And perhaps they do.

But somewhere between forgiveness and self-abandonment, we forget to ask the more important question:

What happens to the person who keeps giving the chances?

Because a second chance is not always an act of love.

Sometimes, it is self-abandonment disguised as forgiveness.

People make mistakes. They hurt each other. Sometimes it is because of immaturity, selfishness, poor judgment, fear, insecurity, or simply because they did not understand the weight of what they were doing.

And sometimes, they genuinely regret it.

They cry.
They apologize.
They explain themselves.
They promise they will never do it again.

And you believe them.

Not because you are stupid, but because you love them.

You want to believe that the person standing in front of you is not the same person who hurt you. You want to believe that the pain taught them something. You want to believe that your forgiveness can become the beginning of something better.

And sometimes it does.

But sometimes it doesn't.

Because regret is not transformation.

Someone can sincerely regret hurting you and still hurt you again.

They can understand what they did wrong and still lack the discipline to become someone who no longer does it.

That is the part nobody likes to talk about.

We have become so obsessed with apologies that we sometimes mistake remorse for change.

But an apology is a statement about the past.

Change is a pattern in the present.

Anyone can promise to become better when they are afraid of losing you. The real test is who they become when the fear of losing you disappears.

That is why I don't think every apology deserves renewed access.

You can forgive someone and still keep them out of your life.

You can accept their apology and still refuse to trust them again.

You can understand why they became the person who hurt you without volunteering to be hurt by them again.

Because forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same thing.

Forgiveness says:

I refuse to carry this hatred forever.

Reconciliation says:

I believe there is enough evidence to allow you close to me again.

Those are two completely different decisions.

And perhaps the breaking point isn't when someone hurts you for the tenth time.

Perhaps it is when you begin participating in your own destruction by continually negotiating with behaviour that has already shown you what it is, now it makes a lot of sense to me now that I think about it as to why my ex wasn’t to take me back even though she loved me then.

At some point, you stop giving someone a second chance.

You start giving yourself another reason to be disappointed.

And that is where love becomes dangerous.

Because love can make us fall in love with potential.

We see who someone could become and begin tolerating who they currently are.

We keep saying:

"They'll change."

"They're just going through something."

"They didn't mean it."

"They've been better lately."

"This time feels different."

And maybe it is different.

But maybe you have simply become better at surviving the same pain.

There is a very uncomfortable truth about relationships:

You cannot build a life with someone's potential.

You build with their patterns.

And patterns tell the truth that promises often hide.

If someone consistently shows you dishonesty, believe the pattern.

If someone consistently shows you disrespect, believe the pattern.

If someone repeatedly violates your boundaries and only changes when you threaten to leave, believe the pattern.

Not because people cannot change.

They can.

But because change does not need to be begged out of someone who has truly understood what they are losing.

And perhaps this is why some relationships don't end because the love disappears.

They end because the cost of loving someone becomes too expensive.

You begin losing pieces of yourself.

Your peace.

Your confidence.

Your ability to trust.

Your softness.

Your standards.

Your sense of reality.

You become someone who checks phones, questions everything, overthinks every silence, interprets every change in tone, and constantly prepares yourself for the next disappointment.

And one day you look in the mirror and realize something terrifying:

You are no longer trying to save the relationship.

You are trying to save yourself from the relationship.

That should be a breaking point.

Because what is the value of being loved by someone if, in the process, you become unrecognizable to yourself?

There is a difference between fighting for a relationship and fighting against yourself to keep one alive.

The first is love.

The second is desperation.

And maybe the hardest part about walking away is accepting that someone does not have to be a terrible person for you to leave them.

They don't have to be evil.

They don't have to be abusive.

They don't have to be completely incapable of love.

Sometimes, they can be a good person who simply isn't good for you.

Sometimes, they can change.

And you can still leave.

Because their transformation does not erase your experience.

And you are not obligated to stay simply because they finally became the person you begged them to become.

There is also something deeply tragic about realizing that sometimes the person you were waiting for was never coming.

You were waiting for their potential.

They were giving you their reality.

And you kept choosing the possibility over the evidence.

Perhaps that is the real lesson of second chances.

A second chance should be an opportunity for growth.

Not a lifetime subscription to the same pain.

Give people room to make mistakes.

Give them room to grow.

Give them room to prove that they are capable of becoming better.

But don't confuse having a forgiving heart with having no boundaries.

Because there comes a point where forgiveness must include yourself too.

You have to forgive yourself for staying.

Forgive yourself for not seeing it earlier.

Forgive yourself for believing the promises.

Forgive yourself for hoping.

And then, perhaps for the first time, give yourself a second chance.

Not to return to the person you were before they hurt you.

But to become the person you might have been if you had never abandoned yourself trying to keep them.

Because sometimes the greatest second chance isn't the one you give another person.

It is the one you finally give yourself.

Sincerely VKYZ .

As a child, I didn’t have the capacity to understand everything that comes with being a parent. I only saw what was missing. I saw the things we couldn’t afford, the things other children had that we didn’t, and I quietly built a conclusion in my head:

“When I become a father, I will never let my children experience this.”

So, somewhere along the line, my definition of becoming a good father became tied to wealth.

I wanted to be extremely successful. I wanted to have enough money to give my children the best of everything. The best schools. The best clothes. Vacations. Comfort. Opportunities. I wanted them to have the kind of childhood where money was never a limitation.

In my head, I was going to be the father who gave his children the ultimate Nepo lifestyle.

And honestly, there is nothing wrong with wanting that.

I still want to be wealthy. I still want my children to have a better life than I did. I still want to be able to give them things I could only dream about growing up.

But lately, I have realized something much deeper.

I can give my children everything money can buy and still be the worst father in history.

I can give them a mansion and never give them my presence.

I can pay for the best schools and never listen to them.

I can buy them expensive gifts and still make them feel emotionally abandoned.

I can give them financial security and leave them searching for emotional security somewhere else.

And that realization has changed something in me.

Because being a good father was never supposed to be a financial achievement.

I have seen fathers who struggle every day just to make ends meet, yet their children speak about them with so much love and admiration. Fathers who may not be able to give their children the world, but somehow make their children feel like they own the world whenever they are with them.

I have seen children love fathers who have very little as though those men were richer than TONY , sorry MR ELUMELU.

And that taught me something.

Children don’t measure their father’s love by his bank balance.

Of course, money matters. Poverty can create unnecessary suffering, and as a father, wanting to provide a comfortable life for your children is a beautiful responsibility.

But money is only one part of fatherhood.

A child also needs a father who is present.

A father who listens.

A father who apologizes.

A father who makes his children feel safe.

A father whose children don’t have to earn his love.

A father who teaches them how to become good human beings, not just successful ones.

And perhaps the biggest sign that I have healed from some of my childhood wounds is that I no longer want to become a rich version of my father simply to prove that he was wrong.

I don’t want my entire ambition to be rooted in resentment.

I don’t want to spend my life chasing wealth just to rewrite my childhood.

I want to become wealthy because I want to build, create, provide and leave something meaningful behind.

And when I eventually become a father, I want my children to benefit from my wealth, yes.

But more importantly, I want them to benefit from me.

My presence.

My wisdom.

My patience.

My mistakes.

My love.

My time.

My protection.

My ability to admit when I’m wrong.

I want them to grow up knowing that even when the world becomes difficult, home is still somewhere they can breathe.

Because maybe the greatest inheritance a father can leave his children isn’t a bank account.

Maybe it is the confidence that they were deeply loved.

The beautiful thing about healing is that sometimes you realize you don’t have to spend the rest of your life fighting the version of your childhood that hurt you.

You can simply learn from it.

You can take what was missing, understand why it mattered, and choose to do better.

I still want to be a rich father.

But I no longer want to confuse being a rich father with being a good father.

I want to give my children a beautiful life.

But I also want to give them a beautiful relationship with me.

And if I can give them both, then maybe that will be the real success.

Not that my children grew up saying,

“Our father gave us everything.”

But that they grew up saying,

“Our father was there for us.”

Thanks for Reading

SINCERELY VKYZ.

But sometimes, the problem isn’t that your dreams aren’t big enough. Sometimes, you just need to develop a better relationship with reality.

Because there’s a difference between what you dream about and what you’re actually willing to build.

You can dream about becoming incredibly successful, but what are you willing to do today? You can imagine financial freedom, but are you willing to learn the skill, make the sacrifices, endure the boring years and remain consistent when nobody is clapping for you?

Your dreams can be enormous. Your aspirations, however, have to survive contact with reality.

Sometimes your biggest aspiration for the year isn’t becoming a millionaire. Maybe it’s getting your finances under control. Maybe it’s learning the skill you’ve been postponing. Maybe it’s finishing the project you keep talking about. Maybe it’s getting your first serious client. Maybe it’s simply becoming consistent enough to finally trust yourself.

And there’s absolutely nothing small about that.

Because sometimes you’re so obsessed with the destination that you forget you still need to build the road that gets you there.

Your dreams can be in Dubai. Your bank account is currently asking you to calm down. 😂

Ejeh. First of all, survive.

There is no shame in starting with survival. Survival can become stability. Stability can create capacity. Capacity can create ambition. Ambition, when matched with execution, can eventually create the life you once could only imagine.

So dream as ridiculously big as you want. Just don’t confuse imagination with ambition.

Because ambition isn’t how beautiful the life you imagine is.

Ambition is what you’re willing to consistently do about the life you say you want.

Sincerely VKYZ

Now I think it’s something we’ve been rehearsing all along.

The older I get, the more I realize life isn’t random. It is recursive. The same stories return wearing different faces. Different cities. Different lovers. Different jobs. Different opportunities. Yet somehow, they all seem to ask the same question.

And until you answer it differently, life keeps asking.

Most people think they’re making new mistakes.

They’re not.

They’re repeating old patterns.

The frightening part is that patterns don’t introduce themselves as patterns. They arrive disguised as preference, personality, instinct, standards, ambition, independence,sometimes even love.

You don’t choose the emotionally unavailable partner because they’re special. You choose them because your nervous system mistakes familiarity for safety.

You don’t hide your feelings because you’re mysterious. You hide them because somewhere along the line, vulnerability became associated with pain.

You don’t struggle to trust because everyone is untrustworthy. Sometimes you’ve lived so long in survival that transparency feels more dangerous than loneliness.

The mind is brilliant at one thing:

It will recreate what it understands, even when what it understands is suffering.

That’s why people raised in chaos often feel uncomfortable in peace. Why someone deprived of affection may confuse attention for love. Why the child who had to earn acceptance grows into an adult who believes love must always be deserved.

We think we’re making decisions.

Many times, we’re simply obeying scripts we never realized were written for us.

Every broken relationship leaves behind a blueprint. Every betrayal rewrites your expectations. Every wound becomes a lens. And if those lenses are never questioned, they become the architects of every decision that follows.

This is why two people can experience the same event and leave with completely different lives.

One sees a lesson.

The other develops a pattern.

One heals.

The other adapts.

Healing changes the story.

Adaptation often repeats it.

Life whispers before it screams. It sends small inconsistencies before catastrophic consequences.

Tiny discomforts before irreversible losses. It reveals the pattern long before it reveals the outcome.

But we rarely pay attention.

Instead, we blame the wrong people.

We call it bad luck.

We call it coincidence.

We call everyone else toxic.

Anything but what it really is:

A familiar cycle asking to be recognized.

The greatest prison isn’t a cell.

It’s living the same emotional experience through different people while believing each one is a completely new story.

Freedom doesn’t begin when your circumstances change.

It begins the moment you recognize the pattern you’ve been unconsciously protecting.

Perhaps that’s what fate really is.

Not a destination written by the universe...

But a pattern repeated by the mind.

And perhaps we become the architects of our fate the day we stop asking, “Why does this keep happening to me?” and start asking,

“What part of me keeps rebuilding the same life in different forms?”

Because your future isn’t hiding somewhere ahead of you.

It’s quietly being built by the patterns you refuse to see.

You can't pick up adulthood if you're still holding on to everything you missed while growing up. All the cracks you fell through. All the things your parents couldn't give you.

Then I figured something else out.

Growing into healing is actually growing into loss.

It's losing the hope that one day you'll somehow get back everything you missed.

Crazy how when I look back at my childhood, all I remember is what happened... and what should have happened. And somehow that keeps me from paying attention to what's happening now.

Every decision I make, I'm still trying to win back something I lost as a kid. It's like this incomplete little boy is still making decisions for a grown man. Still trying to make up for where my parents failed. Lol.

I'm over here trying to travel back in time to fix my childhood like I'm Barry Allen, when it's probably easier to just accept that I missed it.

Childhood isn't like my phone battery. It's not task-oriented. It isn't something I can come back to later when life is more convenient.

It ends with age.

I'll never be ten again. I'll never have that tenth birthday party as a ten-year-old. Whatever it was that I missed back then is exactly what I was supposed to miss.

Not because I deserved it.

But because that's what happened.

It's not a new responsibility. It's not an unfinished project waiting for me to complete it.

It's done.

Maybe that's what healing is.

Not getting my childhood back.

Not trying to raise the little boy in me by forcing the grown man in me to wait.

Just accepting that a part of my story is over, and refusing to keep putting the rest of my life on hold because of it.

I think I have to stop treating my childhood like a debt life still owes me.

Maybe only then can I finally become the adult I've been waiting to be.

Am I back?

Who knows.

But in this time away, I have seen a lot, been through a lot, lost a few things, gained a few things, and most importantly, learned a lot.

One realization keeps finding its way back to me: we play a much larger role in the events of our lives than we often like to admit.

More than we realize, we are the authors and finishers of our own fate.

Every decision you make, every decision you avoid making, every opportunity you take, every opportunity you let pass by, every person you allow into your life and every person you choose to keep at a distance; they all shape the story you eventually call your life.

I have come to understand that free will, which I consider one of humanity’s greatest gifts, is much deeper than the freedom we often associate it with.

It is not simply the freedom to do whatever you want because you’re now an adult, because nobody can tell you what to do, or because you finally live on your own.

Free will is reflected in who you choose to become.

It is found in the conversations you have with yourself when nobody is listening.

It is found in whether you choose growth or excuses.

Whether you choose accountability or blame.

Whether you choose to heal or continue bleeding on people who never cut you.

Whether you choose courage or comfort.

Whether you choose to love despite previous heartbreaks or allow pain to convince you that love is no longer worth the risk.

Choosing to be happy or miserable.

Choosing to be kind or cruel.

Choosing to remain in denial or face uncomfortable truths.

Choosing to forgive or hold on to resentment.

All of these are expressions of free will.

Life happens to all of us. Some things are beyond our control. Some storms arrive uninvited. Some losses cannot be negotiated with. Some wounds are not our fault.

But what we do after life happens to us is where our power begins.

The older I get, the more I realize that life is less about what happened and more about what we decide to do with what happened.

Maybe that is the burden of freedom.

Maybe that is also its beauty.

Every day we wake up with another chance to choose.

To choose who we become.

To choose what we stand for.

To choose the kind of story we are writing with our lives.

And whether we realize it or not, with every choice we make, we are writing the next chapter.

So ,own your story…

We’ve got so much to live for right?

Well suicide postponed , see you later Eje.

The title of this piece probably pulled you in.
Good.
That means you’re alive.
Curiosity is proof that life hasn’t completely beaten the softness out of you.

But truth is, this isn’t really about sex.
Not fully.
It’s about intimacy with life itself.
The last time life held you close before disappearing again.
The last moment everything felt warm before reality resumed its regularly scheduled madness.

Because if we’re being honest, most of us are just surviving stylishly.
We post confidence with low battery percentages.
We laugh loudly with silent worries.
We say “I’m good” with outstanding emotional invoices hanging over our heads.

One minute you’re planning your future.
The next minute NEPA takes light, your account balance starts looking motivational, and your phone screen becomes a mirror forcing you to stare at yourself.

Life has a strange way of humbling everybody.
The rich are scared of losing.
The poor are tired of chasing.
The lovers are scared of heartbreak.
The lonely are scared nobody will ever truly see them.

Everybody is carrying something.
Even the loudest people online.
Especially them.

I used to think happiness was a destination.
Like one day everything would finally align.
Money complete.
Love complete.
Purpose complete.
Skin glowing.
Family proud.
Mind stable.

But life doesn’t really work like that.
Happiness isn’t a permanent address.
It’s a visitor.
A soft knock on the door during difficult seasons.
A random laugh with friends after a terrible week.
A late-night meal that somehow tastes like hope.
A song entering your ears at the exact right moment.
A text message saying “I thought about you today.”

Tiny things.
That’s what keeps people alive.
Not always grand victories.
Sometimes just tiny reminders that darkness isn’t all there is.

The older we grow, the more we realize adulthood is basically improvisation.
Nobody fully knows what they’re doing.
Some people are just better actors.

There are people walking around with confident voices and collapsing minds.
People giving relationship advice while privately grieving love.
People posting success while battling fear.
People carrying dreams bigger than their current reality.

And somehow… we keep going.

That’s the beautiful part.
Human beings are strangely resilient.
We break.
We bend.
We disappear into ourselves.
Then one random Tuesday morning we wake up and decide to try again.

Again.
Again.
Again.

That might actually be the purest form of courage.

I think one of the hardest things about life is realizing nobody is coming to save you exactly the way movies promised.
Sometimes healing is ugly.
Sometimes growth feels like grief.
Sometimes your biggest breakthrough arrives looking like isolation.

But eventually something shifts.
Slowly.
Quietly.

The things that once destroyed you start becoming stories.
The pain starts turning into perspective.
The confusion begins making sense.
The nights become shorter.
The laughter becomes genuine again.

And one day you randomly catch yourself smiling without force.
That’s how happiness returns.
Not dramatically.
Not with background music.
Just softly.
Like a friend sitting beside you after a long journey.

Maybe that’s why I called this “The Last Sex I Had.”
Because life itself keeps entering and leaving us emotionally.
One moment it gives us pleasure.
Another moment it leaves us confused, exhausted and questioning everything.
Yet somehow… we still fall back in love with living.

Maybe humans are addicted to hope.
Maybe that’s our real problem.
Or maybe that’s our greatest gift.

Either way, I think there’s beauty in still trying.
In still dreaming despite disappointment.
In still loving despite betrayal.
In still waking up despite exhaustion.

That takes strength.
Real strength.

So if life currently feels heavy for you, I hope you remember this:

The chapter you’re in is not the entire story.
There are still versions of you that haven’t laughed yet.
Places your pain hasn’t touched.
People who haven’t met you yet.
Memories waiting patiently in your future.

You are still becoming.

And maybe one day, after all the chaos, confusion, heartbreak, pressure and survival…
you’ll sit somewhere peaceful, look around quietly and realize:

You made it.

Not perfectly.
Not gracefully every time.
But you survived long enough to feel happiness again.

And honestly?
That might be the most beautiful ending life can offer anybody.

Sincerely VKYZ

That’s the most surface-level understanding of it.

Poverty is deficiency.
Any missing element required for a healthy human life becomes poverty in that area.

And that means most people are poor in ways they never notice.

A child is not raised by food, shelter or survival alone.
A child is raised psychologically.
By repetition.
By environment.
By what becomes “normal” before they are even old enough to question it.

That is why many adults are not really individuals, they are childhood environments walking around in grown bodies.

A poor parent may sacrifice everything physically for a child and still unknowingly leave behind emotional and psychological gaps that shape how that child understands love, value, happiness, status and identity.

Because humans don’t just inherit DNA.
They inherit emotional climates.

This is where conditioning begins.

A child raised on home meals every day may never see food as an experience.
To them, amala date is normal survival cant be see as romance, or luxury.

But let them encounter fine dinning where penne pasta and likes are on the menu then suddenly it feels intentional,Elevated,Special.

Not because it is better.
But because unfamiliarity has been sold to them as sophistication.

That is how perception gets trained.

And slowly, without realizing it, people begin to desire things they never chose.

A person raised in scarcity may grow up believing money is the highest form of love because provision was the only language of care they consistently experienced.

Someone who had to fight for attention growing up may later romanticize softness and validation, not because they are weak, but because peace feels like healing from war.

Most adult desires are not choices.
They are inherited responses to childhood environments.

And that is why so many people confuse conditioning for personality.

Funny how the same African homes that screamed “respect” every day raised a generation that struggles to communicate without ego, silence, aggression or emotional manipulation.

Many of usgrew up in homes where love was never explained.
Only controlled.
Never expressed.
Only enforced.

No apologies.
No emotional clarity.
No softness.

Just authority, fear and survival.

Once daddy enters the parlor, everyone disappears into rooms, not out of respect, but out of fear that learned how to disguise itself.

Fear was called respect.
Silence was called discipline.
Emotional distance was called parenting.

Now that same structure is carried into adulthood and renamed “standards” or “personality.”

Some of you cannot even receive love without suspicion.

Because in your experience, kindness always came with conditions.

So affection feels like something you must earn.
Vulnerability feels dangerous.
Softness feels fake.

And without realizing it, you begin to reproduce the same emotional environment that shaped you.

That is the cycle.

And this is the part people miss:

Poverty is not only financial.

It is deficiency.

You can have money and still be poor.

Some people were fed every day but never heard “I’m proud of you.”
They are emotionally poor.

Some had shelter but never had peace.
They are mentally poor.

Some had education but no guidance.
Some had religion but no humanity.
Some have followers but no real connection.
Some have sex but have never experienced intimacy.

Poverty is not absence of money.

Poverty is absence of essential human experience.

And that is why it is dangerous because it is invisible.

So people grow up compensating for it without even knowing what they are trying to fix.

The man starved of respect becomes obsessed with control.

The woman deprived of reassurance becomes addicted to validation.

The child raised without softness mistakes aggression for strength.

The person denied attention confuses visibility with worth.

Most adult behavior is not personality.

It is compensation.

That is why money alone does not fix people.

Wealth can remove financial poverty while emotional, mental and spiritual poverty remain untouched.

And that is why many people are not actually chasing success.

They are trying to fill a hole they cannot name.

Here’s a detailed endnote that lands your message with reflection, weight, and closure without weakening the intensity:

Endnote

And maybe the hardest truth in all of this is that most people will never recognize themselves in this piece.

Not because it doesn’t apply to them but because awareness is uncomfortable. It forces you to question things you’ve already accepted as “normal.”

It is easier to call it personality than to admit it is conditioning.
Easier to call it standards than to admit it is trauma response.
Easier to call it preference than to admit it is lack.

Because once you see it clearly, you can’t unsee it.

You begin to realize that a lot of what you call strength is actually protection.
A lot of what you call confidence is overcompensation.
A lot of what you call independence is emotional survival.

And suddenly, you are left with a question most people avoid their entire lives:

“What parts of me are actually me… and what parts were created by what I survived?”

That question is where change begins, but also where excuses end.

And maybe that is why so many people will read this, nod silently, feel something briefly… and still return to the same patterns.

Because awareness is not the same as transformation.
Understanding is not the same as healing.

But for the few who stay with that discomfort long enough to sit with it —
that is where the cycle finally starts to break.

Not in money.
Not in status.
Not in appearance.

But in honesty.

Because you cannot heal what you are still calling “normal.”

Thank You for reading,

Sincerly VKYZ.

“Unchosen”, “Netflix faith-based movie” is not just a faith-based thriller. It is a mirror.

A mirror reflecting what happens when religion slowly shifts from genuine conviction into controlled belief.

The movie never truly felt like a story about “good versus evil.” It felt more like a warning about what happens when people become more committed to protecting an institution than protecting truth itself.

And maybe that is why the movie unsettled so many people.

Because deep down, almost every church community has traces of what was shown in the Chosen community.

Not necessarily the extremities.

But the mindset.

The spiritual class system.

The “us versus them.”w

The obsession with appearing holy.

The silent protection of powerful people.

The weaponization of doctrine.

The fear of questioning authority.

The inability to discern evil simply because evil arrived looking spiritual.

The movie calls outsiders “The Unchosen,” but the painful irony is that the truly lost people were inside the walls all along.

GENUINE CONVICTION VS CONTROLLED BELIEF

This is the real battle in the movie.

Not demons.

Not temptation.

Not even Sam.

The real battle was between people who truly understood faith and people who only understood obedience.

There is a difference.

Genuine Conviction

Genuine conviction is personal.

It comes from understanding.

It survives questioning.

It allows self-awareness.

It produces humility.

A person with conviction can admit:

• “I might be wrong.”

• “Something feels off.”

• “This leader should be questioned.”

• “Maybe we have become too judgmental.”

Conviction searches for truth.

Controlled Belief

Controlled belief depends on fear.

Fear of punishment.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of being labelled rebellious.

Fear of being seen as “unchosen.”

Controlled belief does not ask questions.

It only protects systems.

And once people stop pursuing truth and start protecting systems, manipulation enters easily.

That is exactly what happened in the movie.

THE CLASSISM OF DOCTRINE

One of the most dangerous things in the movie is the spiritual hierarchy.

The Chosen community behaved like they were spiritually superior to everybody outside.

They treated outsiders almost like contaminated people.

And this is not just movie writing.

This exists heavily in modern Christianity.

Different denominations constantly behave like salvation belongs exclusively to them.

Some churches believe:

• They are the only “real” Christians.

• Their doctrine is the only correct doctrine.

• Everybody else is compromised.

• Questioning leadership equals rebellion against God.

Once this mentality enters a church, compassion starts dying.

People stop seeing humans.

They start seeing categories.

Chosen.
Unchosen.
Holy.
Worldly.
Pure.
Corrupted.

This spiritual classism creates division.

Not just between churches.

But inside churches themselves.

And ironically, while the Chosen community spent so much time identifying evil outside, evil was quietly growing within.

MR PHILLIPS — THE DANGER OF UNQUESTIONED AUTHORITY

“Mr Phillips”, represents institutional protection.

He was the shepherd.

The spiritual authority.

The respected voice.

The image of righteousness.

Yet underneath that image was corruption.

Molestation.

Manipulation.

Control.

And the most disturbing part was not even his actions.

It was how the system protected him.

His wife knew.

People suspected.

But silence remained.

Why?

Because reputation became more important than truth.

The church feared scandal more than injustice.

And that still happens today.

Too many religious communities are more concerned about preserving appearances than confronting damage.

People hide abuse.

Excuse toxic leadership.

Call manipulation “spiritual correction.”

Use scripture to silence victims.

And once authority becomes untouchable, discernment dies.

Because nobody is allowed to challenge the shepherd.

Even when the shepherd is destroying the sheep.

MRS PHILLIPS — THE SILENCE CREATED BY RELIGIOUS FEAR

“Mrs Phillips”, is one of the saddest characters in the movie.

Not because she was evil.

But because she became imprisoned by image.

She knew things were wrong.

She knew her husband was dangerous.

But fear controlled her.

Fear of:

• shame,

• public opinion,

• church judgment,

• losing identity,

• destroying the image of a “godly home.”

So instead of confronting truth, she explained away evil.

She blamed health issues.

Made excuses.

Protected appearances.

And that is one of religion’s most dangerous traps:

When suffering becomes normalized because people are trying to look spiritually stable.

That is why her freedom later in the movie feels powerful.

When she finally leaves and begins glowing again, the movie is visually showing liberation.

Not just from a man.

But from suppression.

For the first time, she looked human again instead of trapped.

Even the uncovering of her hair symbolized something deeper.

Identity returning.

ADAM — HYPOCRISY, SHAME AND THE COLLAPSE OF DISCERNMENT

“Adam”, might actually be the most important character in the film.

Because Adam represents religious hypocrisy.

Not in the loud obvious way.

But in the painfully human way.

Adam judged others harshly.

Helped cast Isaac aside.

Protected the standards of the community.

Yet secretly, he was internally conflicted.

And that became the doorway Sam entered through.

The turning point was not merely temptation.

It was shame.

After his encounters with Sam, Adam lost confidence.

Every time his instincts told him something was wrong, guilt weakened his ability to confront it.

That is how manipulation works psychologically.

A person hiding shame becomes easier to control.

Because now they are afraid of exposure.

So instead of confronting Sam directly, Adam kept rationalizing him.

Even the scene where Sam quoted Adam’s favorite Bible verse shows this clearly.

Adam interpreted coincidence as divine confirmation.

Not because it truly made sense.

But because he wanted reassurance.

And when people desperately want certainty, discernment becomes compromised.

Adam’s downfall proves something important:

Religious people can know scripture deeply and still lack spiritual awareness.

Because memorizing doctrine is not the same as understanding truth.

SAM — EVIL WITH A BEAUTIFUL FACE

“Sam”, is terrifying because he never looked terrifying.

That was the point.

He arrived calm.

Attractive.

Soft-spoken.

Emotionally intelligent.

Spiritually aware.

He understood people.

And that is what made him dangerous.

The movie intentionally avoids making him look obviously evil because real manipulation rarely announces itself.

Sam understood:

• emotional loneliness,

• shame,

• insecurity,

• spiritual hunger,

• hidden desires.

He did not attack the church from outside.

He entered through vulnerability.

And slowly, he gained control.

That slow progression is one of the smartest parts of the movie.

Nothing happened suddenly.

People surrendered power gradually.

A little trust here.

A little influence there.

A little silence.

A little compromise.

Until eventually, the structure itself became corrupted.

And the scariest part?

Most people in the church interpreted his charisma as spirituality.

That is still happening everywhere today.

People mistake:

• confidence for wisdom,

• charisma for anointing,

• eloquence for truth,

• performance for spirituality.

And once appearance becomes more important than discernment, manipulation thrives.

ROSIE — THE JOURNEY FROM POWERLESSNESS TO AWARENESS

“Rosie”, represents awakening.

At first, she feels trapped.

Controlled.

Emotionally dependent.

Almost powerless.

But what makes her arc beautiful is that she slowly begins seeing reality clearly.

Not through doctrine.

Not through leadership.

But through awareness.

She stops living according to what the community expects.

And starts listening to herself again.

Her decision to leave becomes symbolic.

Not just leaving a husband.

But leaving control.

Leaving fear.

Leaving imposed identity.

She becomes one of the only characters courageous enough to break away from the illusion.

And that is why audiences emotionally connect with her.

She chose truth over belonging.

And that is one of the hardest things any human can do.

ISAAC — THE OUTSIDER WHO EXPOSED THE INSIDE

“Isaac”, is important because his rejection exposed the hypocrisy of the Chosen community.

He became labelled.

Judged.

Pushed aside.

Yet many of the people condemning him were secretly dealing with their own hidden corruption.

That irony reflects a major problem in religious culture:

Communities often punish visible struggles while protecting hidden ones.

People become obsessed with image management instead of healing.

So the “outsider” becomes easier to condemn because condemning them helps everybody else feel righteous.

Isaac’s treatment revealed how quickly religious communities can lose compassion once doctrine becomes identity.

WHY THE MODERN CHURCH FEELS SO DIVIDED

The movie quietly explains why Christianity feels fractured today.

Everybody claims truth.

Everybody claims spiritual superiority.

Everybody believes they are “chosen.”

But very few people are willing to:

• question themselves,

• confront corruption,

• admit uncertainty,

• separate God from institutional ego.

Doctrine itself is not the enemy.

The problem begins when doctrine becomes a social class system.

When theology becomes a weapon.

When churches care more about loyalty than honesty.

When believers are taught obedience before understanding.

That is how controlled belief replaces genuine conviction.

And once that happens, division becomes inevitable.

Because people stop seeking truth together.

They start defending tribes.

THE REAL HORROR OF THE MOVIE

The horror was never Sam.

The horror was how easy it was for everybody to surrender themselves.

The horror was how silence protected corruption.

How shame weakened discernment.

How doctrine became superiority.

How appearances became holiness.

How questioning became rebellion.

How control disguised itself as faith.

That is why the movie lingers in people’s minds after watching.

Because beneath all the suspense, it asks an uncomfortable question:

What happens when people become more devoted to belonging than to truth?

And maybe the saddest irony of all is this:

The people called “The Chosen” were the ones most disconnected from genuine spiritual awareness.

While the so-called “Unchosen” were the ones forced to confront reality honestly.

Maybe that was the point all along.

Maybe the greatest danger to faith was never doubt.

Maybe it was certainty without self-awareness.

The moment people become too convinced that they are “chosen,” they slowly stop questioning themselves, and once questioning dies, discernment dies with it.

That was the real tragedy of the Chosen community.

They spent so much time condemning the people outside their walls that they failed to notice the corruption growing quietly within them. Evil did not arrive looking terrifying. It arrived looking convincing, spiritual, charismatic, and familiar. And because the community was built more on controlled belief than genuine conviction, they welcomed it without resistance.

Sam did not destroy the church overnight.

He simply entered a system already weakened by silence, shame, fear, superiority, blind loyalty, and the obsession with preserving appearances. Mr Phillips hid behind authority. Mrs Phillips hid behind fear. Adam hid behind guilt. The church itself hid behind doctrine. And while everybody was trying to protect the image of holiness, truth slowly disappeared from the room.

That is what makes the story uncomfortable.

Because beneath all the suspense, the movie is not really asking who the “Unchosen” are. It is questioning what happens when religion becomes more concerned with control than compassion, more concerned with loyalty than honesty, and more concerned with appearances than healing.

Genuine conviction searches for truth, even when the truth is painful.

Controlled belief only protects the system.

And the moment any religious community begins to value obedience above understanding, image above accountability, and spiritual superiority above humility, division becomes inevitable.

Maybe the real test of faith is not how loudly people claim to know God.

Maybe it is whether they still have the humility to confront themselves when they are wrong…

Thanks for READING

Sincerely VKYZ.

Not sadness.
Not exactly happiness either.
Just… awareness.

Because nobody really prepares you for this part.

The part where the prayers get answered,
the doors open,
the recognition comes—
and you’re standing there wondering why it doesn’t feel the way you imagined.

You wanted the flowers.

You worked for them.
Bled for them.
Stayed consistent when nobody was clapping.

And now they’re here.

But something feels off.

Maybe it’s not the flowers.

Maybe it’s the vase.

We spend so much time chasing outcomes
that we forget to examine the container we’re becoming.

The habits.
The environment.
The mindset.
The people around us.

The version of ourselves that will eventually hold everything we asked for.

Because flowers—no matter how beautiful—
can look misplaced in the wrong vase.

You can have success
and still feel out of place.

You can be loved
and still feel misunderstood.

You can “arrive”
and still feel like you don’t belong there.

And that doesn’t make you ungrateful.

It makes you aware.

Sometimes the problem isn’t that life didn’t give you what you wanted.

It’s that you outgrew the version of yourself that asked for it.

Or worse…

You never grew into the version that can carry it properly.

So now you’re left with a quiet question:

Do I force myself to like this vase…
or do I rebuild it?

Because rebuilding is uncomfortable.

It means admitting:

• “This isn’t who I thought I’d be.”

• “This doesn’t fit me anymore.”

• “I need to change, even after I’ve ‘made it.’”

And ego hates that.

But growth has never respected comfort.

So maybe this is your sign:

Don’t rush to throw the flowers away.

Pause.

Study the vase.

Is it too small?
Too fragile?
Too borrowed?
Too influenced by what people said success should look like?

Because sometimes the real glow-up isn’t getting more.

It’s becoming someone who can finally hold what they already have—properly.

You asked for the flowers.

Now ask yourself…

Did you ever become the vase?

SincerelyVKYZ

Woke into exposure.

2020 didn’t change humanity.
It removed distraction.

When movement stopped, character surfaced.

1. “Wokeness” Became a Shield

Post-lockdown culture rewarded explanation over correction.

Instead of:
“I was wrong.”

It became:
“I’m healing.”
“I’m protecting my peace.”
“I’m setting boundaries.”

Language evolved faster than behavior.

We became fluent in psychology terms without practicing responsibility.

Self-awareness became aesthetic.
Accountability became optional.

The result?
People felt justified in everything.

2. Relationships Became Economic Units

Lockdown destabilized income globally. In Nigeria, it hit harder.

• Businesses collapsed.
• Inflation rose.
• Job security weakened.

When stability drops, survival instincts rise.

Romance shifted into risk management.

Questions changed from:
“Do I like this person?”

To:
“Is this person stable?”
“Can this person upgrade my situation?”
“What does this relationship secure?”

Transactional energy increased — not always obvious, but present.

Attention became leverage.
Provision became bargaining power.
Access became currency.

This wasn’t about gender.

It was economic psychology.

When society feels uncertain, people prioritize security over sentiment.

3. The Monetization of Intimacy

Pre-2019, modesty still had cultural weight in Africa.

There were lines — not perfect, but present.

Lockdown accelerated digital dependence:

• IG Live traffic surged.
• Online visibility became income.
• Giveaways gamified attention.

Exposure turned profitable.

Intimacy became content.
Privacy became optional.

The economy of validation expanded:

More views → more influence → more leverage.

When survival meets algorithm, morals bend.

Not because people are evil —
but because incentive structures changed.

The market started rewarding vulnerability, sensuality, and spectacle faster than skill or structure.

And humans respond to incentives.

4. Fraud Became Aspirational

In Nigeria, economic pressure met digital visibility.

Luxury was constantly displayed.
Transparency about income sources was not.

Yahoo culture didn’t begin in 2020 —
it became normalized.

Speed replaced patience.

Young boys observed:

Visible wealth + minimal visible effort = respect.

When society celebrates outcome without investigating process, shortcuts multiply.

Parents, under financial strain, asked fewer questions.

Not always approval.
Sometimes exhaustion.

The moral line blurred because survival anxiety was louder than ethical debate.

5. Desensitization

Constant online exposure during lockdown changed empathy patterns.

Daily consumption:

• Death statistics
• Scandals
• Public shaming
• Outrage cycles

The nervous system adapted.

Shock tolerance increased.
Emotional response decreased.

Tragedy became scrollable.

Humans weren’t more evil.

They were overstimulated.

When everything is urgent, nothing feels urgent.

6. The Illusion of Consequence

Social media altered consequence perception.

Before, reputation was local.

Now, scandal trends for 48 hours — then disappears.

Karma didn’t die.

Memory shortened.

Digital cycles move faster than moral reflection.

People observed:
“Nothing really happens.”

So restraint weakened.

7. The Real Shift

The world didn’t become worse.

It became efficient.

Efficient at monetizing attention.
Efficient at rewarding visibility.
Efficient at masking character with branding.

COVID didn’t corrupt humanity.

It compressed evolution.

Five years of cultural change happened in one.

And we adapted — fast.

The Darker Truth

We say:

“People changed.”

But maybe the pressure simply revealed what was already there.

When systems shake, principles get tested.

Some strengthened.
Many adjusted.

2019 wasn’t innocent.

It was slower.

Slower exposure.
Slower incentives.
Slower decay.

2020 removed delay.

Endnote

Maybe 2019 wasn’t the last good year.

Maybe it was the last year before the audit.

An audit of values.
An audit of intentions.
An audit of what we would compromise under pressure.

Lockdown didn’t invent greed.
It tested restraint.

It didn’t invent transaction.
It exposed how quickly affection bends when survival is threatened.

It didn’t invent fraud, performance, or moral flexibility.
It revealed how normal they could become when incentives align.

This isn’t nostalgia.

It’s pattern recognition.

From 2020 downward, we mastered rebranding.
Rebranding selfishness as self-care.
Rebranding exposure as empowerment.
Rebranding shortcuts as smartness.
Rebranding numbness as maturity.

And because everyone was adjusting at the same time, it felt normal.

That’s the real nightmare.

Not chaos.

Normalization.

2019 was the year we “WOKE.”

Not into enlightenment.

Into awareness of what we are capable of becoming when pressure removes pretense.

The question now isn’t whether the world shifted.

It did.

The real question is:

Under the same pressure,
who are you choosing to become?

This is the reality we live in: people know what they want, but forget what it takes to actually give it. Want someone to be loyal? You better show loyalty first. Want someone to understand your struggles? Start by understanding theirs. Want someone to show patience? Then learn how to wait without complaint.

But most people don’t. Most people live on autopilot, treating love like a transaction: “I give you what I want to give, and I expect everything back.” That’s not love. That’s ego with emotions glued on.

The result? Half-felt relationships. Misaligned expectations. People walking away frustrated because nobody wants to do the actual work. Everyone’s busy broadcasting their needs, posting their feelings, quoting their favorite love lines—but when it comes to effort, consistency, or sacrifice? Suddenly, the “manual” is missing.

Let’s be honest: love is not about words. It’s about actions. It’s not about feelings. It’s about accountability. You can’t outsource your responsibility to be a good partner. You can’t “wait to be loved” and expect a miracle.

Here’s the logic nobody tells you: the system fails when only one side is contributing. You want someone to show up? You show up first. You want loyalty? You demonstrate it first. You want understanding? You actually try to understand first. Because the truth is simple: most people fail in relationships not because love isn’t there, but because they forgot the basic rule—love is a two-way street, and nobody wants to drive both ways.

So stop waiting for love to find you the way you imagined. Stop checking if people are doing it right. The real question isn’t how should they love me?—it’s how am I showing up in love today?

Because until we all start giving as much as we demand, the cycle will continue. The frustration will continue. And the manual everyone claims to have? It’ll still be lying around, unread.

Now I’m sure you’re interested in knowing what the second arrow might be.

The second arrow is the one you shoot yourself with to punish yourself for the first one.

Life will shoot the first arrow regardless.

A breakup.
A public embarrassment.
A failed business launch.
A friend betraying you.
Money finishing before the month does.

That first arrow?
Painful. Sharp. Unexpected.

But survivable.

The second arrow is where most of us bleed out.

It’s the voice in your head that says:
“You’re stupid.”
“You always mess things up.”
“This is why nobody takes you seriously.”
“You’ll never get it right.”

The first arrow was the mistake.
The second arrow is the shame.

The first arrow was her leaving.
The second arrow is you convincing yourself you were never enough.

The first arrow was failing the exam.
The second arrow is deciding you’re not intelligent.

The first arrow was losing the money.
The second arrow is calling yourself a failure every single day after.

And here’s the dangerous part — we think the second arrow is accountability.

It’s not.

Accountability says:
“I messed up. What can I learn?”

The second arrow says:
“I messed up. I am the mess.”

See the difference?

One grows you.
The other cages you.

A lot of us are walking around not because life destroyed us… but because we keep re-opening wounds with self-hate, overthinking, and replaying moments we can’t change.

We punish ourselves longer than life ever did.

We turn one bad decision into a whole identity.

And slowly, we start living smaller.
We stop trying.
We stop risking.
We stop believing.

Not because of the first arrow.

But because of the second one.

Here’s the lesson:

You don’t control the first arrow.
But you absolutely control the second.

Feel the pain.
Own the mistake.
Learn the lesson.

But don’t become your own executioner.

Some of you don’t need a new opportunity.
You need to drop the second arrow.

And maybe today is a good day to start.

No.

We say nicer things.

We dress it up.

We give it good PR.

Let’s talk about the reasons people use the “mature” reasons.

1. “We ended on good terms.”

Translation:
There’s no dramatic reason to stay away.

Because nobody cheated.
Nobody abused anyone.
Nobody cursed anyone’s mother.

So now you feel like cutting contact would be “immature.”

But peace doesn’t mean proximity.

Just because it didn’t end in war doesn’t mean you need an open border.

Sometimes it ended peacefully because both of you knew you might spin back one day.

2. “We were friends before we dated.”

Ah. The classic.

You convince yourself the romantic part was just a phase.
That you can “go back” to friendship.

But you can’t downgrade intimacy like a subscription plan.

You’ve seen each other vulnerable.
You’ve shared bodies.
You’ve shared secrets.
You’ve shared future plans.

That’s not regular friendship anymore.

That’s history with muscle memory.

And muscle memory doesn’t forget.

3. “I don’t have feelings anymore.”

Okay.

Then why does their new relationship bother you?

Why do you still stalk their page sometimes?
Why does their name still carry weight in your chest?

Be honest.

You may not be in love — but you’re not neutral either.

And neutrality is the only safe ground.

4. “We just check on each other.”

Yeah.

On birthdays.
On random Sundays.
After bad days.
When you’re tipsy.
When your current situation frustrates you.

It’s never random.

It’s emotional convenience.

They’re familiar comfort.

And comfort is the fastest way to sabotage growth.

5. “They know me better than anyone.”

Exactly.

That’s the problem.

When your new relationship starts requiring vulnerability, effort, patience… it’s easier to talk to someone who already understands your flaws.

You don’t want to build again.

You want shortcut intimacy.

But shortcuts lead back to old roads.

6. “We invested too much to just cut off.”

Time.

Memories.

Years.

You feel like deleting them means those years were wasted.

But keeping access doesn’t honor the past — it traps the present.

Not every investment needs ongoing access.

Some chapters close so the book can continue.

7. “What if we find our way back?”

Now we’re honest.

This is the real one.

You’re not in contact because you’re healed.

You’re in contact because you’re hopeful.

You don’t want to fully grieve.

You want the option.

You want the “just in case.”

And that “just in case” is the backdoor.

Here’s the truth nobody says out loud:

We don’t keep exes around because we’re mature.

We keep them around because we’re afraid.

Afraid of loneliness.
Afraid the new thing won’t work.
Afraid we won’t be loved the same way again.
Afraid to fully detach.

So we build a house with a front door for the new person…

…and a backdoor for the old one.

And one day — when things get hard, when you’re misunderstood, when you feel unseen — you’ll remember that backdoor exists.

And you’ll test the handle.

Not because you planned to.

But because it’s there.

So ask yourself:

Are you healing?

Or are you keeping emotional insurance?

Because if your home has a backdoor, one day you will eventually use it.

And the real damage isn’t always cheating.

Sometimes it’s divided loyalty.

And divided loyalty quietly destroys good things.

—

Sit with that.

Not to judge yourself.

But to decide what kind of house you’re building next.

But that’s not always true.

Sometimes the tail is wagging because it’s overstimulated.
Sometimes it’s unsure.
Sometimes it’s bracing itself.

And that’s how some people love.

We were never taught how to read emotional body language.

So we confuse:

Attention for affection.
Intensity for intimacy.
Proximity for partnership.
Possession for protection.

Someone can talk to you every day and still not choose you.
Someone can say “I like you” and still keep their options open.
Someone can hold your hand and still keep one foot outside the door.

The tail is wagging…
But the body is stiff.

The most painful place to exist in love is uncertainty.

Not rejection.
Not heartbreak.

Uncertainty.

Because rejection closes a door.
Uncertainty leaves it half open.

And a half-open door keeps you standing there… hoping.

You start shrinking yourself to stay desirable.
You start overperforming to stay interesting.
You start proving instead of receiving.

You become anxious, not because you are insecure…
but because your nervous system can feel the inconsistency.

Your body knows before your ego admits it.

Here’s the quiet truth:

When someone is sure about you, it feels steady.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Not chaotic.

Steady.

There is no guessing.
No decoding.
No “what are we?” every two weeks.

You don’t have to audition for love that is mutual.

We misread green lights because we want them to be permanent.

But sometimes the light is green because it’s convenient.
Because they’re lonely.
Because you’re available.
Because you make them feel good.

That doesn’t mean they are ready to choose you.

And this is where consent becomes deeper than physical.

Emotional consent is clarity.

It is:
“I want you.”
Not,
“Let’s see where it goes.”

It is:
“I choose you.”
Not,
“You’re cool for now.”

If someone makes you feel like loving you is a favor, that’s not affection.
That’s ego being fed.

The soul-healing part is this:

You are not “too much” for wanting certainty.

You are not needy for wanting clarity.

You are not dramatic for wanting consistency.

You were wired for safety.

Love should feel safe.

Not because it’s perfect.
But because it’s intentional.

If you constantly feel confused, pause.

Confusion is data.

If you constantly feel anxious, pause.

Anxiety is information.

If you constantly feel like you’re about to lose them, pause.

Love is not supposed to feel like you’re being tolerated.

Read the whole body.

Not just the words.
Not just the chemistry.
Not just the excitement.

Watch the patterns.

Because a wagging tail can still come with teeth.

And your heart deserves more than mixed signals.

It deserves peace.

Let’s stop pretending.

February 14 is not about love.

It is a nationwide performance review of your singleness.

You wake up.
Before brushing your teeth, you’ve seen:

“My answered prayer.”
“My forever.”
“My safe space.”

Safe space?
Last month you were subtweeting him.

As a fully single, emotionally audited citizen, I observe this day like a war correspondent.

And what I see?

Panic.

The Panic Pairing

February 1st: “I’m focusing on myself.”

February 14th: “Thank you for loving me loudly.”

Loudly?
Sis, you met him in January.

This isn’t love.
This is deadline dating.

You people don’t even know each other’s middle names, but today you’re talking about “always and forever.”

Always until March.

The Broke Romantic

My guy has ₦12,000 left.

Rent breathing down his neck.
Electricity blinking like it’s tired.
But today he’s at a restaurant taking pictures of steak he Googled how to pronounce.

Tomorrow he’ll be tweeting:
“Love is not about money.”

Correct.
Because you no longer have any.

The Situationship Summit

She told four guys:

“You’re different.”

One bought cake.
One sent money.
One wrote a paragraph.
One prayed for her.

At 8pm she posts:
“I love how you make me feel safe.”

Which one is “you”?

This is not romance.
This is logistics.

And let’s address the couples.

The ones posting 12 slides like they’re documenting a historic treaty.

“Through every storm.”

The only storm you’ve survived is who liked whose picture.

“We choose each other every day.”

It has been 19 days.

Please rest.

Now let me speak my truth as a single hater.

Yes, I’m bitter.

But it’s refined bitterness.
Aged like expensive wine.
Distilled from watching emotionally unavailable people suddenly become poets for 24 hours.

Because here’s the ugly reality:

Half of these relationships are:

• Loneliness partnerships
• Trauma bonding with WiFi
• “Let me not be the only one single” agreements
• Financial sacrifices disguised as affection

Nobody wants to sit at home and feel unwanted.
So people manufacture intimacy.

You don’t love him.
You just didn’t want to spend today alone.

He doesn’t love you.
He just didn’t want to explain to his friends why he’s still single.

And the worst part?

Tomorrow, the pressure disappears.
And so will half of the effort.

Meanwhile me?

No forced smiles.
No fake restaurant reviews.
No pretending to enjoy conversations about “our future.”

Just peace.
Affordable peace.

Yes, I want love one day.

But not the February 14th edition.
Not the panic version.
Not the “prove to Instagram that I’m chosen” version.

Because love is not loud.
It’s consistent.

Love is not emergency-based.
It’s intentional.

And if it only activates when the calendar says 14…

It was never love.

It was fear.

So here’s my Anti-Valentine message:

If you’re genuinely happy, beautiful.

But if you’re overspending, overposting, overforcing just to avoid the word “single”…

You’re not in love.

You’re in competition.

Happy Festival of Delusion.

Signed,
Single.
Observing.
Unimpressed.

“I’m better when I do things alone. That’s when I feel safest.”

I expected a nod. Maybe even praise.

Instead, my friend paused. Not the awkward kind— the intentional kind. Then she said something I wasn’t ready for:

“People who feel safest alone usually learned that safety early… by being abandoned.”

That sentence sat heavier than anything I’d said that day.

Because suddenly, my independence stopped feeling like a strength and started looking like evidence.

Evidence of the times help didn’t come. Of learning early that waiting on people was risky. Of discovering that depending on anyone meant opening yourself up to disappointment.

So you adjusted.

You stopped asking. You stopped expecting. You stopped hoping someone would notice before things fell apart.

You learned to be capable instead.

Capable of holding everything together. Capable of staying calm while things burned quietly inside. Capable of surviving without softness.

And the world rewarded you for it.

They called you “strong.” They called you “independent.” They admired how you never seemed to need anyone.

What they didn’t see was the cost.

The constant readiness. The habit of checking exits before entering rooms. The way closeness feels good—until it feels dangerous. The instinct to pull back right when something starts to feel safe.

Because needing people once came with consequences.

So now you carry everything yourself. Not because you want to—but because it feels familiar. Because control feels safer than hope.

But here’s the part that matters:

Survival skills are not life skills.

What once kept you alive can quietly keep you isolated. What once protected you can start to imprison you.

That younger version of you—the one who learned too early to “handle it”—wasn’t independent. They were adapting.

And they’re still inside you. Still watching. Still wondering if this time, leaning in won’t end in loss.

The lesson isn’t that you were wrong for becoming strong.

The lesson is that you’re allowed to outgrow it.

You’re allowed to let support feel unfamiliar. You’re allowed to rest without earning it. You’re allowed to believe that some hands won’t let go.

Because safety isn’t doing everything alone.

Sometimes, safety is finally realizing you don’t have to.

— Healing Notes by VKYZ

You tell yourself, “Let me enjoy this breeze for a bit.”

Then the dust creeps in.
Mosquitoes follow.
Rain starts entering sideways.
Sleep disappears.

What’s funny is—you saw it coming.
You noticed the sky changing.
You felt the temperature drop.
But the view was nice… so you delayed closing the window.

Now let’s talk about real life.

How many windows have we left open because the view felt good?

A conversation that should’ve ended—but the attention was sweet.
A situation that stopped serving you—but it still felt familiar.
A habit you know lets chaos in—but comfort made it hard to let go.

Not every open window is meant to stay open.

Some things feel good but don’t protect you.
Some access brings pleasure, not peace.
Some doors were never meant to become permanent.

Enjoying the breeze isn’t the problem.
Ignoring the warning signs is.

Because life doesn’t always send a notification before it rains.
Sometimes it pours—
and you’re left cleaning up damage you could’ve prevented.

That’s maturity.
Knowing when to shut a window—
even when the view is beautiful.

Because not everything that feels good deserves unlimited access to you.

And deep down,
you already know which window you’ve been avoiding.

I’ve been living alone for a while now, and I’m never reluctant to wash my own dishes,aside from the fact that there’s no one else to do them for me. I even have this culture of leaving the sink clean, even when it’s filled with dirty plates. Nothing scattered. Nothing looking like an eyesore.

Then I remembered something.

Growing up, I would dodge washing plates with full commitment, only to settle for harder chores. I’d choose fetching water round the whole house over washing plates that weren’t even up to ten. Who does that? Me.

And the reason wasn’t far-fetched.

It was the leftover ewedu mixed with eba blocking the sink drainage.
The pot of burnt jollof rice that nobody soaked with water, already hardened like cement.
The spoilt food removed from the fridge after NEPA decided to hold light and let everything decay overnight.

All these things would be waiting for you the next day you finally decided to wash plates.

And for someone like me,irritable on a good day you could easily find me cleaning my vomit before washing that plate. So I’d rather sweep the whole compound than face that sink.

Now let’s liken this to our daily lives.

How often do we avoid the easy thing, only to embrace something harder, louder, and more stressful,just so we don’t face a small discomfort?

We avoid making one phone call, so we choose to overthink for weeks.
We avoid one honest conversation, so we carry resentment like a full bucket of water around the house.
We avoid starting a small task today, so tomorrow it multiplies,burnt, spoiled, blocking the drainage of our peace.

Washing plates is easy,until you leave it.
Life works the same way.

Most things don’t become difficult because they’re hard; they become hard because we postpone them. We let them rot. We let NEPA take light. We let ewedu mix with eba. Then one day, the smell forces us to act,and by then, it’s no longer just washing plates, it’s damage control.

The lesson?
Growth isn’t always about doing big, heroic things. Sometimes, it’s about doing the small, annoying ones early,before they turn into something you’d rather sweep the whole compound to avoid.

And if you’re honest with yourself, you already know the plate you’ve been avoiding.

It sounds comforting.
It sounds hopeful.
But if we’re being honest, it also quietly assumes something—that everyone survives the tunnel long enough to see the end.

And that part is rarely talked about.

Because the tunnel isn’t just one bad season.
For many people, it’s years.
Years of trying.
Years of losing people.
Years of failing quietly.
Years of watching others move ahead while you feel stuck in the same place.

In that kind of darkness, hope doesn’t feel inspiring.
It feels exhausting.

You start asking questions you never thought you would:

• Am I doing something wrong?

• Why does it feel harder for me than for others?

• What if this is just my life now?

  ---

And slowly, without noticing, the idea of “light at the end” begins to feel distant… unrealistic… even cruel.

Because what if there is no end in sight?

That’s where this thought first hit me:

What if the light was never meant to be something you reach… but something you carry?

Think about it.
Even in your worst moments—when you felt broken, confused, disappointed in yourself—you still kept going. Maybe not confidently. Maybe not proudly. But you did.

You woke up on days you didn’t want to.
You showed up when you felt empty.
You smiled when you were tired of explaining your pain.

That wasn’t luck.
That wasn’t coincidence.
That was you.

We underestimate how powerful it is to simply remain.
To not give up completely.
To not disappear, even when disappearing feels easier.

Many people enter the tunnel of life’s struggles, but not everyone walks through it the same way.

Some people stop and sit down.
Some people numb themselves.
Some people pretend they’re fine until they believe the lie.
Some people cling to others so tightly they lose themselves.

And then there are people like you—still unsure, still healing, still figuring it out—but refusing to let the darkness win.

You may not feel like a light.
Lights are supposed to shine.
You feel dim.
You feel flickering.
You feel inconsistent.

But even a small light changes a dark room.

Here’s the part nobody tells you:
You don’t become strong after the tunnel.
The tunnel is what reveals your strength.

You don’t suddenly wake up healed one day.
Healing happens in moments—small decisions to not give up, to feel your pain instead of running from it, to forgive yourself even when you think you don’t deserve it yet.

So when we ask, “How many actually make it to the end of the tunnel?”
Maybe the better question is:

How many realize that making it through doesn’t always mean reaching the end—sometimes it means becoming the reason you survive the middle?

If you’re still here, reading this, it means something in you hasn’t shut down.
Something still believes—even if quietly—that your life is more than this moment.

And that matters.

This isn’t me telling you to be positive.
This isn’t me saying everything will magically work out.

This is me saying:
Your persistence is not accidental.
Your survival is not random.
Your presence still counts—even when your progress feels slow.

Maybe the tunnel hasn’t ended yet because it’s still shaping you.
Or maybe… it’s because you are already doing the job the light was supposed to do.

Today’s healing note is this:

You don’t have to see the end to keep going.
You don’t have to feel strong to be strong.
And you don’t have to shine brightly to be a light.

Sometimes, just staying alive…
is already enough.