Not the loud, dramatic kind of crying. Mine was quieter. Just tears silently streaming down my face over the smallest things. If I got overwhelmed, I’d cry. If someone raised their voice at me, I’d cry. If I was embarrassed, I’d cry. Sometimes I didn’t even know why I was crying…I just was.

It drove my parents crazy.

“Why are you crying again?” became a question I heard so often that eventually, I started asking myself the same thing.

Looking back, I don’t think I was weak. I think I simply felt everything very deeply.

One of my funniest memories is from secondary school. They called my name to receive a prize. Most children would have run to the front with huge smiles.

I cried.

Imagine receiving an award and somehow still finding tears. I don’t even remember exactly why. Maybe everyone was looking at me. Maybe I was overwhelmed. Maybe I was just… me.

That was the version of me everyone knew.

The girl who cried.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

This year, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried.

Sometimes I feel the heaviness sitting in my chest, and I almost wish the tears would come. I try to let myself cry because I’ve always believed tears can be healing. They release something words can’t.

But nothing happens.

The feeling stays.

The tears don’t.

It’s strange because I never thought I’d miss crying.

When I was younger, I wanted to stop. I wanted to be tougher, calmer, less emotional. I thought growing up meant becoming someone who wasn’t moved so easily.

Now I’m here.

And sometimes I wonder if I got exactly what I asked for.

People often talk about becoming stronger as if strength always looks like holding it together. But I don’t know if that’s always true.

Maybe strength also looks like allowing yourself to fall apart when you need to.

Maybe tears were never my weakness.

Maybe they were proof that my heart still knew how to respond.

I don’t know if I’ve become more resilient or just better at compartmentalising. I don’t know whether adulthood has thickened my skin or simply taught me to postpone my feelings because there are emails to answer, businesses to run, bills to pay, and people who need versions of me that keep functioning.

Life doesn’t pause long enough for a breakdown anymore.

So instead of crying, I keep moving.

I finish the work.

I answer the messages.

I show up.

And then I go to bed hoping tomorrow feels a little lighter.

Maybe the tears are still somewhere inside me, waiting for a moment that finally feels safe enough.

Or maybe this is just another version of growing up.

Either way, I miss the girl who could cry.

Not because crying is beautiful.

But because she never had to pretend she was okay when she wasn’t.

Maybe one day the tears will come again.

And if they do, I don’t think I’ll try to stop them this time.

All my love,

Zainab

If you asked me in January how I thought 2026 would go, I would have painted a very different picture.

I probably would have talked about travel, work, saving money, growing my platforms, and maybe finally becoming one of those people who drinks enough water every day.

I definitely would not have said:

“It starts with a police case.”

Yet somehow, that’s exactly how my year began.

January felt like someone had picked up my life, shaken it violently, and dropped it back down.

There were conversations I never imagined having. Places I never thought I’d find myself. Emotions I wasn’t prepared to carry.

I remember thinking, “Is this really how my year is going to start?”

It was exhausting.

It was confusing.

And for a moment, I genuinely believed the rest of the year had already been written.

Thankfully, I was wrong.

Then Ramadan came.

If you’ve been here for a while, you probably noticed how active I suddenly became.

One campaign became another.

Emails turned into contracts.

Ideas turned into invoices.

For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just creating because I loved it—I was seeing my work pay me well.

There’s something surreal about watching years of consistency suddenly become profitable.

People often see the finished campaign.

They don’t see the years of posting when nobody cared.

The pitches that never got replies.

The brands that said no.

Or the content you almost didn’t upload because you thought it wasn’t good enough.

Ramadan reminded me that sometimes your harvest doesn’t arrive in the same season you planted.

Then April arrived.

I turned twenty-five.

And instead of throwing a big party, I found myself in Egypt.

There’s something about travelling that rearranges you.

You realise how big the world is.

How small your worries become when you’re standing somewhere you’ve only ever seen on Pinterest boards or history documentaries.

Egypt wasn’t just a birthday trip.

It felt like proof that younger me’s dreams were quietly becoming my normal life.

Not because everything is perfect.

But because the life I once prayed for is slowly introducing itself to me.

Now we’re in July.

I’ve started going to the gym.

Which, if you know me, probably deserves applause because consistency and I have been acquaintances for years.

I’m learning that discipline isn’t loud.

It’s showing up when nobody is clapping.

It’s choosing yourself on ordinary Tuesday mornings.

It’s doing something because Future You deserves the effort.

I’ve also started building a new business.

Starting over is strange.

Every business begins with an idea that only makes complete sense to the person dreaming it.

Right now there are spreadsheets, product samples, branding decisions, supplier conversations, and about a hundred tabs open on my laptop.

It’s exciting.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exactly where I want to be.

Looking back, I realise this year hasn’t been about becoming successful.

It’s been about becoming someone who can survive both chaos and celebration without losing herself.

Six months ago, I couldn’t have imagined writing this.

Life really can change between January and July.

Sometimes slowly.

Sometimes overnight.

Sometimes in ways that don’t make sense until you’re looking back.

So here’s to the second half of 2026.

May it surprise me in gentler ways.

May I keep choosing courage over comfort.

May I continue building a life that feels just as good when the camera is off.

And if the first six months taught me anything, it’s this:

Never decide how your year is going to end based on how it begins.

See you in December.

We’ll compare notes.

They assume that because you always find a way, you don’t need help. Because you’re always smiling, you must be okay. Because you keep showing up for everyone else, there couldn’t possibly be anything weighing you down.

But some of the strongest people are carrying the heaviest things in silence.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to always be “the strong one.” The friend who always knows what to say. The daughter who keeps everything together. The sibling who never complains. The one who plans the trips, remembers birthdays, fixes problems, gives advice, and somehow still manages to show up looking like life is perfectly under control.

Somewhere along the way, strength stopped being something I did and became who everyone expected me to be.

And that’s where the hidden cost begins.

When people see you as resilient, they stop checking if you’re okay. They assume you’ll figure it out because you always have. They come to you with their heartbreaks, anxieties, disappointments, and fears, never realizing that you’re carrying a few of your own.

You become everyone’s safe place while quietly wishing you had somewhere to fall apart.

The strange thing is that you don’t even notice when it starts happening. You become so accustomed to being dependable that asking for help feels foreign. Vulnerability starts to feel like weakness, even though you would never think that about someone else.

So you keep going.

You keep smiling through exhaustion.

You keep showing up when you’re emotionally drained.

You keep saying, “I’m fine,” because explaining the truth feels too complicated.

You become an expert at surviving while secretly longing to be seen.

And perhaps that’s the loneliest part of being the strong one, not that life is difficult, but that everyone assumes it isn’t.

For many women, especially in their twenties, strength often feels less like a choice and more like an expectation. We are told to chase our dreams, support our families, nurture our friendships, excel at work, maintain our faith, protect our peace, and somehow do it all gracefully.

We celebrate independence but rarely talk about the exhaustion that can come with constantly carrying ourselves through life.

There is a quiet grief that comes from realizing you’ve become so good at holding everything together that no one notices when you’re falling apart.

I’ve learned that strength is not pretending everything is okay.

Real strength is saying, “I’m struggling.”

It’s allowing yourself to cry without feeling guilty. It’s asking for help before you’re overwhelmed. It’s letting people love you instead of always being the one doing the loving.

It’s understanding that resilience is not measured by how much pain you can carry in silence.

For a long time, I thought being strong meant never bending.

But trees that refuse to bend in a storm often break. The ones that survive are the ones that move with the wind, trusting that flexibility is not weakness but wisdom.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m still learning.

That I don’t have to earn rest.

That I don’t have to prove my worth by carrying everything alone.

That I can be ambitious and soft, dependable and vulnerable, resilient and tired—all at the same time.

If you’ve always been the strong one, I hope you know that your needs matter too.

You deserve friends who ask how you’re doing and wait for the honest answer.

You deserve to be comforted without having to earn it.

You deserve spaces where you don’t have to have it all figured out.

And you deserve the freedom to put your armor down every once in a while.

Because the strongest people need somewhere to rest too.

I’d love to hear from you: Have you ever felt like you had to be the strong one all the time? What did it cost you?

I cried for an hour straight.

Not the dramatic kind of crying. The helpless kind. The kind where your chest feels heavy, and your body goes cold because your mind cannot process what your eyes just witnessed.

A few days ago, I saw a video I wish I had never saw.

Human beings; Nigerians, in a bush, being brutalised, beheaded, stripped of dignity like their lives meant absolutely nothing. I kept pausing the video, hoping that I maybe misunderstood what I was seeing. Hoping maybe it was edited, fake, exaggerated OR EVEN AI?!

But it wasn’t.

And for an hour straight, I cried.

I cried because fear suddenly felt personal. Because grief in Nigeria has become routine. Because we scroll past headlines about killings, kidnappings and attacks so often that we have almost trained ourselves to emotionally detach just to survive.

But this one broke me.

How did we get here?

How did we become a country where terror feels ordinary? Where parents send their children to school and silently pray they return alive? Where entering a road, boarding a bus, travelling between states, or simply existing can feel like gambling with your life?

The recent insecurity in Oyo State shook me deeply. Reports of pupils and teachers abducted, communities thrown into panic, and the horrifying news surrounding an abducted teacher whose killing was circulated publicly felt like something out of a nightmare except this nightmare is real, and it is happening here. Schools disrupted. Families protesting. Communities grieving. Fear spreading like smoke. And what scares me most is not only the violence.

It is the normalisation of it.

We hear terrible news and continue eating lunch. Continue posting memes. Continue working. Continue laughing, not because we do not care, but because if we stop to feel everything, maybe we would drown.

Nigeria has taught us survival in the harshest way possible: function through pain.

But I do not want us to become numb.

I do not want us to become the people who hear “another kidnapping,” “another body,” “another attack,” and simply shrug because suffering has become too familiar.

Behind every headline is somebody’s child. Somebody’s mother. Somebody who had plans for tomorrow. Somebody who probably thought they had more time.

I keep asking myself: what exactly are ordinary Nigerians supposed to do with this level of fear?

How do you build dreams in a country where safety itself feels uncertain?

How do you plan a future when the present feels so fragile?

I am angry.

I am heartbroken.

I am exhausted.

But more than anything, I am grieving a country that feels like it keeps bleeding while the rest of us stand around asking, “Who is next?”

Maybe that is what hurts the most.

The feeling that no one is truly safe.

And still, somehow, Nigerians wake up every morning and try again.

We go to work. We laugh with friends. We create, hustle, pray, love, dream.

Maybe resilience is beautiful.

But sometimes, I wonder if resilience has become another word for being forced to endure what should never have become normal.

All my love,

Zainab Abidoye

At 25, I’ve visited 11 countries, I’m pursuing my master’s degree, building dreams I once whispered to myself, and still, when people ask me about marriage, my answer feels uncertain.

Not because I don’t value it.

Not because I’m against it.

And definitely not because I think marriage is unnecessary.

If anything, I deeply believe in marriage.

As a Muslim woman, I grew up understanding the beauty of marriage in Islam, the companionship, mercy, protection, stability, and barakah that can come with building a life with someone. I understand why early marriage is often encouraged: it protects, grounds, and creates a partnership early in life.

Yet here I am at 25, still feeling like I’m not ready.

And that contradiction has forced me to ask difficult questions.

The beauty of early marriage in Islam

There are undeniable advantages to marrying early.

For many Muslims, marriage offers emotional companionship during formative years. Instead of figuring adulthood out alone, you grow alongside someone. You build together before life becomes overly complicated.

There’s also spiritual comfort in it.

Islamically, marriage can help create stability, emotional accountability, and halal companionship in a world that often makes relationships complicated.

Financially and emotionally, some couples mature together rather than waiting until everything feels “perfect” because maybe nothing ever truly is.

And honestly? Sometimes I look at couples who married young and think: That looks beautiful.

To have someone witness your becoming.

To struggle together.

To grow together.

To build memories before life hardens you.

But what if you still don’t feel ready?

This is where my internal conflict begins.

I’ve travelled to 11 countries and counting, and every trip has changed me a little.

Travel taught me independence.

It stretched my worldview.

It made me realize how much of myself I’m still discovering.

I’m also doing my master’s degree, still learning who I am under pressure, what kind of life I want, how I respond to uncertainty, and what I value outside of expectations.

Sometimes I ask myself: am I delaying marriage or am I simply growing? LOL

Because readiness feels more complicated than age.

At 25, I don’t necessarily feel immature.

I just don’t feel complete in understanding myself.

And maybe marriage isn’t about completeness, but partnership.

Still, I wonder:

Am I emotionally prepared to prioritize another person daily?

Am I ready for compromise?

Ready to share decisions?

Ready to share a bed and toilet?

Ready for the invisible responsibilities marriage comes with?

The disadvantages nobody talks about

We don’t speak enough about how marrying early can feel difficult when someone is still discovering themselves.

Sometimes people outgrow each other.

Sometimes ambition, relocation, education, and personal growth introduce tension.

Sometimes emotional maturity hasn’t caught up yet.

And for women especially, there can be pressure to fit into timelines that don’t necessarily reflect emotional readiness.

The conversation often becomes: “You’re 25 already.”

But maybe the better question is:

“Are you prepared for what marriage actually requires?”

Faith, timelines, and surrender

I still believe early marriage in Islam can be beautiful.

I don’t think waiting automatically makes someone wiser.

And I don’t think marrying early automatically means someone made the right choice.

I think timing is deeply personal.

And perhaps even more importantly for Muslims, timing is tied to qadr.

Maybe readiness isn’t a destination.

Maybe some people grow inside marriage.

Maybe others need more growing beforehand.

Right now, at 25, I’m somewhere in between.

Grateful for where life has taken me.

Hopeful about marriage.

But honest enough to admit:

I’m still not ready.

And maybe honesty is a form of readiness, too.

Eid mubaraq darlings,

All my love, Zainab Abidoye.

My classmates had been talking about cramps, pads, stained uniforms, and mood swings for years. Some carried purses with emergency supplies. Some complained about painful periods during exams. Some acted like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And then there was I.

Fourteen years old. In SS3. Still waiting.

I remember feeling like my body had missed a deadline that everyone else met on time.

People rarely talk about how lonely late puberty can feel, especially as a girl. When puberty comes early, adults worry. When it comes “on time,” nobody notices. But when it comes late, you become painfully aware of how different you are.

You notice conversations stopping when you walk up.

You notice friends assuming you “wouldn’t understand.”

You notice how health classes seem to describe everyone except you.

And even if nobody says anything directly, comparison becomes loud.

I started wondering if something was wrong with me.

Was I unhealthy? Underdeveloped? Delayed? Broken?

I remember Always coming to my school for awareness campaigns and handing out pads, and I kept the one they handed to me very safe and fantasized about using them too.

At that age, your body feels tied to your identity. So when your body develops differently, it can quietly affect your confidence too. I felt younger than everyone around me, not just physically, but socially. Like my classmates had crossed into another stage of life, and I was still standing outside the gate.

The strange thing is that once my period finally came, nothing dramatic changed ( It was even during WAEC exams).

There was no magical moment where I suddenly “caught up.” No movie scene. No instant confidence. Just relief.

Relief that my body had finally arrived in its own time.

Looking back now, I wish someone had told me this earlier:

Puberty is not a race.

Bodies don’t follow one universal calendar. Some people develop at 9. Some at 14. Some even later. And while doctors have ranges they consider typical, human bodies are still deeply individual.

But when you’re a teenager surrounded by comparison, logic doesn’t always help. You don’t care about statistics. You care about feeling normal.

I think that’s why late puberty can leave such a lasting emotional memory. Not because of the biology itself, but because of what it feels like to watch everyone else move ahead while you wait for your turn.

And honestly? Waiting changes you.

It makes you observant.

It makes you self-conscious.

Sometimes it makes you mature faster emotionally, even when your body develops later physically.

For me, it also taught me something I still carry today: timing is deeply personal.

Not just with puberty, but with life in general.

Some people reach milestones early. Some later. Some quietly. Some publicly. But “late” does not automatically mean “wrong.”

I wish more girls talked openly about experiences like this. Because somewhere, there’s probably another teenager googling “Why haven’t I started my period yet?” while pretending not to care in front of her friends.

And maybe she needs to hear this:

You are not behind.

Your body is not failing you.

And your timeline still belongs to you.

All my love,

Zainab Abidoye

Seeing buildings from the plane always does something to me. Tiny clusters of lights and rooftops beneath the clouds, entire lives happening quietly while I’m just passing through. I always wonder who lives there, what their mornings look like, who they love, what they’re running from, what they’re praying for. And somehow I convince myself that maybe, after landing, our paths might cross for just a second in this ridiculously big world.

For two weeks, Egypt felt like another version of my life.

I spent my birthday there, moving between cities, dragging suitcases through airports, taking blurry videos from car windows, eating meals that made me sit in silence after the first bite, and standing in places so ancient they almost made me emotional. Something is unsettling about seeing temples and monuments that existed long before you and will continue existing long after you. It makes your problems feel both tiny and incredibly personal at the same time.

And then there were the quieter moments nobody really posts online.

The exhaustion. Missing familiar things(Like Nigerian food 😭). Having to constantly be alert in a new environment. The loneliness that sometimes sneaks up on you even when you’re having a beautiful time. Travel is glamorous until you realize you still carry yourself everywhere you go. Your thoughts still follow you across borders.

But I think that’s why I love it.

I love how travel stretches me emotionally. How it reminds me that the world is impossibly large and yet strangely intimate. One minute I was watching the Nile at night, the next I was on a plane back home staring out the window again, wondering about strangers in buildings below me.

Now I’m back in Abuja, and everything feels slightly unfamiliar in the way home sometimes does after a trip. My body is here, but parts of my mind are still wandering through Egypt… still replaying the warmth, the chaos, the beauty, the overstimulation, the feeling of being somewhere both ancient and alive.

I think that’s the strange thing about traveling for your birthday. You don’t just come back with pictures. You come back with a different version of yourself.

All my love,

Zainab

It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, almost embarrassing, like I’m asking for too much or regressing into something I should have outgrown. But it’s the most honest way I can describe this quiet, persistent feeling I’ve been carrying.

I’m a first child.

Which, in many ways, means I’ve been an adult long before I was ready to be one.

I learned early that there was always something to do, someone to take care of, something to fix. I became dependable before I even understood what that meant. Responsible, before I had a choice. I wasn’t allowed to slack, not because anyone explicitly said it every day, but because the expectation lived in the air I breathed. You just knew.

You don’t mess up.
You don’t fall apart.
You don’t get to be careless.

And even when you’re tired, you keep going, because that’s what you’ve always done.

So you grow into someone who carries everything. You anticipate needs. You show up. You hold space. You fix problems before they become problems. You become the strong one, the reliable one, the one people don’t worry about.

But no one really stops to ask, " Who takes care of you?

Even when I travel…something that’s supposed to feel freeing, I realize how deeply this follows me.

I don’t just “go on trips.”
I plan. I calculate. I stay alert.

I’m thinking about logistics, safety, money, directions, and timing. I’m scanning my environment, making sure everything is okay, making sure I’m okay. I’m using all my senses at once; watching, listening, anticipating. Even in beautiful places, there’s a part of me that never fully relaxes.

And it hits me in those moments, I don’t actually know what it feels like to completely switch off.

To just exist somewhere without being responsible for every little thing.

To not have to think five steps ahead.

To be taken care of in a way that lets my guard down.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped knowing what it feels like to be soft without guilt. To rest without explaining myself. To be taken care of without feeling like I owe something in return.

I crave that kind of care in a way I don’t always know how to admit.

Not in a dramatic, helpless way, but in the quiet, human way. I want to be held without having to ask twice. I want someone to notice when I’m overwhelmed before I say it out loud. I want to not have everything figured out for once, and not be judged for it.

I want to be allowed to just exist without performing strength.

Because the truth is, constantly being “the strong one” is exhausting. It looks admirable on the outside, but it can feel incredibly lonely on the inside. There’s a kind of isolation that comes from always being the one people lean on, but never the one who gets to lean.

And sometimes, I don’t want to lead.
I don’t want to solve anything.
I don’t want to be the one holding it all together.

I just want to be babied.

To be reassured.
To be comforted.
To be seen in my softness, not just my strength.

I think a lot of first children carry this contradiction; we are capable, independent, and resilient… but deeply, quietly tired. Tired of always having to be “on.” Tired of equating our worth with how much we can handle.

Wanting to be babied doesn’t make me weak.

If anything, it’s an acknowledgment that I’ve been strong for a long time.

And maybe strength( real strength) is allowing yourself to put it down sometimes. To admit that you need care too. That you deserve it, even if you’ve spent your whole life being the one who gives it.

So yes…I want to be babied.

Not because I can’t handle life.

But because, for once, I don’t want to have to.

All my love,

Zainab Abidoye

I am spending it in Egypt, and there is something poetic about celebrating a new year of life in a land that has witnessed thousands of them. A place where time feels sacred. Where history stands still in stone, and yet life continues to move so beautifully around it.

My birthday eve was spent at Khufu’s Restaurant, sitting with my friend Ablah Lojayna, with the pyramids in view like they had shown up just for me. It felt surreal. One of those moments where life becomes bigger than routine, bigger than stress, bigger than all the things you once thought mattered.

I looked around and thought: so this is what gratitude feels like when it fills the whole room.

I’m having the best birthday ever, and I don’t say that lightly.

Not because everything in life is perfect. Not because I have every answer. Not because no worries are waiting for me after today.

But because I am genuinely happy.

Happy in the kind of way that sneaks up on you after years of growing pains. Happy in the kind of way that comes from becoming someone you’re proud of. Happy in the kind of way that isn’t loud or performative but deep, calm, and real.

My friends made me happy.

My family made me happy.

My social media community made me happy.

There is something incredibly moving about being loved in different languages, from different places, by people who know different versions of you.

The people who raised me.
The people who chose me.
The people who found me through a screen and stayed.

I do not take any of it for granted.

Birthdays used to feel like milestones I needed to measure myself against. What have I achieved? Am I behind? Am I enough? Did I do life correctly this year?

But today feels different.

Today feels less like an audit and more like a celebration.

A celebration of survival.
Of growth.
Of softness returning.
Of prayers answered quietly.
Of becoming.

And maybe that is what this age is teaching me: joy does not always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it comes as dinner beside ancient wonders. Sometimes it sounds like a friend laughing across the table. Sometimes it looks like messages from people who thought of you before you thought of yourself.

Sometimes joy is simply realizing you are here and you are loved.

Today, I am here.

And I am loved.

And under the Egyptian sky, that feels like more than enough.

All my love,

Zainab

Today, I’m still 24, and that feels important.

There’s something about this in-between that I don’t want to rush past. Not quite who I was, not fully who I’m becoming. Just… here. A little tired. A little proud. A little unsure. But here.

I used to think I would arrive at 25 as a finished version of myself. Stable. Certain. Settled into a life that made perfect sense. Instead, I’m arriving as someone still building in real time. Someone holding a lot…responsibility, expectations, and still trying to make space for her own life inside all of it.

24 was not what I imagined.
It was heavier.

It taught me how to show up even when I was exhausted. How to be dependable, not just for myself, but for people who lean on me. It showed me the cost of being “the strong one,” how strength can look like grace on the outside and feel like weight on the inside.

There were moments I felt stretched thin between who I am to others and who I’m trying to become for myself. Moments, I wished things were lighter. Simpler. Moments, I wondered if I was doing too much or not enough.

But 24 also did something else.
It made me honest.

Honest about what I can carry and what I can’t. Honest about the fact that I’m still learning. Still unlearning. Still figuring out how to exist without pouring all of myself out.

I’m not arriving at 25 with everything figured out.
I’m arriving with awareness.

I know now that being strong doesn’t mean being everything to everyone.
I know that growth isn’t always loud or pretty that sometimes it looks like endurance.
I know that I deserve a life that feels like mine, not just one that I hold together for others.

There are things I’m leaving behind at 24.
The need to overextend myself to prove love.
The guilt that comes with choosing myself.
The idea that I have to have it all mapped out by now.

And there are things I’m carrying with me into 25.
My resilience.
My softness, even when it’s hard to protect.
My willingness to keep going, even without clear answers.

If I could say one thing to the version of me that’s about to turn 25, it would be this:

You are allowed to build your life at your own pace.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to want more and also take your time getting there.

This is the last Tuesday I’ll ever spend at 24.
And for the first time, I’m not in a rush to leave it behind.

25 is coming.
And I’m walking towards it as I am still becoming, still learning, still here.

All my love,

Zainab

I don’t remember when I stopped being just a child.

Maybe it was the first time I was told, “You’re the eldest, you should know better.”
Or the first time I was handed responsibility in the name of love, culture, and faith.

In a Muslim Yoruba home, being the eldest daughter isn’t just a role, it’s almost an identity assigned before you even understand what it means.

You are the example.
The second mother.
The quiet fixer.
The one who adjusts.

Growing up, there were rules, spoken and unspoken.

Help your mum.
Watch your siblings.
Be modest.
Be respectful.
Don’t talk back.
Pray on time.
Don’t bring shame.

None of these were inherently bad. In fact, many of them shaped me into who I am today. Discipline, faith, responsibility, these are things I carry with pride.

But somewhere between doing the right thing and being the “good daughter,” I learned how to shrink parts of myself.

In many Muslim homes, religion is not just a belief; it is a structure, a routine, and sometimes, control.

You learn early that obedience is rewarded.
Patience is a virtue.
That silence is safer than expression.

And as the eldest daughter, you internalize it deeper than most.

You don’t just follow the rules, you help enforce them.

You remind your siblings to observe solah.
You translate your parents’ expectations.
You carry the emotional tone of the house without even realizing it.

What people don’t talk about is the weight of always being “the strong one.”

You become reliable, but rarely rested.
Helpful, but sometimes unheard.
Present for everyone, but disconnected from yourself.

There’s this pressure to get everything right because if you don’t, it feels like you’ve failed not just yourself, but your entire family.

And failure? It’s not something you were raised to comfortably experience.

For a long time, I didn’t even question it.

I thought this was just what love looked like sacrifice, responsibility, endurance.

Until I started growing into my own person.

Until I realized that I didn’t always know what I wanted, only what was expected of me.

Now, I’m learning something new.

That I can love my family and still choose myself.
That faith doesn’t have to feel like pressure; it can feel like peace.
That being a good daughter doesn’t mean disappearing.

I’m learning to rest without guilt.
To speak without fear.
To exist outside of responsibility.

Being the eldest daughter in a Muslim home made me strong.

But now, I’m allowing myself to be soft too.

And maybe that’s the part of the story no one tells you

That after being everything for everyone,
You still deserve to become something for yourself.

All my love,

Zainab

Especially not after writing something as heavy as grief.

There’s something very exposing about putting words like that out into the world, words that don’t try to be pretty or polished, just honest. And somehow, 52 of you read it, sat with it, and chose to stay.

Thank you.

Not just for subscribing, but for holding space for me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

Grief is such a quiet, complicated thing. It doesn’t always look the way we expect, and it doesn’t always leave when we want it to. Writing about it felt like opening a door I had kept closed for a while and knowing it didn’t echo back emptily means more than I can explain.

This space, I’m realizing, is going to be a lot of things.

Some days it will be soft.
Some days it will be heavy.
Some days it will just be me trying to make sense of being in my 20s, in this body, in this life, in this country, and sometimes far away from it.

But if you’re here, I want you to know you’re not just a number.

You’re part of the beginning of something I’m building with intention.

And I’m really, really grateful you’re here.

All my love,
Zainab

I didn’t die.
I survived.
But a version of me didn’t make it through that accident.

It’s strange to talk about grief when no one actually died. People expect grief to come with funerals, condolences, and black clothing. Mine came with hospital lights, stitches across my left forehead, and a mirror that showed me a face I was still learning how to recognize.

The cut ran through my eyebrow. I remember touching the area carefully, afraid to really feel it. Even now, the scar isn’t very noticeable to most people. If you look quickly, you might miss it. But I know it’s there. I feel it every time I braid my hair. Every time my head starts aching when my hair is being pulled too tight. Every time I remember how effortless things used to feel.

Before the accident, I never thought about my head hurting while making my hair. It was such a normal thing, something so small I never even gave it attention. Now it reminds me that something inside me changed.

And sometimes, I miss the girl I was before June 2024.

I miss how unaware she was. How she moved through life without thinking about scars, or pain that lingers long after wounds close. She didn’t know that healing isn’t just about stitches coming out or swelling going down. Healing can be slow. Quiet. Invisible.

No one really prepares you for grieving yourself.

Because that’s what it feels like sometimes, like I’m mourning a version of me that existed before that day. Not because I’m broken now, but because something about me shifted. Life divided itself into two timelines; before the accident, and after.

Some days I feel completely fine. I laugh, I work, I live my life as if nothing happened. Other days, the memory comes back in small ways. A dull pain in my head. A moment in front of the mirror. A random thought about how fragile normal life actually is.

What surprises me the most is how grief can exist alongside gratitude.

Because the truth is, I’m grateful. It could have been worse. I know that. I remind myself of it often. I’m still here. Still moving. Still growing. Still living my life.

But gratitude doesn’t erase grief.

You can be thankful to be alive and still miss who you used to be. Both things can exist at the same time.

I’m learning that healing is not about becoming the person I was before the accident. Maybe that version of me is gone, and that’s the part I’m slowly accepting. Instead, I’m becoming someone new, someone who understands how quickly life can change, how the body remembers things the mind tries to move past.

Someone a little softer with herself.

Sometimes I run my fingers lightly over the scar without even realizing it. Not out of sadness, but almost like I’m checking in with myself. Like a quiet reminder: you went through something, and you’re still here.

And maybe that’s what this kind of grief really is.

Not the end of me.
Just the end of who I used to be.