I love being home. No doubt about that.

I love knowing that at home, love really is unconditional.

There is safety here. Encouragement. Support I forgot existed. There is a kind of love that I am still learning how to receive and hold with regard.

But there is also the strange shock of reverting to a version of yourself you have spent years being forced to outgrow.

Your favorite colors are no longer blue and purple, but somehow everything with your name on it is still purple.

Someone calls you by a nickname you haven’t heard in years.

You get kisses on a forehead that had been starved of them.

You are served ofada stew because it is your favorite, except nobody seems to have informed them that the person standing in front of them now has the spice tolerance of a Victorian child.

You are still you.

And at the same time, you are a stranger they are learning to love regardless.

You have physically changed, your beliefs have changed, your ambitions have changed but home contains physical evidence of all your previous selves.

A room, a laugh, a particular road, someone's way of calling your name.

The smell of fresh bread from the bakery in the next compound.

The sound of the neighbor’s gen.

Things that have remained completely indifferent to the fact that you have spent the last few years becoming someone else.

And suddenly, I feel responsible and powerless all at once.

I don’t know how to fill out a bank form. I have forgotten how to hold conversations with adults using the cultured terms of respect I apparently used to know.

I greet everyone with salam alaykum regardless.

I still struggle to remember my account number, and I did not realize how many times I would have to call it out in a day.

My phone number too.

Every “give me your number” comes with my default,

“Just give me a sec, lemme confirm it.”

And a forced laugh.

Because it feels awkward not knowing my own number. It feels unserious.

But maybe that is what being back home makes me feel most. Unserious. Detached from reality. Fully on vacation mode.

The perfect opportunity to turn off my brain.

There are no bills that need my immediate attention. No constant calculations of what I can afford. No groceries to remember. No appointments to schedule. No quiet panic about whether I have forgotten something important.

Someone else knows. It is someone else’s responsibility.

And maybe that is the deeper thing I have been feeling.

Home isn’t just a place where I am treated younger. It is a place where I am relieved of the responsibility of being responsible.

Someone else knows where the things are. Someone else has breakfast ready. Someone else notices when I have been in my room too long.

Someone else asks whether I have eaten. Someone else knows who to call.

Someone else is responsible for me.

And there is something almost embarrassing about how much relief that brings.

Because I love being independent.

I am proud of the person I became away from home.

I am proud that I learned to make decisions without waiting for someone to make them for me. To navigate unfamiliar places. To figure things out when nobody was coming to figure them out for me.

But I think independence quietly turns into hyper-responsibility when you live in it long enough.

Because abroad, you are Zaynab.

Your responsibilities belong to you. Your decisions belong to you. Your life belongs to you.

You have no choice but to be competent and capable.

You learn to navigate places where nobody knows your name. You learn to repeat yourself when your accent isn’t understood. You learn to make your own plans, solve your own problems, and live with your own consequences.

You become very good at looking like you know what you are doing.

And then you come home and realize how much energy it took to become competent in the first place.

Because here, I revert to the girl who knows exactly where things are in the house.

The girl who doesn’t have to explain herself.

The girl who can ask where something is instead of figuring it out herself.

The girl who can forget.

The girl who is still someone’s child. Someone’s baby.

It doesn’t matter that so much has changed.

It doesn’t matter that I have had to become a person in places where nobody has a memory of me.

Where nobody knew what I used to believe, what I used to be afraid of, what my voice sounded like before I learnt to speak with certainty.

There is a strange freedom in that kind of anonymity.

Nobody knows enough about you to hold you to who you used to be.

And so you get to become whoever you are becoming without anyone constantly comparing you to who you were.

You can create a new version of yourself whenever required, with zero attachments and nobody to fact check.

Until you come home.

And suddenly you are not just Zaynab.

You become someone who gets asked where she’s going.

What she’s doing. Whether she’s eaten.

I am the eldest daughter, the sister, the cousin, the friend, the teacher.

Autonomy has exited the group chat. And here I am, at first, someone’s something.

I have forgotten what it is like to come downstairs and breakfast is already ready, which means I have to do the dishes.

I have forgotten what it is like to seek permission before going on a walk.

I have forgotten what it is like to load the laundry with everyone’s clothes.

These are such ordinary things, but they feel foreign now.

My life is not fully mine here. And somehow it is still one of the best versions of it.

Because at home I get to fully be me.

I can speak without worrying about my accent. Without having to pronounce words twice.

I can laugh without wondering if I am being too loud.

I can be uncertain. I can be taken care of.

I can exist without constantly proving that I am capable of existing.

I think what I missed about home wasn’t being taken care of.

It was having somewhere I didn’t have to prove that I could take care of myself.

There’s a comfort that being forced to grow up away had erased from my mind. And there’s gratitude, lots of it, for the person I became.

For the opportunity to bring her to life, for the challenges that shaped her beliefs, for the places that forced her to speak up. For the life she learned to build when nobody was around to remember who she used to be.

I am grateful for her.

Above all, I am grateful that she has somewhere to return to. Somewhere she doesn’t have to be impressive.

Somewhere her joy is celebrated before it is justified. Somewhere her place is revered.

Somewhere she can put down the weight for a little while.

And for the warmth that is consistent every time she comes back to this place and is reminded that at the base of it all, she’s someone’s something.

You belong to someone else now. At home, you’re someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s cousin. Someone’s baby.

And strangely, belonging to other people for a little while doesn’t make me less of myself. It has reminded me that before I was responsible for becoming someone, I was simply someone who was loved.

No matter how far away I go, no matter how many versions of myself I grow into, there will always be a place where I can return and be reminded that at the base of it all, I am someone’s something.

-

I think previously when I would see someone or something and feel that familiar pull in my chest, I’d be quick to chastise myself.

Be grateful.

Stop comparing yourself.

Don’t accidentally give them evil eye.

Gboju kuro.

Because growing up in a Yoruba home meant that was what you did when you saw something you could not process fully. You looked away.

And so I did.

I would gbo ju kuro and not know what to do with the bitterness that stayed behind.

Because why was I looking at what God had given somebody else?

Why couldn’t I instead focus on what I already had?

Why did I want my oju kokoro to get the best of me?

And so I would cover up my jealousy. Or at least I tried to.

I would completely disengage and pretend I didn’t care. I would look from a distance, eyes narrowed, mouth dry, lips pursed, shoulders tense. Always slightly agitated.

Why where they better than me? Why did they have something I wanted instead?

I would not congratulate them because that would mean openly acknowledging everything I lacked. It would be shedding more light on my defect… putting salt into gash wounds…

But then when I was called out for not celebrating, for not showing the same joy other people around me seemed to be to show, I would mutter a rushed so happy for you!

But I was not happy for them. I was not happy for them because maybe I wanted to be them.

I dont know if I wanted things to be taken away from them… I think I just wanted to have those things too,

that curated account,

that learning opportunity,

that friendship,

that personality,

that body.

I just wanted to have some of it too. I wanted to know what it felt like to wake up and be them. And I hated that I didn’t.

For years I thought the answer was to ignore the feeling. Because jealousy is bad. Envy is dirty.

And in big 2026 are you really a girls’ girl if you’re walking around feeling jealous?

How do you sleep at night?

Why are you so fake?

Can’t you be happy for someone?

But how can I genuinely celebrate another person when all I can hear is the voice in my own head reminding me of everything I don’t have?

Every time my mouth grew dry, every time my chest tightened, every time comparison crept in, I’d slam the door shut.

Because jealousy wasn’t an emotion that deserved to be entertained.

Or so I thought.

But in getting to know myself, I’ve realized something. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding uncomfortable emotions. If something felt ugly, shameful or difficult, I buried it before I could understand it.

But in order to get over myself I need to uncover and stare directly in the eyes of all the emotions I have been conditioned to suppress.

And so recently I’ve been trying something different. I’ve been forcing myself to sit with any jealous feelings that may come over me, to try to understand why they settled in the first place.

Is my jealousy coming from a place of inadequacy? Or grief for who I once was? Or scarcity of things I’m scared I may never get to experience? Or from a place of admiration?

Because I realize those things aren’t always the same.

I’m constantly online.

No matter how many social media detoxes I take, eventually I come back.

And within minutes I can stumble across someone’s announcement, someone’s beautiful apartment, someone’s dream holiday, someone’s perfect relationship, someone’s career milestone.

We were never meant to have this much access to other people’s lives.

We weren’t meant to know what the inside of everyone’s house looked like.

We weren’t meant to watch strangers casually shop for things we’d otherwise need months to save up for.

We weren’t meant to know what every anniversary dinner looked like, every luxury hotel, every weekend in Turks and Caicos.

When this becomes your entertainment after a stressful day, it’s very easy to mistake someone else’s highlights for your own shortcomings.

Suddenly all I can see is everything that still needs to be achieved.

Everything I still don’t have.

And I feel the bitterness in my heart.

Sometimes I log off for my own peace of mind. I set app limits and look through my gallery instead and remind myself that I have also lived, that I am still living, that proof of existence is not always existence of proof.

And I spend time with the people that know me, with places that feel like home, with hobbies that quiet my mind.
Those are the good days.

But there are the bad days too.

Days when I fall into the glitter of someone’s edited life.

When I binge every post on their Instagram. Every achievement on their LinkedIn.

And I dig myself into a burrow, bingeing content off their page, no longer entertained, but my breath is a little faster. My clothes suddenly feel too tight.

I rub the back of my neck. I tug at my collar. And I let my jealousy consume me.

So when I do get off their page, I hate myself a little more, hate them a little more and hate my life a little more too.

Then something happened recently that made me question everything I thought I knew about jealousy.

After surviving back-to-back lectures one afternoon, I was scrolling when someone I know very well posted about an accomplishment.

And so I zoomed in on the post…their smile, their arms folded in a power pose, their confidence.

And I waited for the jealousy to set in. Instead I felt… pride.

Admiration even.

And I think it was because I’d watched them become the person who earned that moment. I’d seen them speak up when it would’ve been easier to stay quiet. I’d watched them show up consistently.

I’d seen the late nights. The sacrifices. The kindness they extended to people who could do nothing for them.

I’d watched them struggle too.

For the first time, I wasn’t applauding the accomplishment.

I was applauding the version of themselves they had to become to achieve it. I think that’s what makes all the difference.

When I know someone’s story, I’m not comparing myself to a trophy. I’m admiring a human being.

But online, I’m usually meeting people at the finish line. I’m comparing myself to a packaged product. A polished outcome.

And because I can’t see the years of becoming behind the photograph, it’s so easy to believe I simply want to be them.

Maybe I don’t. I just want to be the kind of person who crates beautiful things.

Who leads with integrity.

Who is deeply creative.

Who is brave enough to keep showing up.

Who is soft.

Who is authentic.

Who is generous.

Who is intellectually curious.

Who treats people well.

Who stays humble even as life expands.

Those are the things I find myself jealous of.

I’m human so yes I also want the pretty purses and the passport stamps and the unique sneakers…

But my admiration lies in non-material things. Once I've sat with it long enough, I usually find my jealousy is pointing toward the person I want to become.

I’ve stopped seeing jealousy as evidence that I’m an oju kokoro.

Instead, I’ve started seeing it as evidence that I’ve stumbled across something that feels deeply true to me.

Not everything jealousy tells me is accurate.

Sometimes it’s speaking from insecurity or grief or scarcity.

But I’ve learned that it always arrives carrying information.

It points toward the parts of myself I still want to grow.

The values I want to embody. The life I hope to build.

That doesn't mean comparison isn't made easier by the world we live in. We're constantly invited to compare our ordinary moments with someone else's carefully curated highlights, and I don't think that reality is going away.

If anything, we’ll only become more connected to one another in ways that are increasingly visible, increasingly immediate and increasingly surface-level. And deciding to just stop comparing is not as nuanced as we like to pretend it is.

So rather than spending my energy trying never to feel jealous, I’ve started welcoming the feeling when it arrives.

The feeling isn't what hurts me. I think the real problem is when jealousy becomes paralysis.

When it leaves me resentful but unwilling to act.

Ungrateful but unwilling to reflect.

Consumed but unwilling to change.

Every accomplishment has parts we’ll never know about and every beautiful life has an invisible process behind it.

The next time I see something online and feel tightness in my chest, I will not let it consume me.

And I will not tuck it away like it’s a taboo.

I will let it in even when it’s painful, even when it feels shallow and I will ask what that moment is trying to teach me, if it is mourning a version of myself I had suppressed or a goal I had given up on.

I will redirect it to something healthier.

Because jealousy that ends in resentment leaves me stuck.

But jealousy that ends in self-awareness gives me somewhere to grow.

One of my goals for 2026 was to radically show up for myself. Authentically. Fully. In every area of my life. And part of that meant publishing more consistently.

At least twice a month.

I liked the idea of being someone who writes often. Someone who has thoughts worth documenting before they disappear. Someone who doesn’t wait for everything to be perfectly packaged before letting the world see it.

But the most I’ve managed is once a month.

Usually at 2AM.

Usually after sitting with a thought for too long, over-editing every sentence until it sounds polished enough to survive being perceived. Then clicking “publish” before I can overthink it again and immediately going to sleep so I don’t have to sit with the vulnerability of people reading it.

Even with this now, I’m not sure what direction this is going in.

I don’t know if I will get halfway through this and then proceed to scrap the whole thing.

I don’t know if a specific theme will quietly emerge somewhere along the way. Maybe the thing that’s been sitting loud in my subconscious finally gets tired of being ignored and takes over the entire article.

I don’t know if I will simply write about having to write but not having a specific prompt. If this really will just be about not knowing what to write while desperately wanting to write anyway.

I think this will be more conversational than anything else... a raw bundle of my thoughts as I go through this.

Half-formed sentences. Contradictions.

Things I probably wouldn’t say out loud in one sitting.

I actually have a few prompts saved on Instagram for days like this.

Days where I want to write but don’t think my thoughts are “important” enough. Or days where I do have strong thoughts, but they feel too personal to turn into content.

Because as much as I say I want to show up authentically, there’s still a part of me terrified of vulnerability without boundaries. Of oversharing beyond reason.

Everyone online says if you’re going to show up, you have to come as you are. With your scars. Your struggles.

I say that too sometimes.

I talk a lot about honesty and human connection and how I think we’d all feel less alone if people stopped pretending all the time.

I preach it and I believe it.

I think somewhere at the back of my mind, I genuinely believe people would be softer with each other if we admitted when things hurt. If we had the difficult conversations. If we bonded over the parts of ourselves we spend so much energy trying to hide.

But then I have days like today where all of it feels slightly hypocritical.

Because as much as I romanticize honesty, I still cannot fully bring myself to be seen that way yet…

I still fear waking up one day and realizing I turned my humanity into content just because authenticity performs well online.

And maybe that’s why this strange feeling of having to write while not knowing what to write about feels so frustrating.

I think this is what happens when you try to box creativity into structure and assign it a strict schedule.

As if thoughts will obediently arrive at 6PM on a Friday evening just because that’s when “writing” is scheduled on my to-do list.

Which is funny because I’m very obviously calling myself out right now :)

But that’s also why whenever a thought comes to me, I immediately write it down somewhere.

A half sentence scribbled in my notes app.

A screenshot of a comment that revived emotions I’d previously suppressed.

But collecting thoughts is very different from sitting down and constructing something from them.

Still… maybe structure isn’t the enemy.

Maybe it’s actually protecting me.

Maybe it is a good thing I have structured in time for my creativity, if it means I do not have to be overemotional and naked in my writing.

If it means I don’t always have to write from an open wound.

Maybe it gives certain emotions time to settle before I hand them over to the internet to be perceived, interpreted, related to.

There has to be something healthy about letting a thought simmer before turning it into art.

It means that even during the very bad weeks, there’s the part of me that knows that at 6pm on Friday evenings, I’m supposed to pull out my laptop and create something.

Even if it’s messy.

Even if it goes nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.

Even if it’s just like this.

Because creativity has become so deeply intertwined with the way I see myself that not creating at all almost feels like disappearing.

And I know that probably isn’t entirely healthy.

But I also think there are worse things in the world than caring deeply about making something meaningful.

I thought about writing about other things instead. From the hurriedly scribbled thoughts in my notes app…

About African parents and how autonomy sometimes feels less like something you’re given and more like something you quietly steal back in pieces - based off a conversation with one of my best friends.

About prioritizing breaks because I finally spent two whole days in my room without rotting in bed.
Two days where I reconnected with friends, ate actual food (if chin chin and milk counts as food), spent time with God, watched something light, and allowed myself to exist without constantly being needed by other people.

I thought about writing about how strange it feels to build something publicly while still being insecure about where you are in the process. How some days I avoid my content account completely because I don’t want to notice the three new unfollows.

About returning to a place that should feel familiar but doesn’t anymore because six years away changes a person.

About the quiet disappointment that comes from being excited for something that ends up not working out.

I thought about writing about doing the right thing even when it gets hard but still going on anyway because you cannot go back on your word.

About losing people you never thought you would have had to live without.

See? A little bit of everything. Thoughts I carried very deeply, emotions that felt heavy in the moment.

This feels a little scattered and uncertain.

I’m not sure what the recurring theme is.

But I think it is okay that there is no recurring theme. I think it is okay that this is the wholeness of my humanity, the layers to my thoughts, the different things that exist all at once.

I started this searching myself for something honest enough that didn’t feel too personal to leave me feeling exposed.

And I like how this is going. I think pieces like this remind me of my own humanness.

The fact that most people are not walking around with clarity and perfectly articulated thoughts all the time.

Most people are trying just like me.

Trying to create meaning from their lives.
Trying to be seen without feeling completely exposed.

This is 70% ramble and 30% article.

But maybe that’s okay.

Because there doesn’t always have to be a clean conclusion.

I think this was mostly about sitting here long enough to hear myself. To let the messy thoughts exist outside my head for once.

To stop treating every unfinished feeling like it needs to become something profound before it deserves space.

And I think this is ALSO authenticity. Authenticity without polished vulnerability.

Authenticity that still leaves me with my clothes on my back and my thoughts in order.

I still remember the moment vividly. It was open day at my strict muslim boarding school and my parents had come to visit. Everyone was with their family on rounded tables under the big white tent.

I had just stepped away to use the bathroom, pausing the spicy jollof rice my grandma had cooked for me, a real treat compared to what we had to endure during the long school terms.

One of my friends had stopped me, ‘What’s wrong with your dad’s eye?’

I looked at her and raised a brow. Did something happen in the 3 seconds I had left my family table? I followed her gaze to where my dad sat, engrossed in a conversation with another parent.

I squinted, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, trying to see what she was talking about.

I looked back to her, ‘There’s nothing wrong with his eyes’

‘No look’ She insisted. ‘The right one is looking at Ope’s dad and the left one is looking away…’ She pointed with her lips, the way old African women do when it’s too risky to raise a finger.

‘Ehn?’

I looked back at her crazy and let out a laugh. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’

‘Toh me I’m just saying it looks weird’ She shrugged, already walking away.

I thought about what she said as I used the bathroom and told myself as soon as I got back to the table, I would look my dad square in the face and see for myself this weird eye my friend had mentioned.

And so I did.

And this time around I saw it.

His right eye was on me.
His left had drifted slightly downward, resting somewhere on the tablecloth.

‘Do you have a lazy eye?’ I asked after a gasp.

He frowned a little and nodded.

I had lived twelve years without ever noticing.

I had been so used to my dad’s lazy eye being ‘normal’ that I didn’t think anything was out of place until someone else pointed it to me.

And not out of spite either, out of curiosity and in good faith, like she was trying to get an explanation from me, and thus led me to see something I had always taken as normal in a different light.

She didn’t know it then but I started to look at my dad differently.

It didn’t matter that I had grown up with those eyes, that they had looked at me with love for so many years.

The eyes I searched for in a crowd.
The eyes I wanted on me when I did something I was proud of.

It never occurred to me that there was anything “wrong” with them.

It never occurred to me that the very set of eyes I had looked up to all these years were plagued by a medical condition- a weakening of intraocular muscles that could no longer hold it in its right position.

So what if his eyes were slightly different? Nothing about him had changed.

The only thing that changed was the way I saw them.

It’s so scary how quickly something I’d loved my whole life became something I felt the need to hide.

Something I started to feel some shame towards, when he himself had never felt any type of way about it.

I think now of how many things in my life were completely normal to me until someone else noticed them.

Or compared them. Or questioned them.

Things I would otherwise love about my life or not care too much to bat an eyelid for, I’d now start to see in a different lens, like I had to subject myself to change.

I would see myself through a different lens, a harsher one.

I’d compare everything to mainstream and that would leave me questioning if I had been the one that was just never normal or right enough.

And a lot of the times, the questions would stem from curiosity, and not necessarily criticism or distaste. And maybe it was me being too eager to please, too scared to be different, to be weird, to be talked about…

Someone else would wonder innocently or pass an observation and somehow it would plant a seed.

And that seed would quickly grow into doubt. It would grow into hyper awareness and quiet shame.

Days and months and years would pass and before I knew it, I was cradling a tree I’d been watering with self criticism and insecurity.

You wake up one day hiding parts of yourself you never had to think twice about. You allow their own perceptions define your own normal.

I also have a lazy left eye.

I took some selfies a few days ago and was showing them to a friend, asking which ones she thought were pretty enough for a post.

She took my phone from my hand, going through the pictures until she settled on one she preferred, ‘I like this one best’

I took my phone from her and swiped back to another one I thought I looked prettier in ‘I really like this one’ I pointed my phone in her face.

‘It’s pretty but your lazy eye is showing’ She said in one breath. I know she didn’t say it from a place of criticism

I zoomed into the picture and she was right. The selfie was perfect, My make up looked so great, my gloss shown brightly but my lazy eye, once I noticed it, was all I could see.

It felt like it took all the focus away from my face.

‘I see what you’re saying’ I let out a frustrated groan. ‘Do you think people would notice if they didn’t know I had a lazy eye'?’ I asked her hopefully

‘No’ she replied. ‘It’s pretty so you can still post it’

I didn’t.

I could not get over my lazy eye.

And now, sitting here, writing this, I know what the bold thing to do would be.

To include that selfie.

To get over myself.
To silence that voice that keeps pointing it out like it’s something broken.

Because I have spent years being careful.

Careful with angles.
Careful in group photos.
Careful that no one notices first.

I force each pupil to focus in the line of the camera.

I hope no one pauses a video at the wrong moment.
I hope I blend into the background just enough.

But I’m tired.

Tired of seeing myself through borrowed eyes.

Tired of letting passing comments rewrite what has always been normal to me.

Because before the world said anything, before my friend brought up my dad’s lazy eye, I loved those eyes.

I loved what they meant. I loved what they carried.

If my courage returns to me, I will post the selfie. And I will sit with the discomfort.

I will silence the voice that has always said I need to be perfect. And I will remind myself to just be. To not listen to what the world wants me to look like or think is perfect.

I will take off this heavy coat of shame.

And I will run home to what is normal to me. I will run home what I know love to look like.

I will run to the face that has always looked at me with pride and prayer. I will run to the eyes that have only ever held love for me in them.

I will run to my dad and his lazy eye.

And I will be proud that I carry a part of him with me always.

-

I remember freezing because the question caught me off guard. It had been so long since anyone asked me that. So long since I got a question back instead of just a nod, a head shake, an “eyya” that sounded distracted. Like they couldn’t wait for me to finish pouring my heart out so they could move on… back to scrolling on their phone, taking bites of their sandwich, like we weren’t trying to have a real conversation.

It had been so long since someone made me think. Since an external question forced me to search for a way through the darkness clouding my thoughts, messing up my circadian rhythm, pushing me into hiding from the world.

She reached out to hold me, and the warmth of her touch brought me back. Back to her. Back to the room. To the soft sheets, the cozy lighting, the rain pattering gently against the window.

“Where does it hurt, Morayo?”

I lower my head. I feel the sting of tears and my chest tighten with pain. Before I can form a response, I’m blinking them back, trying to stop them from falling.

“I don’t know…” I whisper. A pause.

I feel her thumb draw slow circles on my hand.

“…everywhere?”

I raise my face to meet hers.

She’s looking at me so intently, eyebrows drawn, eyes wide and dark against the warm night light. She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t pretend to understand. Doesn’t rush to give advice.

She just… lets me be.

So I try to form my thoughts.

It hurt everywhere. I don’t remember when it got this bad. I only remember how it started.

In my heart. And then in my head.

Always in my head.

The God-forsaken migraines. Two-hour nights of sleep. Insomnia. Endless scrolling just to distract myself. Cutting everyone off. Staying in bed for days. Not even getting up to pray.

I’d whisper a silent prayer instead.

God, You put me in this position. Surely You understand…

Surely He would understand that I didn’t feel like myself. That I couldn’t recognize anything anymore.

Not even Him.

And somehow, that only pulled me deeper, into misery, into guilt.

I start to speak, trying to carry the weight of the pain and disappointment. I take a deep breath, wiping away a tear that escapes.

“The worst part is not even being able to pray-”

My voice breaks. She shifts closer, wraps an arm around me, her hand tapping softly against my arm. She smells like vanilla and coconut. Comforting. Like home.

“Take your time,” she whispers.

Another deep breath. I turn to face her.

“The constant religious guilt is killing me,” I say, steadier now. “It’s this never-ending cycle… and I keep wondering if things will ever get better.”

Her eyebrows draw closer, if that’s even possible.

“Ramadan was so good,” I continue. “I felt like I passed it. Like it was a test. But now… all of this… the uncertainty… it feels like I just passed through it without changing. Like maybe I’m not where I thought I was. Maybe I’m not as good as I expected…”

The tears come freely now, and I let them.

“I was going to be so good. I was going to be consistent…show up for myself, for the people around me. But this failure, this hypocrisy, this disappointment… it’s starting to feel like second nature. Like I can scrub and scrub, and no matter how many showers I take, the dirt remains… and the stench only grows stronger.”

She’s hugging me before I even finish. My head rests on her shoulder, her tapping more rhythmic now, more soothing.

“I think I hate myself,” I whisper.

“You’re not a failure, Morayo,” she says softly, as my body shakes with tears. “You’re not a failure.”

She lets me cry. And I let it all out.

The rain against the window feels almost cinematic. I find myself wishing I were outside standing in it, letting it wash everything away.

“I don’t know what to do,” I mutter, staring down at my pink pajama pants.

There’s silence and the she asks me, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

I look up at her like she’s crazy. There’s a small smile on her face. Her eyes are glassy and I realize she’d teared up too.

“It’s raining,” I say, letting out a small laugh.

“I know.” She slips her feet into her slippers and stands, holding out her hand.

“Let’s go remember that we’re not in control of our lives.”

I let out a dry chuckle as I take her hand.

“I love you.”

She nods dramatically. “I know, babe.”

—

We walk in the rain, two blocks to the chai house. I get a warm karak. We walk back and pray together.

When we say taslim, I rest my head on her shoulder, still sitting side by side on the prayer mat.

“You know you’re my one good friend, right?”

She doesn’t turn to look at me.

“I love you too, Morayo.”

-
I pray everyone finds their one good friend.

Someone who reminds you of who you are on the days you forget. Someone who doesn’t rush you. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you. Someone to hold you. To feel with you. Someone who just stays.

Because we were never meant to do life alone.

Sometimes, all it takes is one hand reaching into the depths to remind you that you’re still worth saving.

And you are never too far gone.

If you are still breathing, there is still a way back to yourself. And a way back to your Rabb.

A man that pays attention, that makes it clear he cares about you, that orders you food coz you said you were craving papa johns at 2am, that plans a date around the bucket list activity you’ve been wanting to do for years.

An intentional man. Someone who puts thought into action, who observes and gifts you exactly what you need.

You wouldn’t want to be with someone who just copied whatever they saw online without actually considering you, what made you feel seen, what made you feel loved.

You want your partner observant, thoughtful and intentional. Those are your standards, set for how you want to be treated. So where are your standards in the way you live your life?

Where is the intention and the thoughtful planning?

Why are the requirements for a partner higher than the life you are building? And if carelessness in love isn’t okay, what makes it okay when it comes to how you treat your own life?

You say you want intention yet you remain passive. You go with the flow as if you don’t have one life to live. As if you shouldn’t make your life your own and be intentional with the choices you make.

Standards are much easier to enforce externally and harder to embody. It’s easy to say you wouldn’t date a man that treats you carelessly. But when you sit and ask if you’re moving through your own life with care, the discomfort sets in and sits heavy on your chest.

Because if we’re being honest, a lot of us are living the exact way we claim we wouldn’t tolerate.

Avoiding decisions. Avoiding commitments.

Saying yes to things without thinking.
Drifting into opportunities without intention.
Making decisions based on what’s available, not what’s aligned.

Avoiding the responsibility of choosing a direction.

You call it going with the flow but what it really is is your inability to decide to pursue yourself wholeheartedly.

You want someone who plans and acts with purpose but you wake up and let the day decide itself.

You want to feel deeply known but you don’t even give yourself that level of attention.

You go with the flow until you wake up one day wondering how you ended up somewhere you never consciously chose, because you were too distracted to be intentional, setting standards for others without ever looking in deep enough.

How can you build a life on accident, on vibes and expect it to feel meaningful?

I was scrolling when I came across a post on Instagram by Jesse Itzler where he said ‘the biggest enemy in your 20s and early 30s isn’t failure but distraction’

He mentioned putting something big on your calendar and knowing when its time to take off other things. Basically stop saying yes to every random thing you come across and start to build your life with purpose.

And for this, you start by asking yourself questions.

Does this actually serve me?
Is this aligned with who I’m trying to become?
Am I choosing this, or just ending up here?

You make active decisions based on your needs and goals. You become your own intentional man.

And being intentional doesn’t always mean having everything figured out. It is just about refusing to live unconsciously.

You don’t wait to feel ready because waiting keeps you still.

You radically put yourself in situations that allow you to figure out what feels the most aligned with you. You try new things to know what you want to explore further.

Most people hesitate because they think intention requires certainty. But that’s not true. You can start before you feel ready.

You can move with intention even before you gain full clarity because it does not always come before movement. Sometimes clarity comes because of it.

In Islam, we believe that actions are judged by intentions.

Not outcomes but the way you set out to achieve it, your why.

Which means two people can do the exact same thing,
and have it mean something completely different.

Islam doesn’t recognize the concept of going with the flow because for us everything has to be intentional, a conscious choice you make with a specific goal in mind.

And that changes everything.

Because it forces you to ask questions you can’t run from:

Why am I doing this?
Why am I here?
Why am I choosing this path?

Is it alignment?
Or is it convenience?
Is it sincerity?
Or is it validation?

And when you start asking those questions, when you start to understand your why and move with intention, you attack your avoidance and start to care for yourself the way you would want someone else to.

By all means date an intentional man that makes it known you’re a priority. But show that intentionality in your own life first.

Choose a direction.
Choose effort.
Choose to show up differently.

Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s small.
Even if you’re not fully sure yet.

Because the truth is, intention isn’t something you wait to receive.

It’s something you practice.

In your decisions.
In your habits.
In the way you show up for your own life.

You don’t need to wait for an intentional man to experience intentionality and you definitely can’t expect intentional love to land in a life that’s built without intention.

So stop demanding intention from others while excusing the lack of it in yourself.

And when you start to do that, you build your real standards.

Not just with who you date.

But with who you choose to be every single day.

I recently visited my best friends from high school. Friends I hadn’t seen in over five years.

And it was with them that I realized something uncomfortable.

None of them are as good as I thought they were.
At least, not in the way I had grown used to seeing them.

They were busy. Constantly.
Big-girl jobs. Big-girl errands.
Light bills. Car bills. Grocery shopping that never seemed to end.

And for the first time, I was seeing them as adults. Real ones. Tired ones.

People like to say it like a compliment: you have such good friends. And I always nod, because they are kind. They show up. They remember. They soften their voices when it matters. They try.

For a long time, I thought that meant they were good people. Good by nature, good effortlessly, good in the way we like to imagine goodness exists.

But the truth is quieter and a little more confronting. The fact that none of my friends are good people.

Not by the textbook definition, anyway.
Yes, I Googled it.

Being a “good” person, according to Google, means embracing qualities that promote positive outcomes and well-being for humanity as a whole.

And suddenly, the word good felt too clean. Too unrealistic.

I realized I had been calling them “good people” without ever questioning what that meant.

Because what I had mistaken for goodness was something else entirely. I had confused goodness with how they treated me.

Picking me from the airport. Having my favorite food prepared. Taking me on city tours. Leaving work early to spend an extra hour with me. Including me in events. Updating me on their life, what makes them happy, what keeps them up at night. Answering my questions. Asking me to send dua lists.

I had been so used to them being good to me.

Calling to check in.
Sending me things they thought I’d find interesting or helpful.
Remembering what I like. Showing up.

I took it all in so easily that I never stopped to consider the cost of it. The effort. The choosing.

I never stopped to think they could be going out of their way.

Even with the friends I made now in adulthood, I did the same thing.

They pick up snacks for me when they’re already tired from their own day.
They invite me over when it would be easier not to. They welcome me when I call and say I’m on my way after a long hard day at uni. They send me fresh homecooked meals. They stay up when I have a late landing flight.

They plan hangouts and schedule cafe dates.
They show up in small, consistent ways.

And I tell myself, they’re just nice like that.

Because that explanation lets me off the hook, leaves no room for my own accountability.

For the longest time, I’ve been very good at receiving in friendships.
And very bad at giving.

I got comfortable. Comfortable with how much they offered me.
So comfortable that I wrote it off as goodness. As something innate.
As just who they are.

Because I struggled to see myself in that role, the giver.

I couldn’t comprehend the thought, the intention, the effort happening behind the scenes. The unspoken decisions to inconvenience themselves for me. And as much as I was happy with receiving, I knew not to ask too much of them because I would not be doing the same thing if they had asked in return.

And so I found that when I had ordered a package online and the delivery was scheduled for a day I would be out, I was unable to ask anyone to pay on my behalf, to leave the comfort of their room and go outside to meet the delivery guy.

I was going to take care of everything by myself. Not because I didn’t need the help.
But because I knew I wouldn’t be willing or able to do the same if the roles were reversed.

Helping my friends physically when it went out of my comfort zone was so crazy, I never understood how they did it.

So when I went to visit my friends and they offered me food or called ahead to ask if I was hungry, I’d think to myself, theyre just nice people.

And I’d excuse my lack of reciprocity by telling myself that niceness just doesn’t come easily to me. I’d justify it by kindness being a personality trait, something you either had or didn’t.

But slowly, I’m starting to see things differently. Maybe it’s from watching my high school best friends navigate their own lives and still manage to keep our bond strong and prioritize our friendship.

I’ve seen that none of my friends are good people.

Their kindness isn’t some natural resource that flows effortlessly.
Their softness isn’t automatic.
Their intentionality isn’t accidental.

They are people like me.
People with selfish needs.
People who get tired.
People who still choose, sometimes deliberately, to put those needs aside.

Not because it’s their nature.
But because our friendship matters to them.

They are kind because they choose to be. They pause before reacting. They swallow pride. They correct themselves mid-sentence. They apologize even when it costs them comfort. They do the work of loving well, over and over again, even when it would be easier not to.

And seeing it that way changes everything. I am forced to remove them from the ‘holier than thou’ pedestal I have put them on, to stop seeing them as saints.

Taking them off that pedestal has been freeing.

Because if their kindness is a choice, then maybe I don’t have to wait to become a better version of myself to start showing up.
Maybe I can just choose too.

Choose to reciprocate and do what I can to make them feel loved and preserve our friendship by showing up in the ways I can.

They don’t do anything because they are inherently good. They do what they can because they want me to feel welcome.

The price of community is inconvenience.

It asks you to be interrupted, to move when you would rather stay still.

There’s a creator on here I saw mention that;

‘Social skills and social battery are like a muscle. The more you exercise them, the easier it becomes’.

Maybe giving doesn’t come naturally to me because I haven’t practiced it enough.

Because community isn’t built on goodness, it’s built on effort.

And maybe that’s something I can learn.

Because everything they have done for me, the scheduled conversations, the planning, helping me market my business, they did with intention.

Not because they are good people by nature, but because of the active choice they made to be good to me.

And that, I’m realizing is what friendship is actually about.

Showing up for each other.
Strengthening the bond.
Knowing that even when the whole world goes to shit, there will be people who choose to be good to you because they love you.

Because of who you are.
Because of what you’ve been through together.
Because of all the growth you’ve witnessed, graduations, jobs, and the many accomplishments still waiting ahead.

So no, none of my friends are good people in the fairytale sense.

They are better than that.

They are people who know who they could be at their worst, and still wake up every day choosing care, choosing growth, choosing each other.

This is a love letter to all my friends who have been good to me.

I apologize. And I thank you for your patience as I grow into a more intentional person, someone who knows how to be good to you too, even on the days when life is consistently demanding too much.

Because if you’re not giving a part of yourself to people who see you and support you, who you can be there for and who will be there for you in return,

what do you really get from doing life alone?

And maybe being a “good person” isn’t about embodying some moral ideal.

Maybe the real test of a good person isn’t who you are, but who you choose to show up for, again and again even when it’s inconvenient.

hopefully i’m more consistent on here again :)

How do you even know what thoughts are yours?

What beliefs are actually yours and not just things you picked up from Instagram, from a Netflix character, from someone on Tiktok who looked good while saying it? When did we stop knowing where we end and the world begins?

I remember watching Dynasty on Netflix. Five full seasons.
I absorbed everything Fallon Carrington was.
I wanted to walk like her, speak like her, think like her.
I loved the way she owned every room and strutted in power suits daily.

Eventually, I even started to believe maybe I didn’t want to be in medical school anymore.
Maybe I should start a business. Grow it into an empire.
Be featured in a magazine.
Marry a writer who writes books about me and dedicates them to me.

I drew fulfillment from those fantasies. Convinced myself this was the new dream. The ultimate life.
I defined success as Fallon Carrington, the holy grail.

And she is a badass. Let’s not lie.

But isn’t that terrifying?

That a show, a character, could make me question everything I once wanted? That I could throw away my own dreams like they were nothing, like they hadn’t kept me alive for years, just because someone on my screen seemed more exciting than me?

And that’s the thing.
It wasn’t even a conscious decision.
I didn’t sit down and say, I don’t want this life anymore. It just happened.
The way I wanted to be perceived started to matter more than the kind of person I actually was.

‘I could certainly be doing more with my life.’

And maybe that’s where the fig tree theory comes in.

You know the one where each fig on the tree is a different version of your life. One is a doctor. One is an artist. One is a mom with kids. One travels the world. One is the Fallon Carrington empire-builder. And as you sit there frozen, unable to choose which fig to reach for, they all rot and fall to the ground.

Because you were too afraid to commit.
Too obsessed with the next shiny fig.

That’s how they keep us.
Scared to choose. Convinced there’s always something better out there.
Always another dream we should chase.

They want you to want everything.
Because then you’ll buy everything.

You’ll spend your life switching identities like outfits in a closet that never feels full.

Let’s scale back from the movie industry. I don’t even watch shows that often. Maybe Dynasty just hit too good.
But social media? That’s a daily habit.

Doomscrolling. Mindlessly. Waking up in the morning and reaching for my phone.

Before I even let my mind breathe.

Before I’ve had one original thought
Before I think about what I want to accomplish that day.

Straight from sleep into noise.
Straight from quiet into overcrowding.

TikTok. Instagram. Back-to-back voices shouting;

You should be obsessed with this lip product.
Dancing is cool you should take classes.

You need to hop on the summer vibe.
Be a tradwife. No, be a CEO.

Post more. Stay private.
Get a soft life. Start a business

You need a big friend group.
Cut everyone off.

Men are shit. But why aren’t you in love?

Climb the corporate ladder. Or start a bakery.
Be independent or be nothing.

And also why aren’t you watching love island right now???

It’s exhausting. It’s so loud.

We’re being pulled in a thousand directions by creators trying to hit the algorithm and package opinions like facts.

You hate it.
But you keep reaching for it.
Every day.
Drawn to the glitter. The edits. The aesthetic.
To the version of yourself that seems better than the one you have to be right now.

And the real you?
The one who still has to study, go to class, reply to emails, clean your room?

That version starts to feel… dull.
Resentful. Bitter. Small.

But you can’t stop it.
Because you’re human.
We mirror what we admire especially when it is packaged beautifully and shown to us over and over again until we stop questioning it and start chasing it.

That’s how culture spreads.
That’s how marketing works.

And this is the crisis of our generation:
We don’t have original thoughts anymore because we never sit in silence long enough to hear them.

We wake up and before our brains can even breathe, we’re already being told what to think. What to buy. What to be mad at. What side we’re supposed to pick.

We are overstimulated and underconnected to ourselves, our bodies, and our truth.

I was talking to my mum the other day, and snapped at something she said,

“That’s derogatory.”

She looked confused. “What’s derogatory about it?”

And I realized… I didn’t even know. It was a reflex I’d absorbed from the internet.

I said, “Because the patriarchy already does that…”

And in that moment, I realized I was just parroting something I’d picked up online. Like I had this ready-made script I didn’t even remember downloading. I wasn’t thinking. I was just… reacting.

And man, to hell with the patriarchy, yes.

But if my ready-made opinions are interrupting love with my mother…
then what exactly have I traded for that righteousness?

What’s really mine? And what’s just been handed to me by strangers?

Do we even critically think anymore?
Or do we just repeat what sounds powerful?

We wonder why we don’t feel like ourselves anymore, why we don’t even know who we are.

Because here’s the thing:

We are what we consume.
We are who we follow.
We are the thoughts we rehearse.
And if we never stop to audit those things,
we’ll wake up as strangers to ourselves.

So what do you do? Where do you draw the line?

You sit with yourself. To learn yourself.
You pick up a book.
Open a blank page and just write.

Let the words flow. Start small.
Describe what you’re feeling. Don’t overthink it.

Describe the moment.

The softness of the cushion under you.
The hum of the fan.
The way your pen glides.
The breeze outside your window.
The silence.

Then let that quiet pull the real you forward.
And eventually, your real thoughts will rise.

Ask yourself why.

Go deep even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because clarity lives inside discomfort.

You’ll realize some of the things you obsessed over aren’t even yours.
Some of those hills you were ready to die on?
Made of clouds.
Can’t hold a single stone.
They do not love you. They do not care for you.

But you can.

And be kind to yourself.

You’re not crazy for feeling scattered.
You’re not fake for wanting to be everything.
When something attracts you, there’s usually a part of it that’s real to you.

Maybe you want to be a corporate baddie and a cottagecore princess. Maybe both of those versions speak to something honest inside you.

Maybe you just want to be important and also be at peace.
Maybe you want to build something that matters and sit in a sundress surrounded by lavender and quiet.

And that’s okay.
That’s not confusion. That’s being whole.

So start small.
Start now.

Detox.

Even if you can’t go a full day, start with mornings. Mornings you wake up for you.

Not for the noise.
Not for the feed.
Not for the pressure.
Make tea.
Watch people walk outside your window.
Let the real world greet you before the digital one does.

Have conversations with people you love and who love you back.

Because this is how you begin to remember.
This is how you slowly start to feel real again, in that discomfort.

You meet the version of you who’s been waiting.
The real you.
All your thoughts.
All your depth.

And when you find her,
Hold her close.

She’s been drowned out for too long.

Subscribe now

-

If this resonates with you, tell me something you’re doing to be better. God knows we need all the help we can get.

I don’t know how to function without my to-do list.
And maybe, just maybe, this is high-functioning anxiety.

I like to plan and prepare ahead for every task, every conversation, every day.
“For productivity,” I tell myself. “So I don’t forget.”

I schedule things like “Call Dil back,” which makes sense, and others that... don’t.
One of those: every Friday, I have a reminder that says simply:
“art/write.”

It’s meant to be a weekly commitment to show up creatively for myself.
A sketch.
A moment of reflection.
A few lines, at least.

I told myself I wanted to write once a week. That Friday mornings would be for my laptop and my thoughts.

But this week has been hectic. And last night, as I reviewed my to-do list, “art/write” glared back at me in red. Demeaning and accusatory.

And that voice, the overcritical one I’ve been trying to silence for years, said very loudly;

“You’re failing yourself. You’re failing your goals.”

That was all I could think about.

So this morning, I picked up my laptop. I flipped through my journal. I combed through my notes app, searching for all those half thoughts stashed away. Hoping to find something, anything I could shape into a piece. Something that wouldn’t make me feel too vulnerable.

But I just couldn’t.

I would start, get to the second paragraph, then stop. I browsed Substack posts for inspiration, anything to trigger something.

But nothing.

As the minutes passed, my hands hovered uselessly above my keyboard, and I dug myself deeper into frustration.
Chastising myself for not being able to write on command.
For not checking off that one damn thing on my list.

The overwhelm crept in mercilessly.

So I started journaling instead. Willing myself to write about the heaviness in my head, the scatterdness. Writing about the feeling that I have too many things going on, too many expectations for myself.

That maybe, in trying to show up everywhere at once, I’m weighing myself down before I’ve even learned to fly. (i dont even wanna get into this rn)

And then I made a list.

Finals coming up. Online courses with strict deadlines. Assignment submissions. Learning about new things I’m passionate about.

And as I listed them, I began to see something clearly:
I have been showing up.
This week, I have been present.
For myself. For my friends. For my work.

I’ve done things that reflect who I want to become.
I’ve spoken up when it mattered.
I’ve kept my emotions in check.
I’ve lived this week.

So maybe it’s time I give myself some grace.

And instead of forcing something out right now, I won’t write something generic just to tick it off. I want my writing to reflect where I am, not where I should be.

I’m learning that fulfillment doesn’t come from ticking off a box.
It comes from how I feel inside.

Take my morning to-do list, for example — my own definition of a “productive morning”:

But on days like today, I’m exhausted. I can’t sit down and read two pages of Quran or sit and do my morning adhkar after only three hours of sleep. Talk less of even getting up for Tahajjud.

So I pray Fajr and crawl back into bed.
I play Surah Baqarah on my laptop.
Sometimes I read along, sometimes I drift back to sleep.
But that is still connection.
That is still showing up.

So I need to stop drawing straight lines for myself, stop boxing my humanity into rigid checklists.

I need to focus on the intention behind the task, not just the task itself.
To celebrate the small wins even if they are delayed or different. Even if they don’t make it unto my to-do list.

Most of all, I need to give myself some grace.

To favor compassion in my effort
Over perfection in the result.

-

If this resonated with you, I hope you remember to give yourself some grace too, for the days you can’t keep up, the mornings that don’t start right, and the lists that stay unchecked. You’re still doing your best. And that counts for more than you know.

What’s one way you’re learning to be gentler with yourself lately?🧡

I hope I don’t get so focused on the goal that I forget to find joy in the process of becoming.

My dad says I spend too much money sitting at cafés.
He tells me I don’t have to leave my room unnecessarily.

“Put your head down. Get the work done. Get out.”

And a part of me gets where he’s coming from.
He comes from a time where survival didn’t always leave room for softness.
I get that he just doesn’t see the appeal, doesn’t understand why I’d leave the quiet of my room, where I control everything, only to sit in a café full of ‘distractions’.

But how do I explain that being surrounded by people, each in their own little universe, quietly building their dreams, helps me draw strength?

There’s a soft, collective hum of humans doing their best without burning themselves out.
Or maybe they’re just like me. People with too much to do and no one to do it with.
So we all sit together, individually chasing our dreams.
It’s a way to escape the loneliness that comes with the growth stage of life.

A laugh from the corner.
The hiss of the coffee machine.
Coldplay trickling from the ceiling speakers.
A guy in a virtual work meeting.
A girl racing to submit her assignment.
Two ladies debriefing after a date, their latte cups long empty.
A couple whispering behind me.
And that one guy, yes, that one - whose eyes meet mine every time I look up from my laptop screen.

I’m reminded that I can work hard and still feel held by the world around me.
That I can relax into my chair and let the tension flow out of my nerves.
It’s like a silent workforce.
The kind of quiet company I didn’t know I needed,
a reminder that even if no one’s walking with me, I’m not entirely alone.

The five-minute walk to Cilantro.
The street sweeper and his whistling tunes.
The soft buzz of traffic on Merghany Street.
The rhythmic construction overhead.
The burst of red summer flowers.
The slow, sweet breeze of mid-June.

All of it reminds me: I am still here.
Still rooted. Still breathing. Still becoming.

I’ve tried in the past.
Mixed coffee and Red Bull. Locked my door. Put my phone on Do Not Disturb. Played white noise and forced myself to pay attention to biochem pathways and the Kreb’s cycle.
I’ve tried to do this on my own.
But I’ve only fallen deeper - drowned, drained, unable to make sense of the concepts in front of me,
unable to recognize myself.

And so I come here instead.
I pack up my notes and laptop and cut up some fruit.
I leave my room to find some kind of solidarity in the world outside.
Maybe I come here because I’m tired of being tired.
And somehow, the background noise reminds me I’m not the only one trying.

“Why bother with frivolous things?” he asks.

Because this is how I know how to live,
how I keep going in a world that constantly demands I give up pieces of myself.

To pause and take a picture of the flowers on my way to the metro.
To marvel at the brightness of fruit in the market.
To come home from lectures and smile at kittens sleeping in the garden shade.

Most people at the café are working too, Dad.
Working independently, yet aware of the quiet pulse of connection all around them.
Striking a balance.

So even while I’m studying second- and third-degree burns,
the light chatter around me is healing.
It’s not a distraction.

It’s proof of life.
A quiet reminder that I’m allowed to live while I learn.
To feel human while I become one.

This tension between productivity and presence, survival and living, might just be the only thing keeping me sane right now. So maybe cafés aren’t just a place to study.
Maybe they’re where I remember how to stay soft, even when the world asks me to be hard.

-

Drafted this during a study break — it’s been sitting quietly in my notes for a week. I surprised myself by finally pushing it out.
I hope it sits softly in your heart. 🤍

If you haven’t subscribed yet, come along.
Let’s build a little corner of the internet where we can be honest about the process — the messy, the tender, and everything in between.

This is for anyone learning how to live while they learn.

I have ‘writer’ in my bio, and on some days, it feels like a fraud.

On most days, actually.

Five years ago, it would’ve been the first thing I uttered after my name if you asked me to introduce myself.

“My name is Zaynab Dawud, and I’m a writer.”

Slowly, I started pushing it further down my introduction, replacing it with medical student. And on some really bad days, when even that doesn’t feel like enough to make me feel proud of myself, I resort to “21 years old.”

The most basic, bland introduction known to man.

When I write, I want it to be all I am in that moment.

I don’t want to be thinking about how much I have to study, the projects piling up, or the countless others who seem to have better, more balanced views of the world and who articulate them so effortlessly.

I want my writing to flow with my thoughts - unfiltered, messy, and honest. I want it to carry all the feelings taking up space in my head.

So I’m telling myself: it’s okay to just push it out, even if it’s not perfectly structured or poetic.

The world is already trying to label me. The bare minimum I can do is free my own thoughts from rules—from boundaries, from “right” and “wrong.”

Because if I wait for it to be perfect, for the words to rhyme and each sentence to link beautifully to the next, I’ll keep pushing “writer” out of my identity… until it quietly fades into the back of my mind, dusty and forgotten.

So this is me. Reclaiming that identity.

Slowly, but surely.

Choosing to water this part of myself I’ve placed on hold for “bigger goals.”

Honoring the 14-year-old girl who once dreamed of writing pieces that could change the lives of young girls around the world.

So, let me introduce myself again:

My name is Zaynab Dawud, and I’m a writer.