It has never been easier to make following Jesus look good. Pastel Bibles, 6 AM quiet-time routines with matcha, curated worship playlists, beige church outfits.

Look, I love beauty. I love joy. I love pretty Bibles. I love worship playlists. I love dressing up for church. I love seeing someone who just found Jesus and suddenly wants to tell the whole world about Him.

I would much rather see people excited about Christ than be embarrassed by Him. Make Christianity beautiful. Fine. Make it joyful. Absolutely. Make it warm and inviting enough that someone who has never known Christ feels like they can walk through the door freely.

Please, God forbid we all walk around looking miserable.

I actually think Christians should be some of the most joyful people on the planet. We have hope. We have grace. We have a God who loves us enough to pursue us even when we are being profoundly unserious and don’t want to be sort.

There is nothing particularly holy about looking permanently exhausted and unkempt and calling it “suffering for Jesus.”

So I get what people mean when they use the trend. I really do.

There is something lovely about making faith feel exciting. I would much rather see people excited about Jesus than be embarrassed by Him. If a girl sees a video about choosing Christ, gets curious, and opens her Bible for the first time, honestly? Praise God.

But lately, I can’t stop asking myself a question:

Are we making faith attractive, or are we just making it comfortable?

There is something strange about calling everything that comes with following Jesus “chic” when some of the things He asks of us are, quite frankly, deeply inconvenient.

Following Jesus is beautiful, but I fear we have forgotten to mention the ghetto part.

You know, the part where following Him requires you to do things that are profoundly unattractive to your flesh, to your environment, even to your own sense of pride.

The Inconvenience of Obedience

“It’s so chic to choose obedience” sounds lovely until obedience means that you do the apologizing when you know for a fact the other person should have apologized first.

Don’t make faith so pretty that we forget to tell people what is actually waiting on the other side of the door. Eventually, the Bible is going to ask you to forgive someone you aren’t ready to forgive.

It’s going to ask you to keep your mouth shut when you have the perfect comeback. It’s going to ask you to love people who aren’t particularly easy to love. It’s going to force you to choose between being liked and being faithful.

And that part isn’t very chic. It’s just Christianity.

Then there’s the part nobody puts on the Pinterest board: the quiet, embarrassing moments where trusting God actually gets hard.

It’s sitting on your bedroom floor, crying, and saying,

“Lord, I know You are good, but I don’t know how to trust You with this.”

It’s admitting you aren’t His strongest soldier today.

We talk about surrender as if it’s a serene, one-time event where you open your hands and instantly feel lighter.

But real surrender is messy.

Sometimes it’s opening your hands, getting scared, and closing them right back up.

Sometimes it’s laying your anxiety down in prayer and picking it back up five minutes later.

Sometimes it’s telling God you trust Him while secretly hoping He changes His mind.

And sometimes, surrender sounds like a prayer you’re almost embarrassed to say out loud.

“Lord, I know he isn’t good for me, but please make him good for me.”

The “Renovation” Trap

You know the situation.

The man who has shown you red flags repeatedly. The one your friends have gently begged you to leave alone. The one you already know, deep down, is not what God has for you. But you don’t want God to remove him.

You want God to renovate him.

You want Him to take the person you chose and somehow edit your choice into His will.

That is where surrender gets uncomfortable. It’s easy to ask God to take your pain away. It is infinitely harder to say,

“God, take this thing I desperately want, even if I don’t understand why I can’t keep it.”

We like the idea of laying down our burdens, but we hate laying down our preferences. Our timelines. Our plans. The relationship we already built a whole imaginary future around.

And sometimes, I wonder if we even ask God what He wants. Sometimes we bring Him a finished plan and ask Him to bless it.

“God, bless this relationship.”

“God, bless this business.”

“God, bless this move.”

But what if we never actually asked whether it was His plan? Maybe God can allow something without it being what He asked you to pursue. Maybe the fact that something worked out doesn’t automatically mean God authored it.

That is a much harder thing to admit.

Because sometimes the prayer isn’t:

“God, what do You want?”

It’s:

“God, I’ve already decided what I want. Please make it Your will.”

And I don’t think surrender works that way.

Sometimes the thing God asks you to surrender isn’t a sin you hate. It’s something you love.

Less Pretty, More Real

When the aesthetic is stripped away, what remains is intimacy. Faith is not always a quiet morning with a leather Bible and a cup of coffee.

Sometimes it’s staying in the room with God when you are terrified, confused, disappointed, and honestly a little angry, and choosing to reach for Him anyway.

It’s choosing His character over your timeline. His will over your ego. His wisdom over your plans.

We like surrender when it means giving God our anxiety.

We struggle with surrender when it means giving Him our preferences.

The relationship we desperately want. The career we’ve already mapped out. The business plan we’ve spent months building. The timeline we decided our life should follow.

Sometimes the thing God asks you to surrender isn’t something bad. It’s something you desperately wanted to be good. And maybe this is where that old saying, beauty is pain, starts to mean something different.

We already understand it in almost every other part of life.

Growing hurts. Becoming something new often requires letting go of something old.

Love requires sacrifice.

And becoming the person you want to be will sometimes require you to leave behind the person you have been.

So why do we expect Christianity to be the one beautiful thing that costs us nothing? Maybe the beauty of following Christ was never supposed to mean that everything feels good. Maybe the beauty is in what the surrender produces.

The softer heart. The quieter ego. The willingness to forgive. The humility to admit when you’re wrong. The strength to walk away from what you desperately want because you know it isn’t good for you. The courage to keep trusting God when you don’t understand what He’s doing.

The Christian life is beautiful.

Of course it is.

But beauty was never the whole story.

There is obedience that costs you. There is forgiveness you don’t feel ready to give. There are prayers you don’t want to pray. There are things you will have to release while every part of you is begging to hold on.

There are nights when faith looks less like a perfectly highlighted Bible and more like crying on your bedroom floor and saying,

“God, I don’t understand You right now, but I’m still here.”

It’s a lot less pretty.

But perhaps that’s what makes it beautiful.

Because Christianity was never meant to be an aesthetic you could curate.

It’s a life you have to live.

And maybe that’s the part we need to remember. So yes, make your Bible pretty. Wear the cute church outfit. Make the playlist. Romanticise your quiet time if it helps you show up for it.

But let’s not forget the cross underneath all the pretty things. Don’t forget the surrender. Don’t forget the dying to yourself. Don’t forget that following Jesus isn’t always going to feel good, look good, or make sense.

Sometimes it will simply ask you to trust Him anyway.

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And maybe that’s the most beautiful part.

Until next time,
here’s to choosing the real thing, even when it isn’t pretty.

With all my love,
Oke.🫶🏾

There are certain things we do only when nobody is watching.

You smile at a text message before quickly straightening your face. You replay a voice note for the fifth time just to hear their voice again. You type, “I had a really good time today,” stare at the screen for five long seconds, and then delete it.

You see someone you genuinely admire walking towards you, and instead of just saying hello, you suddenly become fascinated by your phone. Your friend gives you a thoughtful gift, and your first instinct is pure excitement but your second instinct is to tone it down.

Not because you aren’t happy. Because you don’t want to look like you’re too happy.

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It’s strange when you stop to think about it. Somewhere along the way, showing that we care became deeply embarrassing. Not pretending to care, actually caring.

The most embarrassing thing you can do today isn’t getting rejected. It’s letting someone know you wanted them to say yes in the first place.

So we hide.

We pretend we didn’t notice the text. We pretend we don’t miss people. We pretend compliments don’t mean that much. We pretend we’re too busy to answer immediately. We pretend we’re “chill.” We pretend we’re “nonchalant.” We pretend we’re impossible to read.

And the strangest part? We call this confidence.

We call it mysterious. We call it having self-respect.

But most of the time, it isn’t confidence at all. It’s fear wearing expensive clothes.

Because there is something terrifying about letting another human being see exactly how much they matter to you. If they know you care, they have something to reject. If they know you’re excited, they have something to disappoint. If they know you were hoping, they have something to break.

So we learn to perform emotional distance. Not because it feels good. Because it feels safe.

We’re all just too scared to say how we really feel.

You see someone you genuinely want to be friends with. You feel that quick spark of connection, a shared laugh, a good vibe, a feeling that this could be my person.

But instead of just saying hi, you pull out your phone.

You stare at a lock screen you’ve already checked ten times. You scroll through an app you don’t even care about. You pretend to be intensely, impossibly busy, all because looking unbothered feels safer than looking friendly.

And just like that, the moment passes. The person walks away. You miss out on what could have been a really good thing, all to protect a pride that doesn’t even make you happy.

When did we become so terrified of just reaching out?

Why are we like this?

Think back to the first time you had a crush.

Maybe you wrote them a letter. Maybe someone found it and read it out loud for the whole class to hear. Everyone laughed. Someone pointed. You were teased for weeks.

Or maybe you told a friend in confidence, and somehow, by lunch break, everybody already knew.

Show even the tiniest spark of genuine interest, and suddenly you’re the joke.

So you learn.

Keep it to yourself. Don’t say too much. Don’t make it obvious. Don’t let them know you care.

Then you grow up.

The game doesn’t stop. It just gets meaner.

People screenshot vulnerable texts and send them to group chats. Private conversations become entertainment. You communicate clearly, and suddenly you’re “desperate.” You reply too quickly, and you’re “too available.” You express excitement, and you’re “doing too much.”

I don’t think we were designed to be this guarded, I think we were conditioned into it.

You’ve learned to keep parts of yourself hidden because somewhere along the way, someone made you regret showing them. And honestly, my heart goes out to you.

Because I know how easy it is to believe that becoming colder is the safest option.

Pretending not to care is exhausting, I can’t lie, is it the constant swallowing compliments or rewriting texts or looking away when you want to wave even fighting smiles before they reach your face. Performing indifference all day long. It is exhausting

And we’ve become so good at it that we’ve mistaken the performance for our personality.

A question has been sitting with me lately. What’s the point of hiding the joy God gave you? What’s actually the point of shrinking the very light you were created to carry?

We’ve spent so long trying not to look needy that we’ve forgotten what it feels like to be known. We forget people will always be people. Some will misunderstand you. Some will laugh. Some will take your vulnerability and handle it carelessly but that says far more about them than it ever will about you.

You’re still a person. You’re still meant to feel deeply. You’re still meant to laugh loudly, love openly, and let people know they matter. And that love isn’t just something you hold hostage until a romantic partner comes along.

It’s in your friendships, too. It’s in sending that random Tuesday afternoon text that just says, “I’m really glad we’re friends,” without overthinking if it sounds “weird.”

It’s holding a friend’s hand when they’re talking, or looking someone dead in the eye and saying “You did so well today” and actually meaning it. It’s letting yourself scream with joy when your person wins, instead of doing that quiet, polite nod like you’re trying to stay composed.

It’s saying “I miss you” first.

It’s letting the people around you feel what it’s like to be deeply, undeniably appreciated, without them having to guess where they stand with you.

Whether it is platonic or romantic, warmth is warmth. And giving it away doesn’t make you smaller.

One of my favourite kinds of people are the ones who say, “Even if my heart gets broken a thousand times over, I’ll still choose to love.”

Not because they’re naive. But because they refuse to let one painful experience steal something beautiful from who they are.

I hope we become those people. Truth be told, I hope I become like them too.

The kind who protect our hearts with wisdom, not walls.

The kind who never become so afraid of getting hurt that we forget how to be human.

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As always, my favourite part is hearing your stories.

Write back. Tell me, when did caring start feeling embarrassing to you?

Until next time my darlings,

Here’s to choosing warmth, living a little softer, and holding tightly to our humanity.

With all my love,

Oke.🫶🏾

They were dark blue with tiny pink butterflies embroidered on the pockets, and I absolutely loved them. There was just one problem. They were far too long for my six-year-old legs.

My mum smiled and said, “Manage it. You’ll grow into them.”

So I did, eventually, I grew into the jeans.

What I didn’t realize was that I was also growing into the habit of managing.

A few years later, in Primary Six, my dad bought me a pair of tokunbo shoes. They were sturdy, almost new, and they had that unmistakable tokunbo smell every Nigerian somehow knows.

I loved them immediately but they were also about two sizes too big.

“Manage it,” he said. “You’ll grow into them.” Again, I did.

But while my feet were trying to catch up, I had to live with the daily inconvenience of shoes that never quite fit.

Looking back, I don’t think my parents were doing anything wrong. They were doing what many Nigerian parents have always done.

Buy the bigger uniform. Roll up the sleeves. Fold the hems. Make it last.

It wasn’t neglect. It wasn’t cruelty. Maybe it was hope wearing practical clothes.

“Endure today’s inconvenience because tomorrow might be kinder.” And, to be fair, they were often right.

But somewhere along the way, manage am stopped describing our clothes or shoes. It started describing our lives.

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No one tells you the day a childhood lesson becomes an adult instinct, It just quietly follows you. Into your relationships. Into your work. Into the way you speak to yourself.

The person you’re dating has ignored you for three days, you type out the message. Delete it. Type it again. Delete it. You know something isn’t right. You know this isn’t how love is supposed to feel. But before the words can leave your mouth, a familiar voice quietly interrupts.

“Manageee. At least you’re not single”

Nobody has to convince you after that, you do the convincing yourself.

Maybe they’re just busy, maybe you’re asking for too much. Or maybe.… this is just how relationships are supposed to be. Now by the time you’ve finished defending them, there is nothing left to say. The conversation ends before it ever begins.

Then your salary doesn’t come when it’s supposed to. You borrow transport money, Cancel the plans you were looking forward to. Rearrange your budget for the third time that month.

Manage am!

Your landlord increases your rent without warning, you know you can’t afford it, you also know moving will cost even more. So you stay. Not because you want to. Because sometimes the cheapest option is enduring.

Manage am!

Your boss asks for “one last thing” just as you’re packing your bag, you glance at the clock. You already know you’re going to miss the last bus home. “You’re young,” they say. “This is how you’ll learn.” So you stay. You answer emails after work, You keep saying yes because you don’t want to seem difficult, you tell yourself your hard work will eventually be noticed. Until one day, you realize you’ve become indispensable.….except on payday.

Manage am!

Little by little, the phrase stopped being advice for difficult seasons. It became a philosophy for living.

But I don’t want to make manage am the villain. That would be too easy. Because sometimes my mum was right. Sometimes the bigger uniform really was the smarter purchase. Sometimes waiting is wisdom. Sometimes patience is the only bridge between where you are and where you need to be.

There are seasons where managing is the only thing keeping the roof over your head. Survival is not a crime. But we were taught how to endure.

We were never taught how to know when endurance had done its job. So we carry the lesson into places it was never meant to go.

Into relationships that slowly empty us.

Jobs that chip away at our dignity.

Friendships held together by guilt.

Dreams we’ve quietly decided are “not for people like us.”

And then the questions begin.

'At what point does resilience become permission for mistreatment? When does patience become self-abandonment? How do you know when manage am is wisdom... and when it’s fear dressed up as maturity?

It is a frightening thing to look at a life you’ve carefully managed to hold together and ask: Am I being wise or am I just afraid of what will happen if I stop managing?

Because fear rarely introduces itself as fear. It sounds responsible, practical, patient, mature. It tells you that staying quiet is wisdom, when really, you’re just afraid of what speaking up might cost. Maybe that’s why learning to stop managing feels so frightening. It almost always comes with temporary chaos.

You risk disappointing people, you risk being called difficult, you risk walking away from something you’ve spent years trying to make work.

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I think about my parents often.

They bought bigger clothes because they believed I would grow into them. Maybe that’s all parents are really doing. Making temporary sacrifices in the hope that one day their children won’t have to.

I did grow into the jeans, eventually. They fit perfectly.

But maybe growing up isn’t just about finally fitting into what once felt too big. Maybe it’s about recognizing when you’ve spent too long trying to fit into something that was never meant to require so much managing in the first place.

I still don’t always know the difference between wisdom and fear. Some days I manage it anyway. Some days I don’t.

Until next time,
Here’s to knowing the difference.

With all my love,

Lizabeth.🫶🏾

Your turn.

What’s one manage am you’ve finally stopped managing?

I’ll be in the comments.

One of the strangest things about becoming an adult is realizing that many of the habits you call your personality were never really yours.

Somewhere along the way, you learned to apologize before asking for help. You learned to panic over small mistakes. You learned to study people’s faces before speaking, searching for any sign that they were annoyed, disappointed, or about to lose their temper.

For years, you called these things anxiety, or people-pleasing, or simply “the way I am.”

But maybe they were something else.

Maybe they were rules.

Not the kind anyone sat you down to explain, but the kind you absorbed simply by growing up.

Every family has rules.

Some are spoken.

“Finish your food.”

“Come home before dark.”

“Greet your elders.”

But the rules that shape us the most are rarely spoken aloud.

Don’t cry.

Don’t ask for too much.

Don’t embarrass the family.

Don’t make mistakes.

Don’t be difficult.

Don’t take up too much space.

Nobody handed us this list.

We wrote it ourselves, one interaction at a time.

A raised voice after a broken plate.

A heavy sigh after asking the wrong question.

The warmth that disappeared after disappointing someone.

The silence that settled over the house after a mistake.

Children don’t just listen to instructions.

They study the emotional climate of the people raising them.

They learn that some days it’s safe to laugh loudly, and other days it’s safer to disappear.

They learn that a mistake can change the atmosphere of an entire room.

They learn to read faces before they learn to read books.

And sometimes, they learn that love becomes harder to reach after they’ve done something wrong.

No one has to tell a child that love is conditional.

They arrive at that conclusion on their own.

Not because they understand emotional withdrawal, but because they understand absence.

The hugs become fewer.

The jokes stop.

Dinner grows quieter.

No one says, “I love you less.”

But children are experts at noticing what disappears.

So they write another rule.

If I disappoint people, love moves farther away.

The frightening thing is that children don’t leave these rules behind when they leave home.

They become the adult who apologizes before asking a question.

They become the adult who apologizes for laughing out loud.

They become the adult stops volunteering answers after someone laughs once.

The employee whose heart races over a harmless typo.

The friend who overexplains every decision.

The partner who assumes silence means rejection.

The woman who feels guilty for resting.

The man who mistakes criticism for abandonment.

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We spend years trying to fix these habits, forgetting that they were never personality flaws.

They were survival strategies.

And to be fair, the adults who raised us were probably living by invisible rulebooks of their own.

Many of them inherited homes where obedience mattered more than understanding.

Where respect looked like silence.

Where love was genuine but not always emotionally safe.

They weren’t trying to teach fear.

They were often repeating what survival had looked like to them.

That’s what makes emotional inheritance so complicated.

Most of it is passed down with love.

But love doesn’t stop an inheritance from leaving a mark.

The difficult part of becoming an adult is realizing that the rulebook doesn’t end with us.

Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, an older sibling, an aunt, an uncle, or simply an adult a child admires, someone is always watching.

They’re paying attention to far more than your advice.

They’re watching what happens after they spill a drink.

Whether your first response is frustration or reassurance.

Whether you apologize when you’re wrong.

Whether anger always gets the final word.

Whether conflict ends in repair.

Whether love survives disappointment.

Children don’t wait for us to begin teaching.

By the time we think we’re teaching them manners, discipline, and respect, they’ve already learned something much deeper.

They’ve learned what mistakes mean.

They’ve learned what love feels like.

They’ve learned whether home is somewhere they can exhale or somewhere they must always stay alert.

But deciding to burn an old rulebook is a lonely, terrifying thing.

When you choose to do things differently, your body will resist.

The first time your child spills something, or a younger sibling makes a costly mistake, your first instinct may be the one you inherited: the sharp sigh, the raised voice, the heavy silence.

It feels unnatural to offer grace when you were only ever given gravity.

You may even wonder if gentleness means you’re becoming soft.

If patience means you’re failing to teach discipline.

But remember what that old version of discipline cost you.

Breaking the cycle doesn’t mean you’ll never lose your temper.

It doesn’t mean you’ll never have a difficult day.

It means that when the storm passes, you’re the one who stays behind to repair what it broke.

It means looking at a child who has just made a mistake and choosing to become the place where they can exhale instead of the place they learn to fear.

It’s a quiet decision you make over and over again.

To replace fear with safety.

Silence with conversation.

Distance with repair.

Because the goal was never to raise children who never make mistakes.

The goal is to raise children who know that mistakes don’t make them less worthy of love.

Because one day they’ll leave your home.

And when they do, they’ll take a rulebook with them.

The question isn’t whether they’ll carry one.

They will.

The question is whether it teaches them to fear mistakes or whether it reminds them that they were loved through them.

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And when life inevitably asks them who they are after a mistake…

I hope the first thing they remember isn’t fear.

I hope they remember that somewhere in the world, there was once a home where they could exhale.

With all my love,

Lizabeth.🫶🏾

It’s 1:08 a.m.

I’m supposed to be asleep.

Instead, I’m lying in bed, listening to the rain and editing this piece for what feels like the fifteenth time because, apparently, this is writer’s core. Or maybe I just enjoy making my own life unnecessarily difficult.

At this point, I doubt you’re tired of hearing me say this, but every Sunday I convince myself I’ll remember everything that happened during the week. Then Sunday night actually arrives, I open my camera roll, stare at my Notes app like it’s supposed to remember things for me, and suddenly my brain clocks out.

So, before this week completely escapes me, here are a few things I meant to tell you.

Let’s start with the best part of my week.

Book club.

Book clubbbb!

Before we even continue, let me just say this: I genuinely love my book club.

I don’t even think it’s the books anymore. I think it’s everything that comes with it.

For a couple of hours, everyone slows down. We argue over fictional characters like they’re real people, laugh over things that don’t matter, jump from one conversation to another, and somehow leave feeling lighter than we came.

It’s quietly become one of my favourite things to look forward to every month.

Maybe because it breaks the routine.

Most of my life is beautifully predictable these days. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Read. Watch movies. Scroll. Sleep. Repeat. Then book club comes along once every month and reminds me that life can actually be bigger than the road between my house and the office.

Which is funny because I keep saying I want more friends. I want my own people. I want the kind of friendships where someone randomly texts, “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

But my lifestyle says the complete opposite. If somebody watched my life instead of listening to me talk, they’d probably think, “This girl genuinely enjoys staying inside.” Heck, I think my mum has started seeing me as part of the furniture.

And… maybe they’re right.

I think that’s why book club means so much to me. It’s one of the few things I consistently show up for. Then again, it’s hard to meet new people when your biggest hobby is going home. So yes, I probably need to leave my house a little more.

Although, now that I think about it, I actually had a very good reason to stay indoors this week because this rain has completely lost the plot.

Can it rest? Just a little?

You guys already know how much I already don’t like the rain. But this one has been doing too much. I only like the weather after it rains. I like the cold. I like the fresh air. But this particular rain? It’s doing entirely too much. The sun will come out, convince everybody that everything is fine, then two minutes later it’ll start pouring like somebody poked a hole in the sky.

On Thursday I got stuck at the office waiting for it to stop because once I’m mentally done with work, I need to leave. Immediately. The longer I stay there, the longer my brain refuses to clock out. Eventually, I accepted my fate and walked into the rain anyway.

At this point, I genuinely believe the rain and I are in an ongoing toxic situationship.

Which makes this whole umbrella debate even funnier. I saw someone making fun of another person for carrying an umbrella. During rainy season.

So… what exactly is the alternative? Pneumonia? A week of sneezing? Please allow me protect my edges and my immune system in peace.

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The rain did have one upside though. Corn season is finally here. I had boiled corn and coconut this week and, honestly, I don’t know if it’s the weather or the nostalgia, but boiled corn just tastes better when it’s cold outside. And before anybody starts arguing, boiled corn is better than roasted corn.

Also, for reasons I still can’t explain, I drank garri three different times this week.

Three.

If you’ve known me for a while, you’ll understand why that’s news. I don’t even like garri that much.

And when I wasn’t eating, I was trying to figure out what to watch because I finally finished Game of Thrones. And now I don’t know what people do with their evenings after that. For weeks I’d come home, shower, eat, press play, and spend the next hour wondering why every single person in Westeros needed therapy. Now it’s over. I think my brain just needed a break after that.

No more betrayals.

No more people dying every five business minutes.

No more wondering who was about to lose their head next.

So I watched Voicemails for Isabelle. It was beautiful. I forgot how much I actually enjoy romance movies.

Which is funny because I am such an action movie girl. Give me somebody jumping out of a plane. Give me bones cracking.Give me guns. Give me Jason Statham using literally anything as a weapon. Give me fight scenes. Now? Give me one beautiful love story and I’ll cry over complete strangers.

Actually… scratch that. I’ll cry over anything. I’m the worst person to watch an emotional movie with because I’ll cry at the beginning, cry somewhere in the middle, cry again towards the end, and then spend another ten minutes thinking about the movie… and cry one last time.

So if you ask me whether I cried watching Voicemails for Isabelle, the answer is obviously yes. Several times.

I couldn’t handle any more drama. No more heartbreak. No more people dying. I just wanted something where absolutely nothing happens.

Which is how I somehow found my way back to watching weekly vlogs on YouTube.

And I love them. There’s something oddly comforting about watching somebody else have an ordinary Tuesday. Watching them make breakfast, complain about traffic, run errands, clean their room. Very calming.

Maybe that’s why I like these Monday letters too. They’re starting to make me realize that ordinary weeks aren’t actually ordinary. They’re just weeks we usually forget.

Oh, and before I forget… I discovered this week that my claustrophobia is very real. I entered a vehicle and the driver rolled up every single window. Within seconds I was panicking.

It immediately brought me back to when my siblings thought it’d be a good idea to lock me in the freezer for longer than the time they promised me. Ever since then, small enclosed spaces and I have had serious issues.The moment the driver finally wound the window down, I practically glued my face to it. Fresh air has never felt so expensive.

I’ve also noticed I have this habit of clenching my brows Truthfully, I’ve probably been doing it for years. I only just noticed. Even when I’m not standing under the sun. Not because anything is particularly wrong. Apparently, concentrating and looking deeply offended are just the same facial expression for me.

So every now and then I have to remind myself to unclench my forehead. Relax my jaw. Take a proper breath. It’s funny how your body notices you’re carrying stress long before you do.

Anyway...

That’s enough yapping for one Monday.

Your turn. Tell me how your week went. Tell me something funny. Tell me something ordinary. Tell me the most random thing that happened to you this week. Or don’t. You can literally just leave an emoji so I know you stopped by.

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Now let me go and pretend I’ll remember everything that happens this week without writing it down. (Spoiler: I won’t.)

Thank you for hanging out with me today.

Same time next Monday?

Go and have an interesting week for my sake. Go and live your life so you have gist for me next week. I need it.

With all my love,

Lizabeth 🤍

Hello, hello.👋🏾

We’re a day late. I apologize. There’s a very good reason, hear me out.

This essay?, I sat with this essay for longer than I’d like to admit because I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to tell you this week. Every idea felt half-finished, every draft felt like it was missing something.

Then I realized this was the thought that had been following me around all week. And it’s finally time I sat with it.

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So… let’s talk about it.

A few weeks ago, I found myself getting increasingly frustrated with someone.

They had been in the workplace much longer than I had. Naturally, they knew more. I had only been there for a couple of weeks, and every now and then I’d ask a question.

They always answered.

But they would answer in a way that somehow made me feel like I should’ve known it already.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t even angry at first.

I was confused. Like asking was an inconvenience.

Because every interaction we’d had before then had been normal, at least on my end. I’d been polite. Respectful. Kind. I genuinely couldn’t remember a single moment where I’d given them a reason to speak to me that way.

So my brain did what brains love to do.

At first, I kept trying to solve the mystery. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I came across the wrong way. Maybe they were just having a bad day.

But after replaying the same interactions in my head for far longer than they deserved, I realized something that was far more uncomfortable than simply deciding they were rude.

I wasn’t upset because they weren’t kind.

I was upset because I would’ve been.

If our roles had been reversed, I know exactly how I would’ve spoken to them. I would’ve remembered what it felt like to be new. I would’ve answered the question without making someone feel silly for asking. I would’ve tried to make the space feel a little less intimidating.

And without ever saying it out loud, I had quietly assumed they would do the same for me.

Then I realized, the kindness you freely give might be something somebody else has never learned to offer.

And once I had realized that, I started noticing how much energy I was wasting trying to balance a ledger that the other person didn’t even know existed.

And we do it in the most mundane, exhausting ways.

You send a thoughtful, paragraph-long check-in to a friend and get a single ‘‘I’m fine’’ or “K” in return.

You exhaust yourself on a school project, wondering why there's always that one person who never contributes meaningfully and somehow still expects to share the credit.

You stay late trying to get every detail of a project right, while your colleague clocks out at 5 p.m. completely unbothered, even though you stayed late trying to get every detail right.

You hold the elevator door, assuming the next person will do the same, only to have it shut directly in your face.

It’s a specific kind of quiet disappointment.

We tell ourselves we’re mad at the lack of courtesy or the lack of effort. But if we’re being completely honest, what actually stings is the asymmetry. It’s the sudden realization that we’re playing by a rulebook the other person might have never even read.

We spend so much energy trying to make sense of other people's behavior when the real problem is that we expected them to think like us in the first place.

Expecting everyone to have your heart, your manners, or your work ethic isn’t having high standards.

It’s just a fast track to resentment.

The thing that feels obvious to you might never even cross someone else’s mind. Not because they’re plotting your downfall or intentionally trying to hurt you.

Just because they’re not you.

Accepting that didn’t make me less kind. It just made me stop confusing my standards with everyone else’s.

Now, before you think this is my official announcement that we should expect nothing from anyone, that’s not what I’m saying.

I still strongly believe kindness matters.

I still think people should be considerate.

I still hope people choose generosity over indifference.

But there is a massive difference between hoping for decency and demanding a mirror image.

The moment my peace becomes dependent on a stranger or a coworker or a friend validating my personal code of conduct, I’ve handed them the remote control to my peace.

And frankly, they didn’t even ask for it.

I’m the one sitting on my bed at 2 a.m., replaying a conversation they forgot the second it left their mouth.

I’m the one letting an imaginary version of them ruin a perfectly good evening.

That’s a losing game.

These days, I’m trying to stop asking,

“Why didn’t they do what I would’ve done?”

It’s a dead-end question.

Instead, I’m trying to ask,

“Now that they’ve shown me who they are, who do I want to be in response?”

Do I want to hand over my mood, my afternoon, and my energy to someone else’s bad day?

Most days, the answer is no.

Not because I’ve mastered enlightenment.

But because I’ve run out of patience for unnecessary suffering.

There is a quiet freedom in allowing people to be exactly as messy, thoughtless, or different as they choose to be, and then deciding to walk away with your peace intact anyway.

So these days, I’m trying a different approach.

I’m letting people be exactly who they are. Not because they’ve earned that grace.

But because I’ve realized I deserve the peace that comes with giving it.

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Maybe that’s enough thinking for one day.

Go drink some water. Text someone you love. I hope someone is kind to you this week. And if they aren’t, I hope you remember that your peace doesn’t have to leave the room with them. Andddd if someone disappoints you today, try not to let them borrow the rest of your evening.

I’ll meet you back here next week.

With all my love,

Lizabeth.

Can I confess something before we start?

I grossly underestimated how much work these weekly updates would be.

The amount of time I’ve spent writing, deleting, rewriting, moving paragraphs around, and staring at one sentence wondering, “Is this actually saying what I want it to say?” is honestly ridiculous.

Then there’s the impossible task of trying to squeeze six days into one post without making it feel like I’m just listing things that happened.

Because that’s not what I want these to be.

I don’t just want to tell you what happened. I want you to see what I saw, laugh at the things I laughed at, roll your eyes with me, and hopefully feel what I felt in those tiny moments that would’ve otherwise disappeared into another busy week.

So if these updates take me a little while to find my rhythm, bear with me. We’re figuring this out together.

Now… come spend a week with me.

Monday

Started off really calm, we moved into a new office this week. I didn’t realize how deeply attached you could get to a wooden desk until someone tells you to pack up and move to another one.

I spent an unreasonable amount of time arranging my new little corner, meticulously deciding where my slim bangles and notebook should sit. I spent the whole morning convincing myself that if my workspace looked perfectly minimal and chic, I’d automatically transform into a hyper-productive corporate powerhouse.

Did it work? Ask me again in two weeks.

Work itself was a bit gentler, even if it constantly feels like a video game where every new task unlocks a level you didn’t know existed. I had a mountain of editing to do, and at one point, I literally caught myself holding my breath because I wanted everything to be so perfect. I’d type a line, delete it, type it again, delete it again.

It’s so funny how seriously I take this job sometimes. Like… Lizabeth, inhale please. The business will not collapse if you breathe.

Tuesday

Before I tell you about Tuesday…

Hi to everyone who’s new here.

I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that The Death of the Useless Hobby introduced so many of you to my little corner of the internet.

I hope you stay.

We have stories to tell.

Now, back to Tuesday.

Tuesday was one of those quiet days that doesn’t seem particularly important until you look back at it. It was the day I finally sat down to write The Death of the Useless Hobby.

At the time, it was just me, a blinking cursor, and an opening paragraph that absolutely refused to cooperate. I had no idea that a few days later it would find so many of you.

Reading your comments has genuinely been one of the highlights of my year. Every story about the hobby you refused to monetize, every “this is exactly how I’ve been feeling,” every thoughtful conversation… thank you. It reminded me why I started writing in the first place.

I’m so, so glad the piece found the people it needed to find.

And if you’re one of the few rebels who still hasn’t read it… here’s your official invitation!- READ ME!

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Wednesday

Ah. Wednesday. Otherwise known as The Day the Rain Won.

I left my house looking at a perfectly bright morning and thought, Yeah, we’ll be fine.

Reader… we were not fine.

And honestly, I’m beginning to think Nigeria’s rainy season and I are locked in a very bitter, very one-sided feud. You would think that after last week’s public embarrassment, I would’ve developed at least one survival instinct. Bought an umbrella? Checked the weather app? Looked out the window? No. Absolutely not. I walked out of my house completely unprepared. Again. Don’t blame me, it was a shiny morning.

Halfway through my journey, the sky completely changed its mind. Even after whispering prayers for just one angel to hold the rain back, it just kept pouring.

Eventually, I rolled up my jeans, took off my delicate slippers (which were absolutely not made with flash floods in mind), accepted my absolute fate, and started walking barefoot through the rain in the middle of morning rush hour traffic.

Then, one man decided this was the perfect opportunity to loudly critique my footwear choices. Sir… read the room.

I couldn’t do anything but laugh and keep looking for a way out of my situation, only for this exact same man to pull his car over beside me. The window rolled down.

“Get in.”

I defaulted to approximately zero survival instincts, climbed into this stranger’s perfectly clean car looking like a wet cat, and immediately checked whether my slick back was somehow still intact.

And the craziest part? He wasn’t even driving in my direction. He dropped me right at my office gate then made a U-turn and headed all the way back. I was shook!

It made me think about the weird paradox of living here. Sometimes people will loudly judge you while you’re drowning… and then turn their car around just to make sure you get to work dry. Radical kindness has a funny way of slipping through the cracks. I don’t know his name, but I hope God blesses him abundantly.

Thursday

Thursday came with what I’ll politely call patience tests.

You know those corporate moments where someone says something so wildly unnecessary that your blood pressure spikes, and your first instinct is to give them a very thorough piece of your mind? Yeah. I had a few of those.

But I’m learning something that sounds incredibly basic until you actually have to practice it in real time: Not everyone gets to determine the version of me they receive.

Respect isn’t a premium feature reserved for age or job titles. Everyone deserves it. So instead of reacting, I just kept repeating that to myself like a mantra. Some days I did better than others. Growth is highly inconvenient, truly.

I’ve also been trying to reclaim my evenings. When I first started working, it felt like my 9–5 quietly stretched into my entire day. I’d get home mentally exhausted, still thinking about edits, deadlines, and tomorrow’s to-do list.

So now, I’m drawing a hard line. My 9–5 belongs to work. My 5–9 belongs to me. That’s my time to exhale, make a cup of tea, prepare for the next day, and remember that my job is something I do, not who I am.

Lately, that has looked like alternating between watching The Polygamist and… finally starting Game of Thrones. But honestly? I think I’m officially way more into Game of Thrones now. Yes, I know. I am the absolute last person on earth to arrive. But oh my God?? Every episode ends with me staring blankly at my wall wondering what in the world I just witnessed. The storytelling? Fantastic. The unnecessary nudity? Entirely too committed to the cause. I genuinely fear I might not know what to do with myself when I’m finally done watching it.

Friday

Nothing particularly dramatic happened on this day, I just worked, ate and try to catch up on my bookclub’s assigned book. I really can’t wait to meet my people! But can I just say… the outfit? Absolutely carried the entire day.

Sometimes, after a week of corporate patience tests, looking too good to be stressed is the ultimate coping mechanism—even if the only witness was the office mirror and colleagues of course.

Saturday

You’d think with all I’ve been through in the week I’d finally get Saturday to myself. Sike!! you’re wrong!!!

I had to go in for some “urgent” work, and let’s just say Saturday almost escorted me straight to the psych ward. But we survived.

There were moments this week where my brain was screaming, There’s absolutely no way we’re pulling this off. I remember telling my mom how scared I was for the tasks that were assigned to me and she said you’d crush it, you always do. And then… I did. Some days I still feel like an actor who memorized a script and somehow convinced everyone I know exactly what I’m doing. Other days, I surprise myself. I’m slowly becoming the hyper-competent person I corporate-gaslit my employers into believing I was during my interviews. And honestly? That feels really nice to admit. I guess that’s what growing into a job feels like.

Looking back at it now, sitting here this evening, I finally realize why my camera roll was so empty this week.

When you are holding your breath trying to survive a corporate patience test, you aren’t thinking about framing a photo. When you are rolling up your jeans to wade barefoot through a flash flood, you aren’t pulling out your phone for a “cute recap.” You are just in it.

Maybe the parts of our weeks that matter the most are the exact ones that don’t get documented. The moments that refuse to be curated because they were too loud, too wet, or too exhausting to be captured in a grid.

Through it all, there’s something deeply comforting about remembering that God has already gone ahead of me into the week. He has a very funny, very specific way of reminding me that He’s still paying attention even when I forget to look through a camera lens. He sees us on the rainiest, barefoot Wednesdays.

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Tell me how your week went. Did anything unexpectedly kind happen to you?

Tell me everything or tell me nothing at all in the comments. Honestly, even if you just drop a single emoji to let me know how your head is doing today, I’ll be glad to know you stopped by.

May your outfits carry you through your corporate patience tests, and may your days be completely rain-free (or at least full of kind strangers).

With all my love,

Lizabeth

P.S. If you made it all the way down here, thank you for spending a little piece of your Monday with me. I believe we’re best friends now (you don’t really have a choice, I fear). Same time next week? I hope you’re okay.

Don’t forget to write me back. I don’t play about that.I’d be waiting. Bye again.

Somewhere right now, there’s a woman looking at a sewing machine buried under a pile of laundry in the corner of her room.

She used to love that thing. Not because she wanted to change the world with it, but just because she liked the thrum-thrum-thrum of the needle. She liked the way stiff denim softened under her thumbs. She liked that feeling at 11:00 PM where you hold up a slightly crooked tote bag, look at it under the cheap yellow light of your bedroom, and think," Hey, I made that”.

Then, she showed it to someone. And that person said the exact words that kill every beautiful thing in modern life:

“You could totally sell this.”

It wasn’t a mean comment. It was meant as a compliment. But the moment those words hit the air, the room got a little colder. The next time she sat down to sew, she wasn’t thinking about the fabric. She was thinking about material costs. Shipping labels. Profit margins. Instagram algorithms.

Suddenly, the joy arrived carrying a calculator.

And look around—we are all doing this.

My friend makes the most incredible Banana bread. Her house smells like a bakery every Sunday. But last week, someone told her she should look into selling her bread, and now she hasn’t touched her starter in days. My cousin takes these moody, gorgeous photos of empty street corners on his phone, but he won’t post them anymore because “they won’t perform well” on a business page.

We don’t know how to leave things alone anymore. The minute we love something, we start trying to turn it into something else. We look at a blank canvas or a patch of soil in the garden and we don’t see a playground anymore; we see a monetization strategy.

You finish planting tomatoes and wonder whether you should film the process.

You take your little sister to the park and think, this would make a cute reel.

You spend an afternoon reading and catch yourself wishing there was a way to prove you spent it well.

The truth is, external validation is a terrible metric for peace. The second you do something for an audience, you stop listening to your own intuition and start trying to predict what a stranger will double-tap. The play becomes labor. The sanctuary becomes a sweatshop.

And to be fair, I don’t think making money from something you love is inherently tragic. Sometimes, it’s practical. Sometimes, it’s liberating. Sometimes, it’s exactly what you want and should be doing.

This isn’t an argument against the woman who sells her cakes or the musician who builds a career from songs she once sang to herself.

I just think every exchange asks something of us in return. Deadlines replace daydreams. Metrics creep into moments that used to be private. And if we’re not careful, the things that once restored us quietly become things that require restoring from.

Even writing this right now, I can feel it in myself.

A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to start running again. Not to train for a marathon or reinvent myself as one of those intimidating 5 a.m. wellness girlies. No. I just missed it. I missed moving my body before the rest of the world woke up. I missed the quiet of it.

And within ten minutes, a little voice in the back of my head whispered: Should we record this? Maybe post it? Could this become content?

I hadn’t even laced up my trainers yet, and somehow the run had already become a performance.

That’s the thing, isn’t it?

The impulse isn’t always to enjoy our lives anymore. It’s to document them. Optimize them. Turn them into proof that we spent our time well. It is exhausting.

We have successfully turned our weekends into a second shift at a job we didn’t even want. We’ve been brainwashed into thinking that if we aren’t monetizing our free time, we are wasting it. If a hobby doesn’t fit neatly onto a resume or an Instagram grid, we feel this weird, lingering guilt.

But our souls are too tired for a second shift.

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The most radical, refreshing thing you can do today is to go make something completely, utterly useless.

Go buy some cheap paint and make a canvas so ugly you have to hide it in the closet. Write a terrible poem in your notes app and promise yourself you’ll delete it tomorrow. Bake a cake, burn the edges, and eat it out of the pan with a fork while it’s still hot.

Do it badly. Do it with zero intention of ever getting good at it. Spend an hour making something that will never be sold, never be photographed, and never be praised.

We have to learn how to lock the calculator out of the room. Your joy does not owe anyone a return on investment. Some parts of you are allowed to remain unprofitable. Your peace is not a startup.

If this piece made you want to put your phone down and do something gloriously unproductive today, consider sharing it with someone who might need the reminder too.

Also, I’ve been craving a softer way to show up here. So starting this Monday, I’ll be sharing Things I Meant to Tell You. Think of it as a catch-up between friends: little moments from the week, tiny observations, what I’ve been reading or listening to, things that made me laugh, and maybe a poem if the words cooperate.

I’d love for you to join me.

Until then, go do something badly. Read without taking notes. Bake without photographing it.

Leave the calculator outside for a while.

With lovealways,

Lizabeth.

It’s been raining a lot lately, and I’ve never really been friends with Nigeria’s rainy season. Today it made sure I remembered why. Still, there was a small mercy in it. A kind man, a shared umbrella, and a quiet rescue on my way to work. Never been more grateful. These are the kinds of things that stick with you more than they should.

I’m inside now. The clouds are gloomy and grey. I’ve got a hot cup of tea in front of me (extra milk because I’m learning softness in small ways), and Ariana Grande’s Positions humming through my ears like a distant memory.(first time listening to this song in years)

I’ve been staring at this blank screen for too long. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I’ve been away from saying things for too long and I’m just hoping I haven’t lost my touch. I didn’t mean to take a break from writing. There was nothing dramatic, nothing poetic about my absence. Just time doing what it does best lately: running too fast and leaving me slightly out of breath. This year has been moving weirdly fast. Like I blink and another month is gone. And I think at some point I just stopped trying to keep up. I just… stepped back. But I’ve missed this.

The truth is, I haven’t been plotting a grand mystery while I was gone. I simply went from being a main character in the famously ridiculous Nigerian job hunt to actually being the new person at work. Talk about a plot twist.

And honestly? I have a confession to make: Adulthood is one freaking giant, collective improv show and I’ve been panickinggggg. No, seriously. For years, I thought grown-ups had this secret blueprint for life and Important Work Things. But lately? I’ve realized the devastating truth. Nobody has the handbook. We’re all just walking around in office clothes, nodding thoughtfully, and hoping nobody notices we’re completely winging it. Spoiler alert: the manual doesn’t exist. The handbook is a myth, corporate confidence is a vibe, and we are all just incredibly committed to the bit.

Which brings me to my current reality. Can I tell you that being the new person at work is one of the strangest experiences ever?

I spend a ridiculous amount of time looking like I know exactly what I’m doing. I’ll walk into someone’s office with my notebook in hand, nod thoughtfully while they explain something, ask what I hope are intelligent follow-up questions, then get back to my desk and immediately open Google because what do you mean by that?

It’s humbling.

I take my job seriously, maybe a little too seriously. I want to get things right. I want people to trust me. I want to be the kind of person who knows the answers before anyone has to ask. But sometimes, after sending an email I reread seventeen times before hitting “send,” I have to laugh at myself because a tiny part of me still can’t believe they’ve entrusted me with actual responsibilities.

Like… me?

The same person who occasionally forgets why she walked into a room is now discussing timelines and documents and deadlines with a completely straight face.

It’s absurd.

But somewhere between pretending to know what I’m doing and actually doing it, I’ve started learning. Slowly. Imperfectly. One awkward question, one corrected mistake, one tiny victory at a time.

Maybe that’s all adulthood really is. Not having it all together, but showing up anyway and figuring things out as you go.

The rain hasn’t really stopped, by the way. It’s just been doing that soft, undecided thing in the background it has been doing all week. Anyway, that’s probably enough life philosophy from me for one week. I’ll tell you how the rest of it goes when I actually live through it properly. For now, I’m going to go back to my tea, pretend I don’t have emails waiting for me, and let this rainy day finish doing what it’s doing.

But honestly, missing this space made me realize something. Since my life is very much in its corporate era right now and it has a somewhat structure. I really just want to bring you along for the ride. I love watching those weekly update videos on TikTok where people just recap their chaotic weeks, and I thought, why not just do my own version of that here?

Nothing over-produced, no aesthetic iced coffee clips, just me giving you the unfiltered, weekly download of what it actually looks like to navigate this new chapter. The little wins, the absolute meltdowns, the ridiculous Google searches, and everything in between.

So, that’s the plan for now. P.S. If you got up to this point, you’re now part of the system. Welcome babes.

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I’ll be showing up here every weekend with a weekly recap of whatever my life decided to be. Work, small wins, chaos, soft moments, and everything in between.

And if I ever disappear for too long, feel free to assume I’ve been defeated by life and gently drag me back here.

I’m so incredibly happy to be back. Thank you for being here, and I can’t wait to catch up next weekend!

With love,

Liz

I’m not a social media person in the way people expect. I don’t scroll endlessly. I don’t disappear into timelines. Being in one digital place for too long makes my mind itch. My body rebels. I can’t explain it in a neat, aesthetic way. I just know that prolonged scrolling feels like sitting still in a loud room where everyone is talking at once and somehow none of it is meant for me.

Sometimes I blame it on ADHD. The undiagnosed kind lol. But if I’m honest, this discomfort predates language. I’ve always struggled with staying in one place for too long, especially when that place demands my attention but gives me nothing solid to hold.

I don’t hate social media. I just don’t trust it with too much of me. Hear me out.

I’ve watched it harm people in real time. I’ve seen personalities flatten into content. I’ve seen people with the brightest personalities reduced to nothing. I’ve seen confidence turn into performance. I’ve seen people start asking strangers who they are before they ask themselves. And I know myself well enough to know I don’t want that fracture.

Social media is a beautiful place no doubt. I’ve seen it change lives. It has opened doors. It has given people language, money, visibility. I’m not blind to that. But I’m terrified of other people narrating me. Of thin pieces of me being passed around, misunderstood, misquoted, reduced. I don’t want strangers deciding who I am based on a caption I wrote on a good day or a bad one.

I’ve watched people I admire take hits they didn’t deserve. Insults disguised as opinions. Cruelty framed as honesty. I know how deeply I feel things, and I know I wouldn’t survive pretending that kind of noise doesn’t touch me.

And yet, here’s the contradiction. I still go online.

I like checking in. I like seeing what my friends are doing. I like knowing what the world is arguing about today. I like beautiful things. I like people’s joy, their milestones, their soft announcements. I like seeing preople romanticize their life. I just don’t like staying.

So I come in, look around, take mental notes, laugh and leave. I barely even drop comments and yes for the reason you’re thinking. Like someone visiting a party they didn’t plan to attend but didn’t want to completely miss either.

This is how I end up constantly out of the loop.

Friends ask, “Did you see this?”

No.

“Did you hear about that?”

Also no.

Apparently, the internet had a meeting and forgot to cc me.

And yet, this is where it gets embarrassing. I still want to be seen.

I want the quiet applause. I want someone to tell me a sentence I wrote stayed with them. I want to hear, “I saw your post. It helped.” I want my words to land somewhere warm. I want to matter without being dissected.

So I hover.

I step in, observe, take in the beauty, and step back into real air. I want connection without consumption. Visibility without surrender. Presence without exposure.

That’s the contradiction. I crave the affirmation, but I struggle with the arena. I want the impact, but not the aftermath. I want to be known, but not owned.

Then there’s the other chorus.

“Why don’t you post?”

“You have so much potential”

“Your face could change your life.”

You’re shrinking yourself”

Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t want to turn my existence into content. Maybe I don’t want to perform consistency. Maybe I don’t want to explain myself in captions or package my personality into something digestible.

I don’t hate social media. I just don’t trust it with too much of me.

I like to step in, observe, appreciate, and step back into real air. I like to remember that life is happening off-screen, even when the screen insists otherwise. I like my relationships without metrics. My thoughts without an audience. My days without needing to be documented to feel valid.

So yes, I have an unhealthy relationship with social media.

I don’t binge it.

I don’t quit it.

I just hover awkwardly at the edge, taking what I need and leaving before it asks for more than I’m willing to give.

And honestly, that might be the most honest relationship I have with anything online.

And that’s how I know my relationship with social media isn’t healthy. Not because I’m obsessed, but because I want it just enough to hurt, and not enough to stay.

It’s a crazy world we live in but remember it’s always safe here. If you made it this far drop a “🍒” and if you’re just coming across my article for the first time, “hii, I try to make this substack thing breathable so you should definitely stick around and subscribe. YKILYD(in jasmine’s voice lol).

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You know how far you could go. You feel it in your body. And you stop yourself anyway. Again and again. Desire shows up. Curiosity follows. Hunger lingers. And before your body even leans forward, your mind has already calculated the cost.

While other girls collect stories and adventure, I collected self-control. I did not know that was what I was doing at the time. I just knew I was always pausing. Always checking myself. Always asking one extra question before saying yes. No one told me that carrying restraint for too long would start to feel like weight. No one warned me how heavy it gets when you never put it down.

I am always thinking ahead. Rethinking. Overthinking. Watching myself watch myself. I am careful in a way that looks like maturity from the outside but it feels like tension on the inside. I am aware of how I am perceived, how I am received, how I am seen. Not because I do not want things. God, I want things. I want experiences. I want risk. I want to live.I want everything. But I learned early that when the world watches you closely, one wrong move can become a permanent stain. I learned that some mistakes are forgiven faster on other bodies.

There is a loneliness that comes with not going too far. Not because I am better. Not because I am holier. But because restraint is quiet. There is no applause for what you did not do. No one claps for the days you chose sense over impulse. There is no language for the chaos you declined. It is simply expected of you.

So you get very good at protecting yourself.

I am tired.

No. Let me be honest. I am very tired.

People assume goodness is easy. They assume discipline means you lack desire. They assume saying no means you did not want it badly enough. They do not see the negotiations happening in your head. They do not see how often you have to hold yourself back. They do not see the grief that comes with experiences you never let yourself touch. They just see a girl who is composed, untouched, grateful.

I have watched girls unravel publicly and be met with softness. With understanding. With room to explain. I have watched the world make space for their becoming. And I have watched, quietly, as the good girl is expected to remain consistent. To stay intact. To not surprise anyone.

Being a good girl teaches you how to self-regulate early. To anticipate danger before it arrives. To manage outcomes before they happen. You learn how to keep yourself safe. I just did not realize I would be the only one expected to do that forever.

Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I let myself make a mistake without calculating how long it would follow me. If I trusted the world to be gentle with me the same way I am gentle with it. If I allowed myself one reckless sentence. One reckless choice. One moment of not being the responsible one.

I am not complaining. I am just saying my truth.

There is a strange feeling when you finally step outside your comfort zone. A quiet shame mixed with indifference. People are shocked. They check in too much. They watch closely because you no longer fit the image they built. You feel it too. Sometimes you enjoy the stretch. Sometimes you realize your quiet was safer.

Somewhere along the line, being a good girl stopped meaning principled and started meaning convenient. You are good when you are quiet. When you are useful. When your boundaries are flexible and your voice is optional. When people can take from your kindness without asking and call it admiration.

The moment you stop fitting into that shape, you are no longer good. You are difficult. You are unreasonable. You are unkind. You are rebellious. You become a problem that needs fixing. And I have come to understand that I would rather be called bad than be treated like property.

I am tired of being admired only when I am small enough to be palatable. I am tired of being the moral reference point in rooms I never volunteered to lead. I am tired of goodness being confused with obedience.

If you think this is about wanting to be reckless, then you’re wrong. It is about wanting to be whole. I am not interested in anything that costs me my voice. I am not interested in goodness that requires my silence.

Being good is not passive. It is work. It is discipline. It is a choice made daily, quietly, without witnesses. And some days, the hardest part is not staying good.

It is carrying the expectation that you always will. And I hope you see it.

If this hits somewhere no matter how small I’d love to hear it

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There are times she wonders if she will notice the days before they become gone. Sometimes she imagines time moving the way a clock wishes it could, slowing down, bending backward just enough to linger. Not because the future is unkind, but because it is fast. Faster than anyone ever prepares you for. It moves at a speed that assumes you are ready, even when you are not

.

There are small things she would return to. Words she would say more carefully. Laughter she would let stretch longer, without checking the moment for an ending. Hands she would hold without counting seconds. Ordinary moments she would stay in, just long enough to realize they mattered. Not to change anything only to notice it while it was happening.

Years slip by quietly. One day becomes ten without warning. Two years pass before you think to count them. We are always becoming, always moving forward, mistaking motion for progress, rarely pausing long enough to cherish what is already in our hands.

It’s strange how much of life feels invisible while it’s happening. How the moments we miss most were once just another afternoon, another conversation, another version of ourselves we didn’t yet know we’d outgrow.

If asked, she would say yes. She would go back. To hug. To laugh. To love. To live more slowly in moments that once felt ordinary.

And knowing that now, she carries that wish forward, trying gently to stay a little longer in the present she is living today.

This book isn’t about being careless. If everything matters to you, I’d argue that nothing really does. It’s about being selective with your emotions, like finally realizing you’ve been overspending energy on things that don’t even text back.

The main idea is simple: a good life isn’t about caring more, it’s about caring better.

This hit me because I realized how much of my stress comes from things that aren’t actually happening. Hypothetical conversations. Imaginary futures. Silent competitions with people who don’t even know we’re racing. I’ve had days where nothing went wrong, yet I was exhausted from mentally arguing with a version of my life that doesn’t exist.

Manson talks about this thing called the backwards rule: the more you chase happiness, the more miserable you become. Wanting to feel good all the time becomes its own kind of suffering.

I felt personally attacked here. Because I’ve definitely tried to “fix” bad days by forcing gratitude, productivity, or spiritual composure like if I just tried hard enough, discomfort would disappear. It never does. It just waits until you’re tired. And I know you can relate so let’s talk.

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The book argues that accepting pain is what actually frees you. Not romanticizing it. Not posting it. Just acknowledging it without panic.

Which connects to another idea I couldn’t shake: avoiding suffering is still suffering just postponed.

I’ve delayed hard conversations for months because I didn’t want to feel awkward for five minutes. I’ve stayed stuck in situations longer than necessary because change felt louder than discomfort. All I did was trade short-term pain for long-term resentment. Life collected its fee anyway.

One of the most clarifying questions in the book is this:

it’s not “what do you want to enjoy?”

it’s “what pain are you willing to sustain?”

Everyone wants the outcome. The glow-up. The peace. The purpose. But very few people want the process, the boredom, the repetition, the moments where you look foolish trying. I’ve wanted results I wasn’t willing to show up messily for. That realization stung, but it was honest.

There’s also a social truth in this book that feels brutal but accurate:

you can’t be meaningful to some people without being embarrassing to others.

I’ve noticed that every time I’ve tried to be palatable to everyone, I ended up diluted, quiet, agreeable, and strangely resentful. The moments I’ve actually felt aligned with myself were also the moments someone else didn’t get it. Meaning comes with misunderstanding baked in.

Another quiet warning the book gives:

if you don’t choose what matters to you, the world will choose for you.

And it will be something deeply unserious. Metrics. Appearances. Other people’s timelines. Suddenly you’re emotionally invested in things that won’t matter in a year, but somehow control your mood today.

Are these ideas revolutionary? No.

They’re almost offensively ordinary.

But maybe they’re ordinary because they work.

This book doesn’t hand you meaning. It tells you to stop hunting for it like a prize and instead commit to something difficult enough to earn it. There are a lot more value to take from this book, here’s just my take.

I didn’t leave this book happier.

I left clearer. And honestly, that feels better. So if you’ve been waiting for a cue to read this book, here it is. Go ahead

and read it!

Don’t forget, you’re safe here always.

With love,

Lizabeth.

Silence, I’ve learned, isn’t empty. It is crowded. Crowded with a lot of unprocessed thoughts, half formed truths and sentences that refuse to behave.

Before you remind me, let’s address my ‘absence’ lol. I stopped writing publicly months ago. Not because I ran out of words. If anything, I had too many of them and no patience to sort through the mess like I’d normally do. I started working and suddenly my days had structure, deadlines, and a version of myself that had to show up even when my inner world felt unfinished. I battled exhaustion like I never had and just knew I had to get used to the rhythm/flow of my new normal.

I caught myself dozing in small, quiet moments. Not just from tiredness, but from the slow, dawning understanding of adult life and its demands, responsibility that doesn’t wait for clarity, mornings that arrive whether you’re ready or not, the expectation to perform competence while your thoughts are still tying their shoes. Showing up for work. Showing up again. All the little shenanigans of working life that look simple from the outside but quietly rearrange you from within.

That shift took more than time. It took attention. Energy. Presence.
And while I won’t pretend, I couldn’t have written something, I also won’t lie and say I was ready to write well.

So, I went quiet.

The quiet didn’t stop at the writing. There were days I couldn’t bring myself to open this space at all. Not because I didn’t care, if anything, caring made the absence louder. Reading, liking, engaging felt like standing at a door I wasn’t ready to walk through yet. Knowing my people were dropping beautiful pieces, honest ones, and the thought of meeting that richness while I felt unfinished myself left me suspended in a strange in-between. Not exactly indifferent. Not exactly present either. Just… quiet. Watching from a distance I didn’t know how to close.

Not out of fear. Not out of lack. But because my words began asking harder questions than I was ready to answer on the page. And instead of dressing uncertainty up as clarity, I chose to sit with it. That quiet did its work.

Somewhere between unfinished drafts and long internal monologues, I realized I was trying to write through myself instead of with myself. I wanted coherence without patience. Insight without discomfort. Arrival without apprenticeship. I was chasing clarity while resisting the process that produces it.

What changed wasn’t my love for writing. It was my relationship to it.

I no longer want language that performs. I want language that documents, beautifully, faithfully, honestly, sometimes awkwardly. I want to write sentences that linger. Stories that don’t rush to resolve themselves. Thoughts that are allowed to breathe before they explain.

Not out of fear. Not out of lack. But because my words began asking harder questions than I was ready to answer on the page. And instead of dressing uncertainty up as clarity, I chose to sit with it. That quiet did its work.

This space, moving forward, is not a diary and not a spectacle. It’s a workshop. A record. A place where I think out loud about becoming, about guilt, memory, longing, care, and the strange ways we haunt ourselves before learning how to let go.

I’m less interested in urgency now. More interested in intention.

As the year comes to an end today and January approaches, there’s pressure to reinvent everything overnight. I’m resisting that impulse [you should to]. I’m not starting over. I’m starting deeper.

Here’s what lives here now:
– essays that take their time
– reflections that don’t rush to be palatable
– stories that ask more questions than they answer

If you’re looking for perfection, this won’t be it.
If you’re looking for honesty that evolves in real time, welcome and welcome. You’d love it here.

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This is me returning, not with noise, but with direction.

Let’s begin again. Not loudly. But deliberately.
I’m so glad you’re here, don’t forget you’re safe here always.

With love,

Lizabeth.

Everyone’s performing, explaining, recording, refreshing.

The louder it gets, the easier it becomes to mistake visibility for value.

But disappearing doesn’t mean hiding. It means choosing peace over performance.

It means logging off before your voice becomes an echo of the timeline.

It means letting your thoughts grow roots before turning them into captions.

In a culture that monetizes attention, privacy becomes a quiet kind of power.

The people who know when not to speak often understand life better than those who never stop talking.

You don’t owe the internet a version of your healing, your art, or your becoming.

Some things deserve the dignity of silence.

So disappear.

Not in fear, but in fullness.

Because sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a loud world is to be unseen, and still whole.

As always, don't forget you're safe here always.

With love,

Lizabeth.

We scroll through war, skincare ads, heartbreak poetry, and somehow we’re supposed to care equally. Everyone’s trying to find the perfect hook not just in content, but in life. The right angle, the right caption, the right tragedy polished enough to trend. We curate authenticity until it becomes performance art.

Attention used to be a gift. Now it’s collateral. The loudest person wins, not the wisest, not the kindest, just whoever can hold your gaze for three seconds longer. And here’s the trick: the game doesn’t reward silence. Even peace needs marketing now.

There was a time when value lived in gold and salt. Now it lives in seconds. Algorithms mint validation out of visibility, printing dopamine like currency. Everything’s been monetized, our boredom, our grief. Even outrage has a rate card. (Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a rage room.

Apps are free because we’re the product, mined for data, refined into patterns, sold back to ourselves as “personalized experiences.” The danger isn’t just corporate, it’s spiritual. We’ve turned our gaze, that sacred act of noticing, into a transaction. We don’t see anymore; we consume.

There’s too much of everything now. When everything demands to be seen, nothing feels worth looking at. Visibility became the new virtue, but a thousand eyes don’t make something alive, they just make it available.

Playing small used to sound like fear.

Maybe it is, but playing small doesn’t equate to limiting your voice.

Not every idea is meant to go viral; some are meant to mature quietly.

Because when you live for eyes, you start to lose your own.

Let’s be honest, we’ve all bartered our worth here. Posted, refreshed, pretended not to care. Said “it’s not about the numbers” and still felt that sting. Authenticity became a marketing strategy. “Be real” turned into a brand tone. We’re all doing PR for our souls.

The real hustle isn’t for followers. It’s for freedom from needing them.

Maybe attention isn’t something to get, but something to give. Maybe the richest people aren’t the ones being watched, but the ones who still know how to watch.

Every scroll, every click, every glance is a vote for what you want to keep alive. So vote wisely.

Attention is sacred. It’s not meant to be harvested, it’s meant to be honored.

Spend it where your soul earns interest.

If this hits somewhere, regardless of how little. I'd love to hear it.

Leave a comment

Don't forget, you're safe here always.

With love,

Lizabeth.

Shrinking feels safe until you realize it’s actually starvation. You think you’re protecting yourself, but really you’re locking yourself out of the very doors God already opened.

It almost felt noble. The smile that says,“I’m fine with less.” The silence that looks like peace but it’s really fear choking your throat. I thought if I dimmed myself, people would clap for my humility. Instead, they just got used to me disappearing, got used to me wanting little, got used to me being small. You begin to realize that you’ve missed big opportunities, big rooms, big moments and it just leaves you regretting walking away from them.

Playing small is a scam. It promises safety, but what it really does is deprive you of wholesome moments. You watch others move loud, and you convince yourself it’s not your turn, not your lane, not your gift. Meanwhile, your own dreams rot in the waiting room.

Here’s the truth: humility isn’t hiding. There’s nothing Godly about folding yourself to fit into someone else’s comfort zone. Real humility is knowing your weight and carrying it without apology. It’s not arrogance to step up, it’s obedience.

God is not honored by you pretending to be less than what He already made you. Playing small isn’t safety, it’s rebellion. Rebellion against the gifts He handed you. Rebellion against the light He trusted you to carry. Rebellion against the very reason you were created. And you know what, conviction is good but direction is better. Here’s my little cheat code because some of you are asking:“How do I stop?” Here are three things that have helped me:

• Name the shrink. Notice when you’re dimming yourself, at work, in conversations,in friendships, in relationships, even in prayer. Awareness is the first rebellion against rebellion.

• Take up space intentionally. Don’t wait to feel ready. Send the pitch. Share the idea. Pray the bigger prayer. Act like your gift is real because it is.

• Hold yourself accountable to God and to people. God is the anchor, but you also need someone human who can pull you back when you start slipping. One person who won’t let you bury what’s in you. And if you don’t have that person yet,well, I’m right here. My DMs are always open.

So I’m done with the lowercase version of me. So should you! Done tiptoeing like I wasn’t created with thunder in my chest. Done praying small prayers when heaven already wrote “overflow” beside my name.

Initiation starts here. It looks like walking into the room with both lungs, both eyes, both hands open. It looks like taking the stage God built for me instead of pretending I lost the ticket.

Call it loud, call it extra, call it whatever you like. But I refuse to be found in the shadows when I was designed for the frontlines.

Stop playing small. Stop pretending you don’t know what you carry. Stop lowering your voice when you were built for a shout.

Heaven did not waste ink on you. So live like every letter matters.

As always if this hits somewhere, regardless of how little, I'd love to hear it.

Leave a comment

Don't forget, you're safe here. Always.

With love,

Lizabeth.

People like to remind you,“This is your prime. Work hard now, because when you’re old you won’t be able to.” But what they don’t tell you is how heavy that pressure feels when you’re already running on fumes.

Months ago, I caught myself annoyed because it took me an entire month to finish one book. Me, who used to devour fat novels in two days flat. The disappointment has faded; now I’m just shocked. Shocked at how time has folded in on itself. Shocked at how progress doesn’t always feel like progress. Bills, deadlines, rent. The invisible price tags dangling over everything: clothes, food, even the right to rest. You need money to look good. You need money to live the life you want. You need money for the family you haven’t even built yet. Gratification comes, yes, but so does exhaustion.

And when one isn’t thinking about money, they’re thinking about sustaining relationships, friendships, family, siblings. Struggling to talk to the brother who’s moved abroad. Struggling to call your parents because you’re already wrung out from the day. There’s no time to reconnect. No time to breathe. By the time you look up, you realize you haven't actually spoken to the sibling that lives with you. Monday is back, another week demanding more. The cycle doesn’t end, it only shifts shape. People in their 40s, 50s, 60s whisper the same thing: I’m still struggling. That truth rattles. The struggle doesn’t vanish; it just grows older with you.

And I sure as hell know nobody wonders what adulthood actually feels like. As a kid, I thought it meant bigger pieces of meat, staying out late, no one to boss you around. Freedom. That’s all I imagined.

But freedom came with exhaustion. With banks and inflation. With job insecurity. You worry of not having a job, You have a job, tired, lose a job, beg for another one. Ordinary rituals, checking emails, replying, networking, keeping up appearances become daily punishments. You have to look good, smell good, talk right, sit right. You have to position yourself so people won’t think you’re failing. Even love becomes a performance, a demand, another item on the list.

It feels less like freedom, more like punishment. Like someone shoved us on stage and forgot to give us the script.

I knew adulthood would demand energy. I didn’t think it would demand this much.

And I know it’s not just me. I hear it in my friends’ voices. I see it in their delayed texts and their eyes during late-night calls. We are all stretching thin. Hustling jobs that won’t cover the futures we want. Picking up side hustles just to pay for rent, lifestyle, survival. Holding onto relationships that drain us more than they restore us. Carrying expectations and cultural rules nobody explained but everyone assumes we should just know.

We are tired before the story even begins. Tired before we’ve had the chance to live fully. Tired before we’ve even figured out what living freely means.

And what do we lose in all this? Birthdays. Books we can’t finish. The courage to fall in love properly, because it feels like another job. We lose little fragments of ourselves until one day we can’t recognize the person moving through our own life.

I am too young to be this tired. But maybe that’s the anthem of my generation.

With every generation, we’ve had several if not so much moments where people have taken certain scriptures out of context, or used them to comfort, soothe, to scold or even sound holy.

The thing is, words matter. When we dress up half-truths and parade them around as scripture, they start shaping the way we see God and ourselves. Some of these lines sound wise, even holy, but they twist the gospel just enough to steer us off course. So let’s drag a few of these “Bible quotes” into the light and see what actually holds up.

We have the classic: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.” I can't count how many times I was told this one. And truthfully, it sounds noble. It makes it seem like if you don’t have something to showcase, God won’t bother helping you. Like He’s sitting back, arms folded, waiting for you to “show working” before He proves Himself as God. But let’s be honest, this line turns self-reliance into a spiritual discipline. People even drag out verses like “If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat” (2 Thessalonians 3:10) to back it up. But Paul was addressing freeloaders and lazy people in the church who were too busy meddling in other people’s business to do any real work.

And that’s the danger. This saying makes it sound like God is looking for you to prove something. He’s not. He is looking to prove Himself, not for you to prove yourself. He is literally God. You don’t need to present Him with a flawless plan before He steps in. So here’s what Scripture actually says: “Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight” (Proverbs 3:5–6).

In other words, heaven doesn’t help those who help themselves, heaven helps those who know they can’t. Because pride is the engine of this phrase. Pride whispers: “I’ve got this, I don’t need to pray, I don’t need to ask, I don’t need to depend.” But the gospel says dependence is the point. Prayer is the proof. Pride closes your mouth; faith opens it.

Another one is “God will never give you more than you can handle.” Oh, this is some pastor's favorite and even our parents would agree with this one. Mostly because It sounds comforting, like God is just watching the scales and won’t let things tip past your limit. But let’s talk. The verse people usually drag in to support this is 1 Corinthians 10:13 “God is faithful and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability.” Notice the word tempted. Paul was talking about sin and temptation, not grief, not sickness, not depression, not suffering. Yet we’ve turned it into a slogan about carrying life’s pain.

Truth is, life does give people more than they can handle. People have cracked under pressure, lost their lives, felt crushed by burdens they could never carry. Even Paul said in 2 Corinthians 1:8-9 that the troubles laid on him felt like a death sentence. That’s not “manageable stress,” that’s “I think I’m about to die.” And it happened, Paul said, so that he wouldn’t rely on himself but on God who raises the dead. That’s the point: God does allow more than you can handle because He’s not interested in you flexing your strength. If we could handle everything, why would we need Him? The promise isn’t that you’re strong enough; it’s that He is.

And lastly the people’s favorite: “Money is the root of all evil.” I laugh every time I hear this one. This one has been passed around, preached on, weaponized like scripture itself. Suddenly money is painted as this evil thing you’re not even supposed to want. Like desiring money automatically corrupts your soul. But the Bible never said that. If money itself were evil, why would God allow us to use it for daily life in the first place?

What the Bible actually says in 1 Timothy 6:10 is this: “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” Big difference. Somewhere along the line, people clipped out “the love of” and turned money into the villain. That’s why even today people are scared to admit they like nice things because they don’t want to sound “materialistic.” But money was never the problem. The problem is obsession. The love for it. Placing it above everything else. Turning it into an idol.

Jesus Himself drew the line clearly: “You cannot serve both God and money” (Matthew 6:24). Notice, it’s not about whether you have money, it’s about whether money has you. And here’s the truth: money in the wrong hands can choke faith, but money in surrendered hands can feed nations. It can fuel generosity, justice, and kingdom work. God never demonized money. He promised to bless His people severally. He just told us never to worship the blessing. So no, money is not the root of all evil. The love of it is. The idolizing of it is. Because money is just paper and metal. But when the heart bows to it, that’s when evil takes root.

So here’s the real call: open your Bible. Read the Word. Don’t just swallow every phrase that gets paraded around like holy wisdom. Test it. Hold it up to the light. Know this Word, and know this God, for yourself. Because at the end of the day, it boils down to half-truths dressed as scripture and they don’t just make for bad theology, they make for bad living. They water down the gospel into something soft and sentimental, when in reality it’s sharp and liberating truth. God doesn’t need you to polish His words, He needs you to hear them and know them. So next time somebody throws one of these lines at you, don’t nod. Test it. Counter it. Throw it back with the truth.

Now it’s your turn. What’s one line you grew up hearing that you later found out God never said? Drop it in the comments . Let’s drag these half-truths into the light together.

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As always, it's always safe here. I love you and God loves you more.

Love,

Lizabeth

Photo credit: Pinterest

It doesn’t mean we don’t love. It just means our love comes textured, layered, imperfect, less like a clean melody and more like a song you learn to hear over time. Not all of us are easy to be with. That’s just the truth, and it deserves to be said without shame.

Some people are smooth waters, steady, easy to love, free of turbulence. They’re the ones who make relationships look like breathing: natural, light, effortless. I admire them. But I am not them.

I am weather. I am seasons. I am silence when others expect sound, storms when the room wants sunshine. I don’t always show up in ways that are convenient. My edges aren’t sanded down to fit into someone else’s comfort.

Because let’s face it, we’re not always lovable. Some days, we are anxious and short-tempered. Some days, we drag old ghosts into new rooms and project yesterday’s pain onto people who had nothing to do with it. Some days, we withdraw without meaning to, putting miles between us and those who want to be near. And some days, we are children again needing reassurance, craving hand-holding, desperate for someone to remind us that we are not as broken as we feel.

It’s in these unpretty moments that the real depth of a connection is revealed. Not in the highlight reels or the easy laughter, but in the quiet, jagged hours. Can you sit with someone’s silence without making it about you? Can you listen when the words come out clumsy, when the emotions don’t have neat grammar? Can you stay when it’s inconvenient, when love looks more like endurance than romance? Can you remind someone of their worth on the days they cannot see it themselves?

That’s what being with someone like me or anyone who isn’t “easy” really asks. Not constant sacrifice, not sainthood, but patience. The kind of patience that doesn’t run when things get messy. The kind that sees beyond the storm to the person still standing in the middle of it, asking to be loved.

And here’s the secret: the “difficult” ones often love the hardest. Our emotions may be unpolished, but our loyalty runs deep. We notice what others miss, the tremor in your voice when you say you’re fine, the way your energy shifts when something is wrong. Our love is not quiet background music, it’s a full orchestra, sometimes too loud, sometimes overwhelming, but alive in a way that can’t be faked.

I remember once being told,“You’re too much.” At the time, I thought it was criticism, a warning label stamped on my chest. But now I see it differently. To be “too much” only means to be full, to feel deeply, to think endlessly, to exist without apology. The people who can’t hold that weight may drop it. But the ones who can? They discover treasures hidden in the excess.

The tenderness beneath the storm, the loyalty that doesn’t waver, the kind of love that burns steady even when it flickers. Because here’s the thing: being easy isn’t the same as being enduring. The bonds that last are not the ones that were always smooth, but the ones that survived rough patches, silences, miscommunications, storms and kept choosing each other anyway. It is in the returning, the staying, the trying again that intimacy grows roots.

Of course, not everyone wants this. Some people prefer the soft, predictable rhythm of an easy love. And that’s fair. But for those willing to weather the complexity for those who can sit through the silences, the storms, the need for reassurance, what they find is not chaos, but depth.

Because ease doesn’t always last. But depth? Depth leaves an imprint. So no, not all of us are easy to be with. But we are worth being with. And sometimes, that makes all the difference, we are still here complex, flawed, stubbornly human and learning how to love and be loved in real time.

And maybe that’s the whole point: not to be easy, but to be real.

If this piece sits with you, let it start a conversation. Share it with someone who’s learned your silences, someone who’s stayed through your storms or maybe someone who needs reminding that they are not too much.

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Remember, you're safe here. Always.

With love

Lizabeth.