Category: Uncategorized

Back on Earth, But Still Rising

What notable things happened today?

Yesterday had glimmers of softness. My mum was… kinder. Not perfect, not changed, but softer in her approach. I accepted the moment for what it was, held onto the warmth—because softness is rare here.

But today, she reminded me why I keep my guard up.

She told me she’d spoken to my child’s father when he accompanied her to a blood appointment. She said she “tested the waters,” asking how he felt about my upcoming move. His response? “Of course, I’ll adjust.”

She pushed again, asking about our daughter.

His reply? “She’ll be fine.”

She brought those words back to me like she was handing me insight, but all she gave me was ache.

I didn’t want to know.

I didn’t need to know.

I’ve been doing everything in my power to hold myself together—to focus on the logistics, the flat, the handovers at work, the weight of this transition. I’ve been carrying this move like I carry everything else: on my back and in my chest.

And still—his indifference hit me hard.

Even with all the disappointment, the betrayal, the distance… hearing that he felt nothing? That he showed no concern about how the baby would cope? It cracked something in me. It made me feel disposable—like this chapter is closing for him without pause or pain.

Later, while cooking, it all sank deeper. The grief hit. The bitter ache of clarity settled in.

I remembered how he wanted us to have this baby. I remembered how I shifted my own plans—plans to wait until I was 33—because I believed he was ready. But now I see it with sober eyes. He didn’t want fatherhood. He wanted to keep up. His younger brother was going to be a dad, and he didn’t want to be left behind. It was ego. Not legacy. Not love. I missed the signs, or maybe I chose to float above them. I was in love with an illusion. I chose cloud nine instead of solid ground.

But I’m back on earth now.

And even here, in the heartbreak, I don’t regret my daughter.

Not for one second.

She didn’t just arrive in my life. She saved it.

She gave me purpose when I had none.

She gave me a reason to live again.

She brought light into the darkest parts of me.

She is the truest and most unconditional love I have ever known.

Because of her, I rise.

Because of her, I heal.

Because of her, I choose better—not just for me, but for her.

She’s watching me now. Watching me let go of what doesn’t serve us. Watching me walk away from love that comes with conditions, silence, or fear. Watching me rebuild.

I’m crafting a life where she will grow in peace.

Where she will never have to earn safety.

Where her mother is not surviving, but living.

It hurts.

But it’s honest.

And in that honesty… I am finally free.

Coming Home to Myself

I found my purpose not in saving others, but in finally choosing myself

I used to wake up every day and pour myself out for everyone else. My purpose was stitched together with the needs of my family — their dreams, their survival, their peace. First it was my parents and siblings. Then, when I began to suffocate under the weight of that, I started telling myself I was doing it for my future children. That somehow made the pain more noble. Gave it a pretty frame. But inside, I was hollow. My wins weren’t mine. My labor, my sacrifices — never mine to enjoy. The fruits were handed over, and I was expected to smile through the starvation of my spirit.

Then I had my daughter.

And for the first time in years, I felt life breathe back into me. She gave me something to fight for. Something to anchor me. But still… there was a hole. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. It would quietly creep in at night or in the quiet moments. I had love around me — kind of — and yet this emptiness kept knocking. Loud. Unrelenting.

I thought I was loving myself. I had confidence. I could make people laugh, put myself together, show up. But now I know — confidence isn’t the same as self-love. Self-love is not just smiling in the mirror. It’s not just buying yourself flowers. It’s standing tall and saying: I am worthy. I deserve good things. I don’t need to perform to be loved. And anyone who thinks otherwise can get the hell out of my way.

This year, something shifted.

I looked around and realized I’d skipped the most important lesson — me. I’d skipped learning how to be my own home, my own source of joy. I thought love had to come from giving. That I had to earn it. Prove it. Bleed for it. But now I know — I already am it. I am love. I am enough. Every single version of me, even the messy ones, especially the messy ones.

I used to believe what I was told growing up: that I was too much and not enough at the same time. That no one would ever love me unless they were passing through. That I could win a hundred medals and still be losing. That dreams were dangerous because disappointment was guaranteed.

But no more.

I’m done shrinking. Done swallowing my worth. Done bending backwards for people who only know how to take. I am not a sacrifice. I am not an extension of someone else’s life. I am my own.

I am effin loveable. Anyone who gets to be loved by me is lucky. I’m the prize. The damn treasure. A queen, a goddess, dripping in gold, wrapped in grace, and rising with fire. The little girl who used to stay up all night studying, desperate for approval — she was always more than enough. She is extraordinary. And I see her now. I hold her close.

I can’t rewrite my past. But I’m rewriting my future. Today. With every breath. Every boundary. Every time I choose me.

I don’t just want love anymore. I am love.

And when love comes knocking again — real love, warm love, love that sees me — I’ll be ready. Because it’s just coming home to where it already lives.

Surviving the Storm: A Love Letter to My Healing Journey

Its been two months since I found out the man I thought I was building a life with had been cheating on me.

The heartbreak wasn’t just emotional — it felt like a thousand swords stabbing my heart all at once, over and over again.

Since then, I’ve been trying to exist inside a nightmare I can’t yet wake up from.

On the outside, it might look like I’m holding it together — navigating my complicated relationship with my mother, managing my home, raising my daughter — but inside, I’m still fighting waves of pain that come without warning.

Some days, like today, I even find myself laughing and smiling around him.

Not because the pain is gone — but because survival sometimes looks like choosing not to bleed in front of the person who wounded you.

I think back to the times when I would have curled up next to him on the couch after putting our daughter to bed.

But now, even in fleeting memories, the betrayal slices through any warmth I might feel.

I’ve moved on — I know that. I don’t want him back.

But moving forward? That’s the part that feels impossible some days.

Not because I’m stuck in love, but because the practical steps — finding financial stability, building a way out — take time.

It’s torture living under the same roof, watching him prepare himself for other women, watching him glow for them the way he couldn’t even pretend to for us.

And yet, every morning, I wake up and fight.

Because I have a little girl who deserves better.

I fight not for him, not even for the version of myself that he broke —

I fight for her.

Because if something were to happen to me, I need to know that I did everything in my power to protect her from a future where someone like him could ever hurt her.

Some days I feel like he’s a cancer, draining the very soul out of me.

I know that no simple stitches will fix what he’s done — my healing needs surgery, chemotherapy, an entire rebirth.

And still — I survive.

I breathe through the heartbreak.

I resist the urge to engage in his cruelty.

I choose silence when silence is safer.

I choose peace when my spirit aches for justice.

I’m carrying more than heartbreak.

I’m carrying the weight of breaking generational curses, of healing patterns that run deeper than anyone sees.

It feels like everything, all at once — and still, somehow, I float.

I survive.

I endure.

I keep showing up.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I don’t cry behind closed doors.

But because my daughter deserves a mother who fought for both of them.

I pray every day for a lifeline — for the day when someone sees the battle I’m fighting and says,

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. We see you. We are here.”

Until then, I carry my own torch.

And every flicker of light I create is proof:

I am my own rescue.

My ideal week

Describe your ideal week.

No arguments with my partner

Getting enough sleep (depends on my baby’s mood 😅 she’s the boss 🤣 seriously, she is)

Blogging on time

Eating cooked meals Sunday to Thursday including making my own breakfast and lunch

Date night organised by my partner (he’s terrible at this 😑)

Cleaning the house and keeping it tidy all week (good indicator of my mental health)

Going outside for some fresh air (the dream)

Life lessons

Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

You have got to always pay yourself first in life. Only when you are ok can those around you be ok. As a bonus it avoids feelings of resentment and unrealistic expectations from those you’ve placed above yourself. And if you struggle with that, go for therapy, it will help heal those events resulted in people-pleasing as a coping mechanism. I’ve been there, sometimes still there, it’s a long hard journey, definitely worth it ♥️

Motherhood: sexual insecurities

I am scared that when the time comes, you won’t know what to do. You won’t know how to touch me, feel me, love me or worst of all lay with me without feeling disgust.

I’m scared to be truly naked in front of you. I know you’ve been washing me and helping me since everything happened. But I’m scared shitless to get naked, feel vulnerable and share my body with you. I’m terrified of the day that we’ll try and reconnect physically because so much has changed.

I pray that by then I am emotionally stronger and feel a lot better than I do today. I pray that when the day comes and you call me beautiful, sexy, and tell me how much you want to be with me, I not only believe you but also believe that about myself.

The biggest struggle is not someone accepting you, it’s rather you accepting yourself and learning to love all the different shades that appear over time. I’m truly blessed to have a man that loves me enough to kiss my pooch and stretch marks and slap my ass like he did before while telling me how sexy I am and how much he loves me. To see him patiently wait until the day I learn to love myself and offer to help me through my journey rather than let me walk that path alone.

Sometimes when you take a minute to breath in the air, you realise God works his miracles through angels. They come into your life and bring sunlight even on the darkest of days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all roses and butterflies, it’s difficult, sometimes it feels impossible learning to love someone and allowing them to love you.

There are days I feel like it would be easier not trying, some days i feel relieved when I think about not trying. But then I imagine life without you, and I start crying because it’s all gloomy and miserable. I start crying and asking God why it has to be so hard and the answer is always the same, crystal clear, nothing good ever comes easy, everything is hard work, like a job you have to constantly put in effort.

As I lay awake in my bed going through the emotions, observing them without judgment, all I can say is thank you and at this moment I choose to believe that soon I’ll be in a better headspace.