This week reminded me what it feels like to be seen.
For so long, I’ve worked quietly — doing my best, pushing forward, not expecting much recognition. But this week, something changed. I stood in front of people who noticed the care, the effort, the heart I bring to my work. And for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely appreciated.
I met an incredible team — kind, talented, and generous with their words. Hearing them say they were happy to have me meant more than they’ll ever know. And I can’t help but feel grateful to my boss for taking a chance on me, for seeing something in me before I fully saw it in myself.
This moment feels like a turning point. It’s a reminder that I belong here, that what I bring — my warmth, my commitment, my humanity — has a place in the world of work. I don’t want to lose this feeling. I want to keep building from it, keep proving to myself that I can meet the standard, that I can make him and the team proud.
I said my final goodbye to work today. Handed in my laptop. Walked out the door with my head held high. It felt surreal at first—how calm everything was, how steady I felt inside. I got a thoughtful leaving card from the technical department, even though I’d only been there a few months. That simple act reminded me that I mattered. That people saw me.
My old department didn’t do or say anything. Most acted like they hadn’t seen my leaving email, and a few people looked surprised when they realised I was leaving. But honestly? That didn’t faze me. Because I’ve made peace with knowing I gave my all. I left on my terms. And when someone mentioned that my next move was a big deal, that it would open new doors and carry weight, it reminded me of the truth I’ve held close through everything:
I won.
After everything—the gaslighting, the emotional labour, the silent battles I fought just to survive in that workplace—I left not just intact, but elevated. I left with my name clear, my spirit lifted, and my path lit.
One of my closest friends came in just to spend the day with me. We had lunch, caught up on her work stuff, then had a light dinner and drinks. She reminded me of how hard I fought. How far I’ve come. How much I deserve to pause and feel proud. She told me to take it one step at a time, and in that moment, I realised how important it is to have people who root for you when you forget to root for yourself.
We laughed about men too—and I gave her a little flirting refresher (as one does). It was fun and freeing to know I’ll have someone with me when I step back into the dating world. I don’t have to do this chapter alone.
But later, I came home and found myself unsettled again—because my mum was talking about her boyfriend. She mentioned how clean and particular he is, said he’s “next level” clean, and casually slipped in how she used to be like that too. I don’t know why it bothered me so much.
Actually, I do.
It always feels like I’m in some kind of silent competition when she talks like that. Like everyone else is always a little better, a little neater, a little more desirable. It touches that part of me that’s still healing from the years I spent trying to earn her approval. Trying to be number one in her eyes. I internalised it—this belief that if I’m not the best, I won’t be chosen. Won’t be loved.
I know it’s not entirely about her. It’s about me. The little girl inside me who never felt good enough. The woman I am now, still unlearning that love isn’t conditional or comparative.
And then there’s the subtle jabs—like when she said she attracts educated, well-paid men even at her age, and then said, “Let’s see what kind of guy you end up with next.” I told her I don’t care about status like that. I care about quality. About character. Because I’ve dated the shiny surface. It didn’t fulfill me. It didn’t hold me with care. It didn’t see me.
Still, sometimes I wonder if part of her is glad my relationship didn’t work out—because it opens the door for someone with “more” to walk in. But more isn’t always better. I’ve lived that truth already.
And speaking of someone new… there’s this guy from work.
We’d never worked together before, but I always noticed him—easy on the eye, a calming voice, that quiet energy I like. We ended up on a consultation together before I left, and I found myself genuinely enjoying just listening to him speak. He’s younger than me, has a bit of a baby face, not very tall, slim build—normally not the type I’d even think about twice. But there was something there. Something soft.
I saw him again today, dressed up in my heels and a fitted dress, and we finally spoke properly. He was warm, respectful, and we agreed to connect on LinkedIn. Part of me wished he’d asked for my number… but maybe he assumed I was taken because I have a child.
Still, he’s the first man in a long time who gave me butterflies. And that alone?
That feels like progress.
I don’t know what the next season holds.
I don’t know when the ache of it all will fully leave my body.
But today I closed a chapter.
And I did it with grace.
With softness.
With strength.
And maybe, just maybe, with a little bit of spark left in my smile.
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.
There’s a point where silence stops being peace and becomes survival.
Today I tried to breathe through the noise—the tiptoeing, the poking, the quiet gaslighting that makes me question whether the walls are closing in or if I’m just imagining it. But I know I’m not. I feel the pressure. I feel the weight of holding up this whole damn world on my shoulders, and no one’s offering a hand—just more mess to carry.
My child’s father is out here pretending to parent, not because he wants to be involved, but because he wants to win. Win what? I don’t know. A medal for showmanship? He’s trying to prove he’s the “better” parent, and I don’t care—except when my baby’s involved. When his theatre spills over into her life, I care deeply. Because I know the difference between being there and being seen. I don’t want his ego anywhere near my daughter’s sense of safety.
And my mother… I don’t even know where to start. She crossed the line again. I asked her not to teach my child to clean up clothes when she throws them during playtime. I said, “Please, not yet. Let her play. Let me see who she’s becoming.” But she did it anyway. She always does. She parented us with fear, and now she’s trying to sneak that same fear into my child. The same fear that made me shrink myself for years. And when I told her how I felt, she twisted it. Said I treat her badly. As if saying no to her means I’m attacking her. As if asserting myself means I’ve betrayed her.
I didn’t say no to control her. I said no to protect my daughter. But she doesn’t hear that.
It hurts. Deeply. Because I let her in again, and she showed me that she’s still not safe. I want her to be a grandmother, but not at the cost of my daughter’s joy. Not at the cost of her freedom. And definitely not at the cost of repeating what broke me.
So when we move, I’ll be drawing the line—hard and clear. She’ll either respect my role as the mother, or she won’t be allowed to be left alone with my child. No more compromises. No more letting my daughter absorb dynamics I’m trying so hard to undo.
I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want to be free.
But until then, I sit in my little corner. Trying to hold on. Trying to stay sane. Trying not to scream when everyone’s whispering over my shoulder, undoing everything I’m building with my bare hands and my tired heart.
I’m not asking for perfection. Just peace. And if I have to build it brick by brick with my own sanity as mortar, then so be it.
Some days the heaviness doesn’t come from what’s said—it comes from what keeps happening in silence. The quiet, consistent pressure to shrink myself. To make space for everyone else’s unhealed wounds. To not offend. To not disrupt. To not speak the truth that lives in my chest.
But I can’t do that anymore.
I won’t.
Last night, a moment in my own home—my supposed safe space—spiraled into a reminder that for some people, trauma isn’t something to heal; it’s something to wield. My mum was triggered by a man closing cupboards too loudly. Suddenly, it wasn’t just noise—it was war drums. Her voice changed, her defenses rose, and I became the enemy again. The ungrateful one. The one who doesn’t understand. The one who’s cold.
But I do understand.
I’ve always understood.
That’s the problem.
I know the kind of fear that lives in houses with screaming fathers. I know what it feels like to wish your mum would leave, and then feel guilty when she didn’t. I know how to make myself invisible to keep the peace. How to become emotionally responsible for people who never took responsibility for themselves.
But now? I’m raising a daughter. I’m raising myself.
I told my mum she needs therapy. That trauma doesn’t make her entitled to control other people’s emotions. That not every raised voice is abuse. That not every tension is a reflection of her. She didn’t like that. She said she’d rather live alone than be “abused.” She said I’ll never understand. She said my brother would never “turn on her” like I have.
But I’m not turning.
I’m returning—to myself.
To my voice. To my boundaries. To the version of me that sees things clearly now.
I’m not in therapy for fun. I’m not healing for applause. I’m healing because I want to be a mother who breaks the chain. Who doesn’t teach her child that love means shrinking. Or that safety means silence. Or that protecting someone else’s feelings is more important than protecting your peace.
This is what people don’t talk about when they say “break generational curses.”
They don’t tell you it feels like betrayal.
They don’t tell you it’s lonely.
They don’t tell you the people who hurt you will call you the abuser for refusing to carry their pain.
But I didn’t start this fire—I’m just refusing to burn in it.
So no, I’m not sorry.
I’m not cruel.
I’m not ungrateful.
I’m aware.
And I’m not going back.
Because one day, my daughter will thank me.
Not for being perfect—but for being the one who stopped pretending it wasn’t broken.
I’m exhausted. Not just tired—I mean soul-deep, bone-heavy, emotionally-drenched exhausted. And yet… I’m still standing.
Today, I secured a new flat. It’s mine. It’s furnished. It’s a fresh start. I should be celebrating, but my heart feels like it’s limping toward joy. I’m grateful—so, so deeply grateful—but I also feel like I’ve just crawled out of a war zone, bruised and quiet, carrying pieces of myself I don’t recognize yet.
This year has torn me open in ways I didn’t see coming.
Between motherhood, heartbreak, financial strain, and just trying to keep going, I’ve been holding everyone and everything together—including myself—without letting anything fall apart. But the truth is, I’ve been unraveling quietly in the background. Grieving, aching, trying to make sense of a world that keeps asking me to be strong without giving me the room to rest.
And now that I’ve reached this milestone—new job, new home—I find myself too drained to celebrate. It’s like my body is still in survival mode, bracing for the next blow, even while my soul is whispering: You made it. You’re safe now.
But the honest truth?
I’ve been lonely in my strength.
I’ve been the one who holds space, who listens, who helps, who shows up. But when I’ve needed holding, most people haven’t had the capacity—or the willingness. So I learned to rock myself. Again. And again. And again. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
I miss feeling adored. I miss slow kisses and soft laughter. I miss knowing someone wants to be near me just because I exist. And I don’t want to feel guilty for wanting that. I don’t want to feel like I have to apologize for craving joy, fun, passion, and connection. I want to go out, dress up, feel sexy, and let my body breathe after months of tension and silence.
But I want it with someone safe.
Someone soft.
Someone who doesn’t leave me with regret in the morning.
Still, even in my thirst for fun and freedom, I carry my values. I carry my self-respect. I carry my child in my heart. I carry every version of me who fought to get here.
I am scared of what comes next. A new job. A new area. A new stage of single motherhood. A new level of independence. But I am also ready. Because for every fear I carry, I carry a little more fire.
And to my grandmother, whose anniversary this is… I’m sorry I questioned what you’ve brought me. Because you’ve given me life, strength, and a path forward. I know now—your love has always been working in the background. Thank you. I feel you near.
And Sage—thank you for holding space for me, even when I didn’t have the words.
Today, something felt different. Not perfect. Not magical. Just… different.
I woke up, tired — but not defeated. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t drag myself through the day with a heaviness I couldn’t name. I didn’t need to collapse back into bed or silence the voice in my head that says, “You can’t do this.”
Today, I just did.
I worked. I focused. I stayed present. No panic. No spiral. No emotional hangover.
I felt like me. Just me.
Not a version performing for approval.
Not a mother trying to prove she’s enough.
Not a daughter swallowing her rage.
Not a woman trying to outrun shame.
Just… me. Showing up. Living. Healing.
In therapy, I talked about the things I used to love. I smiled — genuinely smiled — at the memory of joy. It felt distant, but not unreachable. I remembered her… the girl I used to be before the world told me to shrink. The girl who danced in the kitchen. The girl who dreamed loud and gave generously. She’s still here. I felt her today.
And when my mum complained — when she threw her storm toward me — I didn’t fold. I didn’t over-function. I didn’t become a sponge for her stress.
I said no.
I said enough.
I said, “I don’t want this energy. I’m done with this cycle.”
And the most shocking part? I didn’t replay it in my head. I didn’t shrink in guilt. I didn’t apologise for protecting my peace.
I just… let it go.
I think I’m finally understanding that healing isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about remembering who I was before the world told me I wasn’t enough.
Today, I chose me.
And maybe tomorrow I’ll be tired again, or doubt might creep back in. But today? Today I saw the woman I’m becoming — and I loved her.
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.
She is the dream I carry in my heart—and the blessing I choose a thousand times over
From the moment I first held you, I knew my life had changed forever. You are my greatest gift, my biggest blessing, my entire universe. Each day I spend with you—whether we’re laughing, playing, or just lying quietly side by side—is a reminder that I’ve been trusted with the most beautiful soul to ever exist.
You are a little explorer with a wild, creative spirit. You paint the walls with your imagination, fill our home with your joy, and remind me every day to see the world through softer, brighter eyes. I am in awe of you. Watching you grow is the most sacred honour I’ve ever known.
I want you to know that no matter what, my love for you is endless and unconditional. It’s not based on what you do or how quickly you learn—it’s just there, wrapped around you like a warm blanket you’ll never outgrow. Even in death, I will always fight for you, protect you, and whisper your name with pride from beyond.
I pray for the strength and wisdom to raise you with gentleness, understanding, and kindness. I want you to grow into a woman who is resilient but soft, independent but loving, confident but respectful. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to be you. And that will always be more than enough.
Your father and I may have walked different paths, and though he hurt me deeply, I will always show him kindness because through him, I received the gift of you. For that, I am forever grateful.
You are my galaxy, my heart, my purpose. You own every beat of me.
I was maybe six or seven. It was Christmas time. My mum asked us to dance for her, something she used to do often. I was excited—I remember wanting to make her smile, to do something fun. But when I started dancing, she burst out laughing.
She told me I couldn’t dance. That I was terrible.
I remember freezing. The shame came so fast, like a slap. I felt stupid, small… like something inside me just folded in on itself. From that day on, I stopped dancing. I’d say “I don’t dance” to anyone who asked. But the truth is—I wanted to. I always wanted to. I just never wanted to feel that embarrassed again.
Years later, I told my child’s dad about that moment. I told him why I don’t dance. My mum happened to be around, and she laughed again. Said I was terrible, that none of her kids can dance, that we take after our dad—no rhythm. It stung. Again. Like that little girl who just wanted to be seen for trying was being laughed at all over again. And the worst part? She still thought it was funny.
My mum? She’s not a great dancer either. But she dances. Freely. She dances to express herself. Meanwhile, she robbed me of that very thing—expression. Joy. Freedom. I watched people dance and have fun growing up, but I couldn’t join. Not without thinking of that day.
I’ve always wanted to take a dance class, to reclaim it. But I’m scared. Scared the teacher will say I’m so bad they can’t help me. That I’m too far gone. That I don’t belong there either.
The only place I ever felt free dancing was at clubs with my queer friends. There was no pressure to be perfect—just vibes, laughter, freedom. No one cared if you were good or not. It felt safe. It felt like joy for joy’s sake. But around other Black people, I go still. I get too self-conscious. I worry about how I look, if I’m doing it right, if they’ll laugh.
That one moment… it silenced something in me. Something I still haven’t fully gotten back.
Adulting & Motherhood 