair enough, because this is how life’s been like since I was about 15.

One fateful night, as regular as it had become, I stood between the pair — both my parents, each pulling on my hand from opposite ends. Yelling at each other “The kids stay with me.” And after the power struggle, I ended up on my mum’s side. And that only meant one thing in that moment, painfully, the life of ease I had always known and wanted more of was OVER. It was time to grow my thick, tough skin which I wasn’t ready for, dang I wasn’t. ready.

Since then, life changed, obviously. My life, my siblings’ lives and my mum’s life changed, A LOT. It changed in ways that sometimes scared me. I watched my mum occupy spaces she wasn’t meant to BUT had to. She stepped into the role as both the man and woman of the house. Provider, Protector, Punisher (what we all thought was perhaps her favourite, African mothers abi?!) and Comforter. And that did something to her. I mean, being the daughter of a retired military man had already shaped her into a hard woman in some ways.

But this? This changed her differently.

And the change that scared me the most was the subtle yet fierce hints of exhaustion.

It started as a woman trying gently to invite the man she once loved back into the life they had both created. Not even as husband and wife anymore, but simply as co-parents raising three girls, each playing their part. All she was saying was “help me carry this.”

But her gentleness slowly turned into frustration. And her frustration turned into anger. And her anger eventually became silence. Or worse, resentment. Because my mum’s never silent, lol. But if there’s anything I have come to understand from being in the people business, it’s that: nothing drains people, especially women faster than carrying a life that was supposed to be shared, alone.

For the longest time, that exhaustion spoke. Sometimes through tears or complaints. But recently, it speaks in rejection. “I don’t need anything from you.” “Don’t call me again”

And somehow, that hurts even more than when she shouts.

Because when she shouts, I know she’s angry. When she hangs the line on me without saying goodbye, I know she’s mad at me. But the rejection and the phrases it comes with, they are difficult to understand. So I attribute it to exhaustion.

Her cup is full now.

She’s been doing this for over 10 years and maybe she’s started wondering how much long she might have to keep doing this and that’s understandable.

She’s been carrying this for over ten years and maybe she’s wondering how much longer she’ll have to keep carrying it. Maybe she’s looking around at all the sacrifices she made and silently asking herself whether any of it changed anything at all.

And honestly? I understand that.

She has given so much. And what has she reslly got in return?

A daughter constantly on the internet chasing dreams that still don’t fully pay the bills, so she keeps running back to mom for support.

Maybe proof that she did something right is that none of her daughters ended up wayward or on the streets.

But somehow, to her, something still feels missing. And maybe that’s the tragedy of motherhood sometimes. You can give everything you have to people and still wonder whether you were ever truly seen inside your sacrifice.

And I admit, I don’t see my mother often. I expect more from her than I give to her.

Sometimes, I catch myself grieving a version of my mother that simply does not exist anymore or maybe never did. I long for softness from someone life has forced into survival for too long. And I think that’s the hardest part for me to admit.

I want the internet version of motherhood. The gentle phone calls. The emotionally available mother. The soft-spoken woman who always knows exactly what to say.
The mum who calls just to check up on you and ends every conversation with warmth.

I want everyone else’s mother sometimes. But not the reality of mine.

It’s hard to accept my mom as the woman exhaustion has hardened. A woman survival reshaped. I do not want the woman who had to become steel just so her daughters could keep breathing safely.

Because the truth is, it’s difficult mourning someone who is still alive. Especially when the person you’re mourning is not gone, just changed.

And maybe my mother looks at me sometimes and mourns too.

Maybe she mourns the little girl who once needed nothing from her except tomato stew and rice, yet she forced Yam and Kontomire down her throat. Maybe she mourns the version of herself too, the one that existed before responsibility swallowed her whole.

And maybe we are both standing on opposite sides of disappointment, loving each other deeply but struggling to recognize what life has turned the other into.

So for this Mother’s day, I sat with my dissappointment. And I wondered if she sat with hers too. I wasn’t going to call partly because I would be able to tell from her voice, and also that was what she had asked for. Besides, I wasn’t about to pretend life was good and flood my timeline with a bunch of perfomative Mother’s Day posts for social media approval. (I must say though, y’all have pretty mothers, danggggggg)

Eventually though, at 7:22 pm, I placed the call to my mom. She may not have been the first person I called today BUT she most definitely was the person I so badly wanted to speak with. I wanted to tell her I had started a new job and the travel is killing me. Like every Mother’s day conversation, I wanted to tell her I called my long distant cousin. That I spoke with Grandma Cecilia and as expected she’s already asking about marriage so we could laugh together about it. I so badly wanted to tell her H’s mom still calls me by my pet name and it’s never lost its touch, I LOVE IT every single time.

I just wanted to talk to her the way daughters talk to mothers when life still feels safe between them.

But we only spoke for approximately 2 minutes 8 seconds. Generically, I am supposed to be pleased with that because someone would want a second with their mum on call. So I am supposed to be pleased and I am.

She sounded pleased to hear from me, I think. But I bet she’s still not out of her exhaustion. We skipped the whole Mother’s day shebang and started talking business. “Did you type the letter I asked you to for your cousin?” she asked. “Yes, I did” I responded. Then the awkward silence followed. Because honestly what do you talk about with someone who doesn’t want to talk? Or maybe worse, someone who no longer knows how to?

And sometimes I wonder whether all of us are paying the emotional price for the absence of a man she needed present. Not just financially or even physically. Perhaps, emotionally.

Because I don’t believe some women become hard because they want to. I think they become hard because softness became too expensive to maintain alone.

And maybe daughters like me spend years confusing a mother’s hardness for lack of love, when really, it is unresolved exhaustion wearing a human face.

But I know this is a phase. And phases, no matter how heavy, eventually pass.

I don’t believe my mother is finally done with me. Or with us. She’s said it before. This wouldn't be her first, neither will it be her last.

I know, somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the sharp words, beneath the unanswered calls and shortened conversations, my mum is still there. And I know for sure that very soon we’ll return to being best friends again. Put it all behind us like this phase I speak of never existed.

Another British calendar Mother’s Day will come around and I’ll probably flood the internet with long essays about my mother’s love the way I always do. (Clearly we prefer the Brit calendar as you can tell, lol)

Because despite everything, I know my mother still loves me. No matter what, she does. I know because love is still hidden in the little ways she handles us differently from everyone else.

I see it in how much grace she gives us compared to her friends. I see it in the way responsibility still ties her to us no matter how tired she gets.

And maybe that’s the thing about motherhood. Sometimes love does not disappear. It just becomes buried underneath survival, under bills and disappointments. Perhaps, under years of carrying too much for too long.

But every now and then, if you pay attention closely, you still find it there.

You will definitely find it in concern disguised as nagging. In silence disguised as anger. Even in questions about whether you typed a letter. Because if you didn’t she will lovingly scold you. You will find it in shortened phone calls that were still answered anyway.

So maybe this year, the American calendar Mother’s Day was not about celebrating a perfect mother. For me, it was more about learning to love a tired one. A very human one. A woman who is still trying, even if she no longer has the strength to try softly.

And no matter what, that woman forever remains my mum and I love her as she is. She is a WOW MOM.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.

It’s 5 a.m. GMT. I’m awake, but still lying in bed, rolling back and forth like a gas station hot dog, trying to decide whether to get up and get ready for work or steal a few more minutes of sleep and deal with the consequences later.

It wouldn’t hurt anyone, I tell myself. So, naturally, I choose sleep.

By 5:30 a.m., reality starts knocking loud. I scrape together what little motivation I have left, gathering every last word of encouragement still floating around in me as the week limps toward its end, and drag myself out of bed.

At 6 a.m., I’m finally ready to leave the house. But that extra sleep? It costs me my lunch, so nothing is packed to eat later. I mean, with no buffer time, the morning is filled with just vibes and poor decisions.

I already doubt I’ll make it to the roadside in time to catch my usual ride to work. Still, I’m far too proud to call the one person who would gladly drive over and pick me up. Do I regret not settling for this after all? We’ll see.

So I ask myself: Can fifteen minutes of determined speed-walking fix this?

There’s only one way to find out. Off I go.

The first stretch of the walk isn’t too bad. It’s the halfway point that usually tests your faith, your stamina, and your life choices. But before we even get there, something happens.

Let’s not rush it. Buckle up. You’re in for a ride.

One of my Oraimo buds is tucked into my ear, blasting “Favour” by Lawrence Oyor as I walk briskly, chasing time. All week, this song has been my companion during these early morning walks, somewhere between a soundtrack and a prayer as I step into the unknown each day.

Just as the song is about to end, my phone rings. It’s a colleague. That call could only mean one of two things: Either they’re already at the bus stop, waiting for me… Or they’re still about ten minutes away, hoping I’ve at least left the house.

Thankfully, it’s the latter. I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

I still have a fighting chance to make it on time. So, I ease into the walk a little, still brisk, but less desperate and stay on the call, chatting about work like the walking alone isn’t already enough cardio for the morning.

Maybe the conversation distracts me a bit. But not enough to miss the two men sitting on a motorbike a few meters behind me. Watching me yet pretentiously staring into the abyss.

There’s something about their stare, something that doesn’t sit right. A quiet alarm goes off inside me. The kind your body triggers before your mind catches up.

Yet still, I keep walking. Then suddenly, people begin to pass me, one after the other, the familiar faces from my morning route.

The old man who somehow walks faster than me, despite everything. The young man on his bicycle, the same one who gave me a proper jump scare my first week on this road. And the other man, also on a bicycle, whom I’ve always suspected is in some silent, ongoing race with the younger one. They ride past.

And for the first time in three months of taking this route, I feel the urge to call out to them. To ask for some sort of help. Why the thought you may ask? Well I don’t know. So, I don’t ask for help. I let them go, just like every other day.

Even the market woman, the one who walks like something is constantly chasing her, passes by in a blur. And suddenly, just like that, I’m alone.

That’s when the men on the motorbike make their move.

I’m still on the call when I hear it, the motor engine behind me. Louder now and more closer than I think. So, I turn. And it’s what it seems like. The bike is heading straight toward me, cutting across from its side of the road.

I instinctively step aside to let them pass. But they don’t.

They pull up right beside the drain, right where I’m standing.

And in that moment, everything happens too fast and too clearly at the same time.

The man at the back gets off the bike. There’s something in his hand, wrapped in sackcloth. My mind doesn’t hesitate and registers it as what it seems to be: ‘A cutlass.’

The day before, a colleague had shown me videos of a gun robbery. They were very violent and unsettling. I could bet I spent the whole night worrying about it.

Instantly, my brain connects the dots, I do not debate. I make no hesitations.

My phone is already buried in my bag, so I drop the bag, hastily. This wouldn’t be the first time I have had to let go of my belongings to someone who never demanded it politely. I kind of know the drill at this point.

Then I take to my heels. In my palazzo, tucked-in white shirt, and very unserious slippers, I run like my life depends on it. Because it actually does.

My heart is racing. My breath is uneven. My body is moving faster than my thoughts.

And somehow, and please, don’t ask me how, but, I fall on the alligator-cracked surface road and somehow end up in the drain. oops! blop! It’s green inside and filthy and oh, very muddy.

I am screaming: “JESUS! JESUS!” And all the childhood lessons about not calling His name in vain? Well, it’s gone. Evaporated into thin air. This is survival now.

I can hear myself screaming, but I can barely hear myself. That’s how loud the fear is.

Then I remember what the man was holding. So the adrenaline kicks back in.

I scramble up and bolt toward the nearest house with an open gate. I rush in, run to the front door, and knock like my life is hanging on it. I am met with no response.

My hands are shaking. My chest is tight. Every second feels like borrowed time.

I don’t know if they followed me in. I don’t want to find out.

I run to the back of the house and spot movement inside one of the rooms.

Suddenly, hope crawls back into my heart. I scream. I cry. I beg for help.

But the woman inside hesitates. To her, this is strange. Suspicious, even. A girl bursting into a house at as early as 6:20 am GMT? It just doesn’t add up.

For a moment, she thinks I might be the threat. So I beg harder. I cry some more. And continue to beg. And somehow, by mercy and grace, or even by something bigger than me, she lets me in.

The moment I hit the cold tiled floor of her room, my body finally begins to register everything. The pain in my right knee is sharp, deep and pulsing.

My white shirt is no longer white. My hair is a mess. My palazzo… well, let’s not even discuss it.

And my lenses? It seems they are gone. Somewhere in the chaos, I don’t know where they fled to or when it even came off my face. Honestly, at that point, they can keep them.

When she tries to help me up so we can clean the blood from my knees, my legs betray me. Those same feet I challenged to a 15 minute walk from my house to the roadside. They fail me. I can’t stand.

So there I am, sitting in a stranger’s room, shaking, in pain, trying to piece myself together. And somehow, in the middle of all this, I’m struggling to remember my mother’s phone number. “Does 05 come after 40 or it’s the other way round?” I question.

Yes. All ten digits were blur in my mind. The memory of it all was gone. Thankfully I could remember my name.

Go ahead and judge me. Because how does someone with a degree in Applied Mathematics forget numbers under pressure? After all the “morning mentals” in Junior High School? Such a shame!

But let me just say this: that degree had more to do with theories than actual numbers.

By God’s grace, I survived both.

Eventually, I remember all ten digits. So, I make the call. Once again, to my dismay, I am met with no answer. Of course.

At 6:25 a.m., fifteen missed calls from an unknown number? I would panic too.

But eventually, she calls back. And the moment she hears my voice, she knows something is wrong. The mommy instincts kick in. But I don’t want to alarm her.

So instead, I ask for my sister’s number, the person I live with… whose contact I somehow cannot recall. She hesitates and insists on knowing why I am calling from a different number at such an hour. But she sends it.

And that call… That call is where the real waiting begins.

I am in pain. So much pain and yet my sister doesn’t answer.

And suddenly, the silence in the room feels louder than anything I ran from.

I’m sitting there, shaken, aching, trying to steady my breath in a stranger’s house, one that saved me, yet still doesn’t feel like mine to be safe in.

Her phone rests in my hand. One call to my sister. Two calls. Three Calls, Four, Five, Still nothing.

I am exhasuted. I am very tired. I want to give up calling. I want the day to be over already. I want to go back to the house and start it all over again. I just want it all to STOP!

And in that moment, I realize: “Escape doesn’t always feel like safety.”

Sometimes, it just feels like another kind of waiting.

And I am still very much in it.

P.S. : I may continue, I may not. Who knows? Stay subscribed to find out.

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I thought it was too interesting a read to not share with the ton, you’re all welcome.

This is a collaborative post between and I. But mainly his thoughts!

and here it goes.

here and to start off, let me just say:

The word “Doubt” intrigues me. It drives so much interest in me that it’s ranked on my top list of most important words.

DOUBT is described as the state of being unsure of something; uncertainty about the truth, factuality, or existence of something. It’s viewed as a lack of confidence.

BUT, what if we viewed DOUBT as more of a signal?

A sign that something is probably not going to work. Because we all can agree that doubt oftentimes has a negative connotation to it.

Although if it is viewed as a sign, then it holds that it doesn’t just signal if something is not meant to happen but also when something should happen. Hence, it’s not all negative thinking of DOUBT.

I like to think of doubt as a sign than a state. A sign that reads: “Don’t do it.”

And also viewing from a positive angle, a confirming feeling about something waiting consideration.

My whole life, I have constantly viewed DOUBT as a sign. A sign with three levels to it.

1. You could doubt at the beginning.

2. You could doubt while doing and during.

3. You could doubt when you are almost at the top or almost done.

Here’s why I think so.

When I doubt at the beginning, I think it’s a sign that I should not engage. A sign that whatever it is will not work. A sign that, if I ignore it, I will later understand why I should never have began. tricky right?

I say this because over time, it’s been like that. Two years before completing my undergraduate degree, while on a journey to becoming more self-aware and learning to understand myself fully, I began to notice patterns in my life, in decisions about career, relationships, and more.

I have hence recognised the pattern more fully. When I doubt from the beginning of any relationship, career choice, or any major decision, and I still indulge, it almost always turns out poorly. That realisation has opened my eyes to seeing things differently. It has moved me to having difficult conversations in relationships, and to making firm and difficult decisions.

By treating early doubt as a signal, I’ve become decisive. I stick to my decisions. I don’t regret them, because eventually, clarity arrives. Then it makes sense why there was no need proceeding with whatever.

Now to doubting while doing or during, I believe that’s slightly different. That level of doubt is just to test you. To question your thoughts in ways that you ask, “Should I really be doing this?”

Mind you, at this point you’ve already committed to doing. From the beginning of it, you had confidence. If it were a relationship, you didn’t doubt you liked the person. You were confident about the emotion towards them and went straight into it.

Hence, when such doubt arivves, it’s a sign to keep moving along or better still recalibrate and quit if you need to.

I see this happening with people who quit the job they had always wanted. The doubt you feel while doing or during is a sure sign to make a decision that will make or unmake you.

Doubt as a sign is a beautiful concept. It could help people be more decisive, live by the decisions they make, and forge forward.

The final level of doubt, the kind that arrives in place of satisfaction: Doubting at the end, or at the point where you are supposed to recognise as your highest.

I believe this is simply uncertainty after achievement. Are you supposed to just appreciate the achievement or can you want more without coming off as greedy and dissatisfied ? I think though it could be so, this level of doubt oftentimes arrives to keep you grounded, to help you refocus and consider all angles.

Note that, this level of doubt is a sign not to quit yet. It informs you that you are on the right path, you have done well, and you may just need to reapply some pressure or adjust to solidify what you’ve built.

And this is how I think about doubt, as a sign in decision-making, a prompt to act and commit.

Personally, this is how I’ve approached doubt in my life. I can boast of not being too much of a doubtful person. I hardly doubt anything. Regardless, I appreciate the clarity it brings when I do.

I like that when I make decisions, I stay with them. I don’t regret them. Every time I’ve ignored early doubt, clarity later revealed why I shouldn’t have proceeded.

I could even link this to some kind of heavenly help in decision-making, a way of feeling and seeing intuitively that something may not be right for you.

So yes, doubt to me is a sign. And it’s incredible.

I am certain about my life and where I am. I don’t doubt that I’m doing well. I don’t doubt that my life will be better.

My doubt is not even about where I am. It is a signal about where I am going.

These are my thoughts. And I love it.

And I am interested to know what you think. What is doubt to you outside of what the dictionary teaches?

Nabi here with just a quick add on.

I would love to rehash the inspiring words of a faithful religious leader. In a recent devotional at BYU with church leader and Prophet of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; Pres. Dallin H. Oaks. He shared, “The way to overcome DOUBT(S) is to get closer to Jesus Christ”

Let that sit with you. Also, you can watch my discussion on his teachings here: “Overcoming Doubts”

Thanks for staying till the end.

The week hasn’t even started properly, yet I already feel like I’m running mid-sprint. Some mornings just carry more weight than they should.

But I’ve noticed something: sometimes, a good conversation wakes me up better than coffee (not that I have ever even had coffee, haha). Thankfully for today, one did. (Saviour in disguise)

Two people, on a random Monday morning, just talking over text like we didn’t care life’s busier on Mondays.

And the conversation? Well, it’s the kind that wanders like Accra traffic. No straight lines, just detours, a lot of pauses, and unexpected turns.

We started off talking about cities and industrialisation. Accra, Takoradi, Cape Coast. Major strengths per city and areas of growth. As if we possessed some sort of power to change much. Then we went on to why some places stretch forward while others feel paused in time.

It was very casual. Until it wasn’t. The conversation sent me into deep thinking at a point.

Somewhere between “development” and “infrastructure,” we discovered we had attended the same SHS. But different timelines. We shared same classrooms, same corridors. And in the slightest chance on earth may have probably crossed paths a couple of times without knowing.

We laughed about the school system, class dramas, the tiny storms that felt like the end of the world back then. Then, like conversations often do, it deepened without warning.

University choices and Dreams.

And suddenly, there was what seemed like the crowning part of the conversation.

A question. One that really hit me: “So… what are you even becoming?”

It hung there for a moment, heavier than the rest. What have I gotten myself into, I wondered. But I answered, like I always do.

And my answer, let’s just say per standard, seemed a bit messy and full of detours. And for a while that’s how “what I am becoming” has been like comparing to standard.

I have never really been specific about it. And I have always know I didn’t want one narrow thing. I have always wanted options. And space. Also, Time! Some time to figure myself out, at least.

Because come to think of it, I have always thought I’d end up in Data Science (I still do). Some big tech girl making the 8-figure pay-check. But, along the line, I got curious about media. Then in the bid to bridge both interests: Media and Mathematics, I am looking into Digital Media Analytics. But I am heavily intersted in strategy. While I enjoy creating/sharing content.

The shaky part though is that, currently, I work in student experience… yet I’m still drawn to storytelling, so I manage doing it all. Because I can!

Every time life shows me a new door, I open it.

Back to our conversation.

“Try all spirits,” I joked. Because honestly, the job market here in Ghana sometimes feels like that , you experiment and pray something sticks.

He replied with laughing emojis. “If you don’t take care, you’ll be master of none.”

We both laughed. But I felt it land.

You know how some jokes don’t feel like jokes? They feel like mirrors. And this felt like one.

Execpt I forgot that, “ A jack of all trades, master of none, …” ends with “…, but oftentimes better than a master of one”

As far as I am aware, I’ve always been like this, collecting interests like souvenirs.

At different points in my life, I’ve collected numbers. Then stories. Even people. Experiences, Media, Systems, Cooking, you name it.

Every new thing feels fascinating. Like something I should understand before deciding who to become.

I never wanted to choose too early and regret it later.

But lately I’ve wondered if exploring everything means never fully arriving anywhere.

Maybe I’m delaying the “real thing.” I wonder. Maybe I’m misdirecting myself.
Or perhaps, I’m just too afraid to commit to just one.

For him though, his answer was neat, straight-lined. He sounded so certain.

“I’ve known since I came out from the womb, what I wanted to be” he said, laughing. We laughed about it, teased each other and threw in emojis.

But beneath the laughter was something real: Recognition.

And I understand, some people are like that. Straight lines. Clear paths.

His was very clear: Software. Hardware. Stability. Plan. Execute.

Meanwhile, my life looks like a doodle.

Arrows everywhere. Random circles. A million side quests.

“Have a conversation with yourself and choose one,” he said.

It sounded like a simple advice yet very hard execution.

Oftentimes, I have heard, “Follow your passion.” “Pray about it.”

Everyone makes it sound so clear. “Choose one!” Like it’s so easy

But what if I don’t fit into one? What if I’m not built like that?

Actually, I don’t want just one!

Later, when the conversation ended and the day quieted down, I thought about it more gently.

Because that’s what conversations do. They start ordinary and end somewhere unexpected. They remind you of old teachers, expose your indecisions, make you laugh, and sometimes, without meaning to, they hold up a mirror.

During that I noticed something. Maybe I’m not actually scattered.

Maybe everything I’ve tried has been orbiting the same center.

When I write, I’m connecting with people. When I host or interview, I’m connecting with people. In student experience, I’m designing moments for people. And even with strategy and content, they are all just stories and impact and how people feel. Even when I tried cooking, it was to satisfy people.

And this conversation, although from industrialisation to childhood memories to life purpose — was connection.

And that’s the only constant.

Not maths. Not media. Not data science.

But, People.

Understanding them. Listening. Telling their stories. Making them feel seen.

So maybe I am not societal’s version of jack of all trades, master of none.

I’ve just been learning different languages for the same thing. Different tools for the same work. And my life as it seems isn’t a straight road.

It’s more like this conversation. Starting in one place. Ending somewhere unexpected.
And only making sense when you look back.

Looking back, we started with industrialisation. And somehow ended with me questioning my entire life. (That felt like therapy though.)

And maybe that’s the point. I’m not wandering, I’m becoming.

And it’s just funny how the most ordinary mornings do that to you. They sometimes take you on the longest journeys without leaving your phone screen.

Because, every generation thinks the next one is shallow.

Socrates literally complained that young people in his time were lazy and unserious. That was over 2,000 years ago. So this “no depth” thought of mine? It’s kind of timeless.

The difference with our generation is that:

We live fast. Very fast.

Everything is scroll, reply, meme, laugh, move on

We leave no room for pauses.

So instead of depth, we perform constant surface connection. We send reels instead of sitting with someone’s silence.

It’s not that we can’t go deep, it’s that: vulnerability feels risky, and for us, we are not willing to risk it. Also, everyone is tired. Then there’s the issue of social media rewarding quickness, and not reflection. The biggest of them all is that, sincerity sometimes also feels “cringe”

So we hide our depth behind humour.

And here’s the funny part and even I am proof of:

The same generation I would like to think lacks depth is also on platforms like Substack and Instagram, writing soft poetry. Some of us are creating podcasts and blogs about real life and starting mental health conversations. Others are stepping outside the norms and going to therapy. While some boldly question faith and purpose.

And truthfully, that’s not shallow at all. That’s very introspective.

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I think we’re actually emotionally aware but very emotionally guarded.

And this is not to say we should let our gaurd down. I just think we should go easy on ourselves.

We hide behind our many jokes. We send memes instead of feelings.
We type “Have you eaten?” when what we really mean to ask is “Are you okay? Are you surviving today?”

Everything moves so fast that sincerity feels awkward, almost embarrassing.

You are the talkative when you’re communicating; “There’s so much chaos in the office today, I have barely had time to use my phone or even eat, danggg. Have you had something to eat already ?“ Which isn’t too far off from the usual,is it?

We keep things light. Safe. Surface-level. And we pretend not to care too much. and brand it as “nonchalance” and think it’s some kind of flex. It isn’t.

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Because the truth is, the depth is there, buried under humour, tiredness, and “I’m fine.”

And maybe we’re not shallow. Maybe we’re just scared to be soft out loud.

I once had a friend I would talk to a lot when I was away from her. I never had to ask what was going on with her to be informed. She’ll send long paragraph-filled emails with every single detail of her life occurences. I was enjoying that and reciprocating when time would allow. We were great friends ‘online’. Until I moved to live into the same city as her. For a while I assumed nothing was really happening with her. I would check in and get short, straight up texts with little to no substance.

I hate to assume in such situations but at a certain point, I assumed I had wronged her in some way.

Why did she see me and walk past so quickly?
What happened to being emotional dumpsters for each other?
Was I wrong to have assumed we were even friends in the first place?

It was questions and worrying for about a month. Then, quiet complaince the months after. I had tried all I could. And I knew for sure that I hadn’t wronged her in any way.

I slowly discovered something truly hard to accept: ‘she was only my friend in absence.’ The idea of me was ideal than the reality of me. While I was away I was golden, when I showed up in person, I was just the ordinary friend.

And I have tried to step into her shoes to understand how that could be possible BUT I can’t. I just can’t. It barely makes sense to me. I am simply not wired that way. My friends say I am needy both online and in person, and I agree to that.

I like presence.
I like showing up.
I like being shown up for.

I mean who doesn’t ? What then is the point of building and nurturing relationships?

In my attempt to understanding her distance, I reached out to a few of her friends she had spoken to me about while I was away. Strategically, not to sort of pry, but to help me understand if perhaps, I was missing the mark somewhere.

To my surprise, some of them weren’t friends with her anymore and that hurt me. I only knew these people from what she told me about them. Turns out at some point, they grew too familiar that it bred contempt in some way.

I have recently had a conversation with an acquaintance I oddly relate to. I cannot remember how we got acquainted but from our conversations, I understand we used to be what you’d genuinely call close friends. Except life happened perhaps. We lost touch and barely heard from each other until recently. Trust me I don’t know what they look like or sound like yet they know very rare details of myself that others physically present in my life barely know about me.

And for some odd reason, I began to wonder: ‘Is it so easy loving from a distance?’ Because, why does absence make one precious but presence makes them forgettable?

Mind you, I am not judging from just these two situations. There’s been loads of such occurences in my life.

There’s that time a guy I liked worried I was too present for his liking. Then that friend who abruptly cut ties with me because she couldn’t keep up with “being too involved” in each other’s lives. Talk of women supporting women, lol, far from that. But, we were the only women in the group. (explains why I found male company easier mostly)

In my defense I am only out here trying to build relationships that, as described by Winnie-the-Pooh “…, makes saying goodbye so hard” Although I am careful that “Familiarity breeds contempt“ Yet, I often find myself on the recieving end of what Gen Z calls breadcrumbs, bare minimum, zero effort.

And truth be told, that’s draining.

It drives you to a point of harsh change. Familiar to me is the science that “like poles repel, unlike poles attract” Maybe that explains why my kind of presence feels too much for some people. Does that even make sense?

Yet interestingly, I have a handful of friends willing to reciprocate.

My tiny friend group of three women is a mix of nonchalance and empathy, with me as the “needy” one. And somehow, we work. We each contibute to the oneness and unity of the group with bits of our differences.

Sen may get lost in conversations but trust she always remembers the intricate details when you need some steady, straight-face advice.

Ads on the other end is the empath. Present, up front honest, always paying attention and giving real time blunt and honest feedback but is more likely to forget in the days ahead because to her a case resolved is a case closed.

And I am appreciative of the fact that in a world quick to cancel and detach, I exist in spaces where effort is a known laguage, where intentionality is a hallmark. Where showing up for and being showed up for isn’t an act that demands begging.

It’s natural norm.

And so maybe instead of mourning the lack off with my the other friends, I cherish the ones who stay, even the ones willing to work through it, discussing as we go, shaping, compromising, fixing and not making excuses.

And maybe too, it’s time I realised not every one is meant for me.

And that too is fine.

But I know this: the number of times I wake up scared of doing what once seemed a miracle to me is alarming.

Not tired.
Not unmotivated.

Scared.

Scared of the uncertainty.
Scared of the power imbalance that hangs in this space like unspoken air.
Scared of how small I feel when ideas are dismissed, and appreciation feels conditional.

Each morning, I lose a little more interest in being present in the space that once mattered deeply to me.

What scares me most is that this is something I prayed for.

In 2025, I called it my almost-arrival moment.
My little miracle, one that came exactly when it needed to.
Something I asked God for with sincerity and hope.

And now, it’s something I slowly dread.

That tension makes me wonder if walking away might be better than staying.

This dissonance messes with your faith.
It makes you question your gratitude.
Your effort.
Your character.

You start asking yourself if you’re not trying hard enough, and if your fading enthusiasm is a personal failure, rather than a very human response to strain.

But at what point does gratitude become silence?
At what point does endurance turn into self-betrayal?
At what point does humility quietly become humiliation?

I’m afraid that maybe I’m not giving my best.
But I’m also beginning to ask: how do you give your best in a place where fear leads the day? A space where your nervous system is always bracing?
Where safety, be it emotional, psychological, professional, all feels optional?

This isn’t about laziness. That I know for sure.
It isn’t about rejecting hard work.

It’s about the slow erosion that happens when effort isn’t met with care,
when contribution isn’t met with trust, when growth feels less like refinement and more like shrinking.

Maybe I am confused.
Or maybe confusion is what happens when you finally stop gaslighting yourself.

When you admit that something can be both a blessing and a burden.
That answered prayers can still require re-evaluation.
That faith does not demand endurance at the expense of your dignity.

I don’t have neat conclusions yet.
Just questions, honesty, and the courage to name what hurts, even as it slowly fills me up to the point of exhaustion.

And for now, maybe that’s enough.
Or maybe it isn’t. Or perhaps, I am truly just confused.

Because how long do you keep going and let something eat at you like this?

There’s the fear of the future.
If I call it quits, then what?
Where do I go from here with no firmly rooted plans?

Do I listen to what social media applauds as a grand awakening, thus waking up and quitting with nothing concrete in hand?

How do I live then?
Would I be conquering my fear? Or just be rushing into the unknown?

And before you say it, I am praying. I have been praying.
I am still praying.

But the knot of fear and doubt remains resting, untied, in my throat.

And I think maybe I undrestand why people are loud now about

“Gen Z canceling Hustle culture”

Then three months in, when progress is still invisible, you begin to wonder.
Yet, you hold on anyway, hopeful for an arrival in the next three, perhaps six or even nine if impatience isn’t your hallmark.

Until one day in that same year, you look up and realize it’s almost the end of the year,
and no arrival has happened yet.

Man was I hopeful for many arrivals this year? Certainly. Did I make plans for arrivals? Of course. Did I arrive anywhere? Not yet, but I still remain hopeful.

Although this year was not a year of grand arrivals, loud breakthroughs, or neatly tied endings. It was a year of movement and a lot of shifts, one almost invisible, but irreversible. I didn’t arrive anywhere this year, at least not yet. But I moved, my thoughts and opinions on matters somewhat shifted. And somehow, that mattered more.

At the start of the new year, things seemed to be going great, work was keeping me busy as usual. There wasn’t so much to worry about. Until March 27th, 2025 happened.

What describes as a lifequake was what happened on that fateful day in March.

A lifequake is a massive, unexpected disruption that shakes the very structure of your life.

For months, I tried so hard to get the events of such a dreadful day off my mind, but I just couldn’t. Most days, I wished I could relive it all over again, at least go back in time and right my wrongs. I always think there’s so much I could’ve done better on that day, so many different choices I could have made. But one thing is for sure, certain events cannot be avoided, that’s fate so I learned to live with it. Turns out I was in for a lot of learning and living through such.

The days that followed the event although slow, were joyful, hope found its way back to me. I began to see light and feel love again; light in people, and love in small and simple things. I started regaining my glow from within, constantly finding fresh reasons to keep living and moving on with renewed hope.

“Weeping may last for nights but joy will certainly come in the mornings.”

And so it went from there. Grace found me and I landed my first full time job. That couldn’t have happened at any other time. Perfect timings do exist. The offer landed right on my lap when mobility was an issue for me, working a fully remote job was a complete miracle. At least I can say I arrived with this one. But one thing is for sure, I can’t fully claim an arrival as I am still becoming, right? That’s not the end of the road for my career path. I am just getitng started.

Navigating the corporate world hasn’t been an easy feat and I am glad I am learning that in the early days of my career. One needs some level of grit, patience and tolerance to survive it, skills I am still mastering. Hence, landing the job isn’t an arrival yet! Pardon my impatience.

Somewhere between the hoping, the hurting, and the healing in the early months of the year, I began to notice small shifts taking place within me.

I have never been one for loud celebrations. Perhaps England did something to me. But this year, I embraced a side of myself that had long remained hidden. Family gathered to celebrate my grandmother, and it turned out the chosen date fell on my birthday. My first reaction, upon hearing the suggestion, was quiet grief, my soul resisted the idea.

Yet if my day had to be replaced with celebrating my grandmother, I was willing to take that bus, and so I did. Being home, surrounded by family, felt deeply nostalgic. In that moment, I realized how much I had been craving grounding rather than celebration. I didn’t realise how healing being in the company of my family could be. Although after 3 nights with them, I knew I had had enough, it was time to go back to my life, one that demanded a lot of over-performance.

Those few days at home taught me that joy does not always need to be centered on me to still reach me. The birthday celebration I had anticpated never happened, most likely never will, but, I had fun! I experienced a different kind of joy. One that stayed with me in all of its fullness till now.

The shift I noticed in how I held joy also began to shape how I held the people in my life.

Much like loud celebrations, I have never been loud about love or romance. But after discovering the lost mythological art of eating twelve grapes under a table on New Year’s Eve, I decided to be intentional about love. And so, I ate my twelve.
Still unconvinced, I thought to unleash more intention the next day—another twelve on New Year’s Day. Twenty-four grapes in total. In hindsight, I may have overdone the grapes.

I don’t say this often, but I desperately craved companionship. I wanted to be found and loved so bad that I constantly yearned for it. So I gave myself a chance. I put myself out there. But desperate yearning comes with lessons.

I learned that love is not something to be chased into existence. It is something you choose to show up for, even when certainty is absent. In the absence of permanence, I settled for closeness and a great deal of softening. Although that softness came with tears. Tears no one prepared me for. Man did I cry this year over love? NO! Because actually, I wept. I wailed. I howled at times like a lost puppy, and on some nights, I snivelled myself to sleep.

From unspoken silences after hand-cuddles, to overwhelming kindness that never meant anything more than kindness, to timing that never quite aligned (missed a chance by 2 months), I came to understand this: some connections were not meant to last the year, but they stayed long enough to soften me. I learned that love is more than a word, or even a feeling. Love is a decision, one that sometimes comes to teach you how to care without clinging (although I hold on for way too long and so easily), how to be present without possession, and how to let go without hardening.

And perhaps that is the toughest form of what is meant to be the simplest choice of all: LOVE.

Loving this way changed me. It made me slower with each “sorry, but it can’t work for us.”or “I already started seeing someone else“ It made me more discerning, and less eager to force meaning where there was none. To know me is to understand I am very territorial. I like to mark my space because there are some boundaries I wouldn’t appreciate people crossing. And I didn’t want the opposite either for anyone else so I did what I had to do for my peace and sanity. After all, my boundaries are not walls; they are instructions for how to love me and at least love me well.

And so, although I didn’t arrive at certainty, and all efforts to satisfy my desperate cravings for companionship weren’t met, I am grateful I arrived at clarity, in all honesty and as much as it hurts, that alone is enough for now.

Gracefully, where love asked me to pause, my hands found other places to rest, like on the keyboard. I took up the opportunity to learn to play again, this time with more discipline and intention. Something to revive my inner child. And guess who can now play a whole, entire journal of Christmas classics? Me. Obviously. Although, I am no pro at playing the keyboard, but I do know my way around it now, at least much better than before.

But then grief struck, quietly undoing my intentions and discipline. For about a month or two, I lost myself, along with the tiniest things that had been keeping me alive. Nana Poku’s passing struck me like a wrong chord in an orchestra; sudden, jarring, loud and noisy, very impossible to ignore.

For a while, silence became my loudest sound, as much as I hate to admit it. The pain I felt was the kind that words like “It is well,” “God knows best,” or “You’ll be fine” could never heal. And as much as I hate to admit, that pain still sits in my chest, even today. Even now.

Anything could trigger the thought of him and awaken my grief. The sight of pineapples and watermelons. A post from his family. A gallery notification replaying the days of the funeral. A song. An attitude. And just like that, my softness would spill over, followed by tears, mostly quiet snivels.

For the longest time, I stayed in denial of Nana’s passing. I still waited for the text that would read, “I am back, you can come visit.” On very good days, I almost forgot he was gone. I reached for my phone to text him, until I saw a post from his sister.

Those posts usually hit like a cold bucket of water on a cold morning, forcing you awake from sleep. And that was when I learned this: grief does not ask to be conquered. It never will. No amount of care, affection, or love can conquer it. Grief only asks to be carried, sometimes quietly, sometimes boldly.

Carrying such pain changed the way I moved through the rest of the year. In the days leading up to the years end, I found myself wondering what he might have missed had he delayed his happiness. That thought stayed with me.

So I began taking nearly every opportunity to spend time with family and friends. I try now to live each day as though it matters, because it truly does. I cherish moments and remain present in them more than ever. I hold space for people, generously. I could do much better with capturing memories.

For to delay happiness is to live with fear and regret.

Then also, this year also seemed to unfold along the edges of my thousand and one fears. Many of the things I dreaded quietly found their way into my reality, the constant rejections, the almost-happy endings that never quite became so, the delayed blessings I lost count of. Yet my fears did not undo me, but rather, it revealed what I could endure.

If there’s one surety of hope in what I learned from facing my fears head on, it’s that: Delay is not Denial, but rather just timing I do not quite yet understand.

Fear has a way of pressing into the places we once felt most certain. And carrying such fears for so long eventually reached my faith. I hit a quiet bump in my spiritual growth, not because I stopped believing, but because belief became heavier to carry.

My prayers grew shorter, while the silence stretched longer. My God, who had once felt near, sometimes felt just out of reach. I slipped back into old habits more easily than I care to admit. I found myself scrolling through my phone in the early mornings, choosing it over scripture study. I harbored lust in my heart and, on most days, allowed my intrusive thoughts to get the better of me.

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Reading for church slowly became routine rather than a sincere pursuit to know, understand, and build faith. Conference felt like just another ritual to endure. Even my temple visits, though constant, did not always feel genuine. I was often lost in thought, short of words, and lacking sincerity in prayer.

Somewhere along the way, “Thy will be done” became my default hiding place rather than a posture that came after honest supplication to the Lord.

And yet, even in that season of dryness, my God did not leave me. Just like He promised, He stayed, He watched, He even sent help, and that was all that mattered.

I resided with angels during my fall. They reminded me that my routine temple visits were a form of refuge rather than a duty. And from such learnings, I discovered that faith does not vanish in weakness, it waits patiently, teaching me to show up even when my heart feels far away. For in the wait lay growth.

There wasn’t a sudden arrival, but a gentle returning. Each small act of seeking, each moment of persistence, reminded me that growth often happens quietly, in ways that cannot be measured by dramatic breakthroughs. I was becoming and not yet arriving and that alone was enough.

And yet, amidst all the trials, the disappointments, and the moments I thought I might break, good quietly found its way to me. Like it always does. Because truth be told, I serve a living God. Some blessings came, not the kind I scrambled for or forced, but the ones that arrived softly, almost imperceptibly, with the assurance of stability and growth.

Life itself was a gift I could hold in my hands, moment by moment. Family and friends reminded me of love’s steady pulse, of joy in laughter, in presence, and in the quiet yeses that often go unnoticed but mean everything. For I know that ‘By small and simple things are great things brought to pass’

Like shared “…, If God Himself works miracles through the quiet, the ordinary, the seemingly insignificant, then why are you quick to dismiss them in your own life? Why do you wait for grand moments before you give yourself a pat on the back? The small and simple things matter to Him. So, they should matter to you too, … !”

And so this happened and it mattered to me: I was selected for a role upgrade at work, and although I ultimately decided to step back, I was glad to be chosen, it reminded me that my efforts were seen. I also received admission to study something I am truly passionate about, and I look forward to the journey ahead. Excitingly, a total of 296 of you will be recieving this email as subscribers to my newsletters. And about 344 people follow me on this app, man what an audience.

These wins, among other small victories, were gentle reminders that progress often comes softly, without the need for noise or applause. And that the seemingly small things really do matter a lot.

And so as the year comes to a close, and I sit with my reflections, I realize that I did not arrive anywhere in the way I might have imagined. There were no grand finales, no perfectly tied endings, no triumphant arrivals. And yet, through it all, I became. I grew in ways that cannot always be measured or spoken of, then, I loved in ways that taught me patience, and I lived through moments that reminded me of life’s delicate beauty. I resided with the quiet yeses, the soft victories, the laughter of family and friends, which all stand as parts of my becoming.

So here I stand, at the threshold of another year, grateful for the movement, the lessons, and the small and simple blessings that carried me. And manifesting a new year ahead, one full of happiness.

For I know with certainty that I am still becoming, this is definitely not the end.

And for now, that is enough.

How about you?

What did you become this year, even if you did not arrive where you thought you would?

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HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY!!

Budaflies, hear me out on this one. And before you roll your eyes at me, no, this isn’t one of those “men are trash” stories. It’s just a simple reflection on a suspiciously poetic reply, and the realisation that maybe perfection isn’t the flex we think it is.

A week ago or so, I posted this note and even shared the image on my whatsapp.

This particular closed door was, sad to say was none other than: A MAN. A man whose kindness and love had me on a chokehold. My world felt complete with him in it. Nobody else was of interest to me when he was in the picture. I can stand silence BUT any from him had me worried to the point of rise in my blood pressure. How we got here, I DON’T KNOW. What were we? Nothing past friendship (with some blurred lines) Situationship? Mmmm, I don’t like that word. Misplaced emotions/feelings? Maybe!

But guess what? A few days after I had posted the note, I found myself at the door again. And this time, I opened it, with my cunningness and longing for more, I walked through that door with little to no shame. In my defence, I just couldn’t bring myself to understand why I would be at the door and not go in. (Who does that?). Curiosity kills the cat, they say. But to me, this is what I call ‘the silver lining’ to my own curated chaos — an exhibit of CONFIDENCE.

And just as you would imagine, I was met with NOTHING:

Oh, and there’s more:

I am sure it barely makes any sense piecing these two conversations together. And trust me, I don’t have the time or energy to explain any further than what you can see. Believe it when they say “LESS IS MORE” At least that’s all we get often, ‘LESS’

Back to my shameful acts. Well, I must say, I did not care at the time, not that I even do now. Nothing was on the line to lose, whatsoever. I just felt like a girl drowsy in love trying to reach for the love lost in sight.

Now, here’s where all the automation comes in. This is the part where I talk about how flawed our generation is and how painful it can be to fight sleep just so you can be expressive only to be met with a response that sounds so right but lacks soul.

I believe strongly that once I have outed myself on a situation, either by confessing my thoughts to my sisters or sharing them online it gets me out of doing what I thought to do. Yet in recent times, I have found myself cheating my own system. I am flawed. I proceed to doing things although I may have talked myself out of it. I call it ‘CONFIDENCE’ But until when will it be met with no shame? Well, I am almost at that point. Very soon, very, very soon!!!

In light of doing things I thought I talked myself out of doing, I responded to a pending question from this MAN, let’s call him ‘Lee’ I mean why wouldn’t I respond to him? He asked for it (note that, he in no way pushed me for it). He calmly asked, as his sweet self always does.

Lee: You don’t want to tell me?

This genesis of this conversation was from my response to him on wanting some things from him that I knew I couldn’t get. He inquired, and I said:

Nabi: If you cant catch on everything I’ve said, let’s just leave it.

Lee: Hmm

Nabi: There’s not much to say I guess.

A century later, after fighting myself not to give in, I CAVED! I just couldn’t help it anymore. I decided it was finally time to say what I had been holding in for months. There goes my dignity and pride:

Nabi: Are you sleeping yet?

Nabi, again: I do like you, too much. And no I’m not obsessed with you, I actually do like and want you. I know I did do and say some uncool stuff about you to myself after that day you said you were “just obsessed” with me. Yes I cried that phase away. But eventually circled back to the fact that I still do like you and I want to talk to you even if it’s for a few minutes in the day, yes I chuckled at one of your random Monday calls BUT Trust me they’ve become somewhat fun and enjoyable, I look forward to them. I got into liking them so much that texting anyone else isn’t as enjoyable, so I don’t text anyone else. Sometimes I just ask you stuff so we can keep talking because I know how to drag a conversation that you won’t. And as much as I hate to admit, you got me here, Lee. You just showed up in super hero gears and I fell for it, so badly that when I realised we couldn’t be anything past hero and a damsel in distress, it hurt me. It still does but now I don’t cry. I play pretense and watch you still act the role of super hero and damn I still fall for it, as much as I don’t want to. But you don’t want anything out of this and I cannot force you, whatsoever. I cannot even get you to stop playing hero. So I just go with it and trust not to hurt myself again.

So yes, there are things I want that I cannot have, maybe not yet or never. And one of such things is YOU!

And that was the end of the conversation with myself in HIS chat.

Again I aired my shame in public, like I am doing now,

Morning came and yes, I did want to put myself in timeout, BUT when you have a semi big girl job that has you on MEETS at 8AM GMT on a Friday, there’s barely enough time to spare for TIMEOUT. So I bundled it all up and proceeded with my day hoping to check for a response later.

Time passed with no response yet. But that was expected. I mean, it's Lee we’re talking about, he shows up when he wants to and disappears same. But after my first morning Teams Meet, I took a peek at my phone and there it finally was, 3 unread messages from Lee. I would be telling lies if I say I wasn’t excited about that. I quickly wrapped things up on the meet so I could read what he’d thought of my heartfelt confession.

And as I expected, the first read was a typical Lee response

Lee: Sorry I slept 🛌 off. Good morning you good?

Then following that, was a long script you’d assume was his reciprocated response to my late night confession.

But something about it seemed off. Trust me, that wasn’t a Lee type of response. At least not what I expected. Then dissappointment began to slowly settle in. I just knew without doubt that, what I was about to read, was one of these two: a META AI generated response or one of Chat GPTs typical and obvious responses.

Lee: I woke up to seeing this and trust me your words… they landed softly, like a quiet breeze that carries the scent of something familiar and beautiful. I read them slowly, letting each line settle in my heart, and I want you to know I felt every bit of it and slowly slept again.

You’ve shown a kind of honesty that’s rare. The kind that doesn’t hide behind pride or fear. And that’s something I deeply respect. You didn’t just speak you opened up, and that takes courage.

I never meant to make you feel like you were just passing through my world. You’ve always been more than that. Your presence, your laughter, your entire body, even your silences, always flashes through my eyes. I’m sorry for the moments that made you question your worth in my life. You have every reason to be mad at me, but I feel in all of this you deserve kindness, and care.

It’s humbling to know that my random calls became something you looked forward to with more chuckles. That somewhere in the ordinary, we found a rhythm. And even if I didn’t always say it, I noticed. I felt it too.

You say I showed up in superhero gear, oh yes I was drawn to your light and me coming to you felt like home. And honestly I still can’t say I don’t like you, well I do so much too and if we’re not standing in the place we once imagined, I want you to know—you matter. You always have.

I can’t promise the stars, or rewrite the past. But I can promise this: I see you. I appreciate you. And I’ll carry your words with me, gently, like a melody I don’t want to forget.

Everything here although beautifully written yelled out EXHAUSTION. Because Lee, the man I know, is barely one of many words, let alone a carefully written script expressing whatever. Lee, as I have known him to be, is one for questions. At least that was more of what I was expecting than a cutting edge script that screamed: “Give up already, woman, GIRL!!!” Fair enough, I mean I would be exhausted too.

But as my father’s daughter that I am relentless in my pursuits, I don’t give up easily, at least not always! And it's not desperation!

Now, you may wonder why I think this response is one of an artificial affection and lacks soul. Allow me let you in on a little crazy secret. If you love Chat GPT, know that you don’t love it more than I do. Yes, you heard me right. I am claiming it, finally. But, I am not addicted to it in any way. Let’s just say I use it to its best, to the point of knowing that it lacks a soul, no matter how hard you try. And perhaps I can say same for other AI chatbots.

Here’s how I actually know. After I had typed my long confession, I feared typos and lack of effective expression, so guess where I went seeking for help: ChatGPT, obviously! But, because I was in between sleep and life, I decided it was best I sent the message I had originally typed, just because it was sincere and genuine, I could feel the emotions and depth it came with. And even Chat GPT hyped me up on its sincerity. So, why would I want a refined soulless version?

Yet, one thing had to be done. I didn’t fail to request for was what a response to such a message would sound like. Here’s how my prompt read: “How’d you respond to this if someone sent it to you” And here’s what it suggested:

Oh, there’s even a better response:

And it suggested more, but I was satisfied with what it had already given me. At least, I had a fair idea of what a person like Lee would not give as a response unless his response was AI-GENERATED.

Hence my conclusion on the matter. 🧑‍⚖️

There’s so much I could to say on this matter, so much I actually do want to lay on this table and shake off. But my heart longs so hard for quietness for its seen more silence than words in this situation.

And this very situation has me wondering if eventually AI will indeed take over our jobs completely and leave us jobless. Because from the look of things, it has taken over our deepest and sincerest thoughts! We trust its words more than ours because we are too flawed to imperfection and vulnerability for us is such a hard nut to crack. We don’t want to do the work, we don’t want to say what we actually think or express how we actually feel. We’d rather a generated bot response to match the assumed expectations of the receiver than reveal our best vulnerbale self.

For what it’s worth, IT IS NOT EVEN WORTH IT!

Because one thing about AI Bots is that, they lack a soul. No matter how much of perfection they exhibit, they lack soul. You might think some of us expect perfection, when all we are in search of is a soul as flawed as ours yearning for companionship. One that sees and acknowledges our flaws but stays or even perhaps leaves when it surely has to, no matter how difficult it might be. At least that was more of what I expected than what Lee might have assumed I expected. Replacing sincerity with generated perfection that made no sense.

So here I am trying so hard to convince myself to JUST LET IT GO. To let sleeping dogs lie. Because eget why? I mean what does this even mean when a man says: ‘I can’t promise the stars, or rewrite the past. But I can promise this: I see you. I appreciate you. And I’ll carry your words with me, gently, like a melody I don’t want to forget.’ Such generative vibes! Some delusional response like a simple: “I choose you” would have done it for me.

Erhnnn??? But I live in my head too much and it's not done me any good, lol!

Go ahead and prove me wrong guys, what do you think? Does it sound genuine or just like myself, do you also believe it’s a BOT GENERATED response? While we are at it, I hope you don'tmind a little oversharing? Have you had a similar experience, tell me about it. Don’t come in my DM’s, kindly! Or maybe do. But, anything you have to say, DO IT HERE! We all want to read it too.

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Kindly talk me out of this DROWSY LOVE situation because trust me, I have tried, I have!! And yet still, my emotions keep winning.

PS: Don’t worry, LEE will never see this! He will never read it. Because one thing about him, he barely reads my stuff! He seldom even reads anything at all, I suppose! But if he chances on it and it sparks an interest, he might read. Which he actually did!

For me, that moment is slowly and quietly arriving. And it’s not from a fight, or some grand betrayal, but it’s emanating from the silence of missed check-ins, late replies that carry no weight, and in the light conversations about football when my heart needs something deeper.

I used to think consistency was your strongest trait. From when you heard me mention something small and casual, and carried it for weeks until it was resolved. That attentiveness shocked me, in a good way. It gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, I had found someone who cared enough to listen, remember, and act.

Yet, somewhere between then and now, that version of you is fading. Work is swallowing you up and if my sight serves me right, you’re allowing life shift you into someone who just doesn’t have the space for me anymore. Unless perhaps that has always been the case and I chose to see things differently.

Have you ever thought my actions seemed desperate? Maybe once they were, but that part of me is leaving. And I’m leaning towards the principle of matching energies. To whom much is given, much is expected, right? I have lived in silence and one thing is for sure, I won’t drown it out with noise should you choose it. And when the balance finally rests at zero, I’ll know it’s time to walk away.

It stings, of course. To watch hope once carried dissolve into reality is no easy thing. You were and still are most of what I thought I wanted — calm, humble, kind, hardworking. But if all that doesn’t translate into presence, into showing up anymore, into love that feels alive, into conversations that have lasting impact, then what is it really worth?

I don’t know for you but I’m sat here, learning a quiet but important truth: people are not always who they used to be, and sometimes love isn’t about fighting to restore them. Sometimes, it’s about matching energies until you find the courage to protect your own.

Will you see this? Yes. Will you read it? I doubt it. But I needed to write it — to give shape to my feelings, to stand on business, to take accountability for my actions and ownership of what comes next.

Come what may, I love you.

I don’t think I have shared this here before, maybe a few bits in passing, without much context. I don’t intend sharing every detail today either.

But on Thursday, March 27th, 2025, something happened.

Some say it was a life-altering experience and I won’t argue. Except that for me, I wouldn’t describe it as just such. Yes, it changed me, it changed my life. But not in the sense that everything before was one life and everything after became another. No, not that way.

It wasn’t that dramatic split. Instead, it was more of a shift, a moment that gave me new eyes to look at myself, my choices, and the small details I once overlooked.

The accident, a robbery: all unfolds in a way I still sometimes replay in my head. Not with regret, but with reflection. I don’t see it as a mistake carved in stone, but rather as a moment that taught me about choice, chance, and the quiet ways we grow.

If I think of what I could have done differently, perhaps it starts with the time I left home. On a regular serious work day, I would leave home as early as 5:30 am GMT or 5:45 am GMT.

But that very day, amongst the many early days, I thought I could risk leaving later. It seemed harmless, but timing is sometimes the difference between crossing paths with calm and colliding with chaos.

I think, too, of my friend, my designated work driver. Just a day or so before, I had called him to pick me up like I had been doing since we had become close. But the night before the accident, I wasn’t in a good emotional place with him. And he didn’t even know. At least if he did we could have resolved it. It was over something very trivial, yet I let it weigh on me. Looking back, I realize how much my emotions shaped my decision that day.

Out of stubbornness or self-protection, I decided I would go alone. Had I made that call, maybe things would have unfolded differently.

Later, I’d learn that around the same time the incident happened, he had sped past his usual turn point to my pickup spot. Perhaps a ride that day would have made a significant difference, but fate had something else planned. A single call might have altered everything, but I let my emotions get the best of me.

And then there was my silence. In the heat of the moment, I thought I was screaming, but I wasn’t. Panic trapped the sound inside me. To those in their homes, to those walking ahead, nothing seemed to be happening.

Yet inside the dirty drain by the roadside lay a young woman who had left home barely 15 minutes earlier, with big dreams, a mobile phone, a gospel playlist on repeat blasting through her headphones, and a bag filled with her personality.

No one noticed I needed help because my cry never found its way out.

And when I recall that day, I wish I had screamed louder. I wish my fear had found a voice: a voice that cried for freedom and for help. One as loud as the dreams I carried, as piercing as the music that filled my ears and echoed in my heart that day.

But here’s the thing, although I think of different ways this day could have played out, this isn’t a story of regret. It’s a story of growth. Of how I learned that choices, no matter how small, carry weight. That emotions sometimes get in the way of reason. That silence can be as dangerous as noise.

The accident didn’t rewrite my life, but it added a new chapter of awareness, and even of love and new beginnings. It taught me to trust my instincts, to reach out even when pride says no, and to never underestimate the power of being heard.

When I think of that day now, I don’t feel bitterness. I feel gratitude, for survival, and for the lessons it carried.

Growth doesn’t always arrive gently. Sometimes it comes wrapped in chaos, leaving behind an itchy scar on your right knee. And when it does, all you can do is unwrap it, learn from it, and keep limping—until one day you realize you can move freely again.

So on days like yesterday, when the going gets tough, this experience, among many, stands as a reminder. A scar as visible as my smile teaches me to reach out, even when pride says no, and to never underestimate the power of being heard.

And I’m grateful for friends who lend a listening ear, for voices that remind me I’m not alone, and for the quiet strength that comes from simply being heard.

You’re probably wondering, … “What does she mean by no phone after 8?” “What is going on with her?” “You ghost us and return with more potential to keep ghosting, are you kidding?”

Truth is, I am very much aware of what I have done and what I am about to do. But how did I get to this point? Who challenged me and why is this so important to me?

Well, a round of applause to everyone’s AI friend or better said, ‘Bestie of the new age‘ — ChatGPT! And before you judge me, know that I already judged myself BUT I have carefully thought through this.

I, just like most of you here am an avid user of the popular AI medium — ChatGPT. Afia will tell you, “don’t request to know what sort of conversations I have with it” Yhup, that’s me too. I ask it literally everything ; from food suggestions to Biblical topic explanations, you name it.

And just as always, I keep getting caught in a limbo — “Do I keep writing or should I just silently call it quits” (Don’t worry the latter obviously can’t happen, at least not yet. Just because I am a certified yapper, I just can’t stop yet) But also, when I have stayed too long away from tapping into my creative self, it becomes a fight with my brain trying to get back at it. Often times I worry I might be losing my touch.

Surprisingly, ChatGPT recognised it too. Funny enough, its recognition had more to do with my spirituality than creativity. It realised the biblical narrative help questions had stopped coming. The “Help me plan an outline for a lesson on this topic from these verses” weren’t as frequent as they’ve been. And I am sure it was just a matter of time till it’d have screamed in my face, just like everyone of you this week:

“Are you okay? You seem off”

So, when I jumped on it for suggestions on topics to write about, I would assume it deviated from the prompt because, tell me why ChatGPT suggested to me, I pick an After 8 no social media feed challenge — A gentle challenge to hear God again.

Suprisingly, I’ve been thinking a lot about noise lately. The kind we invite in, not the kind we escape from. The pings, the scrolls, the perfectly-filtered lives that fill our screens late into the night. I don’t know about you, but sometimes it feels like my phone knows more about my thoughts than my prayers do. I mean!! Didn’t I speak much on that already some months ago?

And it’s not just the noise. Because for my case, I despitefully hate notification sounds and pop ups, I disbaled most of them. It’s what we find ourselves reaching for when we’re tired, lonely, or restless. It's the content we consume to fill a void, sometimes harmless, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s funny reels, other times, it’s things we’d rather not name. And before we know it, a few minutes become an hour. An hour becomes a habit. And habits... become altars and idols.

Hence the urge to even accept the challenge — a small, gentle challenge that I’d like to invite you to join me in:

No social media after 8PM.

That’s it. Just a boundary. Just some silence. And an opportunity to save on some internet bundle charges.

Not because screens are evil, but because souls are sacred. An perhaps, we are losing all of the sacredness left within us to the algorithm.

ChatGPT called this challenge “After 8” and I think I’ll stick with that. I like it.

Each night, I’ll trade the feed for stillness. I’ll try and journal what rises. (Because quite frankly, I have not journaled in a hot minute. Feels like I quit on myself and what I enjoyed doing) And I’ll pay attention to what God might be whispering beneath the static. And maybe try and catch some sleep early too. You too can do same.

Also here’s what this whole challenge is really about:

It’s not just digital detox. It’s heart detox for myself.
For me, this is a first step toward addressing something deeper — the pull toward addictive content, especially the kind that distorts our view of love, worth, and desire.

Stay with me, no cause for alarm.

We must admit, it’s hard to heal what we keep feeding. It’s hard to hear God when our eyes are glued to a glow that never satisfies. And a noise that never quiets down.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be trying my best for myself and for my sanity. I would like to write more on this, to keep myself accountable and also to share my journey trying to blur the lines between faith and technology. The struggle with online temptation, and what it means to live wholly and attentively in a distracted age.

A topic I would really love to explore on this journey is “Prayer versus Prompt — When AI Becomes Your Go-To Answer.”

But this challenge is the doorway to finding answers and a better approach to this topic and many more.

This time will be my small, consistent “no” that creates a lot of needed space for a deeper “yes” to faith, to freedom and to peace.

If you’d like to join me, let me know. But you also don’t have to announce it if you don’t want to. You can do it privately, that’s very okay.

However you choose to engage, even if it means keeping accountability tabs on me, I hope this sparks something inside you, not guilt, not fear, just… an invitation.

To rest. To listen. And To come home again.

But, I won’t make any promises. Not because I am setting myself up for failure soon (can be easy right? But not at all) But because of how personal this journey feels for me. I only feel it’s appropriate I share a bit of what I am up to. Especially since my audience here is constantly growing as more of you are choosing to read along.

I have been waking up to email titles from subtack reading; “New free subscriber to NABI's DIARY!” And the beauty of it is that almost all of you newbies are Recommended by: Sante from Sante’s Substack. I meannnnnnn, Sante recommended me?? Okay!!

I feel both humbled and honoured about the recommendation. And I think we can do same for Sante, so please visit her substack and show some love through subscription. Tiwaa is really excited about Sante’s content and so, I am too! And the first post on Sante’s substack speaks volume of her personality. And we love, love, love people with peronalities right?! So, kindly go over with some love to Sante’s and subscribe, NOW!

Thank you for being obedient and prompt.

For those enjoying the warmth from the sun, stay hydrated.

And for some of you enduring the rain, stay warm and please DON’T catch the flu!

Love always and love freely,
NaBi🦋🖤

When Dani announced her rebrand, it struck a chord with me.
It reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend just days before an unfortunate incident I had to endure.

That night, PK, my unpaid editor and blog manager, had reached out, as he often does, to discuss the blog. He asked why I hadn’t considered a rebrand, especially after such a long hiatus. We toyed with reasons and possibilities. And then, in the silliest of thoughts, I told him I was waiting for a "thunderbolt" moment, something intense enough to redirect my path and redefine the course of my blog.

I remembered reading something on Substack, similar to what Dani is doing now, about rebranding. And I wanted that. I wished for something big, something intense enough to awaken my Chimamanda self. As though the 18 months I’d already spent away from writing weren’t intense enough. I longed for a grand shift, my own thunderbolt.

Ironically, Dani’s rebrand was inspired by a moment like that. And I, unknowingly, was wishing for the very kind of incident, or worse, to push me into rebranding.

But they weren’t kidding when they said, "Words hold power."

Because they do. What you long for will find its way to you. And it might not be what you expect. It might hurt. You might wish you’d never desired it at all.

Yes, that’s what happened to me.

My thunderbolt struck. And I was intensely electrocuted.

Till this day, I’m still dusting off the ashes.

I admire how Dani’s handled her shift. Though moved by fear of the unknown, she’s choosing intention, reconnecting with her faith, her father, and her community. She’s building. She’s healing. She’s evolving.

For me, it was different.
I had to let go of many things — social media being the least of my concerns.

And as for connections? Well, let’s just say I got lucky there.

Then came the biggest question: “What next?”

I had asked for this. I had wished for change. Now it had happened. So… what next?

Was the rebrand finally here? Was I finally stepping into the vision I had painted in my mind?

Funny because I wish that were the case. But it didn’t happen. Or maybe, it hasn’t happened yet.

Instead, this happened, similar to what Dani is experiencing:

I pulled away. I wanted to so badly withdraw from the ‘social grid’. I didn’t want to share anymore, even though a lot of my life was already out here. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sharing, until it feels like I’m oversharing. But I keep going because, who really cares?

Yet, people found out anyway. No matter how much I tried to not get word out there. Word spreads fast, especially when you’re well known in your tiny corner of the world.

Hence, I stopped hiding and chose to face it, slowly, gently and on my own terms.
I turned to my journal first, then to Substack.
I started writing again.
I forced myself to show up.
If rebranding wasn’t going to happen, at least I needed to reclaim the voice I once had.

That first fight, I lost.

Not because I was weak or incapable. But because I couldn’t bear the weight of what could have been.

There was a draft sitting in my docs. Incomplete. Heavy. The story had lost its meaning. So had my excitement. I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. Still can’t.

So I gave up the urge to post a blog and I turned to Substack chats. With my five active readers, I posed a question — one on grief and learning to accept help. Yet no one responded. Just another hurdle to cross on my own.

It seemed as though what I once loved was now beginning to terrify me. Had I lost touch with the one thing I thought I was good at; Writing?!

I feared losing the community I had built here. So when a challenge came to keep pushing, to keep fighting until I found my voice again, I took it.

Then, one night, something inside me stirred. A new voice. One I didn’t recognize, but I liked it.

And that voice led me here.

I began with an "Ode to My Friend" a tribute to the one who helped me rediscover my voice.
Then came "The Night Grief Loosened Its Grip on Me" a piece born from acceptance.
And finally, "Echoes of Almost" when another storm hit, and I again sought refuge in that unfamiliar voice within.

All three pieces flowed like poetry.

You might call it a rebrand: shifting from storytelling to poetry.

But I don’t.

Because while I enjoy hiding behind metaphors and emotionally charged language, I have a story to tell. And I want to tell it as it is. Just like I’m doing now.

So maybe, this isn’t a rebrand. Maybe it’s just a deeper exploration of self.

After all, the reason this blog exists — and still exists — is simple:

I want to keep a digital diary of my life.

That in years to come, “when I leave this frail existence, when I lay this mortal by,” the story of me won’t just be hearsay but truth. Because I left behind a living trace that I was here. I lived. I loved. I was here.

Who better to tell my story than me?

Me. No one else but me.

So don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for Dani.
Going from Dear Hopeful Romantic to Deconstructing Dani truly feels like a rebrand. It’s bold. It’s real. I sense she’s found her voice, and I’m eager to explore faith through her writing too.

But if there’s anything my experiences and longings have taught me, it’s this:

It takes time to find yourself.
Especially in writing.
You’ll stumble. You’ll rewrite. You’ll lose drafts and start new ones. You’ll go quiet, then loud.
But eventually, it comes.
No thunderbolts. No pressure.
Just time. And grace.

It finds you.

Stay safe and love freely.

NaBi🦋🖤

But it never made it, because I never stay writing. Well, not until today. And I think the wait was worth it.

Almost always, I question how much I put on here. Especially with how cringe some of these pieces may seem. Neglecting the fact that THIS is my digital diary.

This is the whole point of it’s existence. I mean, if not this, then what?

So, here goes the long awaited sequel that took a sudden twist days before its announcement.

On The Night grief loosened its grip on me,

No declaration was made.

With hands intertwined in the dark,
we explored a kind of closeness
only vulnerability could create.

No grand unveiling of intent,
just silence, and something tender in between.

But in the days since, I’ve found myself wishing
that something had been said.

I thought I’d learned not to form expectations with you.

Especially in a space that invited such depth,
where we peeled back layers
and met versions of ourselves rarely seen.

And yet, something shifted.

I was held.
Nothing was promised,
but for a moment, I felt chosen.

That shift lingered.

It pulled us past what the space could contain,
inviting questions, assumptions and longing.

The chapter we touched felt incomplete,
as if we paused mid-sentence
and I’ve been waiting ever since.

I have stayed in the quiet of your response,
ready to savor every word,
never rushing the ending.

Until exhaustion crept in,
not from time, but from performing calm.

Still, I waited.

Even as curiosity bloomed
and you dismissed it,
as though it weighed nothing.

Now, I’m weary.

Not because it’s taken long,
but because your presence feels unsure,
your gestures hesitant.

Your silence isn’t rejection,
it’s your inaction that echoes loudest.

I love myself enough not to stay suspended in limbo.
And I believe you love yourself enough too.

Hence I justify the wanting.

I let myself reach beyond dainty statements
toward the intricate questions:

”Is this love, as I understand it?
Or simply kindness clothed in familiarity?”

Yet you brush my questions aside,
as if they are too much, or nothing at all.

But I want to hold space for myself,
the same way I’ve held it for you.

I’d love to reside in a spoken response.

At least, I believe I deserve that.

If you enjoyed this, join my Subtack chats. I make an appearance on there from time to time. Currently I’m seeking ideas, check it out. And who knows, I might stay consistent, eventually.

Stay safe and love freely.

NaBi🦋🖤

And I have hence wondered if I ever truly know who I am. Or perhaps I’ve just resurrected dead parts of me, simply by living more.

In these quiet rediscovreies, I found comfort in writing, as I always do. But this time around it was a bit different, still is.

The words would flow like quiet, gentle streams speaking tranquility to my soul. And every sentence made a sound, calm, quiet and reassuring, just like the moments they were describing.

And that is what brings us here. Sharing hidden parts of me that can’t be hidden anymore. Maybe not entirely.

Because I love to share, and you, you love to read.

Here goes the poetic me.

That night, something simple yet soulful happened.

We fell asleep holding hands, and didn’t let go, not once.

You let me hold on to you.

While grief loosened its grip on me.

It wasn’t planned.

No grand gesture, no words to mark it.

Just two souls, worn out by the day,

finding quiet comfort in each other.

Our fingers loosely laced, then gently firm.

With every retreat, you held on tighter,

with careful caresses.

Like some silent promise was being made.

Not to fix anything, not to define anything,

but to say,

I’m here.

You're safe.

I’m not letting go.

You're safe with me.

And we didn’t.

You didn't!

All through the night,

our hands spoke a language of safety and softness.

In between hushed conversations and muffled sounds.

Then morning found us,

still tethered,

not out of habit, but choice.

And I woke up not afraid

Wishing we’d continually make the choice.

For I know that,

Sometimes, the heart doesn’t need loud declarations.

Just a hand in the dark that stays till the light returns.

If you enjoyed this, join my Subtack chats. I posted an ode I wrote to a friend on there. And who knows, I might keep sharing more of these on there too.

Stay safe and love freely.

NaBi🦋🖤

But how did this come to be? Who decided that March should be Ghana Month? And why do we need a whole month to celebrate something that defines us every day?

To the best of my knowledge, the recognition of March as Ghana Month stems from our independence from colonial rule. Correct me if you think otherwise.

On Wednesday, March 6, 1957, the British colony then known as the Gold Coast was officially declared an independent state; Ghana, by our first President, Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah. This historic moment marked Ghana as the first black nation in sub-Saharan Africa to break free from colonial rule.

Over the years, Ghanaians have celebrated this day with great pride and honor. But apparently, one day has never and will never be enough to commemorate such a monumental achievement.

This year marks 68 years since independence, a milestone that brings about deep reflections on our growth as a nation. Have we truly progressed? Have we honored the sacrifices of those who fought for our freedom? While many have shared concerns about Ghana’s development, I find myself facing a different, yet oddly thought-provoking dilemma.

I’ve often wondered: Why isn’t one day enough to celebrate our independence? To be honest, there has never been a single day I haven’t woken up feeling so Ghanaian. Therefore why do I need an entire month to celebrate a culture that is already woven into my identity? A culture that wakes me up at the crack of dawn, that adorns me every single day, whether through my conversations, my mannerisms, or my appearance. Someone, please explain this to me—because I’m struggling to wrap my head around it!

But while we ponder this, let’s take a moment to reflect on what it means to grow up Ghanaian. An identity I take so much pride in.

As you probably already know, I was born and raised in Ghana. And don’t let that sentence fool you—I am still here in Ghana, lol! Where else would I be if not in the land of my forefathers… or is it foremothers? Wait—motherland? fatherland? Thinking out loud again, my bad!"

Well, my name gives it off more than perhaps my appearance would. Nana Yaa Agyeiwaa Boamah. A typical Ghanaian freed from the oppressor’s rule.

Growing up Ghanaian is more than an experience, to me, it’s a way of life. A culture that mothers you into being even before you understand what this life is all about. It’s in the way we look, the words we speak, our mannerisms, the way we eat and what we even eat. It’s ingrained in our posture and even in our movement. It’s a culture that stays with you no matter where you go.

For starters let me introduce you to our state-of-the-art disciplinary school; ‘The Ghanaian home-style discipline’. Here our parents don’t raise us up with just words but with looks, gestures and occasional flying objects. From a tender age, we are raised to understand that a spatula performs more functions outside the kitchen than it does in the kitchen. As part of its purposes outside the kitchen is making contact with human skin.

And don’t get me started on the death stares in public places. Such stares were more powerful than words. That one look was always enough to send the warning signal to behave yourself or face the wrath of your mother at home.

But my mum was exceptional at this. Man, she’d be the principal of the disciplinary school if it ever existed. My siblings would attest to the fact that her ways were unmatched. She never rushed the process, the woman had tactics.

She would lure me or whichever trouble maker into her room, a place that, unknown to us, doubled as a hiding spot for her canes. Mind you, your presence there was definitely to receive the consequence of something you had intentionally done, fully aware you weren't supposed to. A consequence of your actions.

Once inside, she’d start with a few calm but deceiving questions, as if she were a lawyer building a solid case. And just when you start thinking, ‘maybe I have a chance of escape’, the cane would fly out of nowhere, landing either on your back or bum—sometimes both, for full effect. In that moment, the pain didn’t even matter as much as the overwhelming thoughts rushing through your head: “Should I run away from home?”

But somehow, you never actually ran away. Because one day, you wake up and realize that these actions—these disciplinary encounters—shaped you more than they harmed you. They instilled values, respect, and a certain resilience that you carry throughout life. (Although at times, I wonder if I was raised in FEAR)

Still on the topic of discipline, we’re taught that respect is never optional. I mean, we go about greeting the elderly with ‘please’ to avoid earning disapproving looks or being tagged as a disrespectful kid. Before we request for something, whether rightfully ours or in a way of borrowing, we know to add the code word “please” And you dare not speak back when the elders are speaking. It’s believed the elderly are always right. There are exceptions though, lol!

But don’t be alarmed, my childhood in Ghana wasn’t all about discipline; it was also filled with loads of joyful moments. The kind that makes me nostalgic every time I think about it.

Take me back to the days of Our Day celebrations. The one day in the school year when we were allowed to bring our "rich people" food: Jollof, fried rice, and maybe even chicken, if your parents were feeling generous." More like the Christmas season of the school year. The classrooms looked less like classrooms as we’d decorate them with our DIY buntings and pom-poms. (I doubt any of us at the time knew the real use of pom-poms, lol) Our chairs weren’t left in their usual order of seating, we enjoyed having to sit in a circular order allowing everyone the opportunity to see who had the biggest packaged meal for the day.

It was also the day we realized our parents admired the teachers much more than we thought. Because why were they getting hampers and some of our parents’ best traditional clothes, the finest perfumes and the best and often most expensive shoes?! In those moments, I wished to become a teacher but looking back now, I don’t think I’d have enjoyed marking countless assignments and having to lash out at students for being silly.

That one day felt like recess time but it never ended. It allowed us to channel into our “Ghanaian-ness” engaging longer in games we played mostly at home and in the neighborhoods. Games like; Ampe, Pilolo and Chaskele. And if you never played at least one of these, I question if you truly had a Ghanaian childhood. We didn’t even fancy playing video games at the time.

Life barely existed online as much as it does now. I mean, I would have been telling you this story with a bunch of other neighborhood kids sitting around a bonfire in the middle of a compound house that accommodated over 30 people. My grandma would call it “Ananse-story time.” That sense of community brought us together more than WhatsApp group chats ever will.

If you know me well, you know I cannot reflect on my childhood in Ghana without mentioning the food culture. Oh, how I love my Ghanaian food. But it goes beyond the taste of it to the experience; the beauty of eating with our hands, the satisfaction of waakye wrapped in leaves, the unexplainable bond between Ghanaians and beans.

I know my foreign friends may frown on the act of eating with our hands but if there’s one piece of knowledge for you to acquire here, it’s that: “African germs don’t kill”

Yes! You’re in safe company eating with your hands here, because there’s something undeniably special about the act. The way your fingers gently mold the banku to make room for the okro (slimy soup) with so much taste to look forward to at their combination. How your wrist effortlessly moves to allow you to scoop soup onto your fufu (that memory stems from the times when I enjoyed a meal I now cannot even stand ), the satisfaction and special skill of scooping the right amount of waakye, salad with shito and gari into your palms to make a fine mold before making way into your mouth. Man, it’s a sensory experience that cutlery could never replicate. We don’t just eat food; we connect with it.

Speaking of waakye, Waakye has got to be my favorite rice dish. If we bond over waakye, know that we’re bonded for life. I mean, consider the hierarchy: rice and beans, shito, gari, spaghetti (Talia), salad, boiled egg, wele, and if you are lucky, fried plantain and some juicy, well-seasoned protein (nantwinam). It’s a build-up of things, a combination of elements to form the best well seasoned taste a meal can give.

But for now, let’s speak aesthetics. The whole fashion show just to present the meal; waakye wrapped in leaves! This was a common practice in the olden days which in recent times has surfaced back. The reason being that we’ve come to understand why our forefathers lived longer lives than we currently do with the so-called advancement in food packaging.

And so if you claim to be Ghanaian and never had waakye served this way, I have to ask: Are you truly Ghanaian? Because that leaf-wrapped goodness isn’t just about presentation. It enhances the taste, it gives a unique earthy aroma, and somehow makes the whole meal feel more authentic. And with that, you can’t convince me otherwise.

In essence, an admirable piece of the Ghanaian food culture is the social aspect of eating. In many households, eating was a communal affair. Whether it was sharing a bowl of tuo zaafi with family or enjoying a huge mortar of fufu at a family gathering, food was always meant to be shared. It was a time to bond, tell stories, laugh, and sometimes, fight over the biggest piece of meat (because let’s be honest, if you didn’t fight for meat as a child, you weren’t really hungry). And if you never fought, tell me you at least braced your fears and stole from your mother’s cooking pot when she wasn’t looking. Neglecting the consequences of your actions.

Such fun memories.

Oh, and I’m side-eyeing those of you that never sucked ‘hausa koko’ from the polythene bags. Where were you born again?

Now, if you were a pro, you already knew the technique for drinking from the bag. You’d bite a tiny hole in the corner, not too big, not too small. Or best to pull the corner of the bag forming a string where you could gauge the size of the hole you had to create. You gently sip, making sure not to burn your tongue. Because koko as we all know it, is always warm and slightly spicy. You have to be careful.

The real test, however, was grip strength. That bag was so delicate that one wrong squeeze, one overenthusiastic sip, and boom! Your koko was already bathing you.

Honestly though, the struggle was always worth it. Because, looking back, I realize that koko in a polythene bag wasn’t just about convenience. It was a daily ritual that connected all of us. Whether you grabbed yours from the roadside koko seller or had your mother pour it into a bag for you at home, the feeling was the same: pure satisfaction, pure joy!

And that’s what food is to us. Ghanaian food isn’t just about filling the stomach, it’s more than that. It’s about heritage, connection, and memories. And although I love trying new cuisines, absolutely nothing compares to the taste of home. I keep telling them!

I could go on and on about many reflections on growing up Ghanaian but time wouldn’t permit me. Neither will there be enough room on this page for more. (That was so Ghanaian of me, by the way)

Reflecting now on growing up as a Ghanaian has made me appreciate it some more because I never realized how that has shaped me in so many ways. The discipline, the food, the traditions, and the community spirit have all left an imprint on my identity. It’s in the resilience I carry, the way I show respect, and the deep pride I have in where I come from.

Even though currently, we live in an evolving world, where WhatsApp groups have replaced by the fireside nights and delivery systems are keeping us indoors rather than enduring the pain of rude cross-overs at food vending joints, the essence of being Ghanaian still remains.

It’s not just something we acknowledge in March. It’s an everyday thing.

So, while we celebrate Ghana Month with hashtags and somewhat expensive fashion statements thanks to commercialism, let’s not forget that our identity isn’t confined to a single month. It’s in the way we treat each other, the values we pass down to the next generation, and in the little moments like sharing a bowl of waakye, saying please at every opportunity, or laughing over memories of “March-Past”

At the end of the day, being Ghanaian is not just something I was born into—it’s something I live, breathe, and carry with me, no matter where life takes me. And currently life has brought me back to my roots.

This is Ghana.

Nonetheless, I am somewhat grateful for my Saturday doom-scrolling habit on Instagram. My phone’s so dry mostly that its use excites me no more, not even the countless movies I spend my work hours downloading for the weekend. Yet this superfluous habit produced some inspiring results this weekend, one which sparked the idea for my last love-themed writeup for February.

I have a fair idea of how algorithms work on the media apps. But in recent times, I am forced to believe it’s more spiritual than technical. The media knows the deepest parts of your soul.

And I’m not even kidding.

Because, help me understand how on work days, all my content received are tailored to work- work relations, events at the workplace, my not-so pleasant Monday morning mood, ready-to-hibernate Thursdays and the sort.

Then, when the weekend eventually shows, the content just shifts to everything love - relationships, friendships, ‘situationships’, even my ‘solo dolo’ life is well represented in the media I consume. And not to forget the enduring act of surviving loneliness. Bruh!

Direct me to whoever is in charge. We need to have a serious chat!

It’s funny how these algorithms seem to know my heart better than I do. But maybe it’s not just tech—maybe it’s timing. February, after all, has a way of making us confront love in all its forms. And as I doom-scrolled on Instagram, I stumbled upon something that felt less like coincidence and more like a sign: The February Theory.

Safe to say, the algorithm worked out for my good this time.

Prior to watching the video, I had never before, heard anything about this ‘unverified’ theory or its existence. But it’d amaze you to know I had somewhat been living by it. And I’m sure most of you as well.

And I guess it’s just human instincts.

The "February Theory" is a social media trend, especially on TikTok, suggesting that February is a crucial month for relationships. For that I strongly agree! With the whole fuss and idolization of Valentines, it’s fair that a month as such - that holds so much love capacity - is important for relationships. I guess it’s during such a time that you actually KNOW if you’re loved or not! So they say!

The theory claims that relationships started in February tend to last, while breakups during this month are often final. Yet it scares the ‘ton’ to start a relationship in February.

I have heard a lot of people, mostly guys, claim ‘In February women force to be in a relationship in hopes of receiving gifts on Valentines.’ And so most men try hard to shy away from getting into relationships at this time. Should we just blame it on the fact that they might not be able to afford the luxury such women seek?!

Well from the theory, this is one of the best times to get into a relationship. People at this time have so much love to give, it’s best we take advantage of that.

However, it is not scientifically proven but rather based on social speculation and anecdotal experiences. So it’s safe to say everyone of us can have an opinion on what could be and could not.

But for me, I had been living a trend and I didn’t know.

The idea of February's post, although entertaining, was also a turning point for me - a pivotal time for my relationship with them that was addressed. I hoped this time would most likely determine the outcome of my relationship with the people in question.

For me, it wasn’t just about writing on love or sending letters to those I had once liked. It was a moment of truth, a time to either let go or hold on with hope. And come to think of it, it mostly has been.

UNWRITTEN GOODBYES.

There were three men—each significant in their own way—who were meant to receive the letters. These letters weren’t just words on screen; they were my way of finding closure, of acknowledging what was and what could never be. Two of them received theirs, but the last one… well, that proved to be more complicated.

I think he had caught on with what I was planning on doing. He knew a letter addressed to him would mean a moment of truth for me. It’d be time to let go of a love that scared the insides of me. And I doubt he was ready to watch me through some paragraphs, say the simple yet piercing phrase; “I AM DONE” So he specifically asked that I not write to him.

And so I decided not to.

Later on, upon careful thoughts, I deemed it biased on his side. I had only reached out to ‘My Knight in Shining Armor’ to get him on board with the letter addressing him. Mainly because we never had an opportunity to talk things through. I thought it would be fair if he had an in on what all of this was about. Besides, I needed another reading eye to assist with my edits. Double win!

The mystery man I addressed in my second letter wasn’t contacted. I feared what’d become of him if I made him aware of my ‘diabolical’ act. Even when I had the chance to come clean to him, I maybe lied. And I’m left to deal with the consequences of my actions.

In those letters, I said what I said and meant them in every way possible. I openly admitted to my feelings and thoughts about generous men with whom I hold fond memories of whether they agreed to it or not.

And so, In the nicest way possible, I wondered, “why must you have a choice?”

Although I respected your choice, it didn’t ease the longing to let go of what we once were and what we’ve become. Clinging to the hope of rekindling what was has only pulled us further apart.

So here’s a tribute to you; my total obsession. At least that’s what I thought of you.

Your love scared me with its striking arrival. I mistook it for an obsession. The butterflies in my belly took their positions at the mere sight/thought of you. I had fallen too deeply and my defensiveness couldn’t even conceal it.

Everyone around me knew something had changed about me when you were in the picture. What it was, I didn’t know! But I am grateful it happened the way it did.

Loving you challenged me in ways I never imagined. I saw myself do things I’d in no wise had done had it not been for love. Words came so easily to me and I hid away less with you because I could speak my mind and mostly my heart.

But eventually a time came to let go. Because apparently I am a runner. I thought I’d lost that with you but it crept over me. Anxiety set in and perhaps I could have given you a heads up. The butterflies weren’t butterflies anymore but fear. And not by way of abuse. Rather, a fear of the unknown. A fear of the emerging of certain habits I thought were long gone, buried deep in the ground. So, I did what I do best - slowly drift away.

The times we have spent together have only reaffirmed reasons to let go and possibly explore a new dynamic - friendship. And even if that is not on the table for us, I would understand. There’s memories to hold on to and that is at least enough for me. I would gladly cheer you on from the sidelines, making sure my presence goes unnoticed.

Although this seems like a loss, yet, even in loss, love remains. It lingers in the spaces it once filled, teaching us that to have loved at all is a gift. The pain of its departure is proof of its depth, a testament to the moments that mattered. We honor what was, carry its lessons forward, and keep our hearts open to the love that may yet come. Because love, though it sometimes leaves, is never truly lost.

EXISTING IN THE TREND: LOVE, LOSS AND LASTING CHOICES

“The core of the theory suggests that actions taken in February regarding relationships, whether starting or ending them, tend to have lasting consequences.”

I had vaguely decided to use February as a month of new beginnings long before I saw the post on the ‘February Theory’. My decision was strongly influenced by my own thinking that there was a high chance new beginnings at this time would have a lasting consequence. At least so I pray and hope for.

And so I spent most of the month intentionally and unintentionally cutting ties with anyone that seemed like an obvious distraction. And even things and places.

I didn’t hesitate to resist the burning desire to text this guy I had gone on multiple dates with. Man had ghosted for days and I thought I needed a chat! Turns out, I was so invested in nothing. Although I’d written him off, loneliness if not carefully managed and a lot of self-control mastered, can leave you craving mediocrity.

I mean, why was I willing to offer a chance to a man who’d blatantly stated that a committed relationship wasn’t what he was in search of. Also, help me understand, when you asked me to ‘keep an open mind, what was I opening my mind to?’ Having fun?! The same fun that people in committed relationships enjoy but in this case without the burden of commitment?!

Applaud yourself sir, because you really won this time. And I hold nothing against you. I mean it was equally my fault. But thankfully, nature slapped some sense into me and I’m glad that although it took me a while, I got back in shape.

It’s silly to think I deserved some sort of closure when every explanation I needed stood plainly before me the whole time. I had just closed my eyes to it in hopes of appearing as the coolest girl on earth. Well, I’m back with my amassed shame to proclaim that: I am not at all cool. I am as boring as it gets. Take it or leave it!

But with chaos comes clarity.

REFLECTIONS

Through all the chaos, heartbreak, and reflection, one thing stands clear that love never truly disappears. It transforms, finds new forms, and manifests in the friendships and bonds that remain. I have learned to embrace these connections, the laughter shared, the shoulders leaned on, and the quiet understanding between souls who choose to stay.

In the wake of faded connections, others have also emerged, offering companionship in ways I didn’t expect. I choose though to tread carefully, knowing that not all bonds will stand the test of time. I am also learning to appreciate them for what they are in the present.

In my quest to form new connections, I decided to brave the storm and do the one thing I had never done in my years of existence - ask a guy for his contact details. Am I itching to share? OH YES! But I believe now is not the time. Hold your horses and hold mine too, lol!

Love may have left in one form, but it has returned in another, reminding me that even in loss, there is always something to hold on to. And the best we can do is honor it while it lasts

I may have overstretched my course of action. Hence, I’d rather the shame of my actions lingered around less.

At least now, my actions are not driven by desperation to fill a void. I’m glad I haven’t unexpectedly fallen in love with someone. And no ex randomly came back into my life. I think I am settling too comfortably or perhaps becoming over complacent in the space I occupy now. Which might not be healthy for the hopeless romantic that I pose to be, lol!

If the February Theory holds any truth, then the choices I’ve made this month; letting go, holding on, and cautiously embracing new bonds, may shape what comes next. Whether these connections last or fade, only time will tell. But if February truly reveals what love is and isn’t, then perhaps I have found my answer in the shifts that have unfolded.

Love doesn’t just come and go; it leaves an imprint, one that lingers far beyond the month itself.

I believe we all have love to give and so let’s give it freely. To those deserving and seemingly undeserving.

Life’s too short to hoard your love.

Love, NaBi🦋🖤

The Love That Should Never Have Been

They say friends are the siblings God never gave us. And I believed that—because of you. You were the brother I never had, and I prayed it would always stay that way. Until that night happened.

I still try to convince myself that we can go back to what we were before. But every conversation reminds me that what once was never will be again.

What Once Was

The first time I saw you, I thought you were the rudest man alive. Your actions were off-putting, but I know better - to not judge a book by its cover. As I got to know you, your words gave me a glimpse into your world - a different side of you, a better version of you. And before I knew it, we had become close—closer than I expected.

Some of my most cherished moments in life were spent with you. Moments that changed my view on dating, although we weren’t dating. I believe our friendship in every way shaped me some more for the dating world. Our friendship had me questioning things I hadn’t before. I’m not sure how or when it happened but we bonded and it felt like one of the best things to ever happen to me.

But our friendship carried its own quiet faults - built on white lies to keep it alive. I mean, we’re flawed humans, aren’t we? To date, I am aware there’s still stones left unturned, things left unsaid. I bet we never felt a need to come clean. After all, what pain could white lies bring? Well, for me, it was disappointment. And I wonder if you ever felt the same.

When I found out you were dating, I was relieved. ‘Another white lie cleared.’ I was happy for you. I was navigating my ‘situationships’ and so it guided my movement around you—carefully. I just wish I had heard it from you. Instead, I saw the messages, I wasn’t prying but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see the notifications lighting up your screen. I saw how your face softened when you read her texts.

You must have really liked her. I’m sorry it ended the way it did.

More than a Rebound, Less than Love

Sometimes, I wonder if what we had was a rebound. I've thought of it more times than I care to admit. You needed a distraction, I needed company. Perhaps a quick bounce back from the emotional pain you were enduring from the break-up. We both needed something to fill a void.

But I’m sure we could have figured out a better option. Rather than allowing things to get out of hand.

Eventually, what seemed like a rebound blurred into something else. Every time I thought we could be real, reality set in to remind me that it didn’t work that way. Or maybe I held back too much overthinking the unnecessary. Whatever the case, I can’t say I regret that my feelings didn’t get in the way. But I can’t say I’m glad either.

I’m stuck somewhere in between.

When Avoidants Collide

I cannot end this without sharing my self-discovery lessons with you. This time around, it’s a bit different. I think we can both share in this sentiment.

They say avoidants gravitate toward shallow connections—’situationships’, fleeting romances, surface-level bonds. Deep, meaningful relationships come with expectations, with emotional vulnerability, and that’s something they instinctively resist. They seek out those who are just as detached, just as emotionally unavailable, because it makes things easier. No pressure, no demands, no deep entanglements.

Maybe that’s what we were—two people who mistook familiarity for something more. Two people who blurred the lines between friendship and something that was never meant to be.

I say that because of how things transpired after that night. For 3 days I worried if it was my fault the night happened the way it did. Then worry turned into anger - at you and at myself.

You never called, you never texted. And that spoke volumes. But now I understand. We both had assumptions, fears, unspoken words. Maybe silence was just the easiest way out.

Eventually I came to understand why you acted the way you did, hence the connection to avoidants.

I have heard you a few times say “what’s meant to be will be.” But, I don’t think this is one of those things. I like you and appreciate you as a friend. And I must admit, I’ve seen you a couple of times in my dreams living yours. But I don’t know if those dreams are mine too.

That’s something I still have to figure out.

So let’s stay friends. Not as before.

Say we try something new this time? NO STRINGS ATTACHED!

Sincerely,

NaBi🦋🖤