I’ve been trying to write. Again and again. I didn’t feel emotionally stimulated enough. I didn’t want to write something bland and empty. I’ve been happy, and I wanted to write something that conveys that happiness. I can’t convey to you the thrill I experience, but I myself don’t have enough time to enjoy it. It’s unfortunate. But I can’t—I can’t fully be happy, because I find so much regret weighing me down.

While I wasn’t writing, I noticed a common pattern in the things I express: regret. And I realize that I’m constantly in a state of regretting my actions. Regretting my thoughts and the way I’ve behaved. I’m finally in the position I waited and prayed and dreamed for, and somehow, all I can think about is how much regret I have. So many feelings. So many things I wish I had achieved much earlier but couldn’t. And it breaks my heart.

I try to be a good person, and I wish I could speak about my life and my experiences more on social media, but I feel somehow hypocritical. I’ve been unable to write this because I’ve been considering the emotions of someone else. I don’t want to hurt her, also because I deeply regret how things were between us.

I wish—I wish I could say that I could go back and do things so much differently, but I can’t. I’m so much happier. I’m living my dream life, and somehow, you happen to be collateral damage.

I love you so much, but at the same time, I had to choose myself, and I feel so bad for my selfishness. And I know that this all sounds so sad. Why would I let my friend be my collateral damage in my romance? But it’s just the way things are. And if I could do anything to mend this, I would.

Every time I bring it up to my friends, they wonder why I can’t just let go. Why I can’t just move on. But it haunts me that my actions are causing someone pain. It breaks my heart so much.

I love love. I love love, and I’m excited. I don’t know how to explain to you the feeling of finally finding the love and care you once prayed for. For you to have toiled and cried and wondered if you’re broken, only to finally stumble upon someone who sees you as whole. For someone to not just like you, or think you’re cool, but to really like you in such an intimate way.

I wish I could explain how it feels when the weight of your past somehow holds you back, and you can’t enjoy what you prayed for.

I’ve finally experienced what it feels like to not just be looked at, but to be really seen. Seen for who I am. And I’m in awe. It’s like a drug, and I somehow can’t get enough. I find myself stopping, taking breaks, ashamed to be seen in the vile act, but my addiction always takes over, and I’m left dry and starved of their affection.

It’s beautiful.

It’s beautiful for me to tell you that I failed. That after all my attempts to love myself, to fill that hole myself, somehow, I watched it get filled without asking. I finally let it get filled up, and it feels good. It feels more than good to be loved, to be chosen. And I understand why I was so intoxicated by this feeling.

But in all of this, I cannot fully let myself go. I can’t allow myself to experience what others are experiencing because I get consumed by so much regret, so much disappointment, that it gnaws at my mind. It never leaves. And it weighs me down. It weighs me down so much.

It constantly stays on my mind. I wish I could go back.

But I can’t.

I’ve spent the past few months crying over the same friendship breakup, and I wonder when I will heal. I wonder when I will forgive myself.

I wonder if I’m just searching for excuses. If I’m just too scared to say that I’m terrified of romance and that I don’t know if I can handle commitment. I don’t know what exactly I’m scared of, but I’m terrified. And I don’t know if this regret or this fear is gnawing at me from the inside, but I’m not okay.

I wish I was.

But I’m not.

I am scared of romance because I have unattainable standards. I don’t want to have to teach someone how to love me anyhow. I need you to come fully prepared. I have such high standards, and it breaks my heart to be let down. I feel disappointed so strongly in myself. My chest hurts and feels too heavy with disappointment.

I hate it so much.

I have such expectations, and it breaks my heart to be disappointed.

And slowly, I begin to wonder if I’m deserving of this life I think I deserve, or if I am worth it at all.

I really have no words anymore, so I’ll leave you here.

Thank you.

This wasn’t my first patient to die.

I know every time I discuss nursing here, I speak of it with so much disdain, such a deep hatred for this profession I’ve found myself in. For so long, I was living in indifference, scaling through classes, present but never learning, as if maybe my mediocrity would be just enough to get this degree. I did this for so long that I failed to see that a deep lack of passion for my patients had clouded my judgment.

So this patient, he was different to me. Not because of anything too deep, simply because, yesterday I saw him alive, and today he’s in a freezer

This wasn’t a new thing, his death, I mean. I’m working in a teaching hospital, so death isn’t new to me. The patients that wait till they’re inches away from death to seek care, or the accident victims, or the people that didn’t even know they were sick, people that were perfectly fine minutes ago. But this was the first time it was a patient I had interacted with. I know it won’t be my last, and it terrifies me.

I am short of words, actually, because at the time, when I was crying, I had a lot to say. Although I know I have no words to describe how I’m feeling writing this hours later. I knew I felt things. I felt a lot of things. But as I’m writing this, I feel nothing.

I know I feel nothing, but then, after I watched the doctor perform CPR and do all they could to resuscitate him, I became terrified. My indifference to this job, my lack of care, they didn’t matter then. All that mattered was that I was a student nurse on night shift watching her patient die. It altered something in me.

I used to believe I was suicidal. I thought that I deserved to die. I believed that the solution, or the best way out of the sinking sadness I am often overwhelmed with, was death. Today, as I watched a patient die, and I could do absolutely nothing, I realized that death wasn’t the solution I was looking for.

I realized that somewhere on the other side of the phenomenon I was watching did not hold the solution to my sadness. Maybe it was the pain I saw in his son’s eyes, or the stillness of our usually noisy ward, or just the fact that in his death, he didn’t look peaceful or happy. He didn’t look like he had been alleviated from his suffering. He simply looked like he existed, like he was here yesterday, but somehow he isn’t here anymore. He simply looked so empty, and that broke my heart.

It was in that moment that I realized that I didn’t want to die.

My friends say it a lot, that a lot of people just believe what they see on social media. They believe that people often exaggerate their sadness for clickbait, and sometimes I felt like they thought I belonged to this crowd. For so long, I thought I genuinely needed to die. I thought that in death I would be happy. But today, as I heard my patient’s relative cry as he called his family members to tell them that their baba had died, my heart broke.

I cried.

I cried from 5:12–6:00.

I cried when I left there, when I was sent to get the adrenaline but I didn’t know where it was or what it was. I cried when I was sent to get the Ambu bag, and I again didn’t know what it was. I cried on my way to the next ward to ask for adrenaline. I cried when I realized I went to the wrong ward. I cried because I froze so many times. I walked first without thinking of others. I cried because I realized that I didn’t know what I was doing. I cried for so many reasons.

I was disappointed in and disgusted by myself. Had I somehow allowed my lack of passion to compromise the quality of care I was providing? I knew I actually never cared about nursing. I knew everything I did, I did because I had to, but somehow something in me shifted, and my apathy was stripped from me.

Today, I realized that I had never actually cared about anything, and now I know very little. Maybe it’s because I’m seeing my result soon, and I’m not so confident, or maybe because I simply just realized how little I know, and how that is affecting my life. I don’t know. I feel quite different. I feel the need to care.

I see the way patients treat us nursing students. They believe we’re there to take care of their loved ones, that somehow me, little Omosalewa, is capable of alleviating some, if not all, of their relatives’ suffering. And realizing that I failed them, and will continue to fail them if I don’t start to care, terrifies me.

As I walked to my hostel after this long-ass shift, something shifted. My urge to die had disappeared.

Even when I returned to the ward this week, something in me has changed. My coursemates will probably wonder what is wrong with me, where this sudden excitement and eagerness to participate has originated from, and I actually don’t know how to tell them that I am lost. I feel like I’m back in 200 level again, just discovering everything anew, and I am desperately trying to catch up.

I don’t think nursing is my calling. I pray to whoever is in heaven that it isn’t. But I know that I have a responsibility, a glimmer of hope, and a tiny possibility that I have a role to play in these people’s lives.

And as someone who was always thinking of ways to die, the tiniest thing is now enough reason for me to live.

I know I don’t want to die, but I have no choice but to live.

I just hope I can do that.

People who know me know how passionate I am, how emotional I am. I tear up when I talk about my sister, about how old she is, how beautiful she’s become, and how much I adore her. I tear up when I realize my parents are growing older too, when I notice a wrinkle on my mommy’s face or an extra line in my dad’s smile. It breaks me to think about them growing older. It really does make me cry, because they’re my babies.

I also cry when I think about the fact that some women do not have rights, that in some parts of the world I am not allowed to speak—not because I have nothing to say, but because I am not considered human enough to say anything.

I cry because girls like me are not even considered, never allowed to dream, to want things, to try. I cry when I realize that I am blessed to struggle in school, because a girl somewhere wasn’t even allowed to enter the four walls of a classroom simply because she’s a girl.

I cry because girls my age are not allowed to dream dreams, to think, to plan, to aspire. I cry because a girl is dropping out of school because her father believes it is a waste of resources. He has no faith in her, no belief that she could amount to anything.

I weep because I know that some of the brightest minds and sweetest people are being killed, beaten, and treated as slaves simply because they are women.

I cry because I am not angry enough.

I cry because I see people choose not to be feminists. I cry because I watch girls like me ignore the plight of their fellow women. I cry for them because they believe they are exempt. I cry for them because they think they are special. But none of us are truly untouched by misogyny.

I cry because human rights are no longer human if the human is a woman.

I cry because I am a woman.

My friends think I like carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, like I’m too bothered by things like this. But I have nightmares of rape. I have dreams of being killed simply for speaking in the wrong spaces. I wake up in tears because one wrong move could leave me dead. I cry because I don’t even know what that wrong move would be.

I cry because, in my mind, I am constantly thinking about the things women go through.

I think about the LGBTQ+ community a lot.

I think about the boys that kiss other boys and claim they’re just experimenting, who swear they could never be gay, never be a “faggot.”

I think about the girls who had their first kiss with their best friend in secondary school and think about it often, but have a boyfriend because everyone else has one.

I think about people like me, the people who look at girls and feel something, but when they feel the touch of a boy, they feel something too.

How could they speak up?

I think about the girls who don’t feel like girls, who feel trapped in their bodies. The boys who dress a certain way and get certain looks for embracing their feminine side. The boys people call gay, but aren’t, because they are so much more than that.

I think about the people who fail to fit into one box, who find themselves somewhere on the spectrum and don’t know exactly where they belong. I think about those questioning and those trying. I think about the people figuring it out.

Lastly, I think about the people who don’t feel anything, who don’t feel attracted to anyone, and I feel deeply for them. I feel so much love for them, so much adoration. I deeply, deeply adore them because I believe it takes so much strength and so much boldness to openly be what they are, and I am proud of them.

I think about people who are homophobic or transphobic, people who hold such strong resentment for others because of who they choose to love. I think about how sad and miserable they must be. How silly it is to be so emotional about someone else’s life choices.

I think about how they are missing something important, and I’m sad for them. I’m sad that they get to miss the beauty that is love in all its shapes and forms.

I love love.

I consumed so much media this Pride because I’ve been confused. I don’t know exactly where I fall, or if I belong in this conversation at all. I hope to stay queer, to keep questioning, and to one day find what I’m looking for.

I’m so deeply feminist that I wonder what my life would be like if I wasn’t.

I’m so grateful for my mommy.

I grew up thinking she was rude, that she was paranoid, that she didn’t behave properly. But as I’ve grown, I understand that my mommy was the first feminist I ever encountered.

I understand now that my mom never allowed herself to be walked on, that she stood up for herself. I remember my mom screaming back at men and getting questions like, “How is your husband coping?” and she would never, ever back down.

I watched my mommy do it all for herself. I watched her provide for herself. I watched her love herself and support others. I watched her love her community and love other women.

I love my mommy so much, but I love her even more for making me who I am and for reminding me of who I am.

I am passionate now because my mommy was, and is, a feminist.

I wonder who I would be if not. I wonder where all this passion would go—maybe into this stupid nursing degree.

But I’m glad.

I’m glad that I am deeply passionate about women.

I love being overwhelmed by the problems of women because they distract me from my own thoughts. They give me less time to think about how deeply unhappy I am.

I hate that I am so loved by someone, yet I still want to die so much.

I hate how much I want to end all of this.

I remember how people talk about people who have committed suicide, like they are stupid, like they are silly for ending it all. I pretend like I am not what they detest so much.

I watch people talk about self-harm and how it doesn’t make sense to them, and it makes me happy that they are fine, that they are not sad enough to need to draw blood, that they don’t need to cut or burn or pinch or punish.

I act like I don’t do it too.

Like I haven’t mastered the art.

I think I should be happier now, now that I’ve been picked, now that I feel so wanted. But sometimes I feel so sad, so deeply unwanted, so unlikable.

I feel this hurt so deeply.

And I wonder if, in death, I would still feel this way.

So I’d rather cry over the women in Sudan and Afghanistan than cry over my own life. I’d rather dwell on femicide in Nigeria than on my failing grades.

I know how powerless I am, but at least I am distracted.

I had a friend growing up. She was light-skinned, she was my age, but she had grown up much faster. She had a beautiful body and looked way older than she was, and because of this she was seen.

Not just observed or glanced over.

She was seen.

We were fifteen or sixteen, and she had so many people chasing her attention. She had everything I wanted at the time.

And I loved her.

I loved her as a sister.

But even more, I hated her.

I hated how I became invisible around her, how my jokes became less funny around her.

I knew how I felt was terrible, but it was a deep, ugly feeling that I couldn’t control, and it consumed me. It made it hard to function.

I think about her often.

She once wrote about the curse of being beautiful, and I understood her. I understood her point of view. I understood her struggles.

And it was so jarring to realize that there are always two sides to a story, that intention and action are two separate things.

I watched her love me—or believe she loved me—but her jokes were always at my expense, and my feelings were never considered.

I wondered what exactly her intentions were because I could see exactly how her actions played out.

I think about how my intentions and my actions are two separate things.

I’ve always believed that my pure intentions would always reflect in my actions.

But I’ve realized they don’t.

I’ve realized that there are certain situations where I am destined to be the bad guy simply for doing exactly what I want.

There are situations where following my heart is bound to end with me being the bad person.

And I think I’m struggling with this.

I think it’s obvious that I’m very indecisive. I go back and forth a lot, constantly realizing new things about myself.

But I think I’ve finally come to terms with this: sometimes I will be hated.

And that’s fine.

I cried over this, so deeply, but I’m better now.

I hope you will be too.

I think the gayest thing to happen to me this month was loving myself.

Because I deserve it too.

Happy Pride to all those who celebrate, and to those who don’t, I don’t really care.

Thank you.

Thank you for reading. Love you💗

So much has happened since I last checked in.

I’ve been numb. Isn’t that funny? I don’t think I’ve been myself, but then I no longer remember what that means.

I’ve told myself that I don’t care about what people say, that their comments and taunts don’t get to me, that the things I notice about people don’t exist.

It’s so hard to have such high expectations, to have such deep feelings, and to want to be loved a certain way. It’s hard to expect things of people, of your friends, and somehow still be disappointed.

I think back to my birthday, how I woke up at 2 a.m. and bawled my eyes out because I didn’t feel special. I know exactly how I want to be loved, but it’s so painful to never experience that. I cried three times on my birthday, and honestly, I just wanted to be alone, simply because I feel like I have no one.

I was sad, and even my mommy noticed. She knew I cried. She knew how heartbroken I was. I really hated my birthday, and I think I will continue to. It’s heartbreaking.

And yes, I’m surrounded by people, by friends. But I feel like I’m alone. To look around a room and still have no one to talk to, no one to confide in—it’s hard. I write when I’m sad, because if i don’t I’ll cry.

I’m jealous of people with their own personal person. Someone who will always pick them. I’ve been crying about the same thing since January. It’s actually so funny, until it’s not.

No one understands how deeply I want this. I want my own friend. I watch the duo in my room with such admiration because I wish I had that. But I don’t. I just have myself, and I really wish that was enough.

It’s hard not to be accepted.

I’ve waited to be liked, to be desired. I cried and prayed and waited for someone to like me, and now I finally have that, yet I feel constantly judged.

I try to gauge whether my feelings are actually valid, and whether this connection really deserves so much mockery. For people to make me feel so sad just because I want to be loved.

It’s so hard to pray for something, to beg for it, to finally have it in your hand, and then watch people tear it apart. To laugh at you. To mock you.

How do you explain how deeply it hurts to constantly feel judged? To not even feel accepted by the people who are supposed to be your friends?

This is tricky. It’s tricky to be hated by strangers, but also not welcomed by your friends.

I think about the words I have said, but I’ve always supported my friends. I’ve always tried to be there for them, to understand them, regardless of whoever or whatever they like.

But today, I don’t feel the same. I feel mocked, like I’m somehow a loser for the decision to open up and like someone.

I think about my life sometimes. How I keep losing. How I struggle and struggle and somehow manage never to win. It breaks my heart.

I think about how I spent my time, how I cried and prayed and begged God to heal my heart, to bless my reading, but I’m here staring at my result. Somehow it’s not enough. Somehow I still failed. Somehow I’m the lowest around.

Maybe that’s why I can’t study. Why reading makes my heart so heavy. Because I’ve never seen the results of my labour, so what’s the point?

Sometimes I hate God. I hate how I keep trusting Him and how I keep getting disappointed.

I’m sick and tired of understanding, of trying, of praying, of persevering. It feels like long-suffering, but it’s never-ending. I’m never getting out.

I don’t like thinking about God because I wonder where He is. I wonder why He lets people suffer.

I really can’t comprehend it. Why do people say God is so good, yet He lets those children be taken? And they are still being taken, still dying, still suffering.

I really wonder what the way forward is.

Maybe I’m so sad, or maybe it’s my literal phase.

Thank you for 106 subscribers, you guys make me so happy, you make it easier. thank you💗

I think about 16-year-old Salewa, and the exact same things that terrified me still scare me. I’m still ashamed of my body. I still struggle to feel beautiful. I am still in the exact same position.

They say the most beautiful things come when you least expect them, and I went into this posting with no expectations. I had no hopes, no plans whatsoever. I’ve been so engrossed in the present that I never stopped to think about the future, and it was new, to take it a day at a time. It felt like I grew a new layer of skin, like I somehow became immune to the worries that consumed me.

I’ve been in a writing slump for a while. I don’t understand where I am mentally, and that is scary. I have decided to constantly live in the present and ignore what is to come because I can only live one day at a time. To say I’m tired is an understatement. I’m exhausted. I’m struggling to adjust to the fact that a new semester is beginning while hearing reports about how terrible my last semester has been.

Permit me to rant a little, but people love a good old anonymous platform. It’s the perfect opportunity to lash out at people without having any form of accountability. It’s cool and fun to be able to say the things you really want to say without getting any repercussions, but when you’re at the other end, when you’re the one being written about, it begins to take a toll.

I’m not interested in bringing my private life to social media or trying to convince people whether or not I am guilty of whatever they believe I am doing, but I’m exhausted from being the brunt of the discussion. The debates, the degradation, the insults — it’s quite exhausting. Being spoken about like I have no feelings or opinions, like somehow, because you carry resentment or have strong feelings for me, I somehow lose the ability to feel things.

I’m tired of people speculating and insulting me over things that don’t even matter. I’ve been called a plethora of names recently, over some months, and I thought maybe because so much time had passed, somehow my name would leave people’s mouths, but it didn’t. And I am exhausted. I’m tired. I wish I could cry and tell people to stop, to stop tearing down the self-esteem I struggled for so long to build. And please don’t tell me about how I shouldn’t pay them any mind, because I will pay them mind.

I really hate the month of April because, year in and year out, April has taken friendship after friendship from me.

I used to think that I knew myself so well. I used to think that being selfish was such a deliberate act of evil, that it involved going out of your way to inconvenience or harm someone else. Before this encounter, I used to think of myself as a selfless person. I believed that I was better than the people who prioritize male opinion and didn’t evaluate how their actions affected other people, but I am not. I am exactly the same.

I always try to tell myself that I am not the exception, and once again it has been proven to me that I am exactly like them, but that’s aside. I’ve always thought that I prioritized my friendships, and realizing that I failed to do so broke my heart.

I was in a sticky situation with a now ex-friend, and for a while I was hurt. I was confused as to why she decided to act the way she did. I wondered why she didn’t communicate her feelings to me when I provided so many avenues for her to speak to me. And after waking up and crying night after night, wondering if I had become the birdbrain I am so fond of calling people, I realized that I was at fault.

Thinking back now, if I could go back in time, I would never put myself in that situation. I would have stood my ground, and maybe I’d still have my friendship. But I can’t go back in time, so what can I do?

I’ve decided to be accountable. I’ve learned that accountability is sometimes hard, but it’s weird to put people on the spot like that, to make them feel cornered by your actions. It’s honestly hard not to play the victim and to realize and admit where you messed up, and I have tried to do that.

In my life, I believe in easy friendships, that communication is key, but at the same time, I believe that there are certain friendships worth fighting for. There are certain people worth the sweat and the tears, and the person I don’t want to lose is one of them.

I’m not sure if she will read this, but I just know that I really and truly admire her and the friendship we once shared, and I’m always and will always be ready to make amends. I know that I let a silly thing come between our friendship, and I genuinely am sorry for my actions. It’s terrifying to think about.

I’ve always been a very judgmental person, contrary to what I thought, and recently I made a big decision. I did something I never thought I’d do so soon, and I realized that I am exactly the same as the people I used to judge, that I am exactly the same and no better.

I remember where I was when 19 & Dangerous was released. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was in JSS3. I remember crying to it while reading an amazing Nigerian Wattpad novel whose name I can’t remember at this time.At that time, turning 19 felt like light-years away. It felt like a far distant reality that I hopefully wouldn’t live through. When this album came out, I was in awe, and till today, I still am.

I think if you’ve read some of my previous work, you’d understand that I connect deeply with Ayra Starr. She feels like an older sister that was truly and wholly mine. I feel like I watched her grow up in some sort of way, and I am deeply passionate about her.

But aside from that, I want to announce that I will be 19 in 7 days, and it feels like such a fever dream. I cannot believe that I am alive to see this. I truly and completely believed sometime in April of 2024 that I would have killed myself by now. I believed that I wasn’t deserving of the life I was currently living, and I couldn’t fathom being alive till the next month, talk less of years.

I am turning 19 soon, and I absolutely cannot comprehend that I am here. I am confused. I feel so old, but I know that I’m so young, that I have so much of my life before me and so many things I have not experienced, so why am I so sad?

For months, I keep going round in circles, feeling stuck, then thinking I’ve moved on, then feeling stuck again, and I feel stuck once again.

Reflecting on the Substacks I wrote in January about a conversation with one friend that opened my eyes, another conversation with that friend — or ex-friend — has now reminded me, no, reminded isn’t the right word, but it has made me realize that I do not have the perfect moral standing that I thought I had. I am not the perfect, morally upright person I thought I was.

Well, I’ve always been aware that morality is subjective, but even the morals I believed that I had, I do not, in fact, have. I think I truly am a terrible person, and I think about the situations I find myself in and wonder why my other friends aren’t in those situations.

I think about 13-year-old me, and I wish I could hug her because the things that brought me to tears back then — feeling sad, wanting to be chosen, struggling with relationships and feeling loved — still hurt me now. I wish I could hug her because six years later, I’m still crying. I’m still exactly where I was.

I would hug her because she didn’t deserve to be bullied or to feel like she was smaller than her juniors. She didn’t deserve to struggle for friendship and love and fight to be chosen. She deserved so much more.

I think about 13-year-old me reading Wattpad books about JSS2 girls and JSS3 boys and wondering why no one ever looked at me. I remember going to the altar to pray to God to give me breasts and a beautifully big butt so maybe boys would want to be with me, not because they liked me, but because they thought I was hot.

When I was in SS1, I remember when Opayinka Ore relocated. I remember the feeling of my world being taken away from me. I remember how it felt to lose a best friend.

How exactly do I explain that in 2026, I feel the exact same way? I feel like I watched my best friend become a stranger. I watched myself fight less and less and watched what remained of our friendship wither away.

How do I explain to her that I still feel empty? I still cry over not having a best friend so many years later.

I went through my camera roll, and I remember one of the first times I felt beautiful. I remember staring at that picture for minutes, finally feeling like I was easy on the eyes, that I was not as ugly as I thought I was. Years later, I still struggle. I still wonder if the people who call me beautiful are mocking me.

write about nursing so much for a course I hate so much. I think about how little passion I have. I wonder if I will, for the rest of my life, be stuck in this bubble, doing this course that I have no passion for. I think about the parts i enjoy simply because i’m deeply empathetic or because I love public speaking and wonder if i will be stuck forever. I am jealous of people that love this course, and I detest myself for being in this situation, for not developing a love for this course. I enjoyed some parts of the posting, but that doesn’t change my feelings for this course.

But even more than that, I wonder what I do have passion for. I used to love social media so much, and if you asked me then, I would tell you about how I wanted to continue creating content. But if you ask me now, I would tell you that I can’t wait to die, or that I’m just focusing on myself for now.

I don’t know what I love or what I hate, and I wonder where Salewa is. I feel bad for people that experience me now because people a few years ago experienced the real Salewa.

When people talk about losing their spark, I keep silent because I have no words to explain what it is like to live in a shell of yourself and to wonder if you will ever be okay.

I wonder what triggered this. Maybe it’s my best friend, or lack thereof, or my fallout with my friend. I really do wonder. But all I know is that I’m not okay.

I know that I wear outfits and go where I am told to go, but deeply, I cannot be farther from fine. I wonder if this is temporary or permanent, but I wonder even more how I let myself go this far.

I think about how much I have disappointed younger me, and it’s insane. It’s insane to be such a different version of yourself, to barely recognize yourself, to wonder where exactly you went wrong. It’s so sad to watch yourself become something you’re not proud of and have no way to change it. It is so sad to watch yourself become something you would hate an be unable to do anything because it is out of your control. It is disgusting to be ashamed of yourself as much as I am.

I think gems is a cute name because it rhymes with the name of my business, Gems by Mila. I named it after my aunty, my mommy’s sister. I think about every major event in my life, and somehow she is a factor. My biggest supporter. She is truly a darling, and I am grateful for her.

My dad found my Substack, and I was shocked initially. Like, what had he been looking for when he stumbled upon it? But why should I be shocked? My daddy knows basically everything about me, except the boy part, and I feel with some conditions I can actually tell him about that. For a long time, I wanted to have daddy issues. Isn’t that insane? I just wanted to use it as an excuse for all the crying I used to do. Isn’t that insane?

I wouldn’t ever call my daddy strict, because he hardly is. I would say my daddy holds me to the standards he has of me, and there has never been a time he hasn’t reminded me of the expectations he has for me. That’s my dad for you. I know my daddy holds me to high standards, he always does. And I think it’s because he sees my potential or whatever, I don’t know. I can tell him about the boys that are stupid in my level who got suspended from school and why, what brands I think are cool, and my daddy would listen. But even more, he would remember. My daddy would ask me the following week how the person I told him about months ago is doing.

My mom told me that I inherited my love for writing from my dad. I didn’t believe her till I read his narration of my brother’s health journey. This was 6 or 7 or 8 years ago, and I remember vividly how beautiful it was. I felt every feeling. His fear when the doctor told him how serious my brother’s infection was. I am grateful for my daddy.

When they told me about this trade fair, I was poor. I was below poor, and I had no idea how I was going to do it. But I texted my daddy. Despite all his making fun of my business, he sent me the exact amount I asked for, no questions asked.

I don’t know how it feels to have a disappointing daddy. I’ve never understood how it feels to immediately want to leave the room when your dad comes home, because I’ve always waited for him to come home so I can tell him all about my day.

When I was in OBMS, my daddy would come from Lagos for my birthday, despite the fact that I would tell him that it wasn’t necessary.

My daddy isn’t the type to tell you “I love you” or “I miss you” or anything like that, but my daddy would listen to the song I told him and tell me how bad my music taste is.

I’m grateful for him. I sometimes forget he’s a parent while talking to him. Truly my sweet boy.

Sometimes, I forget that my family actually chooses me. I forget that my mommy has the option to simply forget about me, and my daddy has the option to not care about anything I do, but yet he does. He asks about the silliest things, and he remembers.

When I say I love exam period, everyone looks at me like I’m insane, but I’m just grateful for the academic pressure.

I recently texted Babcock boy, and I was just wondering, why do avoidants always ghost anxiously attached people? Why do they use their very fear against them? When he stopped talking to me, I spiraled. I spiraled for days and weeks. I was so emotionally disturbed that I started fighting with Tosin. I just needed something, anything to help me cope with how I was feeling. I tried. I always tried. I texted and I called and I tried to understand why. What exactly I did that was the breaking point, where you realized I was too much and unworthy. I needed to know so I’d be careful to never cross that line ever again.

It’s been a lot. My exams are soon. I doubt I’ll have time for myself. Life has been good, much better than I expected, especially after being ghosted for the third time in less than a year.

A boy will break your heart after a 6-month situationship, then proceed to date his next girlfriend for 5 years.

I love road trips. Being on the road and seeing so much space and land that’s not crowded, where we can go miles and miles without seeing another soul. That’s kind of cool. It’s different. I sometimes forget that not everywhere is as packed as Lagos, that there are cities and towns and villages that are way less crowded. Observing things like this makes me feel nostalgic. It gives me time to think. Isn’t that crazy?

Anozie said to write less about boys. It’s always about a boy with me. I hate to be that kind of girl. However, I’m getting better.

I love myself. Like, how many Substacks ago did I come and proclaim the direct opposite? But I really do. I’m growing on me. That was supposed to be a joke, but I’ve realized that only I can love myself. I’m the only one that matters, so I’ve given up on anything else.

I plan on leaving a lot of friendships behind in the coming months because I want intentional friendships. I’m ready to do away with people that cannot go the extra mile for me, that can’t reciprocate my efforts.

I saw the discourse online about feminism and marriage, and to be very frank, it was jarring. Realizing how one conversation can have so many sides. And I’ve read and listened to quite a number of takes. What I do want to say is that feminism is hard. It’s hard to stand by your principles, especially if they go against the fundamental pattern of society. It’s hard to stand against the patriarchy yet expect to enjoy its benefits. It’s hard to stand for equality of the genders, yet still be forced to submit to your husband.

It’s hard to come out and openly oppose a system that you can benefit from.

So what is the balance?

Can a single choice, benefiting once from the patriarchy that was made to bring you down, go against everything you stand for? Does that one choice cancel out all other feminist choices you have made?

I am not the feminism police, so I do not know.

Today I was listening to ISWIS, and they were discussing how a girl should not allow her issues with her mommy to define her life, and I felt that.

I am very, very used to allowing my anxiety to define my life. I somehow try to use my anxious attachment as an excuse to define myself instead of being accountable for myself. I try to excuse myself. It is hard, especially when it’s something that I have been used to being. But when Jola was saying that, I felt it deeply, because why would I let myself be described by that? Why do I let my insecurities define every aspect of my life?

My friends recently told me about some weird things I did in 200 level, and my first reaction was to be defensive, to try to excuse myself. But to be very honest, what I did was weird, extremely weird. I did it because I was being influenced by someone because I didn’t want to be alone. And I realized that it was actually my habit, doing yama yama stuff simply to fit in with this person. Looking back now, I realize that what I was doing was very, very weird. I was too ashamed to apologize to Dami, but she wasn’t wrong at all.

What happens when I can do anything for the people I love, forgetting that these people are human too and can misbehave? I used to not think for myself, and wow, Dami was so, so right. I simply used to go along with whatever I was encouraged to do. I don’t know why. Because I liked them. And every time people tried to correct me, I excused myself.

I realize now that my hurt doesn’t excuse my actions, and I shouldn’t make it my personality trait. My betrayal or my sadness, even though it’s a good excuse, isn’t good enough for me to maltreat the people around me.

It has been ages since I’ve written. I no longer have my notes app on my iPad, and I’m ages away from the problems that haunted me last month. I am reading a new book. When I started this book, I knew it was going to hit close to home—the title alone said that much, so I’m not surprised by that part. I just finished the first part, and I watched the main character destroy her relationship pursuing the love that she wants, the affection she envisions, that she desires, and that terrifies me, because that’s me, progressively destroying my life pursuing a romance that is not feasible.

Writing about romance now makes me feel like a fraud, because when last? My lack of a love life has proven to be so, so much better than I thought it would be, and now I am here stuck with the realization that Nursing is getting real, and I have to put in effort more than ever before. I realize that simply by the nature of my parents, their lack of zeal, or rather my lack of zeal, I am behind. There is so much I do not know, and I feel so overwhelmed. This isn’t a new feeling, but it’s shocking.

I saw a tweet about a girl dropping out of nursing to focus on modeling because she’s aware that nursing cannot pay the bills, and idk. It makes me think—with all my passion and creativity, am I going to settle for the course that was chosen for me? Am I going to give up on my dreams and aspirations and take upon myself the course and passion handed to me by my parents, which is years and miles away from my actual passion?

I watched a YouTube video by Ayodeji, and he asked, “Do you want to work at First Bank till you’re 40?” I am very well aware that I will not be working at First Bank till I’m 40, but is this the struggling profession I have decided to settle with? Am I going to spend my life watching from the sidelines, watching people do the things I wish I could do?

I watch my friend John’s videos with so much fun envy. I’m envious of the privilege to do what you’re passionate about. I figure that for the longest time, it probably wasn’t easy. He and his guys probably, at different points in time, must have faced serious resistance, and they simply decided to persevere in the midst of it all, and idk how to feel about that.

I don’t know how to deal with this—my lack of passion. My desire to excel is the only thing pulling me through, because in reality, I realize that this is my life, and my dad and mom aren’t the ones that will have to go to the ward every day. They are not the ones that will be forced to bear the brunt of their choices in my life.

Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, I do not want to work at First Bank till I’m 40, and it terrifies me that that simple scenario is closer to my reality than I would have ever thought at an earlier date. He also spoke about how hard it is to pursue your dreams, about how consistency is the only thing that allows these seemingly impossible dreams to come to pass, and idk.

I fear I am too lazy to pursue my dreams. I have given up and reclined to the reality that is mine, so I see no need to fight and struggle to pursue my dreams. Wow.

I hate thinking about my future because Tinubu has destroyed my teens. I think about how much has been taken from me, the basic amenities I lack, and how my parents have to go the extra mile to provide things that should never cost this much. Isn’t that scary?

I think about political apathy, about people’s willing choice to continue adapting, to continue taking whatever they are given. I look at people’s easy acceptance of the life brought upon them and their reluctance to fight, to offer even a tiny resistance, and it breaks my heart. How are we so young yet so tired? And is this how we will continue forever? Crazy.

I’ve had writer’s block for ages, and my urge to write today is so unusual. I don’t know how to deal with it.

I used to say that I hate the period after exams, and I do. I deeply despise that period because that’s when I’m my most vulnerable. I don’t know. I listened to “Another Heartbreak” by Giveon, and suddenly I’m back where I was in August, when the guy I was talking to ghosted me, and I don’t know.

I’m done with exams. Thank you so much for reading.I didn’t plan to write anything until after exams, but I’m an extremely sensitive girl, and to know me is to know that. My eyes are only ever a conversation away from tears.

I have tried to remove my mind, to put my guard up, to act like the things that happen do not really affect me.

I am scared of how I’m perceived, so much so that it defines my thoughts and dreams and my interactions. Today I was outside with the people of my department, and I watched how everyone acted somehow and quickly removed themselves when being match-made with me. At first I tried to understand. I tried to believe that I was overthinking, but I doubt that I am. And it triggered me. It triggers me because I seriously struggle with my emotions and my sense of acceptance. I know I’m not the most beautiful, but am I that bad?

hi guys, this is pretty long i guess, it took many days of writing joined together. thank you for reading.

Recently, I’ve had writer’s block — or rather, I’ve had too many emotions to sort through, and it has been hard, very hard, to try to understand them.

Firstly, can I say that I hate men? I’m sorry to all the males who will read this, but I’m exhausted. I hate interacting with men simply because, as a woman, I am forced to bear the emotional load of whatever relationship we have. And it’s tiring.

I have a friend — a very special friend — and this friendship has been dancing on the thin line between friendship and romance. I say “dancing” because I’ve tried a lot of times to make it clear that, even if I do have feelings for him, these feelings can’t amount to anything tangible for now. But maybe because of how awkward I am in person, or how hard I tried to put things across in a respectful yet direct manner, I really didn’t want to put a strain on our friendship.

I believe it is because of his lack of emotional intelligence, or simple disregard, that he made me — or rather pushed me — to speak to him in a way we both don’t like. He made me spell out something that had been implied and should have been understood long before our last conversation. Since then, our friendship has been in ruins.

I don’t know what I hate more: this disgusting ending, or the fact that I said this thing so many times, in so many different ways, until I felt forced to be dismissive.

Moving forward, when I say I hate carrying the emotional load of a relationship, I really mean it. I tend to forget that my words are open to a lot of misunderstanding, so I over-explain and try to communicate effectively to the best of my ability. The issue comes when this effort and concern is not reciprocated.

I’ve been talking to someone. Deep down, I know I like him, but allow me to be clueless. Allow me to deny it on this public platform.

Every time we’re about to touch down in a peaceful place, something happens — a little miscommunication, a little spark. And I don’t know how to pretend things are okay, so these sparks escalate into a full-blown fire. And Salewa absolutely loves fire.

I’ve never been the most logical person, and I act on impulse (if anybody tries to use these lines against me in a debate on feminism, I will end you). I end up making space for myself. I remove you completely from my life because I know that your presence will cause me to spiral.

In my life, I’ve always wanted a kind partner, but I still haven’t found one. Instead, I find myself swallowing my anger and setting aside my own feelings to be “logical.” I end up calling and asking for us to talk, and those conversations always involve me explaining things to you — things that simple patience would have solved. I find myself having to set aside my emotions to do that.

For a very long time, I was scared of my own emotions. Since I decided to prioritize them, I’ve had to learn to gauge my actions because your emotions could be valid, but there is a certain extent to which you act that there is no returning from. There are certain things you say or do, certain ways your emotions manifest, that a simple “sorry” will be unable to fix.

In all of this, nothing hurts me more than the lack of consideration — the blatant lack of care that I absolutely cannot stand. I hate how ego comes in the way of everything, and I hate even more that I must set aside my own ego for anyone else. I hate these things, but I still do them. I still try my best to be a calm and respectful person. But when I feel taken for granted, that’s when the issue arises.

I try to communicate effectively, and I hate nothing more than feeling stupid for trying to communicate. I hate having to go out of my way only for my efforts to be disregarded.

I am a very ruthless individual, and I don’t plan on changing soon. I strongly believe that if you wanted to, you would. Your inability to act simply reflects your disregard for me. I hate that I am in this cycle again, and I have decided to leave — to stop putting myself through this because I don’t deserve this treatment. I deserve to be pursued. I deserve to be cared for. And I stand by that. I am not going to overextend myself anymore.

So if you’re reading this after the very angry iMessage I sent, I hope you understand me now.

I really do hate men. Have I said that today?

I also hate every single silly individual that has ever tried to equate misogyny to misandry. I hate that when women try to speak out against their oppressors, they’re silenced with discussions of misandry and gender wars that do not exist. I might have a lot of very terrible takes when it comes to men, simply because I’m a deeply exhausted woman. But more than that, I hate the gaslighting that occurs on social media. I hate how intentionally obtuse men decide to be — maybe for likes. I really do hope it’s for likes, because these men cannot be the heads of homes and leaders of marriages with such poor thinking skills.

I saw a tweet that said, “Angry feminist, as opposed to what?” and I’ve never felt more seen. In 2026, being a feminist is a slur. When men want to start a talking stage, they text you and say, “I hope you’re not one of those feminists.” And I laugh, because if I am not a feminist, then what am I?

In 1960, Nigeria gained her independence. That independence was paid for by the blood of millions of Nigerians who were forced into exile and made to suffer due to the gullibility and greed of those meant to lead them. I watched a video essay about Frantz Fanon, and my eyes have never been more open.

He discussed how slavery is much deeper than the chains on your hands — that mental slavery and oppression are internalized and reflect in everything we do. But even more than this, what stuck with me was the necessity of violence in a revolution. There has yet to be any great fight for revolution that is not born out of defiance. He said oppression cannot be dismantled by negotiation, moral appeals, or gradual reform. It only gives in when confronted with a greater violence.

He explained that directed and targeted violence is essential for a revolution. And this violence is not just blind, contorted rage, but a cleansing force from which the oppressed reinvent themselves. This violence is the result of years and years of struggle, because the oppressor would never voluntarily give up their power. It has to be taken.

I think it’s obvious that this man’s words really stuck close to my heart, and I am grateful for that video essay.

Permit me to break this down for you: Oppression itself is not a negotiation. The raping and killing of women isn’t child’s play. It is violent. And I honestly and genuinely believe that we will continue to be oppressed until more women are angry — until more women become fed up of begging for leftovers and begin to take and fight for what is theirs. Power isn’t ever transferred peacefully. There has to be struggle. But firstly, the oppressed must mentally realize that they are slaves. They must realize that they are not animals, but humans. And until women realize that men and women are equal, we will constantly and perpetually be oppressed.

Women are taught to be second-class citizens — that they can only achieve when they have a man backing them, and without a man, there is only so much they can achieve independently. We are so greatly conditioned with internalized misogyny, taught from such a tender age to hate our femininity, to detest the very things that make us women — from our bodies to our emotions. We are groomed to be inferior. And to cope with this, women change themselves. They bend and contort to fit into the perspective of men.

We are taught to submit, to not speak when they speak, to let them do the thinking, and to “tap into our divine femininity.” We are locked in mental cages, and we simply cannot be let out until we deconstruct our beliefs and address the internalized misogyny deeply set in each of us. No matter your proximity to men, no matter how much you try to contort yourself, you can never be a man. Misogyny will still meet you, no matter how deeply you try to associate with men. You can never be one of them.

In summary, our freedom will never come unless we dismantle our psychology and address the inbuilt cages we have put ourselves into. So when a feminist says she’s angry, let her. Let her speak her truth, because a man will never understand how terrible the reality of a woman is. A man can never comprehend how terrifying it is to be surrounded by people who could kill you simply because they decide they do not want you alive anymore. To be scared and unable to know exactly who to trust.

When men say feminists make everything a gender war, it shows that they lack critical thinking, because there is no war — there is simply the oppressed and their oppressor. When a woman comes out and says she hates men, ten men are ready to tell her not to hate men, that she’s a misandrist, and misandry is bad. However, misandry doesn’t exist outside the streets of Twitter. When we put down our phones and interact in the real world, in the physical, it is quite obvious that women do not, in fact, hate men.

I say that men who tell women not to say they hate men are simply negligent. They lack empathy and are quite ignorant. You cannot tell someone suffering to love the person inflicting pain on them. And even if they do claim to love that person, it is a lie — simply because the oppressed must hate their oppressors. You cannot love a system that hates you, a system that is not built to support you, a system that is against you.

Misandry should not be discussed until the feminicide in Nigeria is reciprocated — until women kill men indiscriminately. It should not be discussed until a group of women kill a man simply because he is a man. Until men are scared to leave their houses for fear of being killed. Then, and only then, should men come out and cry that misandry is bad.

Gender wars that are battles fought on Snapchat and Twitter, while in the real world women are being killed like mosquitoes, show how brain-dead the men we interact with daily are. The men who are quick to speak on false rape accusations, blatantly ignoring the millions of real rape cases that will never see the light of day. The rapists and assaulters who walk among us and will never receive reprimand for their crimes. The rape victims who will live forever with the scars of their assault.

False rape accusations can only be discussed after the real rape cases are addressed — when women receive justice, not because of their money or influence, but simply because they are humans.

I have once said that internalized misogyny is a virus — a virus found in so many of us. These conversations allow you to pick the brains of the individuals you surround yourself with. These conversations have made me realize that some men do believe there is a justification for rape: indecency, promiscuity, or simply disobedience. These men, who forget the definition of nuance when a woman says she hates men, suddenly develop discernment and try to gauge whether a woman truly “deserved” to have been raped. They try to excuse or explain the reasoning behind assault.

I know this one really escalated. It went from my own personal issues to my greatest passion. I am very, very passionate about this, and I hope you understand my passion.

Temitayo replied to my story—the one where I asked people what they wanted me to write—and she said I should write about what I actually want.

She made me realize that I’m always complaining about what I don’t have, or what I wish I had, and not about what I want. Today, I think I want to talk about that.

First, overall, I want to be loved. Not just the fleeting love of teenagers that comes and goes with hormones and horniness—I want a deep connection with someone. At the same time, I understand that I’m young and free, and I can’t be totally yoked to someone. It’s too early for that now. Still, is it too much to ask to be seen?

I want someone to fill my hole—not just sexually. I want to be cherished, to be heard and not just heard, but to feel loved and to know it. To be so sure of this affection that there’s no need to be insecure. To be totally secure in my emotions and to be free.

The things I want don’t just exist romantically.

I want to be chosen. I want my absence to be felt and my presence to be missed. I want to be cared for and cared after. I want to be kept and chosen and desired. I want to be shown that I am deserving of all the love I did not get.

I realize now that I know the things I don’t have, but it’s hard to reason out the things I actually want.

I want to be pursued and to be chased. It’s exhausting to be so easy, to be the backup, the one you fall back to once the main one is unavailable.

I have such terrible anxiety, and for once I want to experience what it feels like to not be too much. To be just enough. To be just right. To not have to change or bend or contort myself to feel and see and experience things.

I want to come as I am and be enough. To be just right without having to do anything and be accepted just as I am.

I want to receive back all the love I have given without begging for it.

I came to the library to read, but see me crying.

I feel like I’m missing out on my friends’ lives. Like I’m floating around. I don’t think I’m special to anyone, and it’s consuming me. I see snaps from my friends in Iwo and interact with my friends in Ogbomoso, and I don’t think I belong anywhere. I don’t feel tied to anyone. I wish I could go back to 200 level, second semester, and choose to room with my friends. I doubt I’d have lost this many people.

I’m writing this with my hands shaking, thinking about the fact that I waited for this girl even when I could have gone, and how easy it is to keep space for people who don’t realize the weight of their words.

One thing I hate is waiting. And even more than hating to wait, I despise having to feel stupid for making space.

I hate that I always end up feeling used, like the price for entertaining me is that I must pay with my body. I’m tired of being sexualized, of feeling used.

I’ve been good. In fact, kinda too good.

I am very anxiously attached, and it scares me that I will be this way forever—unable to regulate my emotions and being scared simply because of the inabilities of others. It terrifies me.

I want more than anything to be secure, to know I’m seen and appreciated without having to fight for it.

I cannot pinpoint exactly what makes me feel this way, but I’m hyper-aware now when I’m talking to someone how I can’t sleep until I’m sure that we’re cool.

I’m ready to swallow my pride and go out of my way for whoever I’m with, and it scares me because that has never ended well. It scares me because I always end up hurt.

I’ve always struggled with my self-worth. I’m too scared to show myself fully. I’m scared of people seeing the real me and finding me too much for them.

But even more, I’m exhausted and I’m tired. It’s exhausting to be casually used for your sexual advantages. Please, I love fornication, but I am exhausted because I don’t want a baseless connection. I’m not just interested in kissing and hugging in private and watching in public and pretending that I’m okay that you tell your friends I’m nothing to you. I am tired of being nothing, as if I am undeserving of true, authentic love.

I use the word “undeserving” because I cannot fathom where exactly I go wrong each time. I do not understand why I always end up this way.

I think I’ve said that I’m not ready for a relationship, and I thought I was. I thought I was okay, healed, and ready to give myself to someone else, to open up to someone deserving of my love. But I’m not. I realize now that I am still not healed, and healing isn’t just being able to see his face without crying. Healing is much deeper, and I am not healed. I’m far from that. I still have so many gaps and spaces. I still do not love myself.

I’m writing this crying myself to sleep because I realize how deeply I have changed, how the version of me that loved easily and was open is long gone. I realize now that I interact with people holding my breath, waiting for them to mess up. I don’t want to be too vulnerable, too nice, too welcoming because I know you will still leave, and that breaks my heart.

It breaks my heart that so much pain has morphed me from the sweet girl I once was, and I know she’s long gone. I am far too broken.

I realize that I want to be loved, but I do not want to beg for it. I want you to look at me and see that I am deserving of the care and devotion I am demanding. But I wonder: Am I truly deserving of that love? And I think the answer is no—not because I am a terrible individual (partly because of that), but more so because I do not want to make anyone have to put up with me. I do not want to have to beg and plead for the love I am deserving of… well, not deserving though.

When people ask me if I love myself, it breaks my heart, because I know how much I loved myself. I know how I used to look at myself in the mirror and feel deserving of the love I demanded. In the past week, four people have asked me if I love myself, and I hate that question so deeply because my answer used to be yes. I used to know everything I was, I demanded everything, and I saw the world as my oyster. It’s so sad because it doesn’t look like I will ever go back to what I was. I don’t think my answer is yes. If anything, I don’t even know. If I saw Bambi right now, I doubt she would recognize who I have become. I have lost so much of myself, and I don’t think I can get it back.

I fear this is my final straw, that I am finally taking a bow and giving up. I fear that I will soon stop trying, I will soon stop fighting, and I will let go and let be. I am scared of myself. I am scared of how terrifying it is in my head and what would happen if I finally stopped fighting.

I discuss my problems so much that I feel like they lack the urgency they once had. I think of death constantly, and I wonder how my mom would feel. I stay and fight because of my sister, because I do not want to leave my baby alone in this cruel, cruel world. I think about my friends, and I know they will be fine. I know they will mourn me for a while, but not forever.

Sometimes I think about God. I wonder why He let things get this bad. I wonder if He would forgive me, if He would understand that I was tired and it was growing much too hard for me. I wonder why He won’t just do it Himself.

I wonder what I’m always doing wrong, where exactly it all turned this sour.

I have two tests tomorrow, and yet my brain, which has refused to work with me, now decides to finally partner with me. I’m sorry for being unable to write to you last week. I was overwhelmed and overworked. I wrote, but nothing stuck. Nothing felt good enough.

This has been a very difficult period—very bittersweet—and I don’t really know how to express myself. That’s so ironic. As someone who constantly strives to be in tune with her emotions and mind, it’s very hard. It feels odd to know something is wrong but to be unable to pinpoint what it is.

As I’m typing to you in the heat of my room, I realize that I am still the same. I had a conversation with someone I cherish dearly, someone I might lose because of my irrationality, and I realize that I am exactly where I was four years ago. Not literally—I’ve grown in so many ways, physically and socially. I can’t include spiritually because I basically regressed in that aspect. I’m in such a different phase of life, with the things I used to pray for right in my hand, but I still do not love myself. I am still unable to look in the mirror and truly admire myself. She asked me if I remembered our former conversations about loving myself, and I realize that I still do not love myself. This is like four years later, and I still cannot love myself.

Please, I beg you—save your pity. I know it sounds like such a huge statement to openly come out and say you hate yourself, but I don’t hate myself in the way you think. I could explain it to you, but you’d think I’m crazy.

Insecurity is the cankerworm that has eaten into my life, my dreams, my self-esteem. I have lost so much to my insecurities—more than I could ever imagine.

I still see myself as the very insecure girl in SS3 who wished she passed her JAMB. I still see myself as the girl in SS1 devastated that my best friend relocated and left me behind. I still see myself as the girl in JSS2 bullied by her juniors because she had no self-esteem of her own. I see myself as the girl in JSS1 who was forced to do other people’s chores because I was sly and bullied by a bunch of mean people. I see myself as every broken and sad aspect of myself, and I forget that I also have some beautiful parts.

I can’t believe I’m crying. It’s much too hot for this. I have tried to fill a hole, and if you’ve read any of my letters, you’re probably familiar with this hole. But now I realize that this hole is simply because I hate myself.

This is a very, very emotional and vulnerable one, so I’m sorry in advance.

I’m turning 19 this year, but I still haven’t forgiven myself for the things I’ve done in my past. And I carry this trauma, this baggage, this extra weight everywhere with me. It’s crushing me.

I also realize that even if I did receive the love that I desperately cry about over and over, I would be unable to handle it. I feel like, in my friendships and my relationships, I do search for companionship or love. But what I desire deeply is someone to share my burden with me—someone who will teach me how to love myself, who will make me realize that I myself am deserving of this love I do not have for myself. Overall, I don’t just want a boyfriend; I want a repairman, someone who will fix me.

I do not have the capacity to return the love I deeply desire. I have no means to express it, acknowledge it, and bask in it because my hatred for myself is still supreme. This quote by Mosope reminds me so much of how I feel and i just had to include it

As someone who so greatly craves love and intimacy, I realize that I do not have the capacity to receive it in the magnitude I desire. In fact, if I were to find that love that I so greatly desire right now, I would not know how to deal with it. I do not have the ability to reciprocate it or to handle it. I now realize how hurt I am, how hard it is for me to allow myself to fall, to allow myself to befriend people, to fall for people.

I feel like a lot of us think we are ideal partners, that we are the perfect girl or boyfriend. I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re not. You’re not. I’m also human, so allow me to be real with you. It’s hard to take a critical look at yourself, to understand why you are the way you are and what has contributed to your flaws, if you’re not normally an over-critical individual. A lot of us are incapable of handling the love we seek, the level of intimacy that we are searching for. Omo, when we actually do find it, it’s hard to manage, maintain, or comprehend with the intensity and depth we desire.

I’m seriously avoiding romance because I wouldn’t want to put all this on anyone else. Would it be unfair to them to avoid romance for my own sake? Am I wrong to not want to put this burden onto someone else?

I am scared of liking anyone else ever since Abdul—ever since I realized that my feelings aren’t exactly expressed through my actions and are open for misinterpretation, that my intentions might not equal my actions. So then what? What happens when I say I like you, but I don’t act like it? What then? How do I overcome my past hurt and move forward?

It’s terrifying to realize. Maybe it’s because this has been a horrible week, or because I’m very, very aware.

I realize I’m a terrible person, terrible friend, and terrible daughter because I don’t want to love myself. I want to be taught how to love myself. I want to be nurtured and babied until I realize that I too can be loved. I have searched for this in my friendships, relationships, and even in my spirituality. This gaping hole that’s tearing my life into shreds is all my fault. It’s simply because I don’t love myself.

But back to my conversation with my friend: I realize that I am just the same—stuck—exactly as I’ve been for the past couple of years, and that sucks.

I struggle a lot. I have bone-crushing and lung-collapsing anxiety that haunts me. I don’t like to think about how hard it is to be me—not because I’m special, but because of how hard it is for me to do everyday stuff. Sometimes I overthink and it becomes too hard to breathe. I look at people and I’m terrified that I’m not special to them, that my presence doesn’t matter and my absence doesn’t leave an ache. I catch myself getting terrified of people seeing the real me, seeing how insecure and shy I am. I love the facade of happiness I present. I am terrified that I do not make my mark, and so I decide to be different, to stand out, to shave my eyebrows, pierce my body, cut my hair. I am terrified of being a background character—irrelevant and undeserving of recognition—so I do all I can to stand out.

Aside from that, I want to discuss something else. I feel like it’s hard to strive for greatness once you’re used to mediocrity. I’ve been an okay student, not even above average, just average, leaning toward the lower side, and it’s been hard. I know that my mediocrity was not because I’m dull or stupid, but because I wasn’t studying at my own pace. I wasn’t studying enough or as I should, and I was receiving mediocre results.

I know I’m the least intelligent among my friends, and it hurts. It hurts because when I put in an equal amount of effort as my peers, I end up struggling, so I have to go the extra mile and do double what my friends are doing. I don’t like to compare myself to my friends. They’re really the sweetest girls, but I notice in the little things. When they ask each other questions, they exclude me, probably because if they asked me, I would have said something stupid. Or when they ask each other about what they’ve read, they just happen to skim over me, as if somehow they know I would be way behind. The truth of the matter is, they’re not wrong.

This semester I’ve been more intentional than I’ve ever been, and I think I’m sort of confident. Today is my first test this year, and I’m scared. I’m scared that my mediocrity will remain regardless of how much I push myself. I am doomed to be just there, not destined for greatness. Even if I double or triple my efforts, it will not amount to anything, and that is scary.

I’ll update this after my test. I should have posted this on Monday, but I decided to wait. I don’t want you to just see me as a vulnerable girl who hates herself and is a wicked, angry feminist that craves love. I am all those things and more, but I am also someone who has dreams and aspirations. My dreams aren’t as big as they were before. I dreamed of being the first female president at one time. That was a much different Salewa, a Salewa not bridled with insecurities and trauma. My current dreams and aspirations are simply just passing my exams, getting above 60, and making my parents proud. It’s such a little dream, but that’s all I want deep down.

I feel like most of the media we consume is about extraordinarily smart people or super super dumb people. What about those in the middle? The people that aren’t completely stupid but still fail sometimes. Those that are midway on the pendulum, not at any end.

This is a very, very difficult thing to write about, but my passion still remains.

I’m exhausted. My friend Dami explained exactly how I feel. She said she felt empty, like something is missing. I wish I knew what that was. I really do.

I feel like I’m waiting for life to happen. It feels like life is moving way too fast and I’m about to be left behind. I feel like I’m constantly chasing something that desperately doesn’t want to belong to me—like my heart is heavy and I’m struggling to keep afloat.

Growth is so, so beautiful. Music holds so much emotion for me. Today I listened to Freudian. And this isn’t new—I love this album—but for the first time in a while, I actually listened properly, and it felt so refreshing. I’m crying, but I’m not crying my eyes out because my heart is in shambles and I can’t breathe. I’m crying because I can’t believe I’m okay. I can’t believe that I’m fine. I can’t believe that I didn’t die back then. It’s so weird to realize that the things that once kept me up all day, that kept my chest so heavy—these very things do not matter anymore.

I’m crying because even though I don’t love myself, I am alive. And it’s only a Salewa who is alive that can strive to love herself.

It’s a relief to say it out loud. Such a horrible thing. I want to be a better version of myself, I strive an almost impossible perfection and it haunts me because I forget to acknowledge the goodness that i am.

Lots of Love

s💋

I’m sorry for missing last week. Please feel free to text me if you want to talk about this. or anything at all. it’s a privilege to write and have people read it and i am so grateful to every single one of you.

Thank you so much. Love you all. 💋

I hate that I am the type of person who keeps on waiting. I’m the type of girl who keeps people expecting. I love to hold a place for people, hoping that one day I will also be remembered.

I have this friend, and I’m going to send this Substack to him before I post it. I like to put myself in other people’s shoes. I love to understand people and the things that make them who they are.

This friend of mine loves to leave me on delivered, and I realize now that normal Salewa would be mad. We don’t really talk (maybe only after 9 p.m.), and when he does reach out, I feel like I’m in the spotlight and every part of me is being paid attention to. That feeling is simply so, so beautiful. The concept of having someone you know you can rant to, someone who’s excited to talk to you… And maybe it’s just in my mind and he actually isn’t like that. I love this version I have created, so that’s fine by me.

I have another friend, Ifenna. He is the type to hold you to extremely impossible standards. He will set nearly impossible goals for himself, and I watch in real time as he achieves them. I’m intensely proud of him. I admire him like he’s my very own son because I remember when we met four years ago on TikTok, when all he cared about was sex and a bunch of other silly stuff. I love to watch his growth in real time. He inspires me.

Lastly, I want to tell you about my friend Ore. Ore and I have had a tumultuous relationship. Ore was one of the first people I ever practiced cutting off, and I hated having to see my best friend because she was also around Ore. But Ore is genuinely such a sweet soul. Ore is the type to give all she has, to share even when she has very, very little. Ore is a cup that keeps on giving; a heart that’s always hugging. She is always ready to extend a helping hand. Ore is the reason I post these articles and Substacks because she always remembers and she always reads them. Ore makes me feel understood in such a deep way, and I am grateful to be her friend.

I feel like I carry a lot of emotions. I hold all of them in and bottle them up until they aren’t pure emotions anymore. They’re mixed with a lot of resentment, with a lot of anger. So I spend a lot of time hating people and hating myself for things that really do not matter.

I’ve been thinking about what to write because my heart is heavy, but I’m grateful for it. I’m unable to write because I feel so many emotions at once. I’m just 18. Why am I expected to know exactly what I want to do with my life? Why do I have to feel these big feelings?

Today I went on a walk and I was listening to Sour so casually, and I realized that this time last year I couldn’t casually listen to “drivers license” without bawling my eyes out. I realize now that these big, heavy feelings become lighter and lighter with time. The things I hated about myself are the things I’m growing to love, and it feels good to acknowledge my growth. I forget I’m just 18 sometimes (that my best years are still ahead of me and I don’t need to have it all figured out immediately).

I love love, but I think I’m not ready for a relationship. I think about Abdul a lot (about how unfairly I treated him simply because I wasn’t healed). When I got drunk, I texted him and was yapping some rubbish about how it wasn’t my fault we didn’t work out, but in actuality it was all my fault. It was because I refused to acknowledge that I was in the worst place mentally and I was so, so broken. I ignored that he’s human like me and also deserved someone whole (not the half of me I was offering). I wanted him to be the one to fix me, to heal me. Now, when I’m not drunk and crying, I realize that I didn’t deserve him. I always knew I didn’t. I forget not everyone is silly like me; not everyone will wait for their worth to be realized after years of waiting. I realized recently that I might have lost a real one, and that was so jarring to accept. At first I was in denial. I tried to convince myself that he was wrong for walking out of my life, but he was so right for that. And I am jealous of him, and I admire him, because I wish I could do the same. I admire that he knows himself enough, loves himself enough, to walk away from a situation that wasn’t right. I realized that I actually liked him. I might even have loved him. But I was way too broken to show it. I didn’t know how to be vulnerable because every time I have ever been vulnerable, it has ended in tears. I wish I wasn’t drunk all the time, especially when we were talking, so I’d have told him. I realize that I blamed him so many times. I thought telling him that I wasn’t healed could heal me and excuse my terrible behavior. I always knew I wasn’t okay, so why did I put both of us in that situation? I love him for leaving, and I hope that one day I’ll find a better one. I didn’t treat him the way he deserved to be treated, and silly me tried to gaslight and manipulate him. I admire that he knew he wasn’t being valued and walked away. I have never walked away (even when I’m dragged around and treated like trash, I still stay). I stay thinking there’s some sort of reward for my patience and suffering. I’m such a fake agnostic because I love long-suffering too much. I love remaining in terrible situations hoping that one day they will get better even when there’s no hope in sight. Silly Salewa. I know he doesn’t hate me (that’s how sweet he is). I know he will read this. I hope that one day I will be forgiven and be his friend, even though I would never fault him for his decision. I would never fault him for choosing himself if that meant no space for me. Two months later, I’m torn between the same decisions: to continue fixing myself or to open myself up for a relationship. I’m just 18, for crying out loud. I have my whole life to live and lose, so what do I gain by rushing it all? No one deserves to be treated badly (not me, not Abdul, and not whoever else I like). I don’t want to become the monster I hate the most, so I’ll stay away until I know I’m better. I regret how I treated Abdul, and I am wholly and truly sorry. I wonder if an apology will ever be enough.

I’ve been online a lot, especially on Twitter, sharing my honest beliefs on rape and fashion and everything feminism-related, and I realize how scary society now is.

I know that we are all social beings. We hear about different rape cases and we’re lucky to be spared from the slimy hands of evil people, but there’s little difference between you and the next girl that was raped. I hate to think of myself as an exception because I know I’m not. I know that everything I hear women face, I’m no different from the next person and it could easily be me. All the misandry in my heart can’t save me from the evils of men.

To simply be born a woman is hard, but to be born a woman in this generation and society is a curse.

As per, life dey lead you 100-0 and till you die you can’t keep up.

Right from conception you’re taught how to bend and twist yourself to conform to the wishes and desires of the men around you. You watch your mother walk on eggshells around men, unable to discern who can possibly hurt her daughter.

To be born a woman is simply terrifying because right from birth, I’m aware that there’s something about me (something that makes even my mother extremely cautious). Something that makes me extremely cautious: to be careful in the way I present myself, to be extremely cautious with how I dress, how I talk, to be very feminine and girly, else I’ll be called a tomboy, a gag, a disgusting person.

I’m forced to perform a level of femininity for the men around me, to perform a certain level of respect and reverence for the men that brought us to life, that protect us.

But what happens when the men that are supposed to be stronger, to protect us (this same men kill us)? They strike us down again and again.

I’m taught how to sit, to not show off my laps, and if you struggle with sitting right, people will advise your mother to buy you tights to cover your laps (as if my 5-year-old laps could hurt anyone).

I’m taught to wear a bra, and then to wear a singlet on top beneath my translucent top in this terrible weather condition because I do not want men to be uncomfortable seeing the color of my bra.

I’m taught from as soon as I can talk to never speak up, to listen and to be humble. A meek woman makes a home; a loud and pompous woman destroys it.

I’m taught that women are secondary citizens, undeserving of basic social courtesy.

I see men berate women they do not know, hurling word after word of insults onto women, and they take it in silence because that’s what a good wife would do.

And as I grew up, I also became subject to their wickedness. As though all my years of conditioning and meekness were unsatisfactory, I wasn’t groomed enough, I was proud, I raised my shoulders. I’m an ashewo.

You’re raised and groomed to be terrified of being raped. Rape. Sex.

Before you know your name, you’re groomed and taught how to be meek and humble, to accept whatever life gives us because your counterparts in the North are being married off before they can say “Jack Robinson.”

To be born a woman is already a disability and nothing you can do can ever put you in the lead. To be born a woman is a curse and I curse the day I was born.

If you know me, you’ll know I’m a feminist. I’m extremely passionate about women’s rights and their wrongs. I support every good, bad, and ugly decision made by any woman ever (and this is such a large claim). But I truly need to believe these things, to hold on to my beliefs and practice my tiny acts of micro-feminism because what happens when you see the world around you fall apart?

What happens when you follow the rules, you do exactly what you’re taught? You don’t go to the club because women get assaulted at clubs, you don’t wear short skirts because short clothes attract rapists, you don’t speak to men, you keep your sexual purity so you’re not easy and an ashewo. You spend all your time in church, yet your pastor rapes you, then his son comes to finish off the work.

What happens then?

What happens after you do all this and you still don’t win?

What happens when after all your conditioning you still become subject to the very misogyny that conditioned you?

To be a woman is to be terrified of walking alone, of saying no, of seeming rude, or looking too free or too easy.

We like to talk about how far women have come, how we are the first women in our bloodline to achieve these beautiful feats, but we forget that 100 years ago, all these things would have been impossible. We forget that years ago, in the houses we live in, the schools we attend, the churches and mosques we attend, women weren’t individuals (they were properties, commodities bought, lacking basic human rights).

We forget that we are where we are today due to the blood, sweat, and tears of the feminists that came before us. I’m here, not because any man fought for me, but because a few years ago, some women decided that they wanted their daughters and granddaughters to be born into a better society, where they aren’t seen as less than human. They fought and battled and died so that I can write to you saying I’m a feminist. Because if I’m not a feminist, am I a woman? If I’m not a feminist, did all those women bleed and die in vain?

The feminists that died before me will be rolling in their graves because the very daughters they died for are being massacred and killed like livestock.

Their daughters are being pinned down and held down and men are forcefully inserting their penises into their mouths and vaginas and anus and all they can do is go limp in their rapists’ hands.

Their daughters cannot move around freely at night for fear of being raped.

Their daughters celebrate spending 24 hours in society and escaping being called a prostitute.

Their daughters’ sexuality is taken from them, and they are forced to be celibate, to be virgins so they can find a good husband (yet these very men looking for virgin wives go around raping people’s virgin daughters).

Their daughters are too terrified to say no because “NO” can get you killed, it can get you stabbed to death, beaten to a pulp, or raped.

Their daughters are still second-class citizens.

Their daughters are being killed every day.

The feminists before me bled and died and fought for me to sit back in silence. They cried and labored too much for me to ignore their efforts.

They died for the cause, yet their labor of love will be dwindled down into flimsy stories that barely scratch the surface of their achievements.

I’m angry.

But we are not angry enough.

We aren’t enraged enough at the terrible treatment we’re receiving (that we are second-class citizens at best and animals at worst).

You’re taught that men like women with figure-8 shapes and every other body type is considered less beautiful. You’re taught to smile when men make disgusting comments about your body, and ignore when random men on the road hurl insults at you for turning down their advances.

To be a woman is to be a modern-day slave, chained to the expectations and desires of the patriarchy.

We’re forced to bend and contort ourselves into whatever society wants: to be sickly sweet if the men around us are into that, or to be mean if the men around us are into that.

You’re born into a system that’s against you. You’re already losing, and the pillars meant to uphold you are the very ones bringing you down. You’re playing a rigged game, so why are you surprised that you’re already losing?

When can women finally win?

When will we finally rest?

The women that came before me, and I, both face the exact same challenges (except now you’re losing in life, and losing online too).

My heart breaks every day and I honestly cannot explain the amount of pain I feel.

As I end this letter, I want to use this medium to beg you all to tell Scotty and Straff to release Tewo 2.

Lots of Love,

S💋

This is all i have for today 💋

i realize that i can’t keep on posting on tuesdays because my anxiety is crippling and i doubt i can keep up with that. Thank you for understanding. I’m so so grateful for this opportunity. Love you all.

Okay, special shoutout to Ore, Iyi, Oyinwonu, Louisa, Mikun, Onyeno, Diya, Mosope and so many other people. I’ll remember next time. I truly appreciate your feedback. I feel so seen. Thank you so much. 💗

If this is your first time reading my Substack, hi! My name is Salewa and I wish I was loved. I wish I was like the others or just plain unlucky. Today is Friday the 13th. I had a good day with my friends in class. Zay just released Muzz and overall, my day has been amazing. I knew I was forgetting something—like there’s something I’m supposed to be sad about—but I can’t remember. I’ve been thinking, wondering until I saw a video of a girl skating to “Promise” by Laufey. Music is so beautiful; a single song can remind you of a period of time in your life that you’d simply forgotten about. Anyway, “Promise” reminds me of this time last year, when I was praying to God during the Hallelujah Challenge to take away my feelings for this boy. I think about how this time last year, I wept so bitterly because I felt so unloved.

I’ve learned over time that no one has the ability to make you feel anything unless you allow it. You alone have control over your feelings—and I felt that. I know that I have control over what I feel; only I have that power. I wish I could pretend and say that I didn’t feel anything and it’s totally fine, but I think I’m kind of sad?

I think there’s this emptiness that I’ve been unable to fill. I believe that platonic love cannot fill this hole as much as romantic love would—and despite how I’ve tried to allow myself and my friends to fill that hole, I’ve realized now that nothing fits. I realize that I’m just looking for highs to fill that hole. I made a new friend in my department and I really like talking to him, and at first I think I started talking to him simply for the high of talking to someone new—I just wanted to experience it—but I like the friendship I think we’re growing, and I’m shy in advance if anyone that knows me personally reads this.

But anyway, I realize that this is what I do: I hyperfixate on silly little tasks for a little adrenaline boost, then I end up feeling empty in the end because nothing yet can fill that hole.

No amount of friendship.

But today, I’m not writing to you because I’m sad, even though I might be. I’m writing to you because I refuse to dwell on that sadness. I’m a 5’2 extremely emotional girl and sometimes it’s hard not to want to be loved or feel all the feels. I’m writing because I’m reflecting on my growth.

I fear this hole, this gap and this longing I feel, is unsatiable. Pretending that I’m okay with things that break my heart is so exhausting. I wonder why I must constantly be an example, why God always chooses me to be His strongest soldier. I’ve tried to fill this hole with school, alcohol, self-harm and religion and every single one of them has disappointed me. I recently read one of my favorite authors’ Substack—my namesake Salewa—she wrote about why she ghosts people and I actually paused mid-read. I wondered what exactly about me makes boys think I’m undeserving. What makes me feel this way.

I think about why I have bent myself over backwards for people, why people always leave me.

I love to talk about the joys of friendship, and the community that is girlhood, but pardon me for today as I bawl my eyes out just this once. I have a best friend, maybe 2, I don’t know, but I do know that I have people that I’m supposed to run to anytime I feel sad, or feel happy or everything between. What happens when all the sacrifices, all the emotions—what happens when it all isn’t reciprocated? Okay, it’s not totally unreciprocated, but it’s unequal. What if I’m going the extra mile for people that are not going half a mile for me.

Once again if you’re my friend and you read this, please don’t text me and ask me if you also make me feel this way, because the answer is yes. You make me feel that way—I think about it deeply and I know that I doubt that there’s anything or anyone that can fill this void. My best friend is on this bed with me, and I’m here almost in tears wishing we had the friendship I idolized that we would have.

I’m the type to joke about my issues and I promise that I’ve joked around about this so many times, maybe she didn’t get the joke, or maybe she doesn’t understand who I am. I don’t know. I wish I had someone that was my person, like we exist in a vacuum and this person would always always pick me because I am theirs. I have searched and I have tried to find this sort of friendship. Oh well. I think the main reason I am so sad about Valentine’s is simply not because I feel a void in my heart, but because that hole is gaping—nothing or no one has tried to fill that hole, not friendship, not my best friend, not my parents and not even religion. I wonder when or why or maybe I’m simply not worthy of this love I seek. I do not know.

I’m writing straight from the heart so please allow me. Allow me today to be totally vulnerable and explain how the past 2 betrayals I experienced altered my brain chemistry. I think about the one that ghosted me, I think about how I allowed myself to warm up to him, how I knew that what we had was temporary but that does not decrease the fact that the whole ordeal altered my brain chemistry.

I think the reason I hate the one that led me on is because of the amount of determination and dedication he put into leading me on. I think of all the many times I let myself believe the things he was telling me even though a part of me wanted to question his intentions, to sit him down and make him promise that he truly had my best intentions at heart.

Allow me to explain to you that I feel like I do not belong with my friends, allow me to explain that I feel merely like an accessory and not like an essential part. Early this semester, 2 of my friends were fighting because of a communication issue, and one of them got really close to me, and I could see how much she missed her friend, how much her absence was missed and how they belonged to each other. This was new—to see how your absence or not speaking really bothered another person. It felt so good, it is truly beautiful to see, and it broke my heart because I do not think that I have this. Aside from this, during that period we got closer and it felt great, to have someone that was always willing to be yours, a ride or die. Something like this. It gives me this high that I cannot explain and I remember that I adore being picked, being shown affection, being loved and once more, I wonder what exactly is wrong with me.

I love to distract myself and I know that there are people that choose me, I know that there are people that love me and so many more things that I really do not care to think of at all because the people that are supposed to make me feel these things, the people that are supposed to pick me, they are unavailable, or simply incapable of doing this and I wonder what breaks my heart more.

Sometimes, hearing rumors about yourself is totally exhausting, constantly being the object of public mockery over your sexuality is quite annoying, and I wish I was like the girls that aren’t bothered about stuff like this.

I think I’m beautiful sometimes, I wish I was taller and had a little more flesh, I wish I could change my body and if one day I can afford to, I definitely will. I wish I was so many things, but most of all, I wish I wasn’t myself.

Being a best friend has always been a big deal to me, right from when I’d been skeptical of letting people in because I learned pretty young that no one can love you as much as you love yourself. I had a plethora of best friends in secondary school, until I met Irene. Irene is the reason that I believe in female friendships, and with time we grew apart, then I befriended Moyo and Anjola and Eniola and Tamilore and Elizabeth and these girls became my favorite people in the world until we had to go our separate ways. I promised myself going into uni I didn’t need a best friend until one day I woke up and realized I had one. I cannot lie that my best friend isn’t a great and wonderful person, but at the same time I cannot lie that we currently have the friendship I had once envisioned.

I think I didn’t want a best friend because I was used to nearly impossible standards, I was used to girls that would write me letters when they thought I was sad and cook for me and surprise me on my birthday. I also can’t discredit my best friend and say she’s a horrible person, but do you love right if you cannot love a person how they desire to be loved? I hold my friendships to impossible standards and it breaks my heart that I am not being loved the way I want to be loved.

I’m writing this, not in tears but I don’t feel so good. There’s a type of friendship I see portrayed on social media, the phenomenon of having your own person. I watch these videos and I’m so jealous because it’s so beautiful to see. I see people have friends, their own person that’s theirs and theirs alone. The person they run to in a crowd, make plans with. The person that is your person and your person alone. I have a lot of friends, I love these friends so abundantly but I detest this. Everyone has the person that they run to, even my “best friend” isn’t mine and I know she’ll read this and she’ll text me and apologize and offer reassurance but it still doesn’t change the reality of things.

She has her own people, she has someone that always picks her and who she will always pick and it’s exhausting to be struggling for leftover attention, it’s exhausting to be the last one remembered, the one that’s almost forgotten. The friend you text last.

Last semester I got immensely close with this girl, and I don’t know if this babe realized but I adored her. Spending time with her and being with her felt so good. Now I realize that yes, she was funny and nice, but overall, she chose me. When she wanted to go out, she would ask me, when she wanted to get food she would ask me. It felt amazing to be chosen by her. I still miss that feeling today.

I hate that I have to overextend myself to be noticed. I’m not the type of person you go home and tell your friends you met, I’m the forgettable one.

I’m not trying to be a pick-me. I’m not even trying to play the victim. I’m just telling you what happens.

I feel extremely weak. I wish I was strong and smart and beautiful. I see my friends set semi-impossible standards and I wish I could do that too. I wish I could be strict, I wish I would be chosen, picked and searched for.

This is my 1-millionth time discussing my need or desire to be picked, I’m sorry but I don’t know what else I want more in this world.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S MY LOVELIES 💕

I can’t believe this is how i spent the hours leading up until valentines. chai. Hi guys! I’ll probably delete this soon, I doubt I will even post the link on my socials.

thank you 💋

I find myself awake at 1 a.m., unable to read. I’ve been struggling to write, to explain so many things. This letter has to be one of the hardest I’ve written in a while, not because I didn’t know what to write about, but because there was too much to say and I wonder if I’m the right vessel to bring this news to you. I wonder if I’m a good enough writer, a good enough person to discuss the things I want to write about with you.

I treat these Substacks as love letters to a secret lover and I enjoy the excitement of living and looking forward to the little things that inspire me enough to write.

I’m so glad I can be consistent with this. It’s such a great escape. I’ve been good. So many people texted me about my last Substack and my heart broke open. You heal me every time you tell me you enjoy my writing. All the tears and heartbreak. It all feels worth it if you love my writing.

I don’t know what about my last Substack was so good, but you loved it and it pulled at my heartstrings. I like to pretend no one really reads my work. I love thinking I’m like those new-age underground artists with such a niche following that adores them. But this time so many people reached out about it and I cried. They said they felt so seen, which is all I ever wanted. Putting myself out there in all my sadness and vulnerability and you seeing our similarities, that we’re all the same and made up of the same soft stuff. If my vulnerability makes you feel seen, then I’m so satisfied.

I thank God for Tobe. That’s so weird to say, to be so appreciative of a stranger. I wish I was lying or could explain why, but I’m grateful to be able to read his work. I’m grateful to be captivated by his writing and every day when I’m done reading his work I pray someone feels this way about me. I hope someone reads my letters and it feels like a hug. I hope you feel that way. I love his ability to love me to tears. I love that I feel seen. Such a beautiful writer and I love his vulnerability. Posting and social media make you want to perform this perfection, this unreasonable standard of grace that no one can totally or normally attain. So I feel like posting constantly, or rather gaining an audience, turns you into some sort of performer. It’s beautiful to just see the mask slip and you can see his humanity. You can see how he truly is or feels. I love that he’s also human like me and despite his audience he also feels like I do.

I realized something else: MFFM, My Fear of Feeling Mid. I’m scared that now in my day-to-day writings it won’t be as captivating as the first, that it won’t leave such a deep feeling on your chest and maybe I will fall off? I don’t know. It’s this fear that nothing will equate to my past prime. I felt that with my TikTok and even with my Twitter. When I scroll down my feed it’s hard to feel beautiful. I see people racking up views for simply being beautiful girls and I wonder if something’s wrong with me.

I loved when posting my outfits was simply because I felt cool in them. I really hate social media and I’m lying but I miss how carefree life was before it. I hate how much I struggle with equating my worth and my looks to views and likes. I post myself to sounds and make cute videos and when I started I did it purely for the love of the game, simply because I loved how I looked with the sound and I enjoyed how I looked in that outfit. But now the constant comparison, the thinking and wondering. It doesn’t even make it better that any random girl can blow up for being beautiful. It makes me wonder what’s wrong with me or why I’m not beautiful enough.

And I struggled to come out of a writing slump simply because I didn’t want my work to seem so forced. I wrote my last letter to you so effortlessly because I was extremely emotional and pouring out my feelings. I tried to replicate that feeling. Maybe if I was triggered enough I’d be able to write something that moves people as much as the last one did. I tried and tried to recreate that same tone and level of emotion. I lost the initial excitement and almost didn’t post this but I hate to be a dishonest lover. I made sure to deliver another love letter to you my lovelies. So I’m sorry if this doesn’t hit like the last. I hope to recreate that again.

So many things have happened to me yet so little has happened. I don’t think I’m used to these quiet periods and I’ve been trying to find something exciting to fill the void. Before it was trying to make a new friend but now that new friend is my friend so where’s the next adrenaline rush going to come from? That’s so new, not having anything or anyone to be hyper-fixated on. I don’t know what triggered this line of thought but I’ve just been thinking about how late last year one creative started talking to me and after about a month of friendship he started calling me his homegirl. He was always yapping about pushing my business or supporting me and how I never returned the favor. I know why I didn’t return the favor though. I know why I couldn’t bring myself to post his extremely misogynistic lyrics or his songs about all those hoes. I couldn’t bring myself to really see him as a friend because I know his views on women, about how he sees the LGBTQ+ community. Call it my own form of micro-feminism but to me I guess it’s common sense. How would I publicly associate myself with views and principles I don’t align with just because of a friendship? Fortunately that extremely uncomfortable friendship ended after months and months of back-and-forth where I was at the receiving end of a lot of criticism for not “fucking with his music.” The issue wasn’t even his music. I wasn’t fucking with him as a human being actually.

I think back to our final interaction, to how rude and dismissive he had been to me on many different occasions and how even being his friend couldn’t exempt me from his misogyny. I’ve never believed that I’m the exception and I know on his story that day he went on a full-on rant. He would probably have called me a bitch talking about how he got here without me. I wish I cared.

I’m including this because I see people befriend the most misogynistic men around and when they are the subject of his cruelty they act surprised, as if misogyny recognizes friendship and as if their friend’s disgusting beliefs will somehow skip over you when they’re handing out their misogyny. As if proximity with evil makes it somehow less evil. It’s actually hilarious when they’re finally on the receiving end of that misogyny because an evil man is an evil man.

Unrelated but if you’re on Twitter enough you’d have interacted with or seen a tweet from Wizarab. I remember when Demilade (may his soul rest in perfect peace) was sick. I remember how people tagged Wiz every day until he died, not even asking for money but simply for a retweet so their tweets would get to a wider audience and they wouldn’t lose their friend. But they did and when he died Wiz came out and tweeted one silly thing about RIP. People were so mad at him for that. They were ranting and they were so so mad but I wasn’t surprised. A wicked person will not change himself for you to suit your needs. A wicked man is a wicked man regardless of his proximity to power and that won’t make him more empathetic. Because at the end he is nothing more than a wicked man. It was so sad to see people expect something from him. A terrible person is a terrible person every day. He won’t take a break from his evil to be kind to you. That’s just how they are. And I know that he has helped people in the past but why couldn’t he have helped us? I wish I could have warned them.

I try not to judge and to pick and choose the people I associate with. I’ll never be the one to excuse unacceptable behavior and if that means losing one more friend over this that’s fine. Because one day when his misogyny comes out, I want to be in no way associated with him.

I think about our last interaction and how my skepticism about being friends with him was never wrong. And I’m grateful for my gut.

While we’re on the discussion of feminism I miss when I was a devout Christian. I feel like I’ve brushed on this topic so many times in my writing. I’ve tried to write about it but I was writing from a point of jealousy, jealous of those people who fall into the supportive arms of religion.I couldn’t write about the lost feeling that i missed, how it felt to be totally engrossed in your belief, all I saw was envy, envy for the people that had the very relationship that I once craved. To find a belief and know instant that this is what you want for yourself forever. I was once like that. Second semester 100 level, after the greatest breakup of my life, before I decided to actually heal, I allowed myself to be swept up by the current of religion. I was always praying. I would spend hours praying to God to heal my heart. I stopped listening to secular music. I only listened to gospel and I did this cold turkey. One day I woke up and my heart was aching so much and I guess the best way to deal with it was to turn back to the one that created the heart. Or so I thought. Even though time passed and I snapped out of what felt like psychosis I started trying to understand my feelings, why I was so sad and why it was so hard to breathe when I saw my ex. And I actually decided to mend my heart myself. I don’t know what about this entire ordeal killed my fire for religion.

And this might seem like such a flimsy excuse you know like I should just say that I never ever felt that connected to God. But I did. I loved God. I used to stand praying simply because I enjoyed the feeling of being in God’s presence. I was always in tears because I was in awe of that feeling. I prayed and fasted and interceded. I held God to His word and despite it all He didn’t heal my heart?

Maybe the healing was finding religion right? Nah. I remember how I prayed and prayed to God before initiating anything with that boy and how despite my best efforts I ended up sad.

Please I’m not male-centered. Excuse the fact that so many things in my life surround this one-month relationship. I just do not understand how it all played out.

Can I be a Christian and a feminist? I think we all watched Faithful Feminists dissect and deep-dive into Christianity and misogyny and how it ended in her leaving the religion. That was so jarring to me, to see someone that loved God so much, someone so devoted simply walk away from a belief system she had held on to for years. It truly terrified me, it terrifies me because I saw how much she loved God.

I don’t think feminism and Christianity go hand in hand . I know this is such a heavy discussion especially coming from the note that this started on but that’s just how I’ve been feeling, the thoughts that have been on my mind.

I wish I could discuss more but I’ve lost the zeal. I’ve lost my faith and I doubt there’s any coming back from that.

Well I’m not lying. I have lost the zeal. I’m scared of being vulnerable. I’m terrified of proximity and I know that doesn’t sound like me. Usually I’m warm or welcoming, that is when you get to know me. I feel like I present myself in a much different light: stricter and less welcoming simply because I can. Because I’m scared of how I will be perceived after people see how I truly am. I’m an open book so I live in constant terror of being judged, the fear of being misunderstood or even worse misinterpreted. I’m scared that people will see through my facade. Isn’t that terrifying, of being seen for who you really are? But despite my fear I crave proximity and familiarity. I love the feeling of openness and dependence that comes from confidence. I wish so badly to be totally seen but at the same time I’m totally scared of how that would feel.

A song that reminds me of this feeling is “The Kids Are Alright” by Ayra Starr. It’s such a stunning song, simply beautiful. I love it so much because of how vulnerable she is. I love how close I feel to her, how she sings like she’s the only one and I’m blessed to be a spectator of her in her most vulnerable form. I adore it when you can truly see creatives in their most natural form. I know why I’m obsessed with Jola and FK and why Tobe makes me so happy.

We live in such an out-of-touch society where people spend hour after hour masking their personalities and perfecting their performances of perfection. It feels like such a breath of fresh air to see people be their real authentic selves.

I like to think about the constant performance of femininity and masculinity around me. I wish I could write articles and explain in detail but let me just give my own two cents.

In my free time I listen to Adele, I fantasize about an extremely passionate and sexy love. I pray and dream that one day I will experience the love that she constantly sings about. I am the music I listen to so I constantly listen to SZA and Giveon and Olivia Rodrigo. Although these are artists with many different layers depicted in their discography they have a central theme of romance and yearning. I am the music I listen to and I constantly find myself being inspired by these people. I think about the emotional imbalance. I live in a society where men perform nonchalance and where emotional immaturity is encouraged as long as they’re strong and don’t show emotion.

I once had a heated debate with that ex-friend the creative. I listened to him speak of women and love with such great disdain, talking about avoiding women in total and the evil that is women. It was so sad to see because it just shows a lack of proper emotional regulation. As we go through life we live and we love and we lose. It’s a cycle, a pattern but your hurt is not an excuse to be mean or hurtful or insolent.

I realize now that society is so quick to make excuses for men and their shortcomings: lack of emotional maturity masked as “nonchalance and avoidance”, poor emotional regulation as “anger issues”. We live in a society that’s so quick to slap a name onto poor behavior as if that will somehow make bad behavior better. I once also subscribed to that belief that maybe because of his past or because of his trauma that’s why he is the way he is. To me this is unacceptable and I hope that I’m able to leave these situations because I am too young and too beautiful to be anyone’s punching bag because of their inability to regulate their emotions.

I have a friend Ugo and if I was to describe love to you I would tell you about Innocent. I wish I could lie and bring up a time Ugo was less than the perfect friend to me but I would be lying. I think about our friendship a lot, about how lucky I am to have befriended him. My favorite thing about Ugo is his sympathy and strive for perfection. Life has dealt its own fair share of cards to Ugo. He has been through more than enough but every single time Ugo has chosen to heal and be better. Ugo carries no resentment or anger. He truly has a sweet soul. Ugo reminds me to every day choose to be a kind person. I remember texting Ugl last week at 1 a.m. in tears because I was so excited about my last Substack and I stayed awake till he was done typing an in-depth response. I have always felt seen as long as I’ve been his friend and I’m super grateful for Ugo. I think to all the times I’ve ever cried on his shoulder or when he has been there for me before I even realized that I was sad and I cannot help but cry because I can’t believe how lucky I am to have him. I’m truly sorry for people that will not get to experience him because he’s such a sweet soul. I love to see him in love, I love to see him happy, I love to see him receive all the love he gives out.

Ugo reminds me that you’re only a product of your decisions and not other people’s mistakes. He reminds me that your actions reflect only your character and you must every day wake up and choose kindness. Innocent is the friend my whole family has heard of without even meeting him and I’m so so grateful. I’m truly sorry lucky to experience life with him as my friend.

I hope we all have a friend like Ugo. I mention him not because he’s perfect (he kinda is though) but because he truly tries to wake up and break stereotypes and that’s so beautiful to see.

And I bring him up not just to brag but because he told me something once: he said that he knows most people know the difference between right and wrong behavior, they know when and what they should do at a given time and their inability to do it or them overdoing it is simply because they don’t care. And that stuck. It stuck to me but I don’t know how it will stick to you.

Valentine’s is coming and I’ve been thinking, the season of love but I am without love. And I’m not coming from my regular angle you know, the one where I’m sad and crying about it. I’m looking at myself. This is like an out-of-body experience. I’m looking at myself from the eyes of a stranger and what if I’m just a silly girl? Why am I constantly bothered by these nonentities? Why do I spend my time occupied and reading about things that are nonexistent? I can imagine my daddy reading my Substack. As someone that’s emotionally unavailable he would tell me to spend more time reading instead of being sad about things that are not relevant.

Hi guys! I almost didn’t post this. My first draft even got deleted, but I promised to post every Tuesday so here I am.

I really struggled with my writing, and I hope it doesn’t reflect in the quality of my writing. I appreciate the encouragement and I apologize for any errors or if i mentioned anything offensive.

thank you so much for the support my lovelies

💋

I’ve been good. Very good. This is new, writing to you without a gaping hole in my heart. Simply writing because I love it and not because I need to convey a heavy emotion that’s suffocating. This is good, but it’s new.

I deal well with new—new clothes, new people and new faces. I acclimatize very fast. I adapt too fast that I forget how I used to survive before the new normal. “New normal” is such a funny thing to say.

School just resumed and I’ve never been more scared in my life. I spend time studying, more than I ever studied in my life. I struggle to attend classes. I struggle to perform a reverence for a line of work I do not care about. I go to classes late; and lecturers send me out and my coursemates laugh because I’m a silly unserious girl with her silly unserious friend group. But sometimes it stings. The insults from my coursemates, the laughs, the mockery. The fact that no matter how much I push myself I’d never be like my former roommates haunts me. It haunts me that no matter how much I exert myself I don’t think I could ever be enough. If I wake up early and sit in the front and study all day, I still wouldn’t be enough. I’ll always be a silly unserious girl. Why can’t it be someone else for once?

I wish I loved this department, or I wish it was easier to pretend to love this course. But it’s hard. Nursing is hard. It is too hard for me to be slacking off, not attending classes and not reading—guess the worst part? This is just the start. I am nowhere near how terrible it gets and that scares me.

I look at my former roommate and her friends. They go to classes early, they’re punctual, they do extra credit, they volunteer, they’re course rep and senator. They are beautiful girls excelling and it’s so beautiful to behold. It would be more beautiful if it was me, but oh well. I look at my 100-level roommates; they’re still friends, they hang out together and I’m jealous because I wish I had what they had. I wish I was smart and funny and beautiful and all-round. I’m truly jealous of those girls; such beautiful girls. They do it all and it’s hard to not compare myself. It’s hard to not feel less than, especially since I am trying my absolute best. It’s hard to not feel less than. I watched a video about unreal beauty standards and the harms of comparison and the girl was making so much sense; but I just knew I was going to continue. I can’t stop.

But enough of the academic tears. I will always weep about that always and forever. I’m doomed to be a mediocre student and that’s fine. On a scarier note, I’ve been reflecting, thinking and studying. I’ve had time for myself and I can see my very obvious flaws. I’ve always loved self-evaluation and I’ve had no choice but to do so.

I used to hate being single. Not talking to a man made me feel less than, like somehow I am ugly and undeserving of love and affection. I used to so greatly desire to be wanted, to be liked, to be chosen and to be picked but now; I realize that I am all I have. But I can’t continue this my rant about wanting to be chosen. I have post after post on this app describing how I rip my heart to shreds and bend over backwards to be desired and now that I’m totally void of that, it’s scary and new. I’m not mad at it my lovelies, it’s just strange.

If you know me, you’ll know I always struggled with my sense of self. I’ve always never known myself totally, I’ve had so many phases and so many eras I regret however with time, I found some things I like, some things I became passionate about. I fell in love with feminism and I was radicalized by my heartbreak, I became a wicked angry feminist and I haven’t been happier since I made that decision. I found my style, I wore stuff that suited me and people began to acknowledge that I had a great style. I have never totally been free from my insecurities, I still cried because I hated my features once in a while, but I was better. I was happier. I discovered piercings and I haven’t been the same since. My first piercing was my smiley and I’m eternally grateful to Ope and Doyin that pierced me. I got my second lobes next, then my third lobes and my helix that closed. I got a septum for my 18th birthday because for the first time, I had begun to feel beautiful regardless of what people said. Some of my piercings have closed because of school and because of my struggle with profiling and my course of study, but my passion for piercings never waned. I knew I had found what I loved. Every time I look in the mirror with all my piercings on, I have never felt more beautiful. I rewatch videos of me with all my piercings like they’re my dead wife in awe of my glow. How I felt accepted and chosen. But isn’t it just a pair of earrings? I don’t know how to explain it.

My friends call me alte a lot, they said I have a specific type of person that I’m attracted to and they couldn’t be more right. I’m so passionate about fashion, and jewelry and my style. I love wearing clothes and talking about what brands had the hardest stuff. I love wearing clothes and posting myself to music I think is cool because it makes me feel good. I love styling myself and I dream dreams of one day modeling. For someone that struggled with their sense of self for so so long, it felt so good to find something they loved and were good at. Something they are so so passionate about. It felt so good to be seen in an aspect. I love being alte if being alte is what makes me happy.

I’ve always known I loved controversy. I’d tell you why I hate your favorite artist because he’s a serial assaulter, or that your favorite nepo baby is buying Birkins with people’s taxes. I’ll tell you that I love abortion and wish it was free and I’d argue these points to the death, because I am so deeply passionate about it. I can discuss my beliefs without making you feel irrelevant or wrong because we are all humans and are entitled to our opinions.

I detest marriage, and for a lover girl, I’m a living walking oxymoron. I love the concept of finding the wonderful one for you and getting together and being together forever, but is that what marriage is? I see so many terrible examples of the pain in the ass marriage is and it’s better safe than sorry to me. I’ve sworn to stay far away from it. Someone told me they can’t marry me because of my piercings and it struck a very strong chord in my heart. I’m not sure if it’s because of who made the statement, my relationship and feel reverence for the person, or simply because someone that knows me would say that to my face. I’m still not sure, but it made me cry.

It made me cry because I never win, I’ve never won and I don’t think I’m capable of winning.

No matter how hard I try, I’m always on the losing side, my happiness has never lined up with society’s expectations. I’m tired of being judged. I’m judged by my peers, by society, by my friends, and now by God that was supposed to be my safe space. I can’t even discuss religion anymore. I had a conversation with my friends and they laughed and it shattered me, and it happened again and again and again and I doubt I’d ever tell them, but it’s so easy to break me.

No matter what I do, I’ll never be desired or seen in a conventional way, I have to shroud myself in so much controversy to be accepted by society. Isn’t that too heavy for good old little Salewa?

No one understands that it’s either I pierce this body or I cut it or I burn it, I must relieve the emotional pain with something physical or I would lose my mind. I’m constantly repiercing my ears when I’m sad. Touching the holes, making it bleed because I know deep down I’m not ok. Because this physical pain blocks out the emotional one and that’s better. Its scars are less obvious.

Recently, a couple I know broke up and the girl vents about her ex and it terrifies me. Most times when she talks I find ways to push the blame on to her and I was shocked at first when I realized. Why was I blaming her? How was she somehow at fault for his insecurities and inability to regulate his emotions? Why was I blaming her for being unable to cater to his emotional needs? It scares me how similar I am to him, how the things she hates about him are the things I myself have done to other people. I realized that I immediately sided with him because I understand him. I don’t just understand him, I’m him every other day and that terrifies me. How people can see my love and affection as a burden. I see myself in him and that is scary. My anxious attachment terrifies me, and I no longer know the difference between what is real and what is imagined. What is pure emotion or logic. I don’t know where Salewa ends and my anxiety begins.

When I started writing this to you, I wanted to tell you about how good life has been, how I’m single and free and happy. But you know I’m a terrible liar. I wish I could be all these things I present to be. I realize I’m so scared of who I truly am; of confronting my own self because what if I’m not who I thought I was? What if I hate who I am?

Lastly, I hate distance because distance always takes from me. It always takes the people I love the most. As I’m writing this tonight to you, words cannot quantify how much I miss my friends. I’m crying at 12:28 explaining how much I miss Folawe and Innocent and Fiyin and Ite and Jordan and Ope. I’m crying because I mourn the friendships I lost because of the pursuit of romance. If you ask me by 7am tomorrow if I miss Iwo, I’d say you’re stupid and there’s nothing for me there; but deep down my heart breaks every time I need a shoulder to cry on and my friends aren’t here. And I’m not lonely here, but I just miss Folawe so much it hurts.

I miss the people that have broken my heart, I carry no hate for them. I wish I could, but every time I insult them, I lie, because if I could I would reach out to them and tell them how I feel. The one that ghosted me, the one that left me, the one that wasn’t mine. Every single one of them shatters my heart and I keep space for them.

I lie to myself that I run away from romance because I’m not interested, or because niggas ain’t shit, but deep down I know I cannot deal with another heartbreak. I know that school is suffocating me and I’m already drowning as it is, no need to carry more weight on me. I know that my heart cannot physically be hurt any more than it already is, because I’m already at my edge, my back is to the wall and I doubt I’d make it. I wouldn’t make it.

When I started writing to you tonight, I didn’t know what to write. I thought I was fine, but my conversation with I triggered me so much. I knew that my facade couldn’t hold much longer.

Thank you for listening my lovelies. You guys truly know me best and I am grateful for the opportunity to pour out myself to you.

💋

P.S expect new letters every tuesday 💋

I used to read Enid Blyton books and craft my own stories. I filled journals with my writing, and my mommy always encouraged me. My aunty would send the most beautiful books that I’d fill up with words and stories and dreams. Over time, it had become my escape. I’ve always been blessed with words. I know how to craft and compel. Writing truly was my first love, and it has never left me—from primary school, to secondary school, and now in university.

In secondary school, I befriended the most amazing group of girls. We would write letters to each other, and I’ve never been more grateful for female friendship. These girls were my world, and I am eternally grateful because they were my first peer supporters. I would write letters to Bamby reminding her that she was loved and she deserved so much more. I would write letters to the boys that broke my heart. I’d explain why exactly I liked them, expressing and asking myself why they were breaking my heart because of their inability to love me back.

I think back to my first boyfriend. I wrote so many love letters. I couldn’t fathom loving someone so much and so deeply. I was truly in love. He was one of my greatest muses. I wrote page after page explaining how truly I loved him, how I would do anything for him, and how he was my first everything. And when we broke up, I wrote about how my world was ripped into two by his absence. I’d send text after text trying to understand him. Now looking back, we were just two kids who didn’t know what they wanted, but to 16-year-old me, it was all so real and heartbreaking.

Writing has always been with me, and I write when I am in love. Maybe this was when I got it all wrong—when I made my writing purely about expressing my hurt. I made it about trying to convey how much rage and pure anguish I was feeling, to make you sit and cry with me. I made it about telling the story of how terribly I’ve been done.

2025 was the year I started posting on Substack because I wanted to share my work, my love. I decided that these ideas, these memories, these emotions that seemed so heavy, so unbearable—I wasn’t the only one carrying them. I wanted you to understand that I am you and you are me and we are one and the same. That I understand how you feel when you cry wondering if anyone could ever love you. I needed you to understand that you’re not alone when you look in the mirror and wonder why you don’t look like everyone else, when everyone else around you is happy and you’re happy too (but you’re really not and you just want to go home and cry into your pillow). I needed you to understand that your unique experiences are shared. I wanted you to understand what it is to walk in my shoes, to carry all that love on your shoulders, to feel all the feelings, to be hyper-aware of your emotions and to carry them like a load on your back.

I posted my first Substack after reading one of Desire’s letters. It was stuck in my head—the sheer art of sharing your dreams and aspirations with others, to carry along people you love with your writing. Truly a blessing. I didn’t just want to share my tears with you. I wanted you to see that it might be hard being a below-average student but your grades aren’t terrible. I needed you to understand that even though your best friend doesn’t choose you, at least you have friends that love you. And when you feel like you’re the floater friend that’s very disposable, you remember that you’re extremely rare and special. And maybe sometimes you’re not enough for your parents or your friends or even God, but you’re more than enough for me.

In 2026, I write to you, my lovelies, not because I’m in love, but because I choose to love myself this year. I’ve decided to share myself, to let you all into my heart, to make you all my lovers. I’ve decided that there’s too much of Salewa to go round and you all can taste from the sweetness that is Salewa. I’ve decided that I am also worthy of the love I see others receive. I have decided that I am also beautiful and I am caring and I am kind.

I’ve tried writing this multiple times, each time from a different angle. Even now as I write, I am not entirely sure. But I do know one thing: this is my year.

I write to all 53 of you because you all made my year, my closest companions. I cried, I wept, and you stayed and read the lines I created and crafted with tears in my eyes, and for that I am grateful. I am grateful to be able to share myself with you, to tear open my heart and show you where exactly it hurts. I am grateful because when I felt like I had no one—not even my best friend—I wrote to you and you wrote back. I am grateful for this platform and to be able to show and express myself so boldly.

Late last year I felt like I was oversharing, like no one needs to see this much of me. But maybe they do, because now everyone acts like they’re all put together—me included. I post my OOTDs and my thirst traps sometimes and I forget that I am also human, that I am the same Salewa that feels all these big feelings. And I am grateful that my friends don’t read this, because I wouldn’t want them to text me and ask if I’m okay, because I’m not. Sometimes I forget that I exist in the real world outside of these emotions.

This 2026, I’m writing to you because this is a new chapter. I’m older and wiser. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to be excited about the new year. I sat down in church, stoic. I couldn’t understand why everyone was so happy. Call me an ingrate—I know. I sat down and was unable to bring myself to count my blessings. I just couldn’t. But then I might have lost the part of me that believed in all that. Yeah. But I am excited because you will be coming with me. I am excited that I’ll learn to understand myself more and love myself more. I am excited to carry you all with me.

I craft paragraphs of my life and my struggles. I sit in tears writing about my deepest pains and joys. Thank you for reading. Thank you for liking and thank you for sharing. I explained my challenges and my greatest heartbreaks and you stayed and listened. Thank you for being there for me when even my best friend couldn’t.

Thank you, Diya, for always reading. Thank you, Mikun, for always commenting. Thank you, Ore and Ib. Thank you, Ibk, because you reading meant a lot to me. Thank you to all my beautiful friends and everyone that reads what I write, because you alone are the reason I live and I love.

Thank you, my lovelies. Till next time.

Your lover,

s 💗

HAPPY NEW YEAR!💗💗💗💗

(Listen to Die on this Hill- Sienna Spiro while reading for a better experience.)

I used to be a pick-me, a horrible, terrible pick-me. Take me back to SS2, when I would do any and everything in my power to be validated by the male gender.

But today I’m not here to write about what radicalized me. I’m here to explain how it feels to be a pick-me.

Not the regular kind—I’m different. I don’t need to be picked by a man; I just need to be picked by the one I love.

You know, my name is Unrequited Love. Omosalewa Unrequited-Love A.

I’ve been in so many situations, and maybe the amount of myself I have lost is finally taking its toll on me. The time, the feelings, the pieces of me I’ve given away have finally come to make me feel so light. so light that nothing weighs me down.

You can only describe this feeling as emptiness. Maybe I have given up so much of myself that I am finally empty. Weightless, so easily swayed and pushed. I no longer know who I am, but I know once thing- that I’m tired.

I am exhausted. I wish I wasn’t myself. I wish I were the girl who spends hours thinking, hoping, and writing about things that actually happen in society.

Day after day, I only reach for my pen after I’ve been hurt, after I’ve been pushed away, after I’ve been left behind.

Recently I’ve reached a new low: I’ve been left behind but still refuse to move on. I was treated so poorly, yet I thought that if I persevered, my love would one day matter, one day my yearning would be justified.

I was battered and bruised, my self-esteem in shambles. I can barely function. I’m tired.

I’m tired.

I drank and thought and prayed that one day he would look back and realize I am a sweet girl, and finally I would be chosen.

I’ve always known I’m anxiously attached. I struggle with leaving people. I’m terrified of being left behind, so instead I try to leave first.

Once again I’m forced to walk away from something I truly believed was mine. I’m so used to the goodbyes, to trying to understand. I’m exhausted. So, so exhausted. I’ve wanted, I’ve yearned, I’ve wished to be chosen, yet time and time again I am not. I’m never chosen.

We all hate a pick-me, but pardon me this one time: I wish I was chosen. I wish I was enough. I wish he had looked at me and decided I was worthy of being the one.

I’m tired of being the one left behind, of being the second option, second best, the backup.

I realize I love you more than I love myself, and I really hate myself for that. I’ve given you so much of my love that I no longer know how to function. You control me because I wanted it to be you—so badly.

I’m once again the other woman. One year later.

One year later and I’m still here. Everyone else has moved on. I’m still crying.

I’m still begging to be picked.

I’m still praying that I will learn to be enough.

I have given you too much of myself. I have nothing left. When I look inside, I am empty because, once again, I have given you all of me.

As I always do.

So yes, I am a pick-me.

But for a good cause.

And maybe—I should pick myself.

Maybe the saddest part is how you did it. You could have done it on Sunday, in person. You could have just waited for it to organically end, but you just ended things, just like that. Without thinking about how I’d feel. You even ghosted me first. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you did all this. There never has been, and never will be, something you talked to me about that I didn’t do as you asked. So why ghost me? Why go through all of that? Was it that bad that you didn’t even want to talk about it with me? You didn’t care for my side?

I’ve always wondered and questioned things. I’ve tried to disassociate your words and so-called feelings from your actions, but here I am months later, questioning if you ever cared. You claimed that you cared, but how reliable is that now though? If you ever saw me as anything, and I think that is what breaks my heart the most. That truly, we were nothing. That I now live without understanding what happened, how you truly felt.

I’m even more sad that you didn’t see the need to discuss things with me. To talk things through. Was I that bad? Did you dislike me that much? These things always break my heart, because I thought of calling it quits multiple times, but I liked you too much to do so. I thought it would end with time, so I would enjoy what I had left. I had nothing left. I guess my glass was full, and my time was up.

You have devastated me, and I don’t know the way forward. I can’t even breathe properly anymore. I miss you so much it clouds my vision. My heart aches not because you no longer want whatever we were, but because we were nothing, so I no longer can mourn it. I can’t mourn the friendship and companionship I so greatly crave. I miss nothing. The nothing we once shared.

This nothing that constantly surrounds me, and I’m suffocating. This nothing constantly made my days, my weeks, and my months. This nothing that has now left me unable to function. I no longer can cry. Can you see that nothing breaks things? It breaks people. It has broken me. That’s maybe the saddest part. I can’t even cry, because why cry over nothing? But this was my favorite nothing.

The nothing that kept me going. The nothing I tried to change for. I wonder why this nothing couldn’t change, couldn’t grow into something beautiful. You ghosted me. Ghosting nothing is crazy honestly, isn’t it? Ghosting me because you thought I’d get the hint and stop texting? Did you know me at all? Sad, sad stuff, mehn. Wow.

I was happy though, even though it was nothing. It was a nothing we shared. It was MY nothing. My favorite nothing.

My favorite nothing

I listened to this while writing, sorry for the mistakes, I’m not okay.

a passionate lover.

it wasn’t ever a surprise or something new,

I had always known,

And unfortunately for me, I constantly tried to change myself and bend myself to fit into the box that society made for me,

the box that the people around me tried to put me in,

or better still the box I put myself in to protect myself from the inadequacies of people,

how humans would always disappoint,

how they’d break my heart and crush my spirit,

to shield me from begging for the barest minimum or hustling for basic needs,

So, with every new person came a different personality,

a new way of behavior,

trying to suppress the “too much” that makes me me.

I didn’t change because I loved changing myself;

I changed because if I didn’t suppress or give myself in bite-sized pieces, I would end up heartbroken. Sad.

(exactly what how I ended up after suppressing myself btw)

so i wouldn’t beat myself up for not being enough,

to save my already fallen self esteem,

I would question myself and be angry that the people around me weren’t matching me,

they weren’t doing enough,

they didn’t try hard enough,

so the trick I taught myself was to match them first,

mirror their behavior,

meet them exactly where they met me.

The only issue being that I’m a one-trick pony.

And the one trick I had mastered was giving my all—

not half, not a part, but all.

even when whoever I wanted , demanded nothing of me, all I knew was to offer my all.

I tried to be nonchalant when the people around me showed me that they didn’t care,

trying (and failing) to not care more than they did,

so that somehow, when how much they didn’t care started to show,

I wouldn’t be disappointed at how little it was,

at their indifference in my absence,

how nothing I did truly fazed them.

I tried to involve my emotions less when dealing with emotionally unavailable people

(while in reality, my whole life revolved around said emotions),

so I’d overthink my replies,

making sure to show as much emotion as they did,

so even if the conversation was breaking my heart,

I’d respond with “k” to “match their energy.”

I’d ensure i wasn’t too happy or too available or too emotionally invested,

because people don’t find it hard to call your all, NOTHING.

I would lie that things were okay and I didn’t mind and that I wanted this,

while in reality things weren’t fine and I wasn’t okay and I did mind and I didn’t want that,

I pretended that I didn’t care tho,

because caring was for losers?

because all I wanted was them,

to make them happy,

to please another person.

I feel like I’ve tried to change myself and bend and twist and conform

to what I believed would prevent me from being hurt,

to match people’s energy,

to not be too much and certainly not too little,

and I fear I have broken myself—

because I’ve overextended and overcompressed my entire being

to the point that I no longer understand where I am and who exactly I am.

The line between matching people’s energy and shrinking myself for people

has so horribly been blurred

that I cannot tell the difference anymore.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I no longer know what I stand for,

what I can or cannot do,

what I can or cannot tolerate and withstand.

I look in the mirror, and I no longer recognize myself.

I no longer see myself,

so I look at myself from other people’s lenses.

I try to see how they see me.

I see the different fragments of myself that I’ve shown to different people,

and I’m constantly struggling to see the full picture- just because I’ve never shown anyone the full picture,

I see exactly what people expect of me, not what I actually am,

just the pieces and versions I believed they would like.

And when they didn’t like that, I tried again,

with another angle, another way, another form,

so that somehow they would like me.

Or at least an aspect of me,

so of course I never got a proper view of myself, I get just enough to carry me just until I began to question myself and cry,

because who will know you, if you don’t know yourself.

I used to deny being a people pleaser,

but I’ve pleased people to the extent

I no longer remember what it feels like to be happy—

how it feels to function without considering how whoever would perceive and respond

to the version of me that would emerge as a result of my actions,

I am never pleased.

Or maybe I have never known myself at all.

I’ve always been a giver

A very big one.

I have a big well full of love in my heart,

With so so much love to give

And that’s the thing, I don’t hesitate to give out that love

You can’t talk about Salewa and omit how selfless I am.

It’s hard

It’s hard because I’ve realized that this love I give, is the love I have starved myself of

I’ve learned that this love, is the love that I find so hard to give myself

I pour my love into my friends, my family, my business

I am unable to give myself the love that i so desperately search for

It’s scary to see how much i can love and adore and cherish other people and how little I do that to myself

I water everything around me, and leave myself to shrink and die

I’m selfless because I see no point of keeping it in,

No point in watering myself

In keeping myself happy

Because I don’t think I’m worth it

And it’s hard.

I used to be so envious of my friend, of how beautiful she is, of how she presented herself and how she glowed.

I used to be envious of the fact that she loved herself so much, and it showed.

It showed in how she talked, how she walked.

It showed in the situations she placed herself and how she never let herself go

When you love yourself, it shows.

It shows in everything you do

And so therefore, my lack of love shows.

It shows in my friendships and relationships

It shows in how I refuse to look at myself in the mirror

it shows in how I refuse to take videos of myself and when I do, I nitpick everything till I feel ugly

It shows in how I feel the need to be so performative so people would like me, would respect me

It shows in how rash and mean I can be

It shows in how I yell and I cry and I throw tantrums for the little things

It shows in how I talk down on people so that maybe I’ll feel a little bit better about myself

It shows in how I carry my struggles and insecurities as baggage on my shoulders

It shows in how much my past weighs me down, until it drowns me

It’s as clear as day.

I love keeping memories

I love being in exciting situations

I love these 2 things because they distract me

They distract me from the fact the things I pour into people

The love

The time

The attention

The support

They distract me from the realization that I do not pour these things into myself,

Not even in drops

Not at all

Wow.

It’s a lot to realize all at once, that something as little as self love can affect every sphere of your life

Im unable to love myself.

It’s a lot to realize all at once

It’s scary to realize that I have so much love in my heart, but so little for myself

So little respect

Little care

So little of everything I need to love myself

I don’t think I’m the only one unable to love themself

Unable to look pass their insecurities and shortcomings

I don’t think I’m the I’m the only one finding it hard to tolerate themselves

To appreciate the beautiful parts of themselves alongside the ugly

I don’t think I’m the only one that wonders if they’re too flawed to ever be truly appreciated

If they’re damaged beyond repair

If they’re a lost cause

Sometimes I think I’m broken, deeply

And maybe it’s due to how badly I’m broken I’m unable to love myself

Unable to see the good in myself

I’ve always known that my hyper fixation on love stemmed from something,

Something much deeper and much fuller

My hyper fixation on romance stems from the starvation of love for myself

An avenue to love someone, anyone,

but not myself

To see the good in the worst people,

but not in myself

To tolerate even the barest minimum from anyone but to never give grace to myself

An avenue to hold myself to unattainable standards and punish myself if I fall short

An avenue to compare myself to everyone and anyone else

An avenue for me to be so quick to beat myself up about anything

Wow

I hope for a lot of things, to be a good nurse, a good wife, a good friend

I also hope to love myself

To find the love I desperately search for in myself

To forgive myself and let go of my regrets

I hope that one day, I truly appreciate the woman that I am

So that I can become the woman I dream to be

I hope that I don’t hate my face and my body forever

I hope that I don’t dislike my features till eternity

I hope to accept and tolerate my shortcomings as much as, and even more than i tolerate those of other people

I hope to be happy,

genuinely and truly happy

I hope to be comfortable in my own skin

I hope to be totally and unapologetically me

It’s scary to realize that I have no love for myself

I hate myself.

And I think that’s the origin of all my problems

      Unfortunately this syndrome has had a big downside on my self esteem. Why? Because I’m convinced that I’m incapable of being the one. I’m too much, too emotional, too overwhelming, too small. I have an excess of every trait and because of that, me being the only one is overwhelming and that why I have to be pushed to the side. To be loved in bits and pieces but never in my entirety. To be loved it to be seen, but no one has seen the entirety of me. I know I’m a lot to handle I’ve been told multiple times and that’s why I show myself in pieces, different people meet aspects of me and no 2 people meet the exact same version of me. And because I am a lot I can never be the only one because I’m too much, too unbearable too uncomfortable much too annoying.

    And maybe because I’m so much, that’s why I can give out so much love and time and affection and it doesn’t leave a scratch, it doesn’t immediately show. my big love, it doesn’t make a dent to the enormous amount of love and time and care I have inside of me. My enormous heart has so much space to accept so much and that’s why I don’t get offended easily

   But due to adaptation, I’ve learned to never expose myself in my entirety and to always show myself in bits and pieces and give tiny pieces of my heart out. And with giving out so little, my rope is shorter. My temper is shorter and I run away immediately I feel hurt. I’m not a coward, I’m just tired of the abuse my heart has endured.

  Im never picked. Younger Salewa’s immediate response was to become a pick me, to become a tomboy so when I didn’t get picked my excuse would be, i wasn’t even an option. Even when I was in a relationship, I had excesses of everything but what is actually desirable. And maybe that’s why I wasn’t enough for him. I’ve never had that friend that will keep space for me, a particular person to twin with.

If you want to, I’m down like the back up for when your main friend messes up. You can spend time with me when your friends will be absent but no one ever plans for me. The spare part friend that can fill any role you want at any time. I’ve never been the BEST FRIEND. The one you introduce to your parents and all. Never.

In summary, I’m always the other woman. This phenomenon didn’t start today and every day I get used to it and I get reminded of it.