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For weeks, I dreamed about this trip. Driving from Nairobi to Tanzania in a BMW 320i felt like the ultimate adventure. I pictured the thrill, the speed, the open road stretching endlessly ahead. Freedom, I thought. Pure, intoxicating freedom.

At first, that’s exactly how it felt. The engine roared to life, and soon we were cruising at 170 km/h, sometimes pushing to 200 km/h. The world blurred around me. My chest swelled with adrenaline. This was the rush I had been craving.

But it didn’t last.

We flew over bumps so hard I thought the car would lift off the ground. My stomach lurched. My hands clenched tight. Then came the screech of sudden brakes, once, twice, six times, each one louder than the last. And then the near misses. Twice, I watched death stare us down and let us go at the very last second.

My body froze. My prayers turned frantic. Every corner felt like a gamble, every overtake a coin toss with fate. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it above the engine. Somewhere between Mlolongo and Westlands, when we tore through the expressway in just twelve minutes, I realized I wasn’t living the dream. I was running from a nightmare.

On the way back, I saw them, two accidents. Twisted metal, broken glass, the eerie silence that follows chaos. And I thought: Were they like us? Were they once laughing, rushing, thinking they were invincible, only to discover how fragile life really is?

When we finally stopped, I stepped out of the car on legs that were numb and trembling from fear. My hands were shaking. My heart still racing. I had once thought boarding a superbike was the most terrifying thing I could ever do, but that flying BMW was a nightmare I would never wish to relive again.

And the fear hasn’t left me. Over the weekend, I drove to my parents’ place. A journey that usually takes me twenty minutes stretched into a whole hour. Every bump made my chest tighten, every car too close sent a shiver through me. The experience has left me anxious on the road, reminding me that trauma doesn’t always end when the ride does. Sometimes, it lingers long after the engine goes quiet.

That journey changed me. It taught me that sometimes what we call adventure is just danger dressed up in shiny paint and horsepower. And the real thrill, the real freedom, is in surviving, in choosing to live, and in never again confusing recklessness with living.

A few days ago, I hurt my left index finger. Ever since, it feels like everything in the world has conspired against that poor finger: doors, cups, the edge of my desk. Each bump left me irritated and asking, Why does the universe keep targeting this one spot?

But then I realized something. My other fingers were going through the same knocks. They were brushing against doors and hitting the same surfaces. The difference is, I didn’t notice, because they weren’t injured.

The world hadn’t changed. The force hadn’t changed. What changed was me. That one wound made my finger sensitive, so the smallest touch felt unbearable.

Life works the same way. When our hearts are wounded by loss, betrayal, disappointment, or stress, tiny bumps in life can feel like crushing blows. Meanwhile, someone else in the same situation might brush it off simply because they aren’t carrying the same wound.

It’s not always about what happens to us. It’s about the state we’re in when it happens. Our pain, our perspective, our healing (or lack of it) shape how we experience the world.

That’s why tending to our wounds matters. Healing doesn’t stop life’s knocks from coming, but it changes how deeply they shake us. When we’re whole, the bumps are just bumps. When we’re hurting, even the smallest touch can feel like hell.

One quiet afternoon, I went out for a walk, retracing the steps my younger self used to take. I expected familiarity. Instead, I found a stranger. The buildings were new, sleek, tall, beautiful. Where our favorite café once sat , where we laughed over cold sodas and shared heartbreaks, there now stood a butchery and a grocery store. The alley where I once waited for matatus in the evening sun had disappeared. Even the ground seemed to have shifted.

I lost my compass, not just directionally, but emotionally. I wandered through the streets and realized I was looking for someone who no longer lived there: me.

It’s strange how familiar streets can feel like a foreign country when you’ve changed more than the map.

That evening, I went back to the Airbnb, sat quietly with my thoughts, and wrote. What poured out was not just memory, it was a reckoning.

I had returned not just to a city, but to a version of myself that no longer existed. I saw clearly that I wasn’t the same person who had once lived there. Life had reshaped me in quiet, profound ways through pain, through growth, through motherhood, through solitude, through answered and unanswered prayers.

It reminded me of being a maize plant in a field, once growing side by side with classmates each of us full of potential, part of the same season. But after graduation, the harvest came, and each grain found its own path. Some were shipped abroad. Some sold locally. Some fell back into the soil, becoming seeds again. Some were processed, transformed. Others were lost.

I returned to that field as a processed grain, shaped by time, pressed by life, changed in ways the farm could no longer recognize. The season had passed. The crop had rotated. A new life had taken root on the same land.

And I stood there, not in sadness, but in awe. Because life had moved. I had moved. And in that moment, I understood that growth means letting go. Not just of places, but of who we once were in them.

Sometimes, a city forgets you. And sometimes, that’s how you know you've grown.

In a small village tucked away among the hills of Murang'a, where dusty paths crisscross through maize fields and the scent of firewood smoke clings to the air, two families lived as neighbors. They shared fences, seasons, and Sunday church gatherings. But while they lived side by side, their stories could not have been more different. As fate would have it, these two families, the ones from which my parents came, shaped me in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

My mother's side of the family was blessed with stability at least on the surface. My grandfather was a man of deep principle, a police officer by duty and a pastor by calling. He wore his uniform with pride during the week, and on Sundays, he stood behind the pulpit, Bible in hand, preaching with a voice that carried the weight of conviction. He was a devoted husband, a present father, and to many in the village, the embodiment of what a man should be.

My grandmother, a gentle woman with a quiet strength, had chosen well. Her husband loved her deeply, respected her fully, and shouldered the burdens of the home without ever complaining. Together they raised a growing brood of children. My grandfather believed in education and was more than willing to take his children to school. But therein lay the irony. Because he carried so much, the children never quite learned how to carry themselves. The older ones skipped school, certain that their father would always be there to catch them. And so, they grew up half-prepared for a world that demanded full responsibility.

When my grandfather fell ill, everything fell apart. The pillar that held the house up began to crumble. The older children, now adults with families of their own, were ill-equipped to step in. They hadn't pursued meaningful education, hadn't built careers strong enough to support others and the ones still at home were left stranded, dreams deferred. My grandmother, devoted and tender as she was, couldn't rise to the demands left in her husband's absence. She’d never needed to lead the charge, that had always been his role. And so, the family stumbled.

Just next door, a different story was unfolding.

My father's family had none of the visible harmony that marked my mother’s. My paternal grandfather was a drunkard, irresponsible, wild, and openly disrespectful to his family. He'd spend nights in the village pubs, stumbling home in the early hours, sometimes dragging along a girlfriend and asking my grandmother to make them tea. The stories go that my grandmother, tired of being humiliated, would sometimes chase them out, machete in hand, dignity in tatters.

But if my grandfather was the storm, my grandmother was the anchor. A fiercely hardworking woman, she raised her children with grit and an iron will. She tilled land, reared animals, and fought for every inch of progress her family made. Even when her husband would come and sell her pigs for drinking money, she would simply start over. Her work ethic was unmatched. In time, she bought several plots of land all in her name. She became a respected woman in the village, sitting on school and church boards, a beacon of hope wrapped in a rosary and calloused hands. A true heroine.

Perhaps it was the dysfunction that sparked a fire in her children. Perhaps it was her example. Or maybe it was the quiet rage of watching their mother do it all alone. Whatever it was, most of her children fought to be different from their father. They chased education like it was their only salvation, because it was. They got degrees, jobs, and some built families on the opposite values of the home they were raised in. Not all of them turned out perfect but many of them turned the page.

And that’s the paradox that has haunted and guided me.

One home had love, order, faith but that same security may have dulled the urgency for growth. The other had chaos, brokenness, pain but from that pain, something powerful was born.

So what does that say about success? What does that say about how we grow?

It’s strange, isn’t it? That sometimes a good man can unknowingly clip the wings of his children with comfort. And sometimes, it is suffering that sharpens the hunger for greatness.

From both sides, I inherited something unique. From my maternal grandfather: compassion, faith, devotion. From my paternal grandmother: grit, resilience, and fire. I have learned that balance is a gift and that hardship, while painful, can be the most fertile ground for transformation.

In the quiet moments, when I reflect on where I come from, I realize that I am not just one or the other. I am the tension between the two, the child of peace and struggle, of Sunday sermons and machete-wielding defiance. And I carry both stories with pride.

In my community, marriage is like bread. It’s not a luxury but a necessity, a symbol of stability and sustenance. From the moment a girl is of age, she’s expected to make bread, regardless of whether she’s been taught how or not. For many of us, there’s no manual, no guidance, just a task handed down with urgency: “Make bread.”

That’s exactly where I found myself. I was handed the responsibility of making this bread with no prior experience. Driven by the desire to meet expectations, I jumped in. I grabbed the first white flour I could find, mixed it with the basic ingredients I thought were important, and shoved it into the oven. I didn’t pause to check the quality of the flour, measure the ingredients, or set the oven to the right temperature. I didn’t even know how long to bake it for. All I wanted was to finish the task, to make my community proud, to tick off “marriage” on my list of achievements.

But when I opened the oven, the bread wasn’t what I expected. It was uneven, misshapen, and nothing close to the perfect loaf I had envisioned. I tried again and again, but no matter how hard I worked, the bread never turned out right.

It took me three years to realize what was wrong. The problem wasn’t just the process, it was the foundation. I hadn’t chosen the right flour. No matter how much effort I poured into the mixing, kneading, and baking, the bread was destined to fail because the core ingredient was wrong.

So, I stopped. I walked away from the oven and the endless cycle of failed attempts. Not out of shame, but out of wisdom. I realized that I didn’t have to keep trying to make something work if the foundation was flawed. I gave myself permission to rest, to step back, and to reflect on what I had learned.

Now, I’m taking a break from baking. I’ve cut myself some slack, letting go of the pressure to produce something just to please others. I’m taking the time to learn. When I’m ready, I’ll start from the basics. I’ll choose the right flour, consult with experts, and ensure I have the correct measurements and tools.

When I return to the oven, I won’t just be making bread to meet expectations. I’ll be creating something intentional, nourishing, fulfilling, and worth sharing. Because I’ve learned that good bread isn’t about how it looks to others. It’s about how it sustains and enriches the lives it touches, including my own.

For now, I’m cherishing the pause. I’m allowing myself to heal and prepare, knowing that next time, I’ll bake with purpose, patience, and love.

I see them in love or so they say, Bringing the best, the worst each day. I wonder aloud: are they real, Or chasing a dream, an imagined ideal?

This thing called love, I don’t quite see. Is it fact or fiction, a mystery to me? I crave what feels steady, simple, and true, But love’s not a lens I’ve managed to view.

Yes, I grow fond of faces, of names, Yet their actions extinguish emotional flames. So I walk away, cut ties, let it go, Missing the warmth I no longer know.

A distant ember, faint and gray, Not burning, not warming, just fading away. And I wonder, as the thought takes flight: Have I ever known love in its truest light?

Old tales are told of men who shift, At the moon’s full glow, their spirits adrift. But me, I change when the sun takes flight A warrior by day, broken by night.

At dawn, I rise so strong, so bold, A pillar of warmth for hearts turned cold. They lean on me, the iron tree, Their solace, their strength, their sanctuary.

But when the night enfolds its arms, The world forgets my daytime charms. Tears cascade where shadows confide, My mattress cradles the ache I hide.

My pillow whispers soft and low, A witness to the grief I show. This bed, my haven, my nightly peace, Where pain finds voice and fears release.

Perhaps that’s why I always say, "I can’t sleep in a stranger’s stay." The truth? My soul must learn to weep Without these tears, I’d never sleep.

There’s a weight I carry, a fear that paralyzes me, freezing me in place when I want to move forward. Love, to me, feels like a storm. From afar, it’s beautiful, awe-inspiring, and full of promise. But up close, it has been chaotic, leaving behind sleepless nights, tears, and scars I’ve worked so hard to heal. It feels safer to watch from a distance, to protect myself from being swept away again.

He tells me, “Learn to love and learn to be loved.” But how do I do that when love has always felt like a storm I barely survived?

Still, I long to experience it. What if love could be different? What if it could feel safe? These questions haunt me, tangled with the fear that if I try, I might relive the pain. Yet, a deeper fear whispers louder: If I don’t try, I’ll remain frozen in time, watching life pass me by.

Even though the fear is loud, I’m starting to hear another voice, a quieter one, reminding me that the past doesn’t have to define me. The pain I’ve endured is a part of my story, but it no longer holds the power to control my future. Each day, I remind myself: You deserve more than the hurt you’ve known.

I’m taking small steps toward trust, starting with myself. I’m learning to believe in my ability to protect my heart and to recognize the red flags I once missed. From there, I can cautiously open the door to trusting others. Trust doesn’t have to be all or nothing, it can grow, one step at a time.

I’m also redefining love. It doesn’t have to mirror my past. Love can be gentle, kind, and safe, beginning with the way I treat myself. By nurturing my heart, practicing patience with my fears, and showing myself compassion, I’m slowly shaping a new understanding of love, one that feels possible.

Moving forward doesn’t mean being fearless. Courage is feeling the fear and stepping forward anyway, even if it’s just an inch. Every act of vulnerability, sharing my thoughts, allowing myself to feel, is a victory. Healing isn’t linear, and I’ve learned to forgive myself for the days when fear wins. Progress isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up for myself, even when it’s hard.

I don’t know where this journey will take me, but I do know this: staying frozen isn’t the life I want to live. Love still scares me, but I’m ready to take a step closer, even if just a little.

Perhaps one day, I’ll look back and marvel at how far I’ve come. For now, I’m choosing to believe that love can be safe, that I can learn to give and receive it, and that I am worthy of it.

For just a second, you were mine, And in that moment, life felt fine. A touch, a glance, a spark so bright, But I knew deep down, it wasn't right.

I carry the weight of love and care, A child, a life, so much to bear. And you—still growing, still unsure— Deserve to chase the dreams you’re meant for.

I can't ask you to play a role, To be something you’re not, to fill this hole. You need the freedom to find your way, Without the chains of yesterday.

It hurts to love and let you go, To feel this ache, this tender woe. You are the one I wish to keep, But love can't bloom when hearts must sleep.

I’m lost in knowing you’re so rare, Yet forced to face the empty air. We met, and for a moment, it was right, But the world around us isn’t bright.

I’ll set you free, though it tears me apart, I’m breaking slowly, piece by piece, heart by heart. I wish you everything, and more than I can give, But the truth is, it’s time to live… without this.

So I’ll let you go, though I still care, Wishing you peace, wishing you somewhere That fits your soul, your dreams, your grace— Even if it’s not here, in this place.

He brings happiness in countless ways, In his presence, I’m relearning to trust, to feel. Tall, dark, and handsome—grounded and wise, He’s love itself, a generous soul with warmth to heal.

Principled, funny, his laughter like light, With him, I’m at ease, near or far, night or day. He’s my safe place, a love that’s pure, I know his heart, steady and sure.

He nourishes me, mind, body, and soul, In his embrace, I feel completely whole. I am his answered prayer, his first and his last, The one he treasures as the moments pass.

Each touch reaches deep, beyond the skin, It soothes my spirit, his love within. Now I’m so happy, and I finally know why With him by my side, my heart can fly.

He lies with you, but his heart’s with me, In dreams, it’s my face he longs to see. He wishes he could wake by my side, In morning light, with nothing to hide.

He pictures our days, a life we’d share, Swims at dawn, the cool, crisp air. Though he stays with you, his thoughts are mine, In every whisper, in every sign.

His texts fill my day, his heart’s silent plea, For wisdom, for laughter, for being with me. On his way home, he calls just to say, How he dreams of a life that’s further away.

I feel your pain, though you don’t know, We all must suffer in love’s quiet glow. You ache because he’s not truly there, He aches because I’m beyond his care.

And I suffer too, in moral fight, I want him, but know it’s not right. So I choose to hurt, to let it be, For in this pain, I set him free.

I stood in front of my grand, empty house, marveling at its vastness. Every room was carefully furnished, each piece picked with intention and care. Yet, as I walked through the corridors, an echo of loneliness followed me. The silence of my perfect, well-arranged home seemed to grow louder with each step.

I decided to invite some of my closest friends to live with me. Surely, having others around would fill the void, would ease the solitude that I hadn’t anticipated. At first, their presence brought a sense of warmth and laughter that made the house feel alive. For a while, it was everything I had hoped for. But soon, they began inviting others, people I didn’t know, people who didn’t share the same respect for my home that I did.

Suddenly, my once peaceful sanctuary was crowded with strangers. I watched helplessly as they mishandled my carefully selected furniture, broke my favorite items, and disarranged everything I had so thoughtfully put in place. The sense of joy that once filled the house quickly turned into frustration and anger. My space – my home – was no longer mine. I felt like a guest in my own life.

But what hurt the most wasn’t the broken items or the disorder; it was that, surrounded by so many people, I still felt alone. I had sought companionship to escape loneliness, but now, with my space invaded and my peace destroyed, I felt even more isolated than before. The more people crowded my home, the more distant I became, retreating inward in search of the connection I had once hoped for but never truly found.

In the end, I realized it wasn’t the number of people around me that mattered, but the quality of connection and the boundaries I set. My desire for company had caused me to open my doors too wide, allowing others to enter without considering the cost to my peace of mind and well-being. Now, as I stand amidst the clutter of broken things and unmet expectations, I see that true fulfillment doesn’t come from filling empty spaces with just anyone – it comes from preserving what’s important and letting in only those who respect and cherish what I’ve built.

When I left, the world showed me care, Calls, messages, flowers were everywhere. But what they didn’t know, couldn’t perceive, Was that I had long since learned to leave.

I had healed.

In that marriage, I had quietly died, But in that same space, I came back to life inside. By the time I walked out, I wasn’t the same, I had crafted a vision, I knew my own name.

I had lived alone, though we shared a space, A solo provider, raising my child in grace. I learned to thrive in solitude’s embrace, Being alone became my peaceful place.

I healed in silence, where no one could see, In the quiet, I found my strength, found me. By the time I left, I was already free, Mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

The last step was simply to walk away, And that part came with surprising ease that day. For I had already moved on, found my peace, And with that, my new life could finally release.

I once dreamed of how it would be, How the joy of motherhood would set me free. I pictured soft walks, his hand in mine, Reading him stories, sweet moments in time. Music would play, we’d dance through the day, But the dream I cherished slipped away.

Instead, I felt alone, trapped in a cage, Mistreated, sorrow became my stage. Before I knew it, he was here, A tiny life, a fragile tear. And I had to love him, this perfect one, When loving myself felt undone.

The journey—hard, the scars so deep, Stretch marks that tell of nights I'd weep. But now I know, I need to care, For myself as much as I nurture there. To mother myself, to heal, to grow, To let the past’s tight grip let go.

How do I "unmother" while still being kind, To this beautiful soul, who is half of mine? How do I release what the stretch marks say, When every tear brought him this way?

I choose to mother, to rise with grace, To wear my strength on this weary face. For in his eyes, I see the light, Of all that I’ve endured through the darkest night. I’ll take the scars, and let them be, A reminder of love, of finding me.

Losing is okay sometimes, Because it's in losing that we truly find. We find God in the quiet, ourselves in the still, We find each other when life bends our will.

It’s in losing our sight that we start to see, A clarity beyond what the eyes perceive. No longer faces, but souls we meet, In the depth of hearts, we find what’s sweet.

We lose the physical, yet gain what’s real, The essence of people, the truths they conceal. And in that knowing, a beauty grows, To see with the heart, how the soul truly glows.

Losing is not the end—it’s the start, Of finding connection, of healing the heart