EVERY DAY IT HURTS A LITTLE LESS

 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.

LONGING IN SILENCE

 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.

LOVE FOUND ME GENTLY

 

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.

A LIFE FULL OF COLOUR

 

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.

THE ACHE THAT WAKES WITH ME

 

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.

FACING DEATH

 

A few days ago, I visited an ailing patient who had been sick for a long time. Her body was frail, but it was her face that stayed with me. When the doctor gently explained that her illness had progressed to stage five and that she would now be placed under palliative care, something shifted in her eyes. It was not fear alone. It was understanding. A quiet, devastating awareness.

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.

Not panic—sadness. A kind of lonely clarity. And we, the living, were shattered. A few minutes later, he breathed his last.

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.

IF ONLY

 “If only…”

 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…”

DETOX

 He was my routine—

the way morning knew my name.

My dopamine drip,

measured in good-morning texts

and midnight breaths.

He was my safe place,

though the floor sometimes shifted.

My mirror—

I saw myself alive in his wanting,

brighter in his hands.

Now the silence feels like suffocation,

like lungs learning grief.

Oxytocin still lingers in the blood,

whispering return,

even when the mind knows better.

This is not love dying—

this is chemistry unlearning a home.

A body asking for a ghost

that once felt like oxygen.

I am detoxing from a powerful bond,

from touch remembered too well,

from pleasure that taught my nerves

to call him refuge.

Some days I breathe shallow.

Some mornings I ache without reason.

But breath is returning—

slow, unfamiliar, mine.

I am not broken.

I am withdrawing.

And withdrawal is proof

that something real once passed through me—

not that it must stay.

AFTER THE LEAVING

 There is a moment after love leaves

when the world does not collapse—

and that is the cruelest part.

The sun still rises.

People still laugh.

And you are left wondering

how something that broke you

didn’t break the day.

After a breakup,

the pain doesn’t shout at first.

It whispers.

It arrives in quiet hours,

in the pause between breaths,

in the reflex to reach for a phone

and remember there is no one

to reach.

You ask yourself the hardest questions:

Did I matter?

Was I easy to forget?

Why does my heart ache

while his seems untouched?

But grief is not proof of insignificance.

It is proof of depth.

Letting go is not a single decision.

It is waking up every day

and choosing not to reopen the wound

with memories that beg to be touched.

It is crying without an audience.

It is loving someone

even when loving them hurts you.

The pain teaches you something sacred:

that you can survive the absence

of someone who once felt essential.

That your heart can shatter

and still continue beating—

uneven, bruised, but alive.

One day, without ceremony,

you will realize you no longer check

for his name in your thoughts.

The silence will stop feeling personal.

The memories will lose their power

to undo you.

You will not forget him completely.

But you will forget the version of yourself

that believed love had to hurt

to be real.

And that is not loss.

That is release.

THE WORST KIND OF LOSS

He was the love of my life,

the quiet reason my heart remembered how to beat,

the name my soul answered to

before my mind ever caught up.

I loved him—not gently,

but with the kind of love that rearranges you,

that makes a home in your chest

and calls it purpose.

For months, my world narrowed into us—

late nights that blurred into dawn,

words whispered when the world was asleep,

stolen moments that felt like forever

compressed into hours.

I learned his presence like a language,

his touch like a promise,

his closeness like oxygen—

and I didn’t know I was breathing

until he was gone.

I miss the intimacy that lived between us,

the safety, the heat, the silence after laughter,

the way his arms made everything else disappear.

I miss being known.

Losing him didn’t just break my heart—

it emptied rooms inside me

I didn’t know I would have to live without.

And now I carry the ache of loving fully,

of giving everything,

of knowing that something so real

can still be taken away.

This is the worst kind of loss—

not because the love wasn’t enough,

but because it was.🤩

Morning without you

 Morning finds me before I am ready,

before my heart remembers how to beat alone.

I wake reaching for a voice

that no longer answers my name.

The bed is quiet.

Too quiet.

Silence presses where love once lived.

For months, loving you vasq was my language,

my routine, my breath between hours.

Now the day opens like a question

I don’t yet know how to answer.

I miss your face

the way desire felt certain,

the warmth that convinced my body

I was chosen.

Grief comes in ordinary moments—

light through the window,

the first thought of the day,

the habit of you.

I am not broken.

I am withdrawing from a life

I built around your presence.

So if I cry in the morning,

let it be known:

this is the sound of love learning

how to stand on its own.

And though today feels impossible,

I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still becoming someone

who survives the absence

and keeps going.

A HEART THAT LEARNED TO SURVIVE

 I stayed where love had teeth,

where my name was shouted,

where silence was safer than asking,

and leaving felt heavier than staying.

I left and returned,

again and again,

because hope is stubborn

when it grows in wounded places.

I lived with a man

who rationed kindness,

who counted my child’s hunger,

who made food feel like guilt

and love feel like debt.

My body learned fear before desire.

Touch arrived without tenderness.

Breath left before pleasure began.

Even my tears learned to be quiet.

I became someone else to survive—

angry, fragmented,

borrowing warmth from strangers

just to remember I was human.

Then I chose solitude.

I chose work.

I chose to build, to finish, to achieve.

I learned how to be a machine

because machines do not break.

And then I met you.

You were softness.

You were presence.

You were the first place

my heart rested without flinching.

I loved you deeply—

not loudly, not recklessly,

but with the kind of love

that finally believes it is safe.

Then your voice grew distant.

Your words thinned.

I began counting pauses,

reading silence like prophecy.

I blamed myself.

My past taught me to do that.

To believe love leaves

because I am too much,

too wounded, too afraid.

I don’t want many bodies.

I want one heart.

I only bloom in love.

Without it, I dry quietly,

and even pleasure forgets me.

So here I am—

loving hard,

hurting honestly,

terrified of losing what I finally found.

If I reach for you too often,

it is not control.

It is memory.

It is a woman who learned

that love can vanish without warning.

I am not broken—

I am surviving in a body

that remembers everything.

If I ask you to stay,

it is not weakness.

It is hope,

still brave enough

to try again Vasq.

HEALING ISN'T SIMPLE

 .

People talk about moving on from heartbreak like it’s a simple thing

“Just cry and move on,” they say—like pain works on a timer.

But nobody prepares you for those nights when your chest feels heavy, your mind won’t slow down, and your heart refuses to release what it once held so tightly.

No one talks about the 2 a.m. hours—

when the whole world is quiet but your thoughts are unbearably loud.

When sleep runs away from you because your mind is replaying every moment, every conversation, every “what if,” every future you had already started building in your head.

Nobody warns you that heartbreak can feel physical.

The tight chest, the heaviness in your body, the tears that appear out of nowhere.

You’re not being dramatic—you’re grieving a bond your heart had fully invested in.

Healing feels lonely, too.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.

Because no one lived your love story the way you did—no one carried your hope, your effort, your emotional depth.

And healing is never a straight line.

One day you’re sure you’ve outgrown the situation, and the next day you miss them so suddenly and so deeply that you question everything.

That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

No one tells you how long it takes to unlearn the habits.

The morning check-ins.

The comfort of their voice.

The feeling of having someone to share your day with.

Heartbreak isn’t just losing a person—it’s losing a rhythm.

And maybe the toughest part is learning to trust yourself again.

Because heartbreak makes you doubt your judgment, your worth, your ability to choose people.

But loving deeply doesn’t mean you loved wrong—it means you loved courageously. And courage always leaves a mark.

So no, moving on isn’t “cry and get over it.”

It’s sitting with the pain, understanding yourself, forgiving yourself, rebuilding piece by piece, and choosing peace one day at a time.

It’s slow. It’s messy.

But eventually, your heart stops breaking—and starts breathing again.

I MISS HIM

There was a warmth in him

that didn’t match his quiet smile,

a kind of fire he carried

beneath all that gentleness.

With him, closeness felt different —

like he understood my language

without ever needing the words.

A touch became a conversation,

a moment became a memory

I still feel in my skin.

He knew how to hold space for me,

how to meet me where I was,

how to awaken parts of me

I didn’t know were waiting.

Sometimes I miss the way

he made me feel seen,

the quiet magic,

the unspoken heat,

the way his presence

could turn a heartbeat

into something louder.

I miss the man he was to the world —

and the fire he was to me.

MAYBE ONE DAY YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

 

Maybe one day you’ll understand this:

I never wanted a battlefield.

I never wanted loud arguments or quiet distance.

All I ever wanted was to feel chosen…

to feel safe…

to feel like love didn’t have to be earned like a prize.

It was never me against you.

It was me trying to hold together something I valued.

Me trying to protect the softness between us.

Me trying to show up in the ways I once wished

someone had shown up for me.

You called it “too much.”

Too emotional.

Too intense.

But what I gave wasn’t pressure—

it was care.

The kind of love that stays when things get tough,

not the kind that disappears when it becomes inconvenient.

I never wanted you to doubt yourself.

Ironically, you made me doubt myself every day.

And maybe one day, you’ll look back and see it:

I wasn’t trying to control anything.

I wasn’t demanding perfection.

I was just trying to love you

in the only honest way I knew—

even when you kept pushing me further away Vasq.

YOU LEFT ME PARKED IN MY THOUGHTS

I parked here to breathe,

because the weight in my chest grew loud.

The world kept moving,

but my h

eart needed a quiet corner.

Sadness sat beside me,

not to break me,

but to remind me I’m human.

Maybe healing is a journey,

maybe it starts with a road trip,

a suitcase,

and a place where the sky feels lighter.

So I’ll take a small vacation—

not to escape life,

but to find myself again

somewhere my spirit can sigh in peace.

When Death Knocked in My Sleep: A Nightmare That Taught Me About Life

Last night, I had a nightmare so vivid it clung to my soul even after I woke up. In that dream, I was at the hospital — not as a visitor, but as a patient. I had been diagnosed with a deadly illness. The doctor’s words were clear: I was going to die. They asked if I wanted to be injected with a medication that would prolong my life for a short while — just two more years. I declined. I was still healthy at that moment, and even though I was shaken by the news, I didn’t overthink my decision. I just said no.

Then the dream shifted.

I was weak. I had lost all my hair. My body was frail, a shadow of the woman I once was. I was dying. I turned to my sister, Rehema, and told her that I regretted refusing the injection. I wished I had chosen to live those extra two years, even if they were filled with pain. But even as I said the words, I wasn’t sure what I truly wanted — to live or to die. I was caught in between. A part of me still wanted to hold on to life.

Rehema looked at me and said, “Hata wangekusumbua.” I couldn’t tell whether she meant it sincerely, or if she was trying to comfort me, knowing the decision was behind us now and there was no turning back.

And then I prayed.

In my dying state, I began to plead with God for a miracle. And something happened — I felt a spark of strength returning. A flicker of hope. My parents had already given up. They had accepted I was going to die. I didn’t tell them that I felt stronger. I didn’t want to give them false hope. I wasn’t even sure if I was truly getting better, or if it was just my imagination — one final delusion of hope before the end.

When I woke up, I was in tears.

I prayed for health — not just for myself, but for everyone struggling in silence, everyone fighting invisible battles inside breaking bodies. I realized something profound: when death comes, we lose control. No human can stop it. No one can protect the people they love from the pain of losing them. No one can stop the ache of grief.

That dream taught me something I’ll never forget — life is fragile, and those who live with terminal illness endure a depth of pain and uncertainty that most of us will never truly understand. I felt it. And I honour it.

We often live like we’re in control. But we’re not. Life is a mystery, and sometimes, even in dreams, it reminds us of what really matters.

Phrases That Feed Mediocrity: A Reflection on Mindsets That Hold Us Back

 Some phrases are not just words — they are belief systems. Belief systems developed and recycled by those too lazy to rise, too poor in mindset to believe in abundance, and too jealous to celebrate success. Instead of working hard to improve their lives, they cling to sayings that justify their stagnation. Let’s unpack a few:

1. "Aliye juu mngoje chini"

Translation: Whoever is up, wait for him down here.

This phrase sounds humble, but it’s dangerous. It encourages passivity and quiet bitterness. Why wait for someone to fall instead of working your way up? Why anchor your hope on someone else’s downfall instead of building your own rise? Progress isn’t about dragging others down — it’s about climbing higher through discipline, effort, and vision.

Success is not a cycle where the top must always come down — it’s a mountain that anyone willing to climb can reach.

2. "Money is the root of all evil"

This is one of the most misunderstood and misused phrases of all time. The original quote, from the Bible, actually says: "The love of money is the root of all evil." But many choose to distort it as a way to justify their discomfort with wealth.

In Rich Dad Poor Dad, Robert Kiyosaki explains that this mindset keeps people broke. When you believe money is evil, you subconsciously sabotage your ability to earn, invest, and grow financially. The truth? Money is a tool — neutral and powerful. It amplifies who you are. If you're generous, money gives you reach. If you're selfish, money reveals it.

The problem isn’t money — it’s the fear of handling it, the ignorance around it, and the shame people attach to wanting it.

3. "It’s lonely at the top"

This is often used to romanticize failure or to warn people away from ambition. But ask anyone truly at the top — they’ll tell you it’s not lonely when you take people with you. It’s only lonely when you isolate yourself, step on others, or rise without lifting anyone else.

Build community. Network wisely. Collaborate. You don’t have to be alone to be successful. The idea that greatness must come with isolation is another lie sold by those who gave up on climbing.

The top isn’t lonely — it’s selective. And that’s a different thing altogether.

Final Thoughts:

We must learn to interrogate the phrases we casually repeat — because many of them are rooted in fear, scarcity, and envy. If you want to grow, succeed, and leave a legacy, stop parroting mediocrity. Speak abundance. Speak action. Speak truth.

Let the lazy wait. Let the bitter complain. But as for you — rise.

STRONGER IN THE SILENCE

 I held my tongue,

bitten with the taste of goodbye,

words unspoken—

secrets we didn’t have the courage to share.

You posted your love

like a flag unfurled,

bright for the world to see,

while I was the secret,

the hush between the lines.

I reached for you,

a trembling hand through glass—

blocked, erased,

like I never existed at all.

Yet even now,

my heart traces your shadow,

craving the warmth

of a friend, a smile,

just the smallest bridge back to you.

But the bridge is gone.

You didn’t have the words,

and I didn’t want the lies.

So I stand here—

on the quiet side of my own heart,

learning to let go.

Because sometimes the ones we miss

are the ones we must leave behind—

to find ourselves again,

stronger in the silence.

CELEBRATING LIFE: A STORY OF SURVIVAL AND GRATITUDE

 

On November 27th, 2021, my family’s world stood still. That day, a phone call delivered news no one ever wants to hear. My brother, Radhison Komora Dadda, had been involved in a horrific accident near Gede. The caller, through tears, described the severity of the situation and urgently requested funds for an ambulance and a CT scan at Malindi General Hospital. At first, disbelief consumed me. I knew my brother was at home—or so I thought. Desperately seeking clarity, I reached out to the rest of my family. To our shock, the unimaginable turned out to be true.

A kind stranger had found my brother by the roadside, gravely injured, surrounded by onlookers who chose to take photos instead of helping. This Good Samaritan rushed him to Malindi General Hospital, where his condition was critical. He had suffered a traumatic head injury and multiple fractures, requiring immediate transfer to Mombasa for advanced care.

The next days were a blur of fear, hope, and prayers. My brother was admitted to the ICU, spending eight days in intensive care fighting for his life and enduring four days in a coma. His condition was touch-and-go, but against all odds, he pulled through. After a grueling month and a day in the hospital, he was discharged on December 28th, 2021, beginning his long road to recovery.

Reflecting on this journey, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. What seemed like an insurmountable tragedy became a moment of grace and resilience. My brother’s survival is nothing short of a miracle, a testament to God’s mercy and the power of family and faith. It was not just a physical recovery but a spiritual awakening for all of us. Through the pain and uncertainty, we grew closer to God, finding strength we didn’t know we had.

Today, I celebrate my brother’s life—his courage, his will to fight, and the unwavering support that surrounded him. His story is a reminder to cherish every moment, hold our loved ones close, and never underestimate the resilience of the human spirit