This is a problem I never really thought about until last year, when I realized just how difficult I found goodbyes. Growing up, I went to an international school and attended class with people from different parts of the world. This meant that someone was always about to leave, especially when you were just beginning to form a really tight bond. I got used to goodbyes as a child. I even welcomed them, and anything stagnant or anything that refused to change was something I looked down on. I hated sameness the way one would hate eating leftovers every night for dinner. Going to an international school meant that just as someone was saying goodbye, another person was saying hello. I used to pride myself on this fact and even look down on others who had a problem with walking away, with saying goodbye, with change. I thought it was foolish to hang on to things. I thought it was foolish, until I started craving stability.

It happened in my early twenties. After college, I wanted a sense of stability and sameness. Life had been so dynamic over the years that I suddenly wanted to do the same things each day, see the same people, and have them in my life constantly. But the twenties are not a time of stability. They are the time when things are rockier than ever. I started to fear change because I didn’t want certain friendships, relationships, or even ways of thinking I had always held on to to change. This woman who had always embraced dynamism suddenly shunned it. I started to hold on even when I knew things had to shift, and I kept holding on until the other person or thing could no longer stay.

There’s a verse in the Bible, Proverbs 27:9, that says, “Oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel.” You and I cannot deny that friendships serve a purpose. Your entire day can be going awry, but the words from a trusted friend can salvage the whole thing. I have had some really great friends in my life, and I still do. They are people I can call at any time, and I know I would not feel like a burden. There are also friends I loved so much, friends who were such a huge part of my life, who are no longer in it. For the friends who have left, and sometimes I have been the friend who left, I would feel bad either way. Bad for walking away, or bad for watching them walk after I had held on for too long, or not long enough.

There is a beauty and a dignity to letting go, because nothing lasts forever, and because in our twenties, life is happening so fast. Some of us have gotten married, others have had a baby, others are starting a business or just making a really big decision. This is the decade that demands flexibility and adaptability, because those are the skills required to live not only a full life, but to become an actual adult.

I remember, just a few years ago, I had to end a relationship that had stretched from the beginning of my college years into my early twenties. Not because I hated this person, or they hated me, but because it was time to let go. I was changing, and they were changing too, and the nights we used to spend talking for hours on end soon turned into days when we struggled to find any words to exchange. Fights that would have been resolved in mere minutes started to take hours, weeks, sometimes months, where I would not speak to them or they would not speak to me. The friendship became an ongoing game of push and pull. I knew I had to walk away, but I stayed because I felt bad. I stayed until there was no other reason left but to leave.

I believe that when we sense a friendship or relationship no longer serves us, we can lovingly decide to withdraw communication and re-categorize that person in our life. As a Christian, I used to think this was bad, but there’s a verse in Ecclesiastes (my favorite book!) that makes my heart sing. It states, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven... a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” I believe this can be said for certain relationships too. Sometimes people come into our lives for a season, whether it’s to teach us, to entertain us, or for us to experience a deep sense of love. Sometimes those relationships last a lifetime, but most times they are there for a season, and once that season has ended, that friendship too must end.

It sounds scary, right, and a little unfair. Why can’t we keep the same people forever? Well, because sometimes we change, and the people who claim to love us might not resonate with the new you. To stay is almost like confronting parts of themselves they are not willing to face. There is love in letting go when the time demands it, and when you do let go, at the beginning it won’t feel easy. You might question yourself, wonder if you even made the right decision. But over time, you will feel a peace that makes you realize you did.

A couple of months ago, I woke up and decided to drive to my parents’ house to grab a few books. Once I arrived, I immediately thought of my old journals from high school and decided to grab those too, just for laughs. I remember flicking through the pages of my worn-out journals, skimming words from a past self. Some things I couldn’t even believe I had written. Others upset me because I no longer shared those same views. But one thing was certain: the girl who had written those words was not the woman now reading them. Change. I had changed.

Even while reading those journals, I realized it had not been easy to change. It was not linear or peaceful. Change was violent and turbulent, and it took a long time before I was happy with the thoughts that now float in my head. For the longest time, I used to feel awkward in my own skin, and I deeply struggled to fit in. No one close to me would believe this, as I always seemed bubbly and full of life, but I struggled with my own personal issues. Some of them were valid, of course, while others were really the product of being young and ingenuous. While reading those time capsules, it slowly dawned on me that, for the first time since I was a child, I didn’t care about fitting in. I no longer ask myself if the other person likes me. I ask myself if I like them.

I am not perfect, nor do I expect myself to ever be, but it is through letting go of old beliefs about myself, the world, and people, that I began to slowly become who I am meant to be. I have only just begun my mid-twenties, so I am not exactly the woman of my dreams yet, but I am far closer to her than I was a year ago, or even two months ago. I am ever-changing, and my ability to let go has been the thing that allowed me to become the very thing I once feared most: free, risk-taking, open-minded, and loving.

Two years ago, I started traveling a lot, which meant I was frequently on a plane. I had never had a fear of flying until then. After my tenth trip that year, I remember feeling so scared to board the plane, certain it would crash and I would die. For the whole flight, I couldn’t enjoy myself because my mind would monitor the plane’s wing, the faces of the staff, waiting for any sign of doom. I was stressing over a situation I had no control over, and my anxiety was at an all-time high. This didn’t stay on the plane. The fear traveled with me, into a fear of my life and my future, fear of never being good enough, fear of not meeting the right guy. All sorts of things I didn’t really have absolute control over.

Of course, I had some level of control, but in the grand scheme of things, life is an interesting thing. We can do everything right and things can still turn out wrong, and we can do everything wrong and things might still turn out good. Life comes with uncertainty, and uncertainty can build fear, which can contribute to anxiety if we are constantly living in a time that has not yet happened. Learning to let go is the best medicine for such an ailment. The way I have exercised this is by telling myself repeatedly that I will do my best, and whatever happens was meant to happen, and I can rest easy knowing I did my best. Sometimes you might not even do your best (and there are days I don’t), but learning to let go of what I cannot control has tied me to a ground that used to feel shaky.

There’s a quote by Aminat Salihu in her book The Root of Noor that says, “Let a good thing go when it’s gone. If it’s meant for you, it will return intact, not worn down by the chipping made during attempts to grasp.” I believe knowing when to let things go, and allowing things to leave, is a skill everyone needs to develop. This isn’t me saying I have perfected the art of letting go. No, in fact, I am far from it, but closer than I have ever been. Letting go doesn’t only preserve our self-dignity and respect; it also stops something from getting to the end of itself, the point where letting go is truly the only option left.

And letting go isn’t a state of permanence. Sometimes what we have willingly let go of can come back to us in the future. Letting go isn’t giving up; it’s creating space for better things to come. Letting go is putting trust and hope in the fact that what is for you will not pass you, and who you are meant to become, you will be. There is a hope in letting go. There is a hope in letting things pass. Not letting go can be a tether that ties you to a past that has ceased to exist. In your twenties, actually in life, you’re going to lose a lot of people, you’re going to lose yourself, and then meet a lot of people, and then get to know yourself better, and ultimately become the person you’ve dreamed of.

I’ve realized that the stronger I hold onto something that has served its purpose, the harder it is to let go, because by the time I finally do, there’s nothing left of that relationship, friendship, or even mindset. When you dissect the anatomy of letting go, you begin to realize that life is making space for who you’re supposed to be, and who you’re supposed to love, or to let love you. Allow change, embrace change, because on the other side of change is freedom and hope.

The woman who doesn’t run in the wild

But sits still, staring at the sky

In a gilded cage

Prized is the woman who loves softly

The woman who refrains from kissing first

And instead waits

For her sweetheart to

Tell her

He loves her

She lives quietly

Loves quietly

But once upon a time,

She was loud

Loud woman who ran with the wolves of her mind

Climbed trees and ate fruit unclean

She would laugh a little too loud

Her hair and clothes left unkept

Torn and unruly as if on purpose

But she didn’t care

She was her own lover

Her own desire

Her own friend

But that was long ago

Before she let them tell her,

That she was not woman but prize.

Oluchi Ekwegh

There, I said it. Or perhaps it never truly existed in the first place. But one thing that has become painfully obvious in the year 2025 is that love is more transactional than it has ever been before, and true romance, if it ever lived, has all but vanished.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been a lover girl; and when I was much younger, I would lie in bed for hours before falling asleep, daydreaming about my future husband, how he looked, how he treated me, how loudly he loved me. My love for all things love was further fueled by the novels I devoured, stories of honorable men loving and nurturing the women in their lives. Men who had integrity, men who valued the women they sought after. Sometimes while in the middle of a scene I would drop the novel in glee, bury my face in my pillow, and smile so hard my cheeks ached, wishing that maybe one day that could be me. But the older I get, the more cynical I have become, not only about men but about romance itself. And by romance, I am talking about the kind of love where a man writes poems about your lips, the way your hair falls, the words you whisper in the dark. The kind of love that has a woman lost in thought in the middle of the day, wondering what he is doing at that very moment.

Lately I have realized how rare it is not only to find romance but to experience it authentically. Why, you might ask? Because everyone is so afraid. Anytime I open my phone, I am swarmed with videos from online “love experts” advising their audience on how to keep a woman, how to keep a man, how to make him fall in love, how to spot an avoidant, how to fix your anxious attachment style. The list goes on and on. Love has been picked apart and dissected until it is no longer something that blooms naturally, but something that might happen only after a checklist of expectations is met. And I will be honest, I have expectations too. There is nothing wrong with standards. But if your standards become walls, keeping you from connecting with someone who could understand and love you fully, then they stop protecting you and ultimately start isolating you.

Over time, I have noticed a shift from the love I imagined to the love I see around me now. Romance has become a performance, an ongoing show for an online audience. Couples are no longer just in love, they are on a stage, seeking validation from strangers, curating their relationship to fit the narrative of what “real love” should look like. In my early twenties, I would see women my age post photos of their boyfriends buying them thousands of dollars’ worth of gifts. I would feel a pang of jealousy and develop a twisted resentment toward any man who wanted to court me. Back then, if he was not spending extravagantly, surely he did not love me. I questioned myself. Was something wrong with me? Or with the man I was dating? Probably the latter, if I am honest. But that is the trap. Once we measure love by price tags and public displays, we stop valuing the quiet, sacred gestures that actually hold relationships together. These gestures are the little things, like checking up on a loved one in the morning, sending flowers to their door, or making yourself available so they have someone to talk to when they feel down.

I love grand gestures of love, but when they become insincere then I believe that is a problem. Extravagance and social media feed off each other. Even intimate events such as weddings are turned into online spectacles, compared and ranked for luxury. These things can be beautiful, but they are not the essence of love. To me, love is something sacred and private, a meeting of two naked souls, trusting that the other would not harm them. It is walking through life stripped bare before someone, not in body but in spirit and without fear. Love is not a performance, and social media has distorted its sanctity. I am not saying it is wrong to share what your partner has done for you. It can be beautiful. But I challenge you to ask yourself: Why am I sharing this? Is it to celebrate the connection, or to prove it to strangers? Or to yourself?

Another thing that has killed romance is vulnerability. Why? Because vulnerability terrifies people. And I understand why. Oftentimes I have found myself ridiculously wishing I could wear a mask all day so no one could look into my eyes for fear they might see something in my soul I did not mean to share. The human experience is both fragile and vulnerable. At the end of the day, we are flesh and bone, with physical limits we simply cannot ignore. To open your soul to someone is to strip yourself naked in a room full of strangers. And to top that all off, we live in an era that rewards sameness over authenticity. People fear being mocked, fear being seen as too different, too uncool. And in love, this fear is only magnified, heightened in such a way that we are forced to confront it or run away. Imagine baring your soul to someone only for them to turn around and hurt you. Many never recover, and now that we live in such a hyperconnected world, rejection is not just private, it can be amplified by every photo, video, and post that must be deleted after a breakup. We have all seen it happen.

Breakups are almost always messy, but when we choose to love, we also choose the risk of ruin. CS Lewis once wrote: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.” I wrote an article about what the graveyard taught me about life earlier this year, and one thing I noticed about people’s gravestones is that at the end of our lives, we are only remembered for the love we gave and the love we received. To love demands vulnerability, and on social media, where performance is rewarded and vulnerability at times is punished, love feels like social suicide. But without vulnerability, there can never be true romance or love.

Fear of vulnerability is not the only thing holding people back from true love and romance. There is also a growing fear of leaning too hard on another and being met with disappointment at the end. There is a beauty in being independent, and in today’s society it is encouraged more than ever for people to be on their own without depending on a man or a woman for assistance. I believe this obsession with hyper-independence has ruined romantic relationships. I am not advising you to quit your job and completely rely on your boyfriend or spouse, even though that is entirely up to you. I am simply asking you to embrace both sides because there is a beauty in healthy dependence. There is a beauty in saying that I can do this, but I can do it much faster and probably even better because you are by my side. With videos all over social media discussing the ever-present rhetoric of “I don’t need a man” or “bros before hoes,” we have reached a point where we are scared of leaning on one another, scared of trusting ourselves to truly depend on someone, in fear that we might be called weak or less than, all because we want someone to witness our journey through life. There are words out there that are now used to label men who love too hard or love too little, titles like “alpha male” or “beta male,” and equally damaging titles for women such as “gold digger” and “304.” Social media tells us to protect ourselves, to keep our hearts hidden, to put self-preservation above all else. But love is not all about self-preservation. It is self-giving. Beverly Clark once said: “We need a witness to our lives… Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness.” That is what devotion is, a promise to notice, to care, and to remain. If we allow ourselves to love without the judgment or remarks of others, we have the potential to actually develop a true connection with someone, one that is not performative but sacred.

I pay for Netflix, and I have been paying for it since I was seventeen. It has been almost a decade, and I still keep my subscription. But any day now, if I cancel, I can walk away without any hard feelings, because it is not as if I have signed a contract that forces me to stay subscribed. When I think about this analogy, I think about situationships and how common it has become to connect with someone without any sort of commitment, to be intimate with another without the beauty and safety of devotion. To me, situationships are damaging. They mimic connection while stripping away the depth that comes from choosing someone fully. They appeal to our desire for companionship without asking for the vulnerability that true romance demands. This arrangement makes it easy to enjoy someone’s presence while keeping one foot out the door. And in a culture that teaches us to protect ourselves at all costs, this kind of arrangement can feel safe, even smart. But safety without true intimacy is really just loneliness in disguise. Obviously, if the two parties are consenting, then I suppose it is “okay.” But what is romantic or beautiful about being with someone and fully knowing in your heart and mind that you can walk away, or they can walk away, at any moment? It would not matter in the first place because they were never really there anyway. I guess it boils down to vulnerability yet again, the vulnerability to bare your soul and to boldly choose someone despite the possibility of getting hurt. To avoid that pain, you and that other person might vow in the beginning that this is not anything long term, it is just for a little while. It is an arrangement born from fear, fear of giving more than you will get back.

I will never stop believing that love is something to fall into, as dangerous and foolish as that may sound. And falling in love does not mean losing yourself and who you are, because that is where it gets dangerous, that is where it gets painful. By falling in love, I mean allowing your heart to be completely open to the idea that you might love this person and love them more than you ever thought you would be capable of. If you have had your heart broken before, you may think I am crazy. But I urge you to let it happen again. You can be in love, fall in love, but still stay grounded in your life, and that means having your own dreams, your own visions, your own desires, and chasing them all wholeheartedly while still loving that special person. It is human, and it is natural, to love and to suffer. And there is a beauty in loving without expecting anything in return. True love is never wasted. Once you make the choice to love, you must surrender fear and allow yourself to love as deeply as you know how. Because when we step away from our devices, it is not the likes, the posts, or the grand displays that matter. It is the people we choose to love and the ones who choose to love us back. I have been heartbroken before. I hope it does not happen again. But even if it does, I will keep loving. Because somehow, even now, despite the performance of social media, I still believe true romance exists

.

Sometimes, I get scared.

Scared that I will always feel behind in life no matter what I do or strive toward. And that’s a fear that has never quite completely left me. Unfortunately, I believe it’s a fear many people share: this haunting belief that nothing we do will ever be enough.

That we will never be enough.

When I was much younger, about nine or ten I had this silent and irrational fear of rabbits. The onset of my discomfort began when I first watched Alice in Wonderland. The white rabbit represented everything I tried to avoid in myself. The rabbit was erratic, obsessed with time, and symbolized the unknown, leading Alice into a completely unfamiliar world.

I never confided my growing fear in anyone.

I mean why would I? I didn’t live near rabbits, nor did I see them on a day-to-day basis. They couldn’t harm me, right? I thought that was the end of the matter until I watched the movie Donnie Darko at thirteen and my fear only became stronger. It cemented what I had always known but refused to accept, that I was afraid of rabbits, and I did not want to look at them or even go near them. Frank, the rabbit in Donnie Darko was extremely different from the one in Alice in Wonderland, this wasn’t a whimsical guide to some magical world. No, Frank was terrifying. A towering, grotesque figure in a metallic bunny mask who whispered about the end of the world. He didn’t invite you into wonder. He warned you of imminent destruction.

And yet, like Alice’s rabbit, Frank still called.

When I think of both rabbits, the only connection that comes to mind is their shared obsession with time. Alice’s rabbit showed an external obsession with time, always anxious that it was late for something or about to get in trouble. To me, this fear mainly represents societal pressure and the constant urgency to mature and meet expectations. Ultimately his obsession with time represents chaos where he cannot enjoy anything because his mind is always on where he needs to be or go. On the other hand, the rabbit in Donnie Darko’s obsession with time was internal and apocalyptic. He didn’t have a fear of being late because all he cared about was the end. Time wasn’t something the rabbit chased; it was something slipping away. To me, this fear mainly represents the existential pressure we all feel every once in a while. It’s the burden of fate, mortality and purpose. One rabbit makes you run toward something you can’t name. The other makes you fear the finish line. And in between those two obsessions, you and I live. Always rushing, always afraid, always wondering if we’re too late or not fast enough.

And the thing about fear is that it beckons. It lures us in, even when we know the path ahead might break us. The white rabbit outside my window may not wear a twisted mask, but it represents the same haunting pull: the unshakable feeling that we should be further ahead, doing more or becoming more. That we should chase, or else risk being left behind.

But what if the real madness isn’t in the chasing, but in believing that there’s somewhere to arrive at in the first place?

I have realized I am my most anxious when I am obsessed with the next thing to accomplish or do. These days, I’ve been juggling with whether to go back to school or just give myself another year to focus on my work. Or maybe I should start a family and have kids or maybe do all or both? I don’t know... These decisions are all important and they all matter and sometimes it’s crushing when instead of thinking about myself I also look around at other people my age. I should be doing more, I should be more, I should talk better, think harder, look better, be stronger, be sterner... All these things plague my mind and sometimes it keeps me up at night. The only time I feel peace is when I remind myself that being in the now is enough. It doesn’t mean I shouldn’t plan for the future, but it does mean that I shouldn’t abandon the present for a destination that might not even be my final resting place.

I now take another deep breath as I stare at the white rabbit outside my window. It bares its teeth at me and I’m not sure if it’s a snarl or a smile. I decide it is a snarl because I have a strange feeling this rabbit knows what I am about to do.

I leave the window and while barefoot, I slowly walk down the stairs until I’m outside. I feel the heat of the sweet summer breeze kiss my skin and I let myself feel whole. I look down at me and this rabbit now eye to eye. Its eyes widen as if in disbelief. After all this time, I have finally come out. It starts to playfully hop, and I allow myself to walk towards the creature. When it senses my boldness, it starts to run off into the trees. I stare as the rabbit keeps looking behind to see if I will join it.

I smile to myself because I can either chase the white rabbit…
Or I can collapse on the ground and watch it disappear into the distance, carrying with it the illusion of control, of perfect timing, of certainty.

Because no matter how fast we run, that rabbit isn’t meant to be caught.
That was never the point.

Life is not this destination, as we’ve all heard and I know that it’s often easy to forget that.
It’s not a place we arrive at once we have the right job, the perfect body, the ideal partner, or the picture-perfect house. It’s a process. A refining, stretching, sacred and sometimes painful process.

Life is like dancing the waltz. Sometimes when you take five steps forward, you need to take a few steps back to get the dance going. Sometimes the music is slow, sometimes its fast but it really doesn’t matter. A long as there is movement. As long as you’re still dancing.

Maybe instead of chasing, we were meant to experience.
To let the white rabbit run.
To sit in the grass, with the sun beating down on our face, hand on heart, and whisper:
“I am not behind. I am here, in the now. Still breathing, still alive and still fighting and that is enough”.

Over the years, I’ve realized that the angriest, most restless people are often those who’ve abandoned the child they once were, the part of them that used to play, imagine, build, and dream. They are the ones who have unfortunately neglected their own souls without even realizing it. You see, humans are naturally creative beings; we long to pour ourselves into something because without that sense of purpose, we walk through life feeling like something is missing. These days, I’ve adopted the belief that we need to create as if our lives depended on it. Because, in many ways, they do.

Creation is the solace in the madness, the home in the wreckage. It is only when we create that we can truly find a sanctuary within ourselves. When we look at the greatest works in history, like art, music, and literature, many were birthed during times of profound depression, passion, or joy. The reason behind this is that we live in a world that is ever changing, a world that is not only painful but also beautiful, and all its seasons deserve to not only be witnessed but embraced. Creation is how we make sense of this strange, shifting life. It helps us sail through the restless tides of existence, and the beauty of it is that it can take any form, such as writing, baking, designing, singing, filming or painting. Creating itself is self-soothing. It tells our souls that chaos is not something to run from but something we were meant to walk with. It’s a language of colors, a soundless scream that helps us remember who we truly are.

Let me ask you something:
If I asked you to describe yourself, what would you say?
Would you start with your job? Your family role?

Who are you really when all the titles and material things are stripped away?

If, God forbid, we woke up tomorrow in a post-apocalyptic world where survival was all we had, who would you be then? I believe we would become the things we do to affirm our identity, because in a world that constantly tries to define and label us, creation becomes rebellion. It ultimately breaks the box that society tries to put us in, and by doing so, it gives us back to ourselves. Last week, I finished one of my favorite novels this year, I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman. It's about a young woman imprisoned in an underground shelter with dozens of older women. None of them know why they were taken or who put them there. When they are finally freed, she begins to write about her life. The book becomes her way of making sense of the world and of herself, even as everyone she knows eventually dies and she is left completely alone. I thought this was beautiful because, even in a world where we are left alone, our souls will still reach out to understand who we are.
Why?
Because the soul is restless without purpose, and our deepest purpose is often to make meaning of our existence.

And no matter how much we isolate ourselves, no human is an island. We are wired for community. We long to be seen, to be understood not just for what we do but for who we are. We long for someone to see the colors of our soul, then point to their own and say, “Hey, I have the exact same shade. Whatever you're cut from, I’m cut from that cloth too."

When I was younger, books were my sanctuary. The fact that a stranger’s words could become home for me sti

ll astonishes me. That’s the power of creation: it becomes a bridge between our inner world and someone else’s.

And do you know what every human has in common?

Death.

I’ve thought about death more this year than I ever have before. Not out of fear, but with clarity. Death comes for us all. And yet, it’s not something to fear. In the grand theatre of life, death is perhaps its most poetic scene. These days, it lingers quietly at the edges of my thoughts, a constant reminder that I must live boldly, honestly, even selfishly. Because when the curtain falls, there’s no encore. We only get one shot at this life. I’ll only be this young once, and never again.

So why not create?

When our souls leave this world, it's what we leave behind that remains. That’s our legacy. People may forget our faces, but they won’t forget how we made them feel, what we built, what we gave and what we dared to do before we were gone.

And that truth has become my reason to live harder.
To live honestly.
To live truly.
And to live boldly.

Creation is immortality.
And do you know what else is immortal?
God.

To create is to mimic God and to participate in the divine. Whether you believe in a higher power or not, you cannot deny the magic in bringing something into the world that once only existed in your mind.

To create is to embrace your divinity. It is the sacred act of becoming and transforming.

These days, I find myself writing poetry. I never thought I was a poet, but it's been healing. These poems may never see the light of day and that’s okay, because every time I write one, I feel lighter. My chest aches a little less, and my soul seems more alive than ever before.

I have come to realize that I am most myself when I am creating. And when I am not, I am lost.

So, if your soul has been screaming out loud and you don’t know why, I challenge you to create, and I mean anything. This could be baking, writing a song, writing a story, an essay, or making a poem that screams out the parts of your soul that is trying to stay calm. The only way to truly calm a screaming soul is when we let it scream, when we let it scream through our art.
Because that is the only way to calm it, by letting it speak in the language it knows best:

Creation.

Now, at twenty-six, I look back and realize that much of my late teens and early twenties were shaped by the relationships I was in. And while I’ve only been in two serious ones, they each left a profound impact on me—mentally, physically, and emotionally. And in many ways, they altered the course of my life.

My very first serious relationship began when I was nineteen and ended shortly after my twenty-second birthday. Two months later, feeling a bit restless at home with my parents, I downloaded Hinge. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, let alone someone memorable, but there was one man—seventeen years older—who was so persistent, I gave him a chance.

That decision led to a two-and-a-half-year courtship and a short-lived engagement. When the engagement finally ended in September 2024, I was shattered in ways that truly surprised me. I hadn’t realized how deeply my self-worth had started to orbit around him. The confidence I once effortlessly carried and the joy I had in simply being myself— suddenly all felt distant.

I remember thinking: Did I fall asleep at twenty-two and just now wake up at twenty-six, heartbroken and hollow?

I wasn’t eating—I lost twenty pounds in a month. I cried every day. I was barely sleeping, haunted by thoughts of him and the future we were supposed to have. It felt like something inside me was breaking, and if I didn’t make a change, I knew something dangerous could happen.

Fast forward to March 2025—and I’m beginning to feel like myself again. I’m noticing the sun. I’m smiling at songs. Slowly, I’m stepping into a new version of myself—one that’s rooted in healing.

Then, during a grocery run in late February, I saw a bouquet of roses. They were beautiful. I didn’t hesitate—I bought them for no other reason than the fact that I wanted them. For the first time in my life, I bought myself flowers.

At checkout, a kind sales associate asked who they were for. I smiled shyly and said, “They’re for me.” It felt strange, walking out with a bouquet just for myself. Until then, flowers had always come from men—admirers, boyfriends, partners. Never me.

When I arrived home, I carefully trimmed each stem and placed them in a red vase I’d gotten for my birthday. And so I went to bed not thinking too much about these flowers. But the next morning, something unusual happened. The flowers seemed to call to me—like they were asking to be acknowledged. So, I walked over, kissed their petals, and whispered, “You are beautiful. You are enough.”

And I kept doing that every morning. I also would sprinkle water gently on each bloom while speaking these words to them.

Those flowers lasted nearly three weeks. Almost a month! They simply refused to die.

And that’s when it clicked:
The reason so many of my relationships didn’t flourish—despite how much I gave, how much I sacrificed—was because I forgot to give to myself.

Sure, I took care of the outside. I stayed in shape. My hair was always done. My skin glowed. But what about the inside? The little things? The eternal things? The parts of me that needed nurturing, attention, love?

I was so busy giving my energy to other people that I neglected the parts of myself that needed the most care.

Talking to my flowers reminded me of the power of words. The right words. Not just for others—but for me. Words that make us feel alive.
Because here’s the truth: when we’re running on empty, when we feel hollow inside, it becomes so much easier to speak negatively—to ourselves and to those around us.

That week, I sent a photo of my flowers to my sisters in our group chat with the message:
“I’ve gotten flowers from a lot of admirers, but the ones I’ve given myself have lasted the longest.”

They showered the message with hearts.

They saw the pain I went through during the relationship, they witnessed the aftermath, and now they’re witnessing my healing.

So now, I’ve made it a ritual: I buy myself flowers.

And in doing so, I’m learning to cherish the things I give myself in a way I never did with the thing’s others gave me. It’s a slow process, but little by little, I’m coming home to myself.

And I never would’ve guessed that flowers would have anything to do with it.

At the time, I brushed it off. I mean—how could I dwell on who I was as a child when there’s so much space now between that little girl and the woman I’ve become?

But her words lingered. And the more I thought about them, the harder they became to shake.

Because she had a point.

We’re a culmination of every person we’ve met, every experience we’ve lived—but before life handed us all its storms, before heartbreak and disappointment and bills and broken promises, we were children. Innocent children. And if you were one of the lucky ones, you were protected. You were adored. You were allowed to be curious. To ask questions. To be silly. To dream freely, wildly, without boundaries or rules or voices telling you what you could and couldn’t do.

That’s the magic of childhood: everything feels within reach. Nothing feels too big.

But as we get older, this thing called logic creeps in. And for many of us, it becomes a dream killer.
The weight of reality begins to chip away at our belief in the impossible. Some adults stop dreaming altogether—not because they don’t want to—but because they’ve forgotten how. They’ve forgotten what it feels like to want something so big that it makes your heart race.

Last year, I didn’t realize how sacred her words would become to me.

I was starting to forget what had made me me.
The joy. The wild dreams. The insane faith. The love for life.
It was all slipping away, and my then-fiancé didn’t make it any easier.
In that relationship, my dreams were often too much, too big, or simply inconvenient. They were something to compromise or tuck away.

Now that I’m single, I feel free. And honestly, that freedom feels strange.

You know how you dip your toe into a cold pool before diving in? That’s exactly how I felt. Like I needed to test the waters before I could fully let myself sink into the waves of my dreams again. My dreams started to form around people, practicalities and logic and don’t get me wrong these are important things but if you’re not careful these are also things that can become dream killers. They kill, murder and destroy, you might even start telling yourself that:

“Maybe I’ve outgrown these dreams.”

But have you really? Have I really?

Recently, I started doing something I originally wanted to save for when I had children. But now, as a single woman trying to find her way back to herself, it feels like the perfect time… I started rewatching my favorite childhood movies.

One that really stuck with me was Peter Pan: Return to Neverland. It hit differently this time. I actually loved it more now than I did as a kind.

It’s about a thirteen-year-old girl who starts to lose her sense of wonder—her belief in magic—because of the weight of World War I and the responsibility of caring for her younger brother.

As the oldest of six girls, that hit home. I know what it’s like to grow up too fast. I know what it’s like to slowly stop believing in magic. And I am the kid of person that truly did believe the world had a lot of magic.

Slowly, I am trying to remember who I was a child. I was so fearless; I didn’t give a damn about what anyone said or thought about me and I was so happy and curious and in love with the world and the people around me. My hope is that through rewatching my favorite movies and rereading my favorite books as a child. That young girl that is still inside of me will come out and when she does, I hope that I will have created a space where she is totally allowed to dream and to be without judgment.

I remember back in 2022, I had no idea what my novel was going to be about. I only knew two things with absolute certainty: the sea would play a pivotal role, and the story would be soaked in the richness of African mysticism.

Growing up being an avid reader, stories have always been my solace, my escape, my silent companions. In a way that some might even call unhealthy. I took the novels I loved very seriously and every character I cherished became a thread woven into the fabric of my very soul.

Every sentence that happened to strike a chord within me became part of my internal composition. That is how deeply I love stories. That’s how deeply words move me.

But after reading countless books in my favorite genre, which is fantasy, I began to feel something shift. I no longer wanted to read magic. I wanted to write it. With every novel I finished that year I began to feel my own characters stirring inside me, like roots aching to break out of the soul.

The only problem is I just didn’t know where to start. And if I’m being honest with you, I wasn’t exactly used to finishing things that I started so how in the world was I supposed to write an entire novel?

Looking back, I think God must have smiled at my confusion because He is the author of all creativity. The One who gives inspiration and gently takes away what no longer serves. One night, I fell to my knees and begged Him for a story one that held the sea and ancient mysticism, one that could pour from me like rain. Something that was completely and truly me.

That night, before I even closed my eyes, it came to me like a tidal wave: their names, their faces, their voices. It was as if they’d been waiting for me all along.

Two months later, the first draft was born; about 300 pages, 120,000 words. And now, nearly three years on, I’m walking through the final chapters of this journey. The story has grown with me. The characters have evolved, their motives shifting, their personalities undergoing countless revisions.

But one thing has remained unchanged: the sea.

The sea has always been there- constant, powerful and patient. It’s more than just a setting. It’s a symbol. A reminder. A presence. The sea not only serves as a foreboding presence for some of my characters but a source of healing for others.

The sea represents surrender; it is allowing yourself to get lost in its waves and hoping that you’ll find the shore when the time is right.

I have gone to the beach multiple times already this year and spending time near the waves has helped me understand why the sea chose me as much as I chose it.

It is the rhythm of my story. It is the echo of my prayers. The very heartbeat of the novel that I am writing.

This book is not just fantasy. It’s worship. It’s memory. It’s strength. It’s a love letter to the mysteries of God, the magic of culture, and the endless depths of the sea.

And I can’t wait for the magic of my world to hug you and hold you just the way that so many other literary works have done for me.

This time, however, I wasn’t alone. There were three others who had also dedicated their morning to making sure the elderly, many of whom could no longer cook for themselves, would have something to eat that week.

It should’ve felt like any other Monday. But something in the air that day was different. There was a heaviness, a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite place.

Then the director came in and spoke of strokes and soft diets. She told us how so many of the seniors could no longer chew and how all their food had to be mashed together into something gentle and easy to swallow.

As I packed each bag with goods, something quiet stirred in me. I became unusually conscious of my own body and its health. Still being in my twenties, my body is strong; I haven’t yet experienced the aches and creaks that people warn come with age.

Moving is still easy, so easy that I can’t imagine a life where I cannot move, where my body is no longer agile or strong.

It’s not that I’ve never thought about mortality before. Trust me, I have. I know that time doesn’t last forever and that in the end it comes for us all.

But youth has a way of making death feel like a distant myth.

There’s a whisper in most of us, especially when we feel full of life, that says: Time will come for others but not for you.

Because when you still feel full of life, it’s hard to imagine that one day you, too, may need help to eat. Or walk. Or remember.

But those seniors were once like me. They were once agile, dancing in their kitchens, laughing in their living rooms to songs that stirred fire in their souls. The idea that they would one day lose that vibrancy probably felt impossible too.

We forget that the old were once young.

And the young, too, will one day grow old.

So somewhere between the packing and the silence that followed, a thought bloomed inside me:

After this shift, I’ll go to a graveyard.

And I won’t go empty-handed. I’ll take them flowers.

Not for anyone I knew. Not for someone I lost. But for strangers. For souls. For those no longer remembered by the world but still cradled by the earth.

I know what you’re probably thinking. Why would someone young visit a graveyard for no reason? I suppose it sounds strange. Morbid, even. I’m thankful to say I’ve never lost someone close to me, never been to a funeral.

Death has always felt like something that happens in books, in the news, in other people’s lives but not mine. But lately, I’ve been asking questions:

What is the true meaning of life?

Is it the degrees? Is it the money? Is it the number of followers, the friends we collect, the bags we carry?

That Monday morning, I needed to know.

Surely it has to be something deeper.

Surely there’s more.

So, I went looking for the answer. Not in a classroom or a book, but among the dead.

When my shift ended, I bought a bouquet of red and yellow roses and placed them beside me in the passenger seat. I searched for the nearest cemetery and followed the winding road to its gates.

I expected fear. Or a strange chill. But as I parked and stepped out of the car, flowers in hand, what I felt instead was peace.

The gravestones were simple. They all had the same elements: full name, birth date, death date… and how they were remembered.

On almost every one, they were remembered as a husband, wife, father, mother, sister, brother, daughter, or son.

That was it.

Not their degrees.

Not the places they’d traveled.

Not their net worth or what kind of job they had.

None of that mattered here.

What mattered and what was carved in stone was who they loved, and who loved them.

So as I placed my flowers on random graves. I sat in silence, surrounded by the souls who had gone before me. And I thought:

Maybe, just maybe, the answer to life, the answer to living well is to love. And to love well.

Not perfect love. Not storybook love. Just real, honest, trying love.

Love is not something we ever truly regret. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s messy. Even when it leaves.

We may regret the people, the timing or the choices. We might regret the times we held it back. The times we were too afraid to feel deeply, to care boldly, to be seen. But love itself? Never.

I’m not saying don’t dream. I’m not saying don’t reach for more.

I’m ambitious. I believe in vision, and I believe in greatness.

But if you don’t love and if you don’t let yourself be loved then you haven’t truly lived.

And if you haven’t lived, you’ve wasted the most precious gift we’ve been given — life.

There’s a quote I read once by Christopher Walken, and it still lingers with me:

“If you knew how quickly people forget the dead, you would stop living to impress people.”

And there, in that quiet graveyard, surrounded by names and memory, I finally understood.

We are not our achievements. We are not our fears. We are not even our hopes. We are beings either filled with love, begging to be loved, or giving love.

And when all is said and done and when our hour comes then the only thing that will remain is love.

Who we chose to love,

And who chooses to love us.

That, I believe, is the highest gift humanity has been given.

The holy, fragile ability to give, to receive and to ultimately become love itself.

To me, they were mesmerizing. But even then, a part of me felt uneasy watching how much of themselves they gave just to be seen.

We live in a world where beauty is a kind of currency—especially for women. A delicate, shimmering coin that must be polished each day to hold its value. As the years pass, I see more clearly how much weight society places on a woman’s beauty and her ability to keep it intact. It can be a gentle art, this tending to the self, but it becomes a quiet sorrow when it’s the only thing we nurture.

Society pressures us to chase beauty, to believe that how we look is tied to how worthy we are.

The other day, I saw pictures of a girl just before she went under the knife to change her face. She had spent thousands of dollars for a reflection that might finally feel acceptable. I’m not against plastic surgery, but I know how easily this longing can turn into a quiet madness, into a kind of dysmorphia

that eats away at the soul. I remember my own turning point: I had never worn a full face of makeup until my first semester of college. A girl in my dorm painted my face, and I was amazed by how “beautiful” I looked. That moment was the start of believing that my worth lived in my reflection.

The first time I read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, I felt a shiver in my chest. Dorian was heartbreakingly beautiful, his face so captivating that the world fell at his feet. But as his outward beauty grew, his soul decayed in secret. I see this in others too, in people who forget to color their inner worlds with the same care they give their faces.

And I’ve seen it in myself, almost losing sight of the truth: that beauty does not live in how I dress or how I look. It lives in the words I speak, the laughter that spills from me, the people I love, and the quiet kindnesses I offer wherever I go.

Wilde once wrote, “Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm.” At first, I didn’t understand. Of course, beauty fades with time. But now I see he meant another kind of beauty; not the kind that rests on the skin, but the kind that seeps into memory, lingering long after the eyes close.

This beauty isn’t about youth or perfection. It transcends time because it moves us, it comforts us, it loves.

The other morning on my walk, I did what I usually do. I sat barefoot on the grass and let the earth hold me. I watched the trees sway, listened to the wind’s low song, felt the leaves brush against my feet like a gentle whisper.

That’s the kind of beauty I’ve come to love—the kind that doesn’t need to be chased or fixed. It’s already here, waiting in the quiet, unpolished parts of life.

I laughed to myself in that moment, a soft, quiet laugh, as I realized how beauty has become twisted—a spell we cast on ourselves, an endless hunt that leaves us breathless and wanting.

We scroll through highlight reels of perfect skin and perfect lives, but in that chase, we miss the beauty of what’s already here: the scent of fresh rain, the comfort of an old book, the warmth of a deep breath in a moment of stillness.

Real beauty isn’t something to be owned or held, it’s in the gentle spaces, the in-between moments, the quiet corners we often overlook.

I feel beauty when I take off my shoes and let the grass cradle my feet.

I feel beauty when I lie down under the sun, lost in thought.

I feel beauty when I’m too sad to rise and when I’m so alive I can’t stay still.

I feel beauty when I turn a year older, grateful for another chance to begin again.

I feel beauty in letting myself feel everything, and in the times, I let myself feel nothing at all.

I see beauty in quiet mornings, sleep still soft in my eyes.

I see beauty in the nights when I’m dressed up and ready to step into the world.

What is beauty? It’s something you can’t really hold. It’s always here yet always slipping through your hands.

Beauty isn’t something we can possess because it isn’t a prize to be won. Real beauty is already here, in the simple, quiet parts of life that don’t need to be polished. It’s in the messy corners of who we are that don’t need to be hidden or fixed.

Maybe it’s time to stop searching. To slow down. To look around and let beauty find us. Because beauty isn’t something to chase it’s something to

feel, in the hush of morning, in the laughter of children, in the warmth of the earth beneath bare feet. It’s in your quiet moments, your restless heart, and every breath you take.

What does beauty mean to you?

I hope you find it in the gentle pause be

tween heartbeats, in the stillness of a sunlit morning, and in the soft, unpolished parts of life that remind you: beauty was never something you had to chase, it was always something to feel.

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