Every day, the weight softens—
not gone, just lighter.
The ache loosens its grip
without asking permission.
Days pass quietly,
one folding into the next,
until memory stops announcing itself
and becomes a whisper.
Then one ordinary day arrives—
no warning, no ceremony—
and you realize
you lived the whole day
without thinking of him.
And that’s how healing happens:
not loudly,
not all at once,
but in the silence
where pain used to live.
I miss the shadow of your hand,
The echo of your voice across the land.
Yet I walk alone, steadfast and true,
For I know the path does not lead to you.
I ache for what we cannot reclaim,
A quiet flame with no one to name.
The heart remembers, the mind forbids,
A tender wound that never lids.
I reach for ghosts in the still of night,
Knowing well I must not ignite.
Longing lingers, soft and deep,
A secret I carry, mine to keep.
I walked out of a season
where love spoke in echoes
and promises learned how to bruise.
My tears became fluent—
especially at 3 a.m.,
when the world slept
and my heart refused to.
Those hours knew me well.
They heard my questions,
saw me fold into myself,
counting ceilings,
learning how lonely can sound.
I broke, yes—
but not the way ruins break.
I broke like soil
waiting for rain.
Then came a man
whose name means more than sound.
A name that carries order,
the quiet architecture of peace.
Not loud, not hurried—
but steady,
like wisdom that sits before it speaks.
He did not interrupt the pain.
He arrived after it.
Standing gently where the tears once fell,
turning 3 a.m. memories
into lessons that no longer bleed.
Now, when the clock returns to that hour,
it no longer scares me.
It reminds me
that I survived myself
and still learned how to smile again.
Happiness, I’ve learned,
doesn’t rush in.
It recognizes you
when you are ready to stop crying in the dark
and start breathing in the light.
And so I rise—
not because the night didn’t hurt,
but because morning stayed.
I have laughed in sunlit cities,
danced under skies that whispered adventure.
I have wandered streets both near and far,
collected memories like treasures,
and felt the thrill of landing somewhere new.
My passport knows my footsteps,
my heart remembers the rhythm of every place.
I have tasted the flavors of the world,
danced to music that carried me away,
and celebrated life simply for being alive.
I have friends who light up my days,
people who laugh until we can’t breathe,
who celebrate my victories and cheer on my dreams.
Their love is a gift, constant and bright.
I have a son—my little sunbeam,
whose laughter fills my mornings,
whose joy reminds me of life’s magic.
In his eyes, I see endless wonder
and a future made of love and possibility.
I have family, warm and ever-present,
whose voices are home, whose hugs are comfort.
Together, we share meals, stories, and laughter,
building moments that shine brighter than gold.
I have lived, traveled, celebrated, and loved.
I have embraced adventure, curiosity, and delight.
Every day is a canvas,
and my life is painted in vibrant colors.
I am grateful. I am alive.
And joy follows me everywhere I go.
Every morning feels the same.
I wake up before my body is ready, before the world has decided what kind of day it will be. There is a brief, cruel second where I forget—where my mind is empty and light. And then it rushes back in.
The remembering.
It arrives before my feet touch the floor. A heaviness settles on my chest. My throat tightens. My heart begins to race, as though it has bad news to deliver and no gentle way to say it. My phone lies beside me—silent, unmoving. I still look at it, even though I already know. I always know.
Mornings hurt because night protected me.
Sleep gave me a few hours of mercy.
Morning takes it all back.
Each day begins with loss—again and again—as if the universe insists on reminding me that something ended without saying goodbye. I replay conversations that never happened. Explanations that never came. Apologies I will never hear. My mind searches for him the way the body searches for air after being held underwater.
There is a quiet panic in the morning—not loud, not dramatic—just a low dread that settles deep in the stomach. A feeling that something is wrong, profoundly wrong, and cannot be fixed today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.
Mornings are cruel because hope wakes up before logic does.
For a moment, I expect him.
Then reality walks in.
And I grieve him again—not because he died, but because he chose silence. Because he vanished. Because I loved someone who did not stay long enough to end things properly.
So I get up anyway. I wash my face. I breathe through the ache. I carry the weight into the day, knowing it will ease a little by afternoon, only to return the next morning—faithful, persistent—teaching me the slow, unbearable rhythm of letting go.
Three weeks of mornings like this do not mean I am broken.
They mean I loved deeply.
And my heart is learning, painfully, how to wake up alone.
How does someone feel when they are told they are going to die?
I could not stop thinking about that moment. About what goes through the mind when hope, as we know it, is officially withdrawn—not because there is no care left, but because care has changed its meaning. From cure to comfort. From fighting to preparing.
That moment reminded me of my uncle.
He had also been sick for a long time. On his deathbed, he was surrounded by family—his sisters, his brothers, people who loved him deeply. The room was full, yet death was closer than any of us. He knew it. And in one of his final moments, he said something that has never left me:
"Kumbe when you are dying, even if you are surrounded by a thousand people, they cannot help prevent death."
There was sadness in his eyes when he said it.
Death has a way of stripping life down to its most honest truth: that it is deeply personal. You can be loved loudly, surrounded completely, yet the final journey is one you take alone.
Sometimes I find myself asking difficult questions. Is it better to die suddenly, without knowing? Or is it better to suffer, to be aware that death is approaching, to have time to make peace with it? To say goodbye properly? To reflect? To accept?
I don’t know the answer. I’m not sure there is one.
What I do know is this: life is incredibly delicate. Fragile in ways we often ignore. We plan as though we are guaranteed tomorrow, yet tomorrow is not promised to anyone. Not to the careful. Not to the reckless. Not to the young. Not to the old.
That reality should not make us fearful—it should make us intentional.
Live as though this life matters, because it does. Take care of your body. Protect your health. Listen when your body whispers so it doesn’t have to scream. Save for the future, yes—but also live in the present. Laugh. Love. Travel. Rest. Create memories. Forgive quickly. Say the things that matter while you still can.
Balance responsibility with joy.
So that when death eventually comes—as it must to all of us—it will not find a life unlived. And when people speak of you, they won’t just say that you existed, but that you lived.
Fully. Meaningfully. Honestly.
Those two words paired together create one of the If only...” Those two words paired together create one of the saddest phrases in the English language.
They are simple, almost harmless in isolation, but together they carry the full weight of regret, longing, and missed chances.
“If only” lives in hindsight. It is the quiet ache of opportunities not taken, words not spoken, and courage not summoned when it mattered most. It arrives after time has passed—when outcomes are already sealed and possibilities have narrowed. Unlike failure, which teaches and refines us, “if only” offers no lesson. Only unanswered questions and imagined endings.
What makes “if only” especially tragic is that it is rarely born of inability. More often, it is born of fear—fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of judgment. Many dreams do not die because they were impossible; they die because they were postponed, doubted, or dismissed too early.
A life led by trying may collect a few scars, but a life led by “if only” collects regrets. And regret is heavier. It lingers longer. It reminds us that we never even gave ourselves a chance.
The antidote to “if only” is simple, though not easy: show up. Try. Take the step. Submit the application. Speak the truth. Walk through the door while it is still open. Even when things do not work out, you walk away with clarity instead of regret.
Because at the end of the day, it is far better to say, “At least I tried,” than to carry the quiet, lifelong sadness of “If only…”
