I don't know why we don't make a bigger deal out of that.

Earlier this week, I called two of my closest friends and suggested a sleepover from Wednesday to Monday. We planned the whole thing without realizing that the 1st of August fell right in the middle of it. Looking back, I couldn't have planned it better if I tried.

The house got a full makeover before they arrived. I cleaned, bought skincare and body care because sleepovers deserve a proper self care routine, stocked up, bought snacks, restocked the snacks because... women, and made sure there was enough food for everyone.

When they walked through the door, my house instantly felt like home.

There is something magical about women gathering in one place. Within minutes we had laughed, caught up on life, talked over each other, shared stories we'd already heard a hundred times, and somehow still found them funny. That's the beauty of old friendships. It's never really about the story. It's about who's telling it.

On Thursday, a man I'm talking to called and asked if we could meet. Immediately, my girlfriends became my personal styling team. They opened my wardrobe, rejected half my outfits, approved one, fixed my hair, and sent me off looking better than I would've on my own.

I left them at my place.

Rude?

Not even a little.

We've known each other since kindergarten. We're well past the stage of keeping score. These women are my sisters. I came back the following morning carrying leftover snacks, food, and a little alcohol because apparently every good outing ends with leftovers.

Life still is happening and one of my girlfriends had ended her longest relationship. It had also been her most toxic. As heartbreaking as endings can be, I was proud of her for choosing herself. We sat with that, laughed through it, talked through it, and reminded each other that healing is never a straight line.

It was about us. Three women in different seasons of life, still choosing each other.

And I think that's what I loved most about this year's National Girlfriends Day. It wasn't about me being single. wasn't about comparing relationships👀🤧😅It was about loving on my girlfriends. Celebrating them. Cooking for them. Hosting them. Watching them raid my snack cupboard. Helping them carry what felt heavy. Letting them help me get ready. Simply being together.

Sometimes we reduce love to romance, yet some of the deepest love we'll ever experience comes from our friendships. The women who show up without being asked. Who celebrate your wins like they're their own. Who cry with you, laugh at you, laugh with you, and somehow make every house feel warmer just by being in it.

I've known these women for over twenty years. That's more than half my life. We've watched each other grow from little girls into women, and every year I'm reminded how lucky I am that we still choose one another.

To my kindergarten girls, my ride or dies, and to every girlfriend who has walked through different seasons of my life, thank you. You have taught me that love isn't measured. Sometimes it looks like a sleepover. Sometimes it looks like choosing an outfit. Sometimes it looks like snacks, laughter, difficult conversations, and a house that somehow feels too quiet after everyone leaves.

And honestly...

Girlhood is, and will always be, the best hood of them all. 🤍

Not to run away from home, but to finally meet themselves.

If you ask me what every firstborn deserves, my answer is surprisingly simple.

One year.

One year of living alone.

Not because your family is toxic. Not because you don't love them. Not because independence is trendy. But because there is something about leaving home that introduces you to yourself in a way nothing else can.

I have done it before, and now I am doing it again. This time feels different. I am older. Wiser. More intentional. I have a job. I can finally fund the life I want to create, and there is something deeply satisfying about that.

The freedom is almost difficult to explain. You realize that every decision is yours.

If you want breakfast at 2 p.m., nobody is stopping you.f you want to dance around your house while Kenyan RnB plays in the background, that's your business. If you want your house to smell like vanilla candles, herbal tea, and peace, you get to make that choice.

It sounds small until you realize that life is built on small choices.

As firstborns, we spend so much of our lives considering everyone else. Their schedules. Their needs. Their preferences. Their opinions. You become so good at thinking collectively that you sometimes forget to ask yourself one simple question.

"What do I want?"

Living alone forces you to answer it.

Every single day. But I also think there is something equally important that should happen before you move out.

Therapy. Or at the very least, doing the inner work.

Because leaving home without healing often means taking home with you. The house changes. The patterns don't.

The voices in your head still sound familiar. The guilt follows you. The people pleasing follows you. The fear of disappointing others follows you. The inability to say no follows you. Changing your address does not automatically change your emotional landscape.

Therapy helped me understand that.

It helped me cut some of the heavy cords I didn't even know I was carrying. Some were tied by family. Some were tied by culture. Others, if I'm being honest, were tied by me.

I had to learn that boundaries are not rejection. That saying no is not disrespect. That resting is not laziness. That my worth is not measured by how useful I am to everyone else.

Living alone then becomes more than paying rent. It becomes practice. Practice in regulating your emotions when no one is there to rescue you. Practice in calming your nervous system after a difficult day. Practice in sitting with loneliness without confusing it for being unloved. Practice in learning your own routines, your own rhythms, your own joys.

You discover what peace sounds like. You learn what actually brings you comfort. You start accepting your imperfections instead of apologizing for them. You stop trying to become the version of yourself that everyone else expects and begin becoming the version that feels most like home.

Healing is not one big breakthrough. It is hundreds of quiet decisions. Choosing yourself. Forgiving yourself. Understanding yourself. Giving yourself permission to change.

For me, moving out has never just been about having my own space. It has been about having the freedom to become. To build a life that reflects who I am today instead of who I used to be. To decorate my home the way I like.To spend a quiet evening with my herbal tea. To sit in silence without feeling guilty. To discover that freedom is not always loud. Sometimes it is simply the ability to choose.

If you are a firstborn and life gives you the opportunity to live on your own, even if it's just for a year, I hope you take it because you are leaving your family behind. But because you deserve the chance to meet yourself outside of them.

I truly hope you get to experience that kind of freedom one day. There is something incredibly beautiful about building a life that feels like your own.

And when you do, I hope it feels less like moving out...

...and more like finally coming home to yourself.

I think they're forgetting I am alive.

I do not mean alive in the way they describe mountains in postcards or oceans in documentaries. I mean alive in the way a mother is alive. Feeling. Carrying. Enduring. Remembering.

I have held them all.

I held them when they first learned how to walk. I cushioned their falls with grass and dirt beneath tiny feet. I listened to their first songs before they learned to call them music. I watched them discover fire, language, love, grief, and the strange ache of being human.

I have celebrated with them too. I have worn their wedding dances in the dust beneath their feet. I have echoed their laughter through valleys and city streets. I have watched them plant gardens after burying loved ones, somehow believing in spring even after the harshest winters.

That part of them still amazes me.

Their hope.

But God, they have also forgotten that I feel.

They carve pieces out of me faster than I can recover. They poison the rivers they drink from. They choke the skies they breathe beneath. They ask me to produce endlessly without rest and call it progress.

Sometimes I want to ask them if they remember that exhaustion exists beyond human bodies.

That forests grow tired too. That oceans remember. That the ground beneath their homes has limits. Still, I do not think they are cruel all the time. That is what makes this so complicated.

The same hands that cut down ancient trees plant new seeds with children on school afternoons. The same species capable of war is capable of extraordinary kindness. They rush toward strangers trapped beneath rubble. They donate blood to people they will never meet. They stay awake in hospital rooms holding trembling hands.

They break things. They mend things. Often, they are the same people. I do not think they have forgotten how to love. I think they have forgotten how connected everything is. They speak of saving me as though I exist somewhere outside of them. As though polluted rivers do not eventually reach their homes. As though poisoned air knows how to distinguish between the powerful and the powerless. As though the loss of birdsong, coral reefs, and old forests is not also the loss of something within themselves.

I wish they understood that caring for me has never been separate from caring for one another.

Because I have noticed something else, God. The way they treat me often mirrors the way they treat themselves. They glorify exhaustion. They ignore warning signs. They take more than they need. They struggle to rest without guilt. They postpone healing until there is nothing left to give. Perhaps they are not only forgetting that I am alive. Perhaps they are forgetting that they are too.

Yet, despite everything, I remain hopeful. Because every day, someone chooses differently. Someone picks up litter they did not drop. Someone teaches a child the names of trees. Someone fights for cleaner water. Someone plants something they will never live long enough to sit beneath. Someone decides that convenience is not always more important than care.

They are trying.

Not all of them.

But enough to make me believe that maybe remembrance is possible.

So this is my update. I am still here. Still spinning. Still carrying oceans, deserts, forests, and cities. Still making room for sunsets that stop people in their tracks and remind them that beauty exists without needing to be earned. Still hoping they remember that I was never just a resource.

I was always home.

With love and cautious optimism,

Earth 🌍

We are walking contradictions. We say we want peace and then chase chaos because it feels familiar. We say we want love and then run when vulnerability is required. We say we trust God, life, fate, the universe, whatever name you want to give it, but then spend entire nights worrying about things we cannot control. I know this because I am people too.

The older I get, the more I realize that there is a difference between being alive and understanding why you are alive. Most of us spend years trying to answer questions we cannot even put into words. We search for meaning in careers, relationships, friendships, achievement, healing, and becoming. Sometimes, when none of those things answer the question completely, we find ourselves searching for something bigger than ourselves.

That is what I think of when I think about the God Factor. Not necessarily religion. Not necessarily rules. But the very human tendency to look beyond ourselves. To believe there is more. More than what we can see. More than what we can explain. More than what logic alone can offer.

Because if human beings were driven entirely by reason or rather logic, we would not make half the choices we do. We would not fall in love knowing people leave. We would not start over knowing we could fail again. We would not trust after betrayal. We would not pray after disappointment. We would not hope after loss. And yet we do. Again and again.

The way people continue. The way a mother loves a child before she has even met them. The way someone rebuilds after losing everything. The way a heart somehow finds room to love again after being shattered. The way people carry dreams that reality has not yet agreed to. There is something beautiful about that kind of stubborn hope.

Maybe that is the God Factor. The thing that keeps people moving when evidence suggests they should stop. The thing that allows people to believe in tomorrow when today has been cruel. The thing that whispers, try again.

I think about this a lot now that I am older and life has become less about certainty and more about trust. There was a time when I thought growing up meant having answers. Now I think growing up is learning how to live with questions. Learning how to trust without guarantees. Learning how to love without ownership. Learning how to hope without certainty. Learning how to continue without knowing exactly where the road leads.

And somehow, human beings do it every day. We wake up, we try again, we forgive, we dream, we love, we grieve, we rebuild, and we become. Perhaps that is the most fascinating thing about us. Not our intelligence, our achievements, or our titles, but our ability to keep reaching for meaning. To keep looking for light. To keep believing there is something worth moving toward, even on the days when we cannot see it.

Maybe that is what happens when human beings meet their own need for meaning. We become seekers. And in one way or another, all of us are searching for something. A purpose. A home. A peace. A love. A version of ourselves.

And maybe the search itself is part of the answer.

So here I am. Slightly more tired. Slightly more broke than I would like to admit.

But here.

The best way I can describe the first half of 2026 is this: Adulting is winning. The current score is Adulting: 1, Me: 0.

But honestly, that is progress. Because if I were being truthful, adulting was at 1 and I was somewhere around negative five.

So I will take it.

A lot has happened since I last sat down to write.

The main thing is that🫠I got a job🤭

I met one of my Substack friends in real life, which still feels surreal because what do you mean someone starts off as words on a screen and somehow becomes an actual human being you can laugh with? Heyyyy ml🤭❤️😝 still have another Substack friend I am yet to meet, and I am looking forward to that day too.

Life has been expanding in ways I never expected. And as we enter the second half of 2026, I find myself feeling deeply grateful. Not because everything has gone according to plan.

Far from it.

But because there are things I prayed for that are now ordinary parts of my life. And I never want to become so busy surviving that I forget to notice that.

I moved out again. The word "again" is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. Because yes, I have done this before. Packed my life into boxes. Started over. Created a new routine. Built a new version of home.

And now I am doing it again.

At first, that felt like failure. Like maybe I should have figured it out properly the first time. But recently, I have started looking at it differently. Maybe one of the greatest gifts we have as human beings is the ability to begin again.

No matter how life humbles you. No matter how badly things fall apart. No matter how many plans fail. You can start over. Again.And again. And again.

There is something comforting about knowing life does not run out of fresh starts. Even when your savings account suggests otherwise.

I am earning a little better now. Which is something younger me would have celebrated with fireworks and a speech.

Current me knows earning money is only one chapter of the story. Because nobody tells you that earning and adulting are two completely different sports. One minute you are excited about receiving money. The next minute rent, transport, groceries, unexpected expenses, emergency expenses, surprise expenses, and expenses that seem to appear simply because the universe enjoys comedy.

Adulting has been kicking me to the ground. And just when I think the fight is over, it adds another blow. Respectfully, I would like a refund.🥲

But through all of it, I have become even more grateful for my friends. And I mean that genuinely. There are situations I would not have survived gracefully without them. Situations that would have left me crying, stressed, confused, overwhelmed, or all four simultaneously. My friends have stepped in without being asked. They have listened. They have checked in. They have reminded me that I am not doing life alone. Just to nmaedrop a few😃 They have shown me what friendship is supposed to feel like. What girlhood is supposed to feel like.

And I do not think we talk enough about the importance of having women around you who genuinely want to see you win. Women who celebrate your success.Women who hold your hand when things fall apart. Women who tell you the truth. Women who show up. I think they are angels in disguise. I truly do.

There was a phase of my life that I hated. A phase where I felt disconnected from myself. Disconnected from people. Disconnected from joy. I would not go back there if someone paid me. And yet, if I am being honest, I also have a complicated relationship with where I am now.

Not because it is bad. Because it is different. My environment has changed. My schedule changed. My responsibilities changed. My life changed. And change, even good change, asks something from you. It asks you to adapt.To let go. To grow. To become familiar with a version of yourself you have never met before.

Some days I love it. Some days I miss older versions of me. Most days I am somewhere in between. But maybe that is what growth feels like. Not certainty. Just movement.

As we enter the second half of the year, I am hopeful. I am praying for more opportunities. More peace. More wisdom. More laughter. More money, because let's be realistic.🙂 But most importantly, I am praying for the ability to remain grateful while I am still becoming. Because when I look back, there is so much evidence that life has been kinder to me than I sometimes remember.

I have a job. I have siblings that I love. I have a niece I adore. I have friends who love me loudly. I have new beginnings. I have another chance.

And honestly?….For now, that is enough. Adulting may be winning. But I am finally on the scoreboard. And I think that deserves a small celebration. 🤍✨

This year’s Mental Health Awareness Month theme, More Good Days, Together, feels less like a slogan and more like a reminder we desperately needed. Not a reminder to become happier overnight or suddenly transform into the best version of ourselves, but a reminder that healing often begins in smaller, quieter ways. A friend checking in without needing a reason. Someone sitting beside you while you unravel instead of trying to fix you. A conversation that makes you feel seen again. Community doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it sounds like, “Did you eat today?” or “I’ve been thinking about you.”

The truth is, many of us have mastered the art of functioning while emotionally running on empty. We show up to work, answer emails, laugh at the right moments, and still go home feeling disconnected from ourselves. We’ve normalized burnout so deeply that resting can feel uncomfortable. We’ve become so used to carrying stress privately that asking for support can feel like failure. But mental health was never supposed to be a solo journey. The strongest people are not the ones who never struggle; they’re often the ones brave enough to let someone in while they do.

What makes connection powerful is not perfection, it’s honesty. The people who make us feel safest are rarely the ones with all the answers. They’re the ones who make space for us to be human. The ones who say, “Me too.” The ones who understand that some days surviving is enough. In a culture obsessed with productivity and appearances, vulnerability has quietly become revolutionary.

And maybe that’s what “more good days” actually means. Not perfect days. Not endlessly positive days. Just days where the weight feels lighter because we’re not carrying it alone. Days where laughter returns unexpectedly. Days where someone remembers your coffee order, checks on your heart, or reminds you that you matter even when your mind tells you otherwise. Healing is rarely linear, but connection gives us something to hold onto while we find our way through it.

This month is also a reminder that mental health doesn’t only matter during moments of crisis. It matters in everyday life, in the boundaries we set, the sleep we neglect, the conversations we avoid, and the pressure we place on ourselves to always be okay. Taking care of your mental health is not selfish. It’s not weakness. It’s maintenance for being human. Sometimes wellness looks like therapy. Sometimes it looks like medication. Sometimes it looks like canceling plans, going outside for ten minutes, drinking water, or finally admitting you’re overwhelmed. Every small act of care counts.

If you’ve been struggling quietly lately, you are not behind in life. You are not difficult to love. You are not failing because you need rest, reassurance, or support. Being human comes with seasons of heaviness. What matters is remembering you do not have to disappear into those seasons alone.

So maybe this Mental Health Awareness Month is less about becoming a new person and more about returning to each other. Checking in more. Listening longer. Judging less. Reaching out before someone has to ask. Creating spaces where people can tell the truth about how they’re doing without fear of being misunderstood.

Because maybe the best thing we can offer each other right now is simple: more good days, together.

There’s a certain comfort in tracing everything back to where we came from. Our childhood, our parents, what we lacked, what we had too much of. And to be fair, those things do shape us. They influence how we attach, how we respond, how we protect ourselves. They explain a lot.

But they don’t explain everything.

At some point, we grow into awareness. We start to see our patterns clearly. We can name them, even predict them. And that’s where something shifts, because once you know, it’s no longer just about where it came from. It becomes about what you do with it.

That’s the part that’s harder to sit with.

Because it means admitting that some of the things we keep experiencing are not just things happening to us. They are things we are still, in some way, choosing. Not always consciously, not always loudly, but consistently enough that the pattern continues.

It shows up in staying where you already know you’re not fulfilled. In repeating the same dynamics with different people and calling it coincidence. In having the clarity, the language, even the self-awareness, and still moving in ways that lead you back to the same place.

Awareness can be a strange thing like that. It can open you up, but it can also become a place to hide. You start to understand yourself so well that you begin to excuse yourself. You soften things. You give yourself more time than you actually need. You say you’re working on it, and maybe you are, but nothing really changes.

And it’s not because you’re incapable. Sometimes it’s because what’s familiar feels safer than what’s new, even when it’s not good for you. There’s a kind of ease in repetition. You know how it ends. You know how to navigate it. It doesn’t surprise you.

Choosing differently asks for something else entirely. It asks for discomfort. It asks for doing things that don’t feel natural yet. It asks for letting go of the version of yourself you’ve gotten used to being, even if that version isn’t working anymore.

And that’s not easy.

It’s also why this conversation can feel harsh, like it’s dismissing everything someone has been through. But that’s not the point. Both things can be true. Your past shaped you, and you still have a say in how you move now. One does not cancel out the other.

There is room to be compassionate with yourself and still hold yourself accountable. To understand your patterns and still challenge them. To recognize where something started and still decide not to continue it in the same way.

I think that’s where real change begins, not just in understanding, but in choice.

Because healing is not only about looking back. It’s also about how you move forward with what you now know. And sometimes the most uncomfortable truth is realizing that you are no longer just reacting, you are participating.

And if you are participating, even a little, then there is also room to choose differently.

Not perfectly, not all at once, but intentionally enough to break something that once felt unchangeable.

Maybe that’s the shift. Moving from “this is just how I am” to something quieter, but more powerful.

“This is what I’ve been choosing… and I can choose again.”

I have often looked around and thought, in the most sincere and unguarded way, I wish there were someone older before me.

Just one person. One older sibling who could have made the first mistakes, taken the first pressure, broken the awkward silence, tested the waters, and maybe even softened the blows a little. Someone to tell me, relax, the world is not ending. Someone to say, no, you do not have to carry everything so seriously. Someone who had already been through the “firstborn introduction to life” package before I got here.

But no. It was just me.

Firstborns do not get to arrive softly. We arrive with responsibility in our hands and expectations on our shoulders. In many African households, the firstborn is not just the first child, esp daughters. You are the assistant parent, the backup adult, the family’s emergency plan, and sometimes the person everybody looks at when something goes wrong, even if you are also trying to figure out life yourself.

You grow up learning how to be dependable before you learn how to be free.

You learn how to read the room, how to anticipate problems, how to stay composed, how to help others before asking for help yourself. You become excellent at carrying things. Bags. Feelings. Family pressure. Secrets. The emotional climate of the entire house. At some point, your personality starts sounding like, “It is fine, I will handle it.”

Which is beautiful, of course.

And the thing is, people praise you for that. They call you strong. Mature. Responsible. Reliable.

You become strong early. Not always because you want to, but because there isn’t another option presented to you. You learn how to hold space for other people’s emotions before you fully understand your own. You learn how to be dependable, consistent, and composed.

But where do you go when you don’t feel like any of those things?

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

The quiet moments where you wish you could be the one asking questions instead of answering them. The moments you want to be taken care of without having to earn it first. The days you feel tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix, because it’s not just physical, it’s emotional.

It’s the kind of tired that comes from always being “on.”

I think that’s why, sometimes, I find myself craving guidance in unexpected places. In conversations with friends. In late-night thoughts. In watching how other people move through life and thinking, maybe I can learn something here.

Because when there’s no blueprint, you start building your own.

And while that is powerful… it can also feel lonely.

I wish there was someone I could look at and say, “How did you handle this?” without feeling like I’m supposed to already know the answer. I wish there were someone who could hold my hand through certain decisions the way I’ve held space for others.

Not because I’m incapable.

But because even strong people need softness too.

But sometimes being the strong one feels like being the one who is never fully allowed to fall apart.

That is where the little ache lives. The quiet wish for an older sibling. Not because I did not love being the first. Not because I wanted to be less important. But because there is something deeply human about wanting somebody to have gone before you. Somebody older to model the way, to make the mistakes, to carry a bit of the weight, to be the buffer between you and the world.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have felt like to have that kind of softness built into my childhood.

Would I have been less careful? Less intense? Less allergic to asking for help? Would I have learned earlier that I do not have to earn rest? Would I have allowed myself to be more carefree, more uncertain, more safely messy?

Maybe.

Or maybe I would still be me, just with a little less pressure tucked inside my ribs.

Because the truth is, firstborns often become excellent at surviving. We know how to adapt. We know how to keep going. We know how to make things work. We know how to be the first to apologize, the first to step up, the first to notice when everyone else is pretending they are fine.

We become the people who hold others together, sometimes so well that nobody notices how much it costs us.

And yet, even with all that, there is a tenderness in us that people often miss.

We are the ones who secretly long for someone to tell us it is okay to stop being the strong one for a minute. To be held instead of always holding. To be guided instead of always guiding. To be the younger one, just once. To arrive after someone else has already made the road less intimidating.

Sometimes I think that is why firstborns love deeply. Why we become so protective. Why we are so invested in the people we care about. We know what it feels like to be the one carrying the load, so we naturally become the kind of person who wants to lighten it for someone else.

Maybe that is the hidden gift.

Not that we got to have it easy. We did not. But that we learned early how to care, how to notice, how to stay present, how to love in practical ways. We became people who can be trusted. People who can lead. People who can endure.

Still, I will admit it. Some days, I wish there were someone older than me.

Someone who could have been the shield for once.

Someone who could have said, “ You do not have to be everything so early.”

Someone who could have made firstborn life feel a little less lonely.

But since there was no one before me, I learned to become what I needed in the form that was available. I became the older one. The steady one. The thoughtful one. The one who survives.

And maybe that is its own kind of strength.

Not the flashy kind. Not the kind people clap for immediately.

The quiet kind.

The kind that says, I was not handed softness, but I learned how to create it. I was not given a buffer, but I learned how to build one for others. I did not get an older sibling, but I became someone who knows how to show up like one.

Still, if I am being honest, I do wish there had been someone older before me.

Just sometimes. Just enough.

A little guide. A little cushion. A little proof that I did not have to do life alone from the very beginning.

It is never really just about clothes, playlists, colors, or decor.

It is about identity.

We like what we like for reasons that are sometimes obvious and sometimes buried under memory, emotion, belonging, and the version of ourselves we are trying to grow into. Aesthetic identity is not decoration. It is one of the ways we tell the world who we are, and sometimes, one of the ways we tell ourselves, too.

That part stayed with me.

One of the most interesting ideas I came across is something called the “Aesthetic self-effect”.

It suggests that when people change their aesthetic preferences, especially in music or art, others don’t see it as a small shift. They see it as a change in the person. Not just “you like something new now,” but “you’re different.”

And honestly, that makes sense.

Because think about it. When someone who never cared about art suddenly becomes deeply invested in it, or when someone completely reinvents their style, we don’t just say they’ve updated their taste. We feel the shift. It reads as something deeper.

There’s also something about becoming someone who cares about aesthetics at all.

Not just switching styles, but moving from indifference to intention. From not noticing beauty to actively seeking it. That shift alone can feel like a different life. Like you’ve unlocked a new way of experiencing the world.

What I found most grounding about all this is that aesthetic identity is not superficial. It’s not just trends or performance. It’s one of the ways people make sense of themselves, especially during transitions.

When life feels uncertain, people reach for things that feel like them.

Music. Fashion. Art. The kind of space you want to sit in at the end of the day.

It gives shape to what is happening internally.

It’s a quiet way of saying, even if I don’t have all the words, this is who I am right now.

And that’s why changing your aesthetic can feel so big.

Because it’s not just about what you like. It’s about what you connect to, what you value, what you’re moving toward, and what you’re leaving behind.

People often act like changing your taste is a small thing. But if you’ve ever gone through a shift in style, music, or even the kind of spaces you feel comfortable in, you know it’s not always small.

Sometimes it’s subtle.

You just wake up one day and realize something that used to feel like you… doesn’t anymore. Or maybe it still does, but not in the same way. Not with the same intensity. Not with the same meaning.

That quiet shift is still a shift.

That’s what makes aesthetics so fascinating. They are personal, but they are also social.

The way we dress, the art we love, the music we keep returning to, the kind of room we want to exist in for hours, all of it says something. Sometimes it says, this is who I am. Sometimes it says, this is where I belong. Sometimes it says, this is the life I am trying to build for myself.

And none of that happens in isolation.

We borrow from communities, subcultures, trends, family memory, and the people around us. Even when something feels deeply personal, it is often connected to belonging. To be understood. To finding people who “get it” without too much explanation.

That’s why aesthetics can feel emotional.

We want the outside of our lives to reflect the inside, even if only a little. We want alignment.

I also think there is something deeply honest about how people use aesthetics when words fall short.

Sometimes you cannot fully explain yourself, but your choices say it for you.

The song you keep replaying.
The colors you keep choosing.
The jewelry you reach for without thinking.
The kind of lighting you prefer.
The way you arrange your space when life feels overwhelming.

All of that is language too.

What stood out to me in the research is that aesthetics don’t just reflect identity, they can shape it.

Which means changes in taste are not always cosmetic. Sometimes they are part of becoming. Sometimes they mark a new chapter. Sometimes they are evidence that you are no longer who you were, or that you are slowly becoming who you want to be.

And I think, deep down, we all know that.

That’s why we take aesthetic shifts more seriously than we admit. Because we recognize that they can come from something real. Growth. Grief. Healing. Reinvention. Even curiosity.

So what I took from all of this is simple.

Aesthetics are not empty. They are not just trends or surface-level choices. They help people make meaning. They help people belong. They help people remember who they are or permit themselves to become someone new.

And maybe that is why people get so attached to their style, their sound, their spaces, their visual language.

It’s not really about the object itself.

It’s about what the object holds.

For me, this was a reminder that the things we are drawn to are often doing more work than we realize. They are organizing our inner world. They are helping us express what is hard to say. They are turning feeling into form.

So yes, a playlist can be personal.
A style can be personal.
A space can be personal.

Sometimes, it’s more than personal.

Sometimes, it’s identity.

That is the part people do not always understand about attachment styles. They are not moods. They are not personality phases. They are not something you wake up from one morning because you got self-aware. They are usually born from the earliest things that taught you how to love, how to survive, how to protect yourself, and how to expect people to respond to you.

If closeness once felt like pressure, unpredictability, disappointment, or emotional labor, then distance starts to feel safer. Independence starts to feel noble. Not needing anyone starts to feel like strength. And before long, you begin to build a life where self-containment feels like control.

That is where I live a lot of the time.

I know how to care. I know how to show up. I know how to be warm, thoughtful, even tender. But I also know how quickly I can detach when something feels too demanding, too intimate, too emotionally exposing. In friendships, that side of me can be toxic. I can go quiet. I can withdraw. I can make myself hard to reach without ever saying I need space. I can act like I am fine when I am actually choosing distance because it feels easier than vulnerability.

I am a dismissive avoidant. I know that now, not as a label I wear for comfort, but as a pattern I have lived in for a long time. The fundamentals that build an attachment style do not disappear because you understand them. The things that shaped me early on still live in the background of how I connect, how I protect myself, how I withdraw, and how I decide what kind of closeness feels safe. So no, this is not a sudden realization. It is a reality I have had to sit with, learn, and keep relearning.

In friendships, it shows up as inconsistency. As emotional distance. As being present, but not fully available. People can feel me, but they cannot fully reach me.

And I hate that.

Because friendships require a level of softness and reliability that my instincts resist. They require showing up even when it feels uncomfortable. They require emotional presence that cannot be calculated or controlled.

And that is where I fall short.

But in romantic relationships?

It becomes something else.

Something sharper.

There is a part of me that understands dynamics. That understands emotional pacing. That knows how to maintain interest without overgiving. That knows how to stay desired without being fully accessed.

And if I am being honest, I do not hate that part.

Because in romantic spaces, that distance can feel like power.

The ability to not get attached. To not lose control. To stay grounded while someone else is leaning in.

It creates a dynamic where I am not the one at risk.

And there is something about that that feels… safe.

But safety, when it is built on emotional distance, comes at a cost.

Because while I am protecting myself, I am also limiting what I can experience.

Real connection requires risk.

It requires letting someone see you without editing. It requires staying when your instinct is to leave. It requires choosing presence over control.

And that is not something my default settings allow easily.

So this is not a realization.

It is a reality.

And I think this is where the “Irish goodbye” lives in me.

Leaving without explanation. Fading without ceremony. Disappearing without the long emotional exit interview. No dramatic closure, no drawn-out conversations, no unnecessary breakdown of what we already both felt shifting. Just… gone. Quietly. Cleanly. Efficiently.

And if I am being fully honest, I understand that behavior more than I care to admit.

I don’t always need the details. I don’t always want the conversation that tries to stretch something that already ended in my head. Sometimes I’ve already left emotionally long before I physically do. So by the time I’m gone, I’m not leaving you, I’m catching up with myself.

And I hate to say this part out loud, but deep down, I don’t always care for the performance of “ Goodbye”.

Don’t waste my time with overexplaining something that has already spoken for itself. Don’t drag me through emotional summaries just to feel better about what we both already know. If it’s done, it’s done. The ending doesn’t need decoration.

That’s the part of me that feels cold when I say it, but it’s real.

Dismissive avoidant attachment often looks like independence on the surface. It can even be mistaken for strength. We are the people who seem fine alone, who do not rush to depend on others, who value space, privacy, and control over emotional exposure. On the outside, that can look composed. Admirable, even. On the inside, it is often much messier. There is a part of me that wants connection, and another part that panics when connection starts to feel real. So I detach before I can be detached from. I minimize before I can be disappointed. I act like I do not need much, because needing feels dangerous.

That is the burden of this attachment style. It can make closeness feel like a threat even when it is something I genuinely want. I can love someone and still feel relieved when I have enough distance to breathe again. I can enjoy intimacy and still become uncomfortable when someone begins to expect consistency from me. In friendships, that can make me seem cold, selective, or unavailable. In romantic relationships, it can make me dangerous in a softer way, the kind of dangerous that does not always look loud but still leaves damage behind.

And yet, strangely, this same attachment style can feel freeing.

There is a strange relief in not getting attached too quickly. There is power in knowing I do not have to hand my heart over immediately. There is freedom in having enough emotional distance to observe before I commit. I understand why that part of me feels useful. It keeps me from drowning in other people’s needs. It keeps me from becoming too dependent, too exposed, too available in ways that leave me empty.

But freedom and distance are not the same thing as peace.

Therapy has made me more aware of all of this, and awareness has not softened everything the way people like to claim it will. Sometimes awareness feels like a weapon because once I can name my patterns, I can also predict them. I can see what I am doing while I am doing it. I can justify it faster. I can explain it better. I can manipulate the truth of myself if I am not careful. That is the part I do not like to say out loud, but it is real. Self-awareness does not automatically make someone better. Sometimes it simply makes them more skilled at hiding in plain sight.

That is why this is not just about understanding my attachment style. It is about accountability.

I know now that my tendency to disconnect is not a sign that I am above attachment. It is a defense. I know that my discomfort with dependency is not proof that I am stronger than other people. It is often proof that closeness still scares me. I know that the urge to pull away is not always wisdom. Sometimes it is fear dressed up as self-control.

I am not pretending to be someone I am not. I am not performing warmth and secretly feeling nothing. My problem is different. My problem is that I can feel deeply and still choose distance. I can care and still keep a wall up. I can love and still refuse to be reachable in the ways that matter most.

That is what makes it toxic.

Not because I am evil. Not because I am incapable of love. But because some of my survival strategies hurt people who did not ask to be punished by my old defenses.

And that is the reality.

Not a discovery. Not a dramatic moment of clarity. Just a reality I have had to sit with for years.

I am a dismissive avoidant person who has learned how to function beautifully from a distance. I know how to protect myself. I know how to stay emotionally self-sufficient. I know how to make detachment look like peace. I know how to turn awareness into armor.

But I also know that if I am not careful, the very things that keep me safe can also keep me lonely.

So no, I am not fake.

I am something harder to admit.

I am someone whose patterns can be toxic when left unchecked.

And the work is not in pretending otherwise. The work is in deciding whether I want to keep using distance as a personality trait, or whether I am finally willing to learn a different way to stay.

It is freeing because I do not need to cling. I do not need to beg for closeness. I do not need to lose myself to prove I care. But it is also a burden when the person in front of me is someone I genuinely want to love well. Because caring about people should not feel like a battle between warmth and escape.

That is where I am right now. Not at the end. Not healed in some polished, inspirational way. Just honest. Aware. Responsible for the way I move through people’s lives. I am not pretending to be something I am not. I am naming what is true so I can stop pretending that distance is always innocence, or that detachment is always maturity.

I am someone with toxic patterns shaped by a dismissive avoidant attachment style, and that is the truth I have to work with.

That truth was and still is uncomfortable. It is also where any real change began and still begins.

And maybe that is what makes it harder to explain. Because nothing was completely wrong. But something was never fully right either.

There was the one who liked me, but not enough to be clear. He hovered. Stayed close. Watched me. Gave me just enough attention to keep me there, but never enough intention to move things forward. And for a moment, I considered shrinking my standards to meet his comfort. But I didn’t. I realized a while a go, that I do not want to be chosen slowly. I do not want to be figured out while I am already sure.

There was the one who saw me, but only in parts. He loved my softness, my laughter, my presence… but not my depth. Not the parts of me that require patience. Not the parts that ask questions, that feel deeply, that need emotional consistency. And I remember thinking, I could make this work if I just… quieted myself a little. But I didn’t. Because I have already been a smaller version of myself before. I am not going back there for anyone.

There was the one who came at the wrong time. Or maybe I came at the wrong time for him. We connected. It was easy. It felt like something that could grow into more. But life was happening. Priorities were elsewhere. Effort was inconsistent. And I could have waited. I could have been understanding. I could have held space for potential. But I didn’t. Because I am no longer in the business of waiting for people to become ready for me.

There was also the one who almost convinced me I was asking for too much.
Too much communication. Too much reassurance. Too much clarity. And for a second, I questioned myself. I softened my needs. I tried to meet him where he was, even when it meant abandoning parts of myself. But something in me said no. Because I am not too much. I am just enough for the right person.

Choosing myself has not always felt empowering in the moment.

Sometimes it has felt lonely.
Sometimes it has felt like I am letting go of something that could have been beautiful.
Sometimes it has felt like I am the common denominator in all these almosts.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I am not walking away from love.
I am walking away from half-love.
From confusion.
From inconsistency.
From potential that requires me to betray myself.

And that is a different kind of strength.

Because I am not choosing solitude over connection.
I am choosing alignment over attachment.

I want a love that does not require me to question myself.
A love that meets me clearly, fully, and intentionally.
A love that does not make me feel like I have to earn my place in it.

Until then, I will keep choosing myself.

Not because I do not want love.

But because I finally understand what kind of love I deserve

You don’t even notice it happening. One day you’re just a normal, well-adjusted human being. The next day you’re saying things like, “Si we just meet somewhere central,” knowing very well “central” could mean anywhere within a 15km radius and still somehow take two hours to get there.

Nairobi humbles you early, quickly too. Gently at first. Then aggressively.

You learn very quickly that time is a suggestion. You can leave your house early, dressed, focused, ready to conquer the day, and still arrive late because the road decided to test your character. Traffic in this city is not just traffic, it is a spiritual experience. A test of patience. A moment for reflection. A place where you question your life choices and also plan your entire future.

You learn survival tactics no one teaches you. Carry snacks. Always have backup fare. Accept that “I’m five minutes away” is a spiritual statement, not a factual one. Prepare mentally for anything between “smooth ride” and “this might be my villain origin story.”

And somehow, you survive.

Nairobi will also teach you financial discipline by force. You can step out with a humble budget and come back questioning your entire life. Because how did you spend 2,500 shillings and all you have to show for it is one meal, two Ubers, and emotional damage?

And don’t even get me started on fare prices.

The same route, same distance, same everything… but suddenly the price has doubled because it’s raining, or it’s 6pm, or Mercury is in retrograde, or the conductor just decided. In Nairobi, logic is optional. Vibes are the real currency.

But the thing is… you adapt.

You become sharp. Alert. Slightly dramatic. You start calculating things fast. “If I leave now, I’ll reach by this time, unless there’s traffic here, or a matatu decides to overlap, or there’s road construction, or…” You basically become a human GPS with anxiety.

Nairobi also gives you character development you did not ask for.

You learn to read people quickly. You know when someone is about to waste your time. You know when a deal sounds too good to be true. You know when to walk away, when to negotiate, when to say “I’ll get back to you” and never actually get back to them.

Trust is earned here. Slowly. Carefully. With evidence.

But let’s talk about the social life.

Because Nairobi people are outside. Always.

You can be tired, broke, emotionally unavailable, and still find yourself getting ready for “just a small plan” that somehow turns into a full night out. Nairobi doesn’t believe in small plans. It believes in escalation.

And the friendships? Whew.

In this city, your friends are your chosen family. They are your therapists, your hype team, your emergency contacts, your “send me your location” people. Because if Nairobi teaches you anything, it’s that you cannot do life alone here. You need people. Real ones.

Then there’s the soft life illusion.

Everyone looks like they have it together. Aesthetic cafés, cute outfits, content on Instagram, brunches that look effortless. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, people are budgeting, rescheduling, cancelling plans last minute, and choosing between “fun” and “financial stability” every other weekend.

It’s chaotic. It’s confusing. It’s exhausting.

But it’s also… beautiful.

Because Nairobi has a way of making you feel alive.

The late-night conversations. The spontaneous plans. The random kindness from strangers. The way the city lights hit just right when you’re driving home. The laughter. The resilience. The constant motion.

And the thing is, Nairobi changes you. It shapes you.

You become tougher, but also softer in the right places. Smarter, but still hopeful. Guarded, but still open to connection. You learn how to read people quickly. You develop instincts. You become both soft and street smart at the same time.

You start saying things like “I know a place” with confidence. You have opinions about roads. You have a preferred Uber route. You have a specific kind of tired that only Nairobi can give.

And somehow… you love it.

You complain, loudly and consistently. You threaten to leave every other week. You fantasize about a slower life. But the moment you’re away for too long, you start missing the chaos. The energy. The unpredictability.

Because Nairobi is not just where you live.

It becomes how you think. How you move. How you survive.

You don’t just live in Nairobi.

Nairobi lives in you.

And at that point, you realize…

Nairobi is not a city.

It’s a personality trait.

As a therapist, I have learned to listen beyond words. To hear what is being said, and also what is being protected, softened, avoided, or disguised. Because sometimes clients don’t lie, they just… edit. Not because they are dishonest, but because sometimes the truth feels too heavy, too unfamiliar, or too unsafe to say out loud.

So they bring pieces of it instead.

And honestly, I get it. Therapy can feel like standing emotionally naked in front of a stranger and hoping they don’t misread you.

So here are some of the things I have come to understand, not just from what my clients say, but from what they mean.

“I don’t know why I’m like this.”
What I often hear is, I am overwhelmed, and I need help understanding myself without feeling judged.

“I’m fine.”
This one… this one is layered. Sometimes it means, I don’t have the words yet. Other times it means, If I start talking, I might not be able to stop. And sometimes, it simply means, I don’t feel safe enough yet.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I hear, It still hurts too much. Or, I don’t trust that I can hold myself together if I go there.

“I feel like I’m overreacting.”
Most times, it translates to, I have been made to feel like my emotions are too much, so now I question myself.

“I just need to fix this.”
Underneath that is usually, I am tired of feeling this way, and I want relief. Not everything needs fixing. Some things need understanding.

“I don’t want to be a burden.”
This one is heavy. What I hear is, I have learned that my needs inconvenience people. And so they shrink, even in spaces meant to hold them fully.

“It’s not that serious.”
But the body says otherwise. The pauses say otherwise. The way their voice shifts says otherwise. What they often mean is, It is serious, but I am afraid of how serious it actually is.

“I should be over this by now.”
There is shame sitting right there. Why am I still here? Why does this still hurt? Healing does not work on deadlines, but no one tells you that before you start.

“I don’t think therapy is working.”
Sometimes this means, I am scared of what I am uncovering. Other times it means, I don’t feel seen. And that one matters. Because therapy should feel like a space where you exist fully.

“I’ve never told anyone this before.”
And in that moment, what I hear is, Please hold this carefully. That sentence carries so much trust, so much fear, and so much courage at the same time.

Sitting in this work has taught me that people are not just speaking from where they are, they are speaking from where they have been hurt. And my role is not to rush them into clarity. Not to force openness. Not to demand vulnerability.

My role is to sit with them until the unsaid feels safe enough to be spoken.

To create a space where “I’m fine” can slowly become “I’m not okay.”
Where “I don’t know” can turn into “this is what I feel.”
Where silence is not awkward, but allowed.

Because therapy is not just about the words that are shared.

It is about the meaning behind them. The pauses between them. The courage it takes to even show up and try.

And if there is one thing I know for sure, it is this. People are always communicating. Even when they say very little at all.

There is a language spoken in therapy that is not always verbal.

There are moments in session where a client pauses, looks away, fidgets, or changes the topic. To someone else, it might seem like avoidance. But to me, it often feels like protection. Like their mind is saying, this is as far as we can go today.

And I respect that.

Therapy is not about forcing truth out of someone. It is about creating enough safety for the truth to arrive on its own.

So I pay attention to the in-between.

The way someone minimizes their pain with humor. The way they defend people who have hurt them. The way they say “it’s okay” when their body says otherwise.

Because what is not said is often just as important as what is. There is also something else people don’t say, but I feel it in the room.

“Will you still see me the same if I tell you everything?”

That question sits quietly in so many sessions.

And my work, beyond techniques and interventions, is to answer that question without always using words. By staying. By not flinching. By holding space without judgment. By reminding them, gently and consistently, that they are allowed to be fully seen.

Even in the parts they have learned to hide.

As a therapist, I have come to understand that healing is not always loud. It does not always look like breakthroughs and big realizations.

Sometimes it looks like someone saying a little more than they did last week.
Sometimes it looks like someone crying for the first time in front of another person.
Sometimes it looks like someone sitting in silence and not running from it.

And those moments matter.

Because behind every “small” thing said in therapy, there is often something much bigger waiting to be felt, understood, and eventually, spoken.

So I listen. Not just to what is said, but to what is meant.

And in that space, slowly, gently, the unspoken begins to find its voice.

That I understand my emotions in real time. That I regulate perfectly. That I always choose the healthy response. That I move through life with grace, awareness, and just the right amount of detachment.

And yes, I do have the tools. I understand patterns. I can name emotions before they fully settle. I can trace triggers back to their roots like I am connecting dots on a map.

But here is the part people don’t say out loud.

I am still human.

I still feel things deeply. Sometimes too deeply. I still get overwhelmed. I still have moments where I do not want to analyze anything, I just want to feel it, fully, messily, without turning it into a lesson.

There are days I want to break down.

Not the controlled kind of breakdown where I am aware and breathing through it and reminding myself of grounding techniques. I mean the kind where I don’t want to be the therapist in my own head. The kind where I don’t want to self-regulate. The kind where I just want to exist in the emotion without managing it.

And that is where the

comes in.

Because imagine feeling something, and at the same time knowing exactly why you feel it. Knowing the origin. Knowing the pattern. Knowing how it connects to your past, your attachment style, your environment, your experiences.

You are feeling it… but you are also watching yourself feel it.

There is no escape.

It is like having a running commentary in your head.
“This is abandonment.”
“This is a trigger.”
“You are projecting.”
“You should communicate this better.”

And sometimes I just want silence.

Sometimes I want to be held without having to explain the psychology behind why I need it. Sometimes I want to react without immediately correcting myself. Sometimes I want to not have the answers.

Because awareness does not cancel out pain.

Knowing better does not mean I will always do better in the moment.
Having the tools does not mean I will always use them perfectly.
Understanding emotions does not mean I am above them.

If anything, it means I feel them more consciously.

And that can be exhausting.

There is also this quiet pressure that comes with this work. The unspoken expectation that I should have it together. That I should be the grounded one. The understanding one. The one who holds space.

But who holds me?

Who sits with me when I am not the therapist, when I am just a person trying to make sense of her own emotions without turning it into a case study?

I have had to learn, intentionally, that I am allowed to be both.

I am allowed to be skilled and still struggle. Aware and still overwhelmed. Grounded and still shaken sometimes.

I am allowed to have moments where I choose softness over strategy. Where I put down the tools and just feel. Because healing is not about perfection. And being a therapist does not make me exempt from being human.

If anything, it makes me more aware of how complex being human really is.

So yes, I will continue to do the work. I will continue to show up for others with presence and care. But I am also learning to show up for myself without judgment.

To let myself break down when I need to.
To rest without turning it into a recovery plan.
To feel without always needing to understand.

Because at the end of the day, before I am a therapist…

I am human first.

Not frozen in time, not stuck, just… present. Watching. Learning. Remembering.

I don’t always notice her, but she shows up in quiet ways. In the moments I hesitate before speaking. In the way I overthink something small. In the times I feel too much and don’t know where to put it.

She is still there.

And the truth is, a lot of who I am becoming is shaped by what she needed and never received.

Maybe she needed reassurance.
Maybe she needed protection.
Maybe she needed someone to say, “you are not too much, you are just not in the right space.”

But instead, I adapted.

I learned how to be strong.
How to stay quiet.
How to read the room before expressing myself.
How to carry things I should have never had to carry alone.

And for a long time, that survival version of me did exactly what it needed to do.

It got me here.

But now, I am in a different place. A place where survival is not the only option anymore. A place where I can choose.

And that is where the shift begins.

Becoming someone younger me needed is not about fixing my past. It is about responding to it differently.

It is choosing to be gentle with myself when my first instinct is to be harsh.
It is allowing myself to rest without needing to earn it.
It is setting boundaries even when my voice shakes.
It is walking away from things that drain me, even if I once felt I had to stay.

It is also unlearning.

Unlearning the belief that love must be earned.
Unlearning the idea that being needed is the same as being valued.
Unlearning the habit of shrinking myself to make others comfortable.

And that process is not easy.

Because sometimes, choosing myself feels unfamiliar.
Sometimes peace feels strange.
Sometimes I question if I am doing too much, when in reality, I am finally doing enough for myself.

Growth has felt like loss before it has felt like freedom.

But slowly, things are changing.

I am starting to notice that I no longer tolerate what once felt normal.
I am choosing people who meet me with softness instead of confusion.
I am trusting myself more than I doubt myself.

And one day, without even realizing it, I became the safe place I was always searching for.

I became the voice that reassures.
The presence that stays.
The person who says, “we are okay,” and actually means it.

There is something deeply powerful about that.

Because the younger version of me does not need me to be perfect.
She does not need me to have it all figured out.

She just needs me to show up.

Consistently. Gently. Honestly.

And in doing that, I am healing in ways that are quiet but lasting.

I am feeling whole in places that once felt empty.

I am understanding that becoming is not about turning into someone new.

It is about returning to myself, and finally giving myself what I always deserved.

Then life said, let me raise the stakes a little.

Becoming an original, official, blood-related auntie? Yoh. Nothing prepared me for that. I am a mamacita now. I am a mummy. I was the first to hold her, the first to whisper a prayer over her tiny life, the first to look at her and think, this one is mine too. I am her first and only auntie, and honestly, I am so grateful that my sister is the real mamacita because wow, the job description is intense. Respect to mothers everywhere, because what do you mean this is a full-time, no-leave, no-salary position?

Have you ever looked at someone and just felt overwhelmed with love? The kind that makes life feel soft again. The kind that makes you think, I want to be here for everything. Her first laugh, her first steps, her first words, the in-between moments, even the lasts that we do not talk about. There is something about her that makes life feel worth living again and again. This is my child in a way I cannot fully explain. She has made me a mum by default, and I am so grateful to her for that, especially because my family knows very well I am child-free by choice. God really said, you will not give birth but you will still feel this love.

Now let us be honest about something. Motherhood as an auntie is beautiful, but it is also… exhausting. All I need is eight hours of uninterrupted sleep once a week and a good massage. That is it. That is the tweet. I even found myself thinking, wow, if I had a man right now, he would be very useful. Just someone to say, go and rest, I have this. Because sometimes you just want to disappear into silence and come back when your battery is fully charged.

But even in the exhaustion, there is so much beauty.

Our family, both nuclear and extended, really believes in community. People show up. People help. The house is full. It is loud. It is chaotic. It is what I imagine heaven sounds like on a good day. We have officially become a version of the loud house, and I love that for me and my mamacita. There is always someone holding the baby, someone laughing, someone giving unsolicited advice. It is messy, but it is love in its purest form.

Because of this new chapter, I will be slowing down a bit. I will be on a little break and will pop in with articles whenever I find the time and energy to write. My schedule is no longer mine alone. It is full, unpredictable, and somehow still beautiful. I am now a hot mamacita, an original auntie, and this role has rearranged my life in the best way possible.

I love it here. I truly do.

And for this little girl, I would do anything. I would sacrifice anything. I think she already knows that. You can see it in how calm she is in her mum’s arms and in mine. Like she understands she is safe, she is loved, she is held.

It is a different kind of love. A different kind of peace.

And I would choose it again and again.

I decided a long time ago that I would pick and choose the pros from my father to measure my future partner against. And looking at the list, I realized something terrifying and wonderful: my standards are incredibly high.

It starts with how he loves my mother.

There is a running joke in our house that my mother has my father wrapped around her finger. She will ask for something, and trust me, she will get it. It might come with a side of grumbling, a lecture on logistics, or a dramatic sigh about the inconvenience, but the result is never in doubt.

Just juzi, my mom asked my dad to buy mangoes. My dad, in typical fashion, told her flat out: “I have passed the market already. I am not turning back. The traffic is bad. Forget it.” He was adamant. Case closed. Yet, when he walked through the door that evening, what was in his hand? A heavy bag of the ripest mangoes he could find.

That is kinda the standard, personally, no complaining, yes on always delivery.

But for my dad and my mom, love might complain, but it always delivers. A love where the “no” is soft and the “yes” is in the action.

But it’s not just about how he treats her; it’s about who he is to us. I have watched this man wake up before dawn to provide, not just money, but stability. I have seen him sit at the head of the table at family dinners, cracking jokes—because yes, he is also the house comedian—and making decisions that, time and again, have steered our family toward success.

He is our safety net and our chauffeur. We can literally call him when we are stranded, anywhere, anytime. He might ask why we didn’t plan better, he might tell us to wait, but a few minutes later, his car will pull up. And the best part? He doesn’t just drive us home in silence. He’ll take a detour to his famous food joints, buy us a meal, and turn a rescue mission into a bonding session.

So, when I look at the dating pool, how can I possibly look for anything less?

I am not naive. I know I am not marrying my father. I don’t want a clone; I want a partner with his own identity. But I also know that I cannot accept a love that is less than what has been freely given to me my entire life.

If my father—a man from a different generation, with all the stresses of providing for a family—can make sure I am safe, fed, and laughing, why would I settle for a partner who treats those things as optional? If my father can drive back to the market for mangoes he said he wouldn’t buy, why would I tolerate a man who can’t keep a simple promise?

My father is the baseline. He is the floor, not the ceiling. I need a man who looks at that standard and doesn’t feel intimidated, but inspired to overdo it. I need a love that adds to the abundance I’ve already known, not one that asks me to shrink to fit a smaller life.

My standards are high because I have seen what a man does for the wife and children he cherishes. Because I’d rather wait for the man who overdoes my dad, who loves deeper, laughs louder, shows up sooner, and carries the weight of my world with grace, than settle for someone who barely meets half the bar he set.

I’m not marrying my dad.

But I’m damn sure not going to marry anyone who doesn’t measure up to him.

And I love that for me.

I look at my mother, a beacon of intellect and perseverance, with two degrees and a constellation of certificates that speak volumes about her dedication. I see my aunts, some holding Master’s degrees, each a testament to a thirst for knowledge that transcends outdated limitations. These women, in their pursuit of education and their own professional journeys, have not just built lives for themselves; they have shattered ceilings for us. They have walked paths that were once exclusively male territory, proving time and again that intellect, capability, and ambition know no gender.

And as I celebrate these incredible women in my family, I also honor the loud, unapologetic feminists who paved the way for them, for me, for all of us. They are the pioneers who fought for the right to education, who demanded a seat at tables where women were previously unseen and unheard. They are the women who dared to dream beyond domesticity, who pushed for platforms in fields that were historically male-dominated, and whose courage opened doors that generations before them could only gaze at longingly. Their struggles are woven into the fabric of our present freedoms.

But this day isn’t just about looking back. It’s also about celebrating the vibrant, unwavering sisterhood that surrounds me now. To my friends, my chosen family, my confidantes: thank you. Thank you for being the constant, steady presence in my life. Our conversations are never surface-level; they are deep dives into our souls, explorations of our fears and our triumphs. We push each other, not out of competition, but out of a fierce collective desire to see each other soar. We comfort each other through the storms, and we love each other fiercely, unapologetically—like it’s no man’s business, because, frankly, it is no man’s business. It is ours.

I love how women are the trendsetters, not just in fashion or culture, but in humanity. I love our emotional depth. What is life, truly, without the full spectrum of emotions? To be without them would be to be numb, to exist without truly living. Our capacity to feel, to empathize, to connect on such profound levels, is not a weakness; it is our superpower. I love how this connection extends even into the digital realm, where we find and foster communities, lifting each other up, sharing our joys and our struggles, even across vast distances.

To the women in my life, and to every woman around the globe: may you find the strength to celebrate yourselves today. May you revel in your accomplishments, big and small. May you also take the time to celebrate the incredible women around you, the ones who inspire you, support you, and make you feel less alone. And may you, in turn, feel the warmth of being celebrated.

Celebrate yourself today. Celebrate the women beside you, behind you, before you. And know that you are celebrated, seen, and worthy of every applause.

The world is brighter because we’re in it.

Happy International Women’s Day to all women, everywhere. May our collective strength continue to illuminate the world.

Science has long suggested that personality is not purely a product of environment; that who we are is, in part, written into us before we even take our first breath. Introversion, extroversion, temperament, social appetite, these are not simply choices we make or habits we form. They are, in many ways, inherited. Passed down like heirlooms, like bone structure, like the particular way a family laughs. And nowhere is this more evident to me than in the quiet, almost sacred introversion I share with my father.

Let me tell you about this man.

When his own father died — my grandfather — my father appointed one of his closest friends to be the family spokesman. Not because he was incapable of speaking. Not because grief had stolen his voice. But because the idea of all that attention, all those eyes, all those condolences converging on him in one room, was simply too much. Even in his most vulnerable moment, his instinct was to step back, to redirect the gaze, to grieve without becoming a spectacle. Some people read that as emotional unavailability. I read it as the most honest thing a person can do — to know yourself so completely that even in crisis, you protect your own peace.

That is my father. And, embarrassingly, miraculously, that is me.

I was heavily introverted growing up. And before anyone conflates what I am about to say, nothing has fundamentally changed. What has changed is that therapy gave me opinions, and I now voice them. But let me be clear, because this is a hill I will plant a flag on and defend: having an opinion is not the same as being extroverted. Introverts have rich, vivid, ferociously developed inner worlds. Therapy simply taught me to let some of it out. I am still, at my core, the person who stays home, goes out occasionally like a rare and cautious animal, and then needs days — sometimes weeks — to decompress from the sheer weight of having been perceived.

That? I got it from my father.

My father will hear the gate knock and visibly agitate. There is a particular tension that enters his body at the sound of unannounced visitors, a subtle but unmistakable shift, like a man who has just heard the first rumble of an approaching inconvenience. He has, on multiple occasions, and without shame, asked us to lie. Tell them I’m not home. Not because he dislikes people in any malicious sense, but because his home is his sanctuary, and an uninvited knock is a small but genuine violation of it.

And then there was the jacket incident.

My friends and I were heading out, and I stopped home briefly to grab a sweater. I walked in, unsuspecting, and found my father in the middle of a very deliberate operation, quietly removing evidence of his own presence in the house. Shoes tucked away. TV volume lowered. The careful, practiced choreography of a man preparing to vanish into his bedroom and simply not exist for whoever was at the door. He looked at me with the expression of a man whose alibi had just been compromised. I looked at him with the quiet recognition of someone seeing themselves in a mirror.

My friends were waiting outside. My father was mid-disappearance. And I understood him completely.

He resents small talk in a way that feels almost philosophical. The performative exchanges, the how are you, fine, thank you, and you, “ are the social theatre that exhausts without nourishing. He has no patience for it, no pretense about tolerating it. And I love that I inherited this from him. Not the antisocial reading of it, but the honesty of it. The refusal to spend energy on interactions that leave you more depleted than before. The quiet insistence that presence should mean something, that conversations should have weight.

Personality inheritance is a fascinating, deeply personal thing. We like to believe we are entirely self-made, that our quirks and preferences are uniquely ours. But then you watch your father hide from his own gate and recognize the exact impulse in yourself, and you understand that some things were always going to find you. They were written into you before you had the vocabulary to name them.

My mother gave us the spark that lights up a room. My father gave us the wisdom to know when to leave it.

And I would not trade either inheritance for anything.

Not the restless, reaching-for-your-phone kind of bored. Not the “I’ll just put something on in the background” kind. I mean the deep, uncomfortable, staring-at-the-ceiling kind of boredom where time stretches out in front of you like an empty field and your mind has absolutely nothing to do but wander. Think about it honestly. Because if you’re struggling to remember, that’s precisely the problem.

We have declared war on boredom, and we are winning. And it is costing us everything.

There is a particular kind of silence that used to exist in ordinary life — in waiting rooms, on commutes, in the space between waking up and picking up a device. It was uncomfortable, yes. But it was also generative. It was the silence in which you accidentally solved a problem that had been nagging you for weeks. It was the daydream that became an idea, the idle thought that became a plan, the quiet that forced you to finally sit with yourself long enough to figure out what you actually felt. That silence is now almost entirely extinct, replaced by an endless, curated stream of content designed specifically to ensure you never have to feel it again.

And we call this progress.

Neuroscience has long understood something that our culture seems determined to ignore: the brain is not less active during rest, it is differently active. When we stop focusing on external tasks, a network of brain regions called the Default Mode Network switches on. This is the network responsible for imagination, self-reflection, memory consolidation, empathy, and creative problem-solving. It is, in the most literal neurological sense, where our best thinking happens. And it is almost exclusively activated by doing nothing. By being, as we now so dismissively call it, bored.

The psychologist Sandi Mann, who has studied boredom extensively, found that people who were made to complete a boring task before a creative one consistently outperformed those who went straight into the creative exercise. Boredom, her research suggested, is not a cognitive idle state — it is a cognitive launchpad. The mind, left without stimulation, begins generating its own. It makes connections between unrelated things. It asks questions nobody assigned it. It wanders into territory that no algorithm would ever suggest.

This is exactly what we are shutting down every time we reach for our phones.

With our phones, then came AI, and a discovery I have is that AI isn’t coming for our Jobs, it’s coming for our Creativity, and that’s the Real Problem. The fear of AI replacing jobs is valid, but the more insidious threat is the potential for AI to homogenize human creativity, making original thought and authentic expression a niche luxury.

The average person now checks their phone close to one hundred times a day. We queue podcasts for our showers. We scroll through reels while eating. We fall asleep to streaming services and wake up to notification panels. We have constructed an environment so saturated with external input that the brain barely has a moment to process one thing before the next arrives. And we do all of this, ironically, in the name of enrichment. Of staying informed. Of not wasting time.

But here is the uncomfortable truth: we are wasting ourselves.

There is a reason why so many great ideas historically arrived in the bath, on long walks, mid-conversation about something entirely unrelated. It isn’t a coincidence or romantic mythology. It is the Default Mode Network doing its work, making unexpected connections, surfacing buried questions, and presenting answers to problems the conscious mind had stopped actively trying to solve. Newton’s apple wasn’t just a fruit falling, it was a mind idle enough to notice something and think about it long enough to arrive somewhere extraordinary. You cannot have that moment if you are watching a thirty-second video, the moment your eyes land on anything still.

And beyond creativity, there is something even more profound, the loss of the capacity for genuine self-knowledge.

Boredom is not just the birthplace of ideas. It is the space in which we are forced to encounter ourselves. When the noise stops, the real questions surface. What am I doing with my life? Am I happy? What do I actually want, outside of what I’ve been shown to want? These are the questions that drive meaningful growth, authentic decision-making, and the kind of self-awareness that makes a person genuinely interesting to be around. Instead, we have become very good at knowing what Netflix thinks we should watch next. We have outsourced our inner monologue to content creators and our self-reflection to aesthetic highlight reels, and we wonder why so many people feel a persistent, low-grade sense of emptiness that no amount of consumption seems to fill.

The irony is exquisite and devastating: in our desperate pursuit of stimulation, we have made ourselves less stimulating. Conversations that used to be sparked by privately incubated thoughts are now dominated by the recounting of content consumed. “Did you see that video?” has replaced “I’ve been thinking about something.” We have become curators of other people’s ideas rather than generators of our own, and we don’t even notice the shift because everyone around us is doing the same thing.

Reclaiming boredom is not about nostalgia. It is not about throwing your phone into a river or staging a dramatic digital detox retreat. It is about something far more deliberate and far less glamorous: choosing, regularly, to sit in discomfort. To let the commute be silent. To let the meal be eaten without a screen. To let the mind wander without immediately yanking it back with a notification. It is about trusting that the empty space is not wasted time but productive time, time the brain desperately needs to do the quiet, invisible work that makes everything else possible.

Boredom was never the enemy. It was always the incubator. And we built a civilization of noise to destroy it, and now we are surprised that we feel hollow.

Boredom isn’t the enemy. It’s the engine.

Sit with nothing for a while. See what shows up.

You might be startled by how much was always waiting for you in the quiet.