She used to laugh with her whole body.

The kind of laugh that escaped before she could stop it. Loud enough to turn heads in restaurants, loud enough for her friends to say, “There she goes again,” while laughing with her. It was never embarrassing to her before.

It was just proof that something was funny.

The first time he mentioned it, he was smiling.

“You know everybody is staring at us, right?”

It sounded harmless. Teasing, even. So she laughed again, only smaller this time, covering her mouth halfway through it. After that, the changes arrived quietly.

Not the kind of changes people write dramatic stories about. Nothing obvious or worthy of concern.

Just tiny adjustments.

She stopped sending long voice notes because he once said she sounded “too hyper” in the mornings. She started rereading her texts before sending them and removing extra letters so she wouldn’t seem too excited.

Her reactions became measured.

Her opinions became softer around the edges.

Careful. She became careful.

At first, she told herself it was normal. Relationships required compromise, didn’t they? Everybody adjusted a little for the people they liked.

So she adjusted.

When he called her dramatic, she became calmer.

When he called her quiet moods boring, she became livelier.

When he said she talked too much around his friends, she learned how to shrink herself in groups.

When he liked easygoing women, she swallowed every feeling before it reached her mouth.

Soon, she became fluent in shape-shifting.

The frightening part was how natural it began to feel.

She no longer knew which reactions belonged to her and which ones had been rehearsed beforehand. Every version of herself had to pass through one private question first:Will this make me harder to love?

One evening, she went out with old friends she had not seen in months. They sat around a table crowded with drinks and unfinished stories, laughing over each other the way people do when history exists between them.

At some point, one of them stopped midconversation and looked at her carefully.

“You’ve become so quiet lately.”

Everyone laughed lightly after it, Including her.

But the comment followed her home.

That night, while removing her makeup in front of the bathroom mirror, she tried to remember the last time she had laughed freely without checking who was listening first.

Nothing came to mind.

She stared at herself longer than usual.

It was unsettling, realizing a person could disappear without actually leaving. No dramatic breakdown, No visible tragedy.

Just small daily betrayals repeated over time until they became personality traits.

And maybe that was the real danger of wanting to be loved.

Not rejection.

But the slow temptation to become digestible. To carve pieces off yourself so someone else could hold you more comfortably.

He loved how easy she had become.

He never noticed how much of her had gone missing to achieve it.

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I knew I was in trouble the moment I started looking forward to their messages.

It started small. A random conversation.

A few laughs. Nothing serious.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But people like me never stay at “nothing serious” for too long.

Soon, I started carrying them around unconsciously. In the middle of the day, I’d wonder what they were doing. I’d reread conversations without meaning to. Little things they said replayed in my head at embarrassing hours of the night.

And that’s the thing nobody tells you about people who feel too deeply; attachment rarely arrives loudly. Sometimes it enters quietly like rain slipping through a cracked window.

I remember staring at my phone one evening after they replied differently. Nothing dramatic. No fight. No coldness. Just… different.

They gave shorter replies. Slower energy. Something slightly unfamiliar.

Most people would probably ignore it.

But my heart has always behaved like an alarm system. It notices every shift, every pause, every almost-hidden change in tone. And suddenly I could feel myself pulling away emotionally before anything even happened.

That’s how I protect myself.

I leave internally before people get the chance to leave physically.

Because the truth is, I am terrified of what happens if I care too much.

People talk about love like it’s soft. Like it’s beautiful. Like it’s exciting.

But nobody talks enough about how humiliating it feels to realize something matters to you more than you intended.

Nobody talks about the panic of becoming emotionally dependent on a presence that is not guaranteed to stay.

So I started pretending.

Pretending not to care too much, not to notice things, pretending I could do casual connections and shallow emotions and “whatever happens, happens”.

But every single time, my heart betrays me.

Because I was not built for halfway feelings.

And sometimes I think if I could remove that part of myself–the part that feels everything too deeply, the part that turns affection into attachment, the part that mourns people even before they leave.

I would.

I’d rip out my heart if I have to.

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Let me tell you a quiet truth no one really says out loud.

There are two people growing up in the same country, breathing the same air, scrolling the same apps but somehow living in completely different worlds.

One grows up hearing things like, “Manage what you have” “life is hard” “Just pray, it’ll get better”.

The other grows up overhearing conversations at the dining table about investments, deals, connections, “someone who knows someone”. Nothing is really fully explained, but everything is absorbed.

That’s where it starts.

Not with money, with exposure.

Because the first person doesn’t even know what’s possible. Their world is small, not by choice, but by design. You can’t reach what you’ve not seen and you can’t imagine what you’ve never been exposed to.

So they stay in familiar spaces, have familiar conversations, dream familiar dreams.

The second person, they don’t necessarily work harder. They just see more. They are in rooms where ideas are exchanged casually–ideas that don’t exist in books, ideas you only hear if you’re there.

And that’s the thing about “rooms”.

Nobody really explains how important they are.

Rooms shape you.

The conversations you hear, the standards you’re exposed to, the way people think–it rewires your mind without you even noticing.

Suddenly, what felt impossible starts to look…normal.

That’s why two people can read the same books and get completely different results. One reads it as theory,the other reads it as something they’ve already seen in real life.

Association does that.

If you’re constantly around people who only talk about survival, your mind settles there. If you’re around people discussing growth, strategy, expansion–you start thinking in that direction too.

It’s not magic, it’s conditioning.

There’s also a certain silence around wealth people don’t talk about . The people who truly understand how money works rarely announce it, they don’t even want you to know. Not because they’re hiding it for fun, but because access is not always loud.

A lot of valuable information doesn’t live on Google, it lives in conversations, passing comments, in “I’ll put you on”

And if you’re not in those circles, you don’t know what you’re missing.

That’s where the psychology of lack comes in.

When you’ve been exposed to little, you’d start expecting little, you hope more than you act, you wait more than you position yourself. Maybe not because you’re lazy, but because your environment trained you that way.

It’s subtle, but very powerful.

Which is why the shift doesn’t start with money, it starts with awareness.

With deciding that maybe, just maybe, there’s more than what you’ve seen so far.

And then doing the uncomfortable things that involves, going out more, meeting people outside your usual circle, listening more than you speak, putting yourself in rooms where you feel slightly out of place.

Thats discomfort is expansion in real time.

Then comes the real work.

You pick a skill, one skill and you go all in.

You get so good at it that your name becomes attached to it. When people hear that thing, they think of you. That level of mastery doesn’t just bring money, it brings attention.

And attention is what opens doors.

Because nobody likes to admit that you don’t walking into certain circles, you get called in.

At some point, the spaces that once felt unreachable starts noticing you. Not because you’re lazy begged your way in, but because you’ve built something too visible to ignore.

That’s where access changes and rooms open.

It’s not that some people are destined to stay stuck. It’s just that many people have only seen one version of life, until they see more.

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I don’t think we talk about this enough.

The art of conversion is slowly disappearing, and honestly? It shows.

Everyone is talking, but not everyone is connecting.

Somewhere along the way, we started measuring conversations by how “deep” they sound instead of how real they feel. And now, if a conversation doesn’t immediately hit some profound, soul-searching level, we just dismiss it as shallow.

But the thing is, people can only meet you at the level at which they’ve met themselves.

That’s not an insult, it’s reality.

Not everyone has done the same introspection. Not everyone processes emotions the same way. Not everyone communicates with the same depth, speed, or clarity.

And that’s okay.

What’s not okay is assuming that because someone doesn’t meet you at your level, they have nothing valuable to say.

Sometimes, the issue is not that people lack depth, you probably didn’t give them a chance to show it.

Orrrrr maybe you’re not as good at holding conversations as you think.

Because good conversation isn’t just about saying intelligent things, sounding deep, or “being on a particular level”. It’s more about listening, asking questions that actually open people up, and creating space where people feel safe to express themselves.

Everybody’s ability to comprehend is different. Everybody’s expression is different. Every body’s pace is different.

And if you only engage with people who think, speak, and respond exactly like you then, are you really good at conversations?

Or just comfortable ones?

Real conversations require patience. They require curiosity and humility.

Sometimes depth comes in people trying awkwardly and imperfectly to be understood.

And if you’re not paying attention, you’d miss it.

So maybe the problem isn’t exactly that “the art of conversation is lost or dying”

Maybe we’ve just become less willing to meet people where they are.

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I didn’t always think this way.

I used to believe that nobody owed anybody anything. If someone stays, fine. If they left, also fine. Life would always go on. That was the language everyone around me seemed to be speaking, so I learned it too.

But things shifted when I actually started paying attention to how relationships work.

I noticed how easy it was for people to withdraw. How quickly “I’m protecting my peace” turned into disappearing and how inconsideration was constantly excused as self care. Effort became optional the moment things felt uncomfortable.

One day, I caught myself thinking: “if we don’t owe anyone anything, then what exactly are we doing here?”

Because when I call you my friend, it’s not just a word.it’s a choice!

And as your friend, I owe you care. Maybe not perfection, but care.

I owe you kindness, even when I’m tired.

I owe you honesty, even when it’s awkward.

I owe you patience on days you’re not easy to deal with.

And yes, I expect the same.

This doesn’t mean staying where you’re constantly disrespected. It also doesn’t mean tolerating behavior that hurts you over and over again Cause walking away can be an act of self respect.

But I’ve learned that not every discomfort is a red flag.

Sometimes, it’s just two flawed people trying to figure each other out.

Friendship or even any kind of relationship is a two way street.

It only works when both people are willing to show up, especially when it’ll be easier not too.

Growth is almost rarely neat. People mess up. They miscommunicate. They disappoint .

What matters is that they’re willing to try…. Again.

I would go extra mile for my friend the same way I would for someone I’m romantically involved with.

I would listen, make space , choose patience. Not because they’re perfect, but because they matter to me.

I want friendship where we’d grow together–where we’d call each other out gently, forgive sincerely, and keep choosing each other as we evolve.

But it has to be mutual.

Love, in any form, cannot survive on just one person’s effort.

When care is one-sided, there’s space for resentment to grow. And that’s when something meant to be safe feels heavy.

I’ve come to realize that love isn’t about grand gestures or constant harmony.

It’s about staying. It’s about choosing someone over and over again, knowing their flaws and deciding they are still worth the effort.

So yes!, I think we owe each other something.

Not silence or suffering, but our care, effort and the decency to try.

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I had a conversation but it wasn’t a dramatic one.

It happened in the middle of an ordinary day, the kind that doesn’t announce it’s about to leave a mark.

My sister said something about being grateful. She tried reminding me that there are people out there who would kill or love to have the things I have right now, people praying for my kind of life and people whose struggles are heavier, louder and more obvious.

I nodded because it’s familiar advice and it sounded wise and maybe because it’s something you’re supposed to agree with.

But something in me resisted it. Not loudly, just quietly.

Because as she spoke, I thought of someone I look up to. Someone whose life feels like the version I’m still chasing, someone who seems freer, more settled,more certain. Then it hit me they probably have someone else they’re looking up to too.

And that person has someone else, on and on it goes.

There is no final level where struggle ends.

We just keep trying to rank pain, as if human emotions come with scoreboards. As if feeling overwhelmed requires proof. As if struggling while having enough is somehow a moral failure.

But everyone is living at their own level of life with different backgrounds, different expectations,different pressures, different definitions of success and survival. What feels small to one can feel suffocating to another  and that doesn’t make it any less.

When we say “others have it worse”, we think we’re offering perspective but often, what we’re really doing is dismissing feeling. We often turn gratitude into a weapon, and guilt into a lesson.

We make people feel awful for hurting and ungrateful for wanting more.

And I think that’s unfair to humanity because gratitude and pain can coexist. You can be thankful and still feel empty, you can recognize privilege and still feel lost. One does not cancel the other.

Pain doesn’t disappear because someone else is hurting too.

I think we need to stop treating life problems like a competition. Stop measuring who deserves to feel bad, stop shrinking ourselves because someone else might trade places with us because someone always will and someone always won’t.

What we actually need is some space. Space to feel without justifying it and space to say “this is hard for me” and let that be enough.

The conversation ended without a conclusion.

There was no argument, no resolution. Just a thought that stayed with me longer than expected.

Maybe the point isn’t to constantly remind ourselves of how lucky we are but let ourselves be human first and learn gratitude without using it to erase our feelings.

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It started one random evening. NEPA took light, and my data finished at the same time. No warning. No “last 200mb”. Nothing.

For a full minute, I sat there staring at my phone screen, waiting for it to reload like my stubborn life depended on it. It didn’t. But at that moment, it felt like it did.

I was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. No videos playing in the background, no notifications buzzing, no people to scroll through. Just silence–very loud and uncomfortable silence.

And then it hit me: I didn’t know what to do with myself without the internet.

That night, I realized something ugly but true–I was addicted.

The constant stimulation and the endless cycle of scrolling, checking, laughing, comparing, and scrolling again.

Somehow, social media had become my peace. Or what I thought was peace.

You know that fake kind of peace where you’re not really calm–just distracted enough not to think? Yeah, that one.

We’ve all built our little digital worlds now.

We wake up and then immediately reach for our phones like they’re oxygen tanks.

We’d say we’re “just checking messages “, but next thing we know, we’ve checked everything except the message we opened the app for.

We scroll not because we’re bored, but because we don’t know how to sit still anymore.

And have you noticed how we all want to trend

for something now?

It doesn’t even need to make sense–just let our names fly around for a while.

We say “i don’t care about fame” but the moment a post does well, you’re suddenly thinking “maybe I should do another one like that”

The truth is, we crave visibility.

We want to be seen.

And somehow, social media became the stage where we perform for it everyday.

I sometimes envy people who can go dayssss without being online.

You know the type– those who forget to post for a whole month and somehow their lives are still full.

Meanwhile I can’t even enjoy the sunset without thinking, “ I should snap this”.

I’ve met people who say “i don’t use social media much”

And I’m like “How do you survive?”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Why does peace now feel like survival?

We’ve turned our rest into a performance.

Even our happiness now needs Wi-Fi and then silence feels incomplete without background noise from TikTok or instagram reels.

We don’t realize how much we depend on that constant stream of connection until it’s gone.

Until the light goes off, until the data finishes and suddenly you’re left alone with your thoughts–thoughts you’ve been running away from for months.

That night, with no Wi-Fi and no distractions, I just sat there.

No music, no scrolling, no pretending to be “fine”.

Just me.

And you know what? It was weirdly peaceful.

Uncomfortable? Yes.

But peaceful.

It made me think, maybe the peace we keep chasing online isn’t peace at all.

Maybe it’s just noise we’ve learned to call comfort.

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If we could hear each other’s thought for a day, we’d realize how fragile we all are. Behind every smile, every confident stride, every carefully curated photo–there are insecurities that whisper “you’re not enough”.

The truth is, no one escapes this. Not women, not men, not boys nor girls. Insecurities are the quiet shadows we all carry, it shapes how we move through the world.

Insecurity is not weakness. It is simply the fear that our flaws make us unworthy of love, respect or belonging. It is the silent comparison, the constant measuring of ourselves against multiple impossible standards.

Some people hide theirs behind achievements and others bury them in silence. But we all feel it.

For women, insecurities often live on the surface of their bodies. The mirror becomes both a friend and an enemy. Weight, skin, stretchmarks, aging–every detail feels like a flaw to be managed.

But it doesn’t even stop there. Women carry the weight of expectations; to build careers yet remain nurturing, to be attractive but not too bold, to be strong but never intimidating. Society whispers conflicting messages until the largest question is Am i enough?.

Men are taught to be pillars–strong and unshaken providers. But beneath that armor lies a different kind of fear; the fear of failing and not measuring up or not meeting up to required expectations.

Their insecurities wear quieter disguises–financial struggles, fear of losing status, worries about height, hair or strength. They ache to express emotions yet they’re told vulnerability is weakness. So they swallow it and smile through it all, carrying the weight in silence.

The saddest truth about insecurities is that most of them are planted. By culture, by family, by social media that sets standards no human can sustain.

So we learn to wear masks. Women wear confidence. Men wear strength. Girls wear filters. Boys wear bravery. And behind it all, the same quiet question still lingers What if I’m not enough?

Maybe the answer is not to erase insecurities but to acknowledge them and to accept them as proof of our humanity.

Strength isn’t pretending we don’t have insecurities. Strength is saying: “I feel them, but I won’t let them silence me. I’ll still show up. I’ll still live. I’ll still be me.”

Every person you admire, every flawless face, every confident voice, every seemingly perfect life is carrying insecurities you cannot see.

So perhaps the question is not, “How do I get rid of my insecurities?” but rather, “How do I live fully in spite of them?”

Because in the end, we’re all insecure but Just differently.

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“She’s so strong”

“She’s a superwoman”

But the truth is, most women didn’t want to be strong. They became strong because life gave them no other choice and when you hold back the applause, you’ll see stories no one claps for.

Growing up, i had a friend who was the firstborn daughter in a family of six. At thirteen, she was already bathing toddlers,cooking meals for the whole house, and even making sure her younger siblings got to school. She never had time to hang out like the rest of us because she was too busy being everyone’s second mother.

When she once joked “My siblings are my children”, we all laughed. But years later, I realized it wasn’t funny. It was her reality.

This is the truth of many firstborn daughters–they dont get to be “kids”. Their childhood is basically a rehearsal for adulthood.

They carry responsibilities that don’t belong to them, and when they finally become women, society doesn’t ease up. Instead, the expectations double: be successful, be responsible, take care of everyone.

And silently, many of them would whisper: But who is taking care of me?

Every woman carries battles within her body. Period pain is one. I remember a colleague in my 100level in university once fainted in the middle of a lecture. Everybody panicked thinking it was a serious illness, until she whispered later, embarrassed “it’s just my cramps”. Just????.

As if a pain that makes you pass out deserves the word ‘just’.

Pregnancy too is painted as glowing Instagram photos and baby showers. But I’ve seen women limp from swollen feet, sleep in discomfort, and cry quietly from the exhaustion. And even after labor, there’s postpartum: bleeding, depression, stitches and loneliness.

It is well oooo.

I also once knew a woman who stayed in a relationship where she was constantly belittled, because she feared leaving meant starting from beginning again. Another friend covered bruises with makeup, saying, “He only hits me when he’s angry.” It really saddened me.

And then there’s the everyday fear of entering cars and buses alone at night. Many would rather trek than to be trapped with a stranger in a car.

Many have to even carry weapons whenever they are walking alone.

For women, love and safety are not guaranteed, sometimes they are privileges.

We like to think misogyny is “old fashioned “ but it is only modernized.

It’s the boss who praises your ideas in private but repeats them as his own in meetings.

It’s the husband who says, “I help with the kids,” as if fatherhood is optional charity work.

It’s the way society tells women to Be ambitious, but not intimidating. Be beautiful, but not too sexy. Be independent, but not so independent that men feel small.

The rules keep shifting, and women are expected to adapt without complaint.

And yet, women rise.

The firstborn daughter who raised her siblings goes on to build businesses and still sends money home every month.

The mother who bled through postpartum pain would wake up at 3 a.m. to nurse her baby,and then shows up to work at 8 a.m. with no sleep.

The girl who once whispered her fears of safety now teaches other women self-defense, turning pain into power.

But here’s what we rarely say: women shouldn’t have to be strong all the time because strength is not a badge to be romanticized; it’s a burden they were forced to carry.

Women deserve softness too. They deserve rest, they deserve safety, love without fear, and lives that don’t demand sacrifice as proof of worth.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time the world stopped clapping for women’s strength but instead start creating a world where they don’t need to be strong just to survive.

Cheers to all women, ladies and girls🫶🏾

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If you ask someone in this generation what love means, they probably won’t tell you about loyalty or sacrifice. They’ll show you a bouquet with shiny red roses, a new iPhone, a dinner at some rooftop restaurant, and a cute matching outfit for instagram. And don’t get me wrong, those things are so beautiful . I want them too.

But somewhere between all the flowers, the reposts or the soft life, love itself hasn’t changed but gotten lost.

We grew up on movies where love was meant to look like sacrifices, patience and forgiveness. Where two people are supposed to see each others flaws and still say “I choose you “. But what we see now is that relationships feel more like business deals.

People don’t ask “Do I love them?” anymore, they now ask “what do they bring to the table?”.

And while that question sounds smart and intentional , most of the time it’s just code for “can you finance my lifestyle?” Or “can you upgrade my status?” .

This generation has made love look like a contract.

You give me money, I’ll give you loyalty

You take me on trips, i’ll post you on social media

Or you buy me gifts and I forgive you when you cheat.

We’ve reduced love to receipts and screenshots and proof of love is now how much you can show on socials. People are not even staying in relationships because they’re happy, but because the pictures are fire.

It’s almost as if the relationship itself doesn’t need to be beautiful , as long as it looks beautiful on the outside.

Who dig this pit for us???

And don’t even get me started on unfaithfulness.

Cheating has now become a trend like it’s part of the package.

People joke about it but it actually hurts that the bar has gotten so low.

We’re always vibing and never committing . Some people are even talking to three people at the same time, keeping all options open. And then one day you’ll be crying, wondering why someone who swore they loved you switched up like you meant nothing.

It makes us question if love itself changed or if people don’t just know how to love anymore.

But here’s the thing, love it self hasn’t changed but people have. Love is still patient . Love is still kind. Love is still about consistency and sacrifice.

It’s just that our generation is distracted. We’re distracted by attention, aesthetics and validation. We think love is supposed to be perfect, when in reality love is supposed to grow through imperfections.

I won’t lie, modern love scares me sometimes. The unfaithfulness, the lack of depth, the constant pressure to prove your relationship online.

But I still believe in love.

I believe in the kind that doesn’t need a receipt or a screenshot to be real.

And maybe–just maybe that’s what our generation is missing.

Not bigger bouquets, not fancier dinners, not even louder public declarations.

Just real, quiet and patient love.

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Grandpa had been gone for two months, and the whole time, there was this built up tension. You could feel it at church, at the market, even at the condolence visits. There were whispers, sly questions, and those suspicious “Ehen, so how are you people arranging things?” conversations.

Now, let me tell you; my family is big and I’m talking big-big. The kind of big where you see someone at a gathering, they greet you with “Cousin!” and you have no idea what their real name is. Add in step-siblings, half-siblings, and “family friends who are basically family”–the cast list is long and it’ll go on for ages if we start mentioning everybody.

So on the day of the will reading, everybody came, and I mean everybody. People I hadn’t seen since my 10th birthday suddenly remembered they were blood relatives. Aunties wore their most intimidating lace. Uncles wore that “I am calm but ready for war” face.

The lawyer walked in – a slim, serious, wearing the kind of suit that screams “I get paid by the hour.” He opened his briefcase very slowly, like he was about to announce the winner of Big Brother Naija.

“Ladies and gentlemen… we are gathered here to hear the last wishes of the late Chief…”

Before he even finished, one uncle cleared his throat aggressively, as if to remind everyone that he was the eldest son.

He started reading. At first, it was simple–a plot of land here, a small shop there, a donation to the church.

People were nodding, murmuring “Yes, that’s fair” under their breath.

Then he got to the part about The House.

Let me explain. This wasn’t just a house. It was the house as in the original family compound. The house where Grandpa raised all his children. The house with the mango tree in the backyard that everybody claimed as their own. The house that apparently, had been the silent cause of many late-night arguments.

And according to the will… Grandpa left the house to…

Not the eldest son.

Not even the second son.

No. He left it to… his youngest daughter.

The silence that followed could have been cut with a machete. You could hear the ceiling fan struggling. Somewhere at the back, someone’s child started crying–maybe sensing the chaos about to erupt.

Then they all started screaming.

“Ah-ah! How?!”

“This is impossible!”

“They must have confused the names!”

Auntie Shade stood up like she was in a courtroom drama and declared, “I reject this in Jesus name!”

Another uncle muttered something about “foreign influence” and side-eyed the youngest daughter like she had bribed the ancestors.

The lawyer tried to calm everyone down, but at this point, it was too late. People were standing, voices were raising, and someone’s wrapper had already come loose.

Out of nowhere, one cousin started filming with his phone.A big mistake. Because immediately, one auntie screamed, “Why are you recording family matters?!” and lunged at him.

Within 15 minutes, the entire room had split into two factions –“Team Youngest Daughter” and “Team Eldest Son.” And guess what? Both sides had puff-puff and bottled Coke because apparently, people came ready for a long battle.

By the time we left that hall, the lawyer looked like he was rethinking his career. The will was still valid, but peace in the family? Gone. In fact Vanished. Never to be seen again.

Till today, when there’s a gathering, we don’t even talk about that day. But you can always tell who’s still holding grudges because they’ll sit at the far end of the table, eating their jollof in silence and glaring at the youngest daughter like she personally evicted them from paradise.

Some childhoods are not filled with the sound of running feet or freshly baked snacks.

Some are marked by quiet, heavy moments that feel too big for one person to carry. Too big to be able to crash the entire existence of one.

It can begin suddenly, it could be a loud argument that shakes walls, or a slammed door that doesn’t open again, could even be a goodye that feels final even if no one says the word forever.

Sometimes, it’s a parent leaving. Other times, it’s the arrival of a new face in the family–someone whose presence completely rewrites the atmosphere of the home. And while grownups may explain it a certain way, children don’t just understand; they absorb it.

That’s when silent vows are made.

A vow to smile in public and keep the real feelings locked away.

A vow to protect their heart like it’s a fragile glass.

A vow to never rely on anyone, cause they can leave .

A vow to never forgive.

Life goes on, but the child doesn’t and never forgets.

They grow up having to adapt in ways they should never have had to. They share spaces, bloodlines and last names with people they never chose.

They sit at dinner tables and listen to conversations that feel foreign.

They’d always endure polite questions from other people and adults–questions that accidentally opens old wounds:

“Don’t you miss your old home?”

“Why don’t you talk to your father much?”

“Where’s your brother/sister we don’t see them around anymore?”

“Are you siblings?”

They learn how to answer with smiles cause it’s easier than explaining. They’d never understand anyways.

Still, there are moments when the ache breaks through– a movie scene where a happy family laughs together, there’s a wedding toast about parents who stayed together, and then a friend casually saying, “My mom and dad have been married for 30 years.”

But here’s the thing: over time, healing doesn’t arrive like a single sunrise that chases away the night. It’s slower, quieter or more like fog lifting in pieces, revealing bits of the road ahead.

And then, almost without realizing it, they’re no longer that broken child. They’ve built a life. A safe one at that. One that feels like theirs, they have dreams, stability, laughter, maybe even love.

To the outside world, they look perfect–the kind of person people admire and say, “You’ve really got it all together” “you have everything sorted”.

But perfection is rarely born from an easy life.Sometimes, it’s the product of survival!.

Because behind every calm, collected smile is a chapter no one read, afight no one saw, a childhood that shaped everything.

Some people don’t just grow up–they grow through.

And that makes all the difference.

If you still have that childhood that’s unsealed in you, you’d heal I promise.

You’d smile again, you’d even love again.

Take it easy on yourself.

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You know- the very ironed white shirt, big-men whiff of perfume that typically smells like money and good decisions, beard lined up perfectly like he had booked an appointment three weeks ago or something and the way he carried his phone like it contained delicate letters.

We met at a friend’s wedding. He sat across from me, confidently dressed. He was scrolling on his iPhone and then he smiled at the bride and groom slow dancing. Men like Boye don’t just smile- they release a slightly calculated, mysterious smirk. And like a victim, I fell for it.

By our second conversation, he had dropped the magic line:

“I run my own thing, i’m into business”

That was all I needed to hear. No details. No receipts. Just business . My brain didn’t even bother to seek clarification. Was he into oil and Gas?, which business was he into? Cryptocurrency? Or he steals for a living?. We may just never know.

I didn’t want to look too impressed, so I acted unbothered, sipping my drink like oh another CEO in my DM.

But in my head, I was already planning our couple’s photo shoot for Forbes. I saw us on a yacht in Santorini, me in a flowing white dress holding a champagne glass, him signing “big deals” on his laptop while a drone recorded the moment.

He called me one morning, with a low voice and sounding stressed:

“Babe, one of my clients hasn’t paid yet. Can you just send me 10k to sort something small?

I’ll give you back tomorrow.

Me I just thought, No wahala. Big men can have small problems sometimes too.

And as I like to be an helpful partner, I sent it.

The next week , another one of 25k for “fuel to meet an investor”

As a supportive partner that loves a working man, I sent it.

Then 50k because “my money is stuck in a foreign account”

Then ₦70k because “the goods are at the port and we need to clear them before customs does what they normally do.”

Before I knew it, I turned into an ATM machine and money making scheme.

One day, I jokingly asked him “so, when are the profits coming in?” And he smiled and said

“Babe, you’re the real profit. You’re my biggest investment”

Sir, I want my ROI in cash not compliments.

The final straw? This man-this bold entrepreneur-asked me if I could help “temporarily” pay his rent because, apparently,

“Keeping a good business address is important for brand image.”

At this point, I realized I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was the bank, the investor, the loan officer, the unpaid secretary, and sometimes even the delivery girl (because I once helped pick up “supplies” for him).This mannn.

I decided to confront him one day. I sat him down, looked him dead in the eye and I asked, “Boye, what exactly is this business you’re doing?”

With all this boldness, without flinching he said,

“Babe, you’re my partner. Everything I have is yours.”

And he was right , everything he HAD was mine cause I bought them all.

That was the day I resigned from his “company.” I walked away with my heart shattered and my bank account crying , in fact weeping.

But let it be known, if Boye ever becomes a billionaire one day, I will be there at the shareholders’ meeting with my receipt book in hand.

Till then.