Basics.

If I received M-pesa every time I heard this, wouldn't we all be happy? “It is what it is.” “That’s just how people are.” “At least it’s not worse.” “You know how life is.” “I’m fine, I’ve learned to manage.” "Just don't expect anything and you won't be disappointed" They are never said with bitterness. If anything, anyone who says this sounds calm, even wise, as though they define emotional maturity. But many of them are not signs of healing. They are signs of getting used to things. And getting used to things is not the same as being at peace. Self-blame has a bad reputation, and for good reason. It can spiral into shame, self-punishment, and emotional paralysis. But before it becomes destructive, self-blame begins as awareness. It asks:Why does this keep happening to me?, Why do I feel hurt here?, Why am I the one always adjusting?, Even when the conclusions are wrong, the instinct is honest: something feels misaligned. Self-blame is loud. Uncomfortable. Emotio...

We are, by far, the loudest species—and simultaneously the loneliest. There’s a quiet that we glorify today. It's your localised minimalist desk setups, log-out posts, and the hashtags of “protecting my peace.” It is a kind of monkhood for the modern mind, born not in temples but in studio apartments, bathed not in incense but in the glow of screens turned off. And, truth be told, I know you love it. There’s something liberating—pure, even—in the pullback. The act of withdrawing from the noise, pruning the unnecessary, watching life from the safe edges of detachment. Isolation, when deliberate, feels like power. It’s the silence that holds you together when everything else threatens to split you apart. But it is also the most sophisticated form of self-harm I know. The Seduction of Solitude Somewhere along the path of healing, we started equating solitude with strength. And it is—until it isn’t. We repeat mantras like “I don’t need anyone,” “I’m better off alone,” or “They’ll ...

Self-sabotage is rarely loud. It's not fireworks and explosions. It’s quiet. It's that soft, persistent hum of doubt that plays just underneath your wins, your progress. It's a compilation of bad character traits—or rather, misunderstood habits formed in survival, masked as personality. It's inconsistency dressed as spontaneity. It's hesitation mistaken for humility. It's pride acting as a decoy for pain. You find yourself in moments you once prayed for, and yet something in you whispers, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?" So in a twisted act of self-preservation—of misguided good faith—you ruin it. You reply late. You shut down emotionally. You hold back when you should lean in. You flee love before it can reveal you. You delay progress before it demands accountability. And in the ruins, there's a strange comfort. A sick, sweet familiarity of being unchosen. Of confirming the belief that you were never enough in the first place.  Th...