I like you but my body isn’t ready.
I want you but the mirror won’t let me.
I try to be the person you’re expecting, but I’m not ready.

It sounds dramatic until you realize how many people live like this every day.

People think waiting always looks ambitious. Like someone saying, “I’ll start when I have more money,” or “I’ll travel when life settles down.” But there’s another kind of waiting that nobody talks about because it hides itself as self-improvement.

The kind where you postpone living, being loved, or even just being seen.

You tell yourself you’ll wear the outfit when your stomach is flatter.
You’ll post the picture when your skin clears up.
You’ll go outside when your confidence returns.
You’ll let someone love you when your mind becomes easier to carry.
You’ll stop apologizing for yourself when you become a better version of yourself.

And until then, you wait.

I want you, but the mirror won’t let me

The mirror is every insecurity staring back at you. Every unfinished part of yourself. Every flaw you think makes you difficult to love. Sometimes the mirror is your mental state. Your emotional instability. Your self-doubt. Your past. Your fear that someone will get close enough to realise you are not who they imagined.

Sometimes the mirror is simply the belief that you are not ready to be witnessed yet.

So you wait.

I think a lot of people move through relationships like this. They like someone, sometimes maybe even enough to love them, but there is a constant voice whispering, Not like this.

Not with this body.
Not with this insecurity.
Not with this trauma.
Not while I’m still figuring myself out.
Not until I become someone easier to love.

So they keep people at arm’s length while desperately wanting closeness.

That’s what makes this kind of self-doubt so exhausting. It is contradictory. You crave intimacy while feeling terrified of being fully perceived. You want someone to hold you, but you also want to hide every part of yourself first.

I think some people spend their entire lives trying to earn experiences they were already allowed to have.

Some people cannot enjoy good things because somewhere along the line they learned that happiness is something you unlock after becoming acceptable enough.

Acceptable enough to wear the clothes.
Acceptable enough to take the photos.
Acceptable enough to be loved correctly.
Acceptable enough to stop hiding.

I wonder what it must feel like to be sure in yourself.

Not perfect, because perfect is a constantly moving target.

Just sure.

Sure enough to let yourself be loved without editing yourself first.
Sure enough to believe your current self deserves memories too.
Sure enough to experience life before becoming your final form.

Self-sabotage doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it just looks like hesitation. Sometimes it looks responsible. Mature even. “I just need to work on myself first.” And to some extent, that is true. There is nothing wrong with wanting to grow. There is nothing wrong with trying to become healthier mentally, emotionally, and physically.

And the dangerous thing is that kind of self-improvement sounds healthy on the surface.

Sometimes it is healthy.

Wanting to heal is healthy.
Wanting to grow is healthy.
Wanting to become emotionally available is healthy.

But there is a point where “working on yourself” stops being care and starts becoming punishment.

You can hear it in the language people use.

“I’ll date after I lose weight.”
“I can’t be loved properly until I fix myself.”
“I need to become more first.”

More disciplined.
More attractive.
More stable.
More impressive.

As if being a human in progress makes you undeserving.

And maybe that’s what those lyrics are really saying. Not “I don’t like you enough,” but “I do, and that’s what scares me.”

Someone liking you means they are looking directly at you while you are still unfinished. Still insecure. Still becoming.

A lot of people cannot comprehend that kind of vulnerability. So they wait. They stall. They disappear. They sabotage things before they become real enough to expose them.

Not because they do not feel deeply.
Sometimes because they feel too deeply.

There are people who are not waiting for success or timing or money.

They are waiting to finally feel worthy of being alive in front of other people.

And I may be one of them.

Hi guys, did you miss me?

I almost cried over a bottle of lotion on Saturday.

Ridiculous, I know.

Not even a new bottle. It was the same lotion I had been using for weeks. But there I was, standing in my bedroom after a shower, staring at it as if it had been written to me as a love letter.

I’ll get back to the lotion.

First, I need to give you some context.

He had spent the night.

We’ve been dating for what? About eight months now, I think.

Okay, you caught my bluff.

It’s been seven months, two weeks, three days and… let’s stop there before this starts sounding concerning.

Most weekends, if he’s staying over, we don’t really do much. We settle into a boring domestic routine that somehow never feels boring. We order food, spend an embarrassing amount of time in bed, talk about everything and nothing, play with my cats and, every once in a while, clean whoever’s apartment we’re in that weekend.

Well, he helps me clean my apartment, which is honestly one of the greatest perks of being in a relationship and also why I make sure most of our sleepovers happen at my place. Don’t tell him I said that.

If we’re feeling particularly ambitious, we’ll wake up “early” (which for us means 11 a.m), convince ourselves we’re going to the gym, come back, clean up, eat, then spend the rest of the day yapping in front of the TV.

The night usually ends with a walk.

Those walks are my favourite part.

We hold hands and have the most unserious conversations known to man. Sometimes I wonder if someone will overhear us one day and genuinely ask if we’re okay because what do you mean two adults have spent fifteen minutes debating whether sea animals know if they’re wet?

This Saturday wasn’t one of those weekends.

We both had errands to run, but neither of us wanted to spend the day apart. So the night before, we were in bed trying to figure out how to squeeze both into one day. The first thing we agreed on was that somehow, somewhere, we’d end the night eating.

We were up by 9 a.m., which is basically dawn in our relationship.

Ironically, when we’re apart, Saturdays start much earlier. I’d probably be awake by 7:00, and he'd already have sent my “good morning” text by 6:30.

I guess sleeping next to someone makes getting out of bed feel optional.

To save time, we decided to shower together.

Not our best idea.

Almost thirty minutes disappeared before either of us realised we’d been in there talking and touching each other more than actually showering.

I didn’t mind, though.

I love slow mornings.

Now, remember the lotion?

I love getting my nails done.

Loveeeee.

And if you get your nails done too, you’ll understand this very specific inconvenience. I’d rather have lotion pumped into my palm than dig my fingers into a tub. It’s one of those tiny annoyances that doesn’t actually matter but somehow annoys you every single time.

I’d mentioned it before.

Not as a complaint.

But as a passing comment I didn’t expect anyone to remember.

So after the shower I walked over to my dresser, reached for my lotion…

…and it wasn’t there.

Well, it was.

Just not how I’d left it.

My lotion had been poured into a clear bottle with a pump.

I just stood there looking at it.

Because it wasn’t really about the pump.

It was about the fact that somewhere between conversations about work, deciding what to eat, laughing at memes, arguing over what movie to watch and everything else that fills an ordinary relationship, he’d remembered something I’d forgotten I’d even said.

He didn’t tell me he was going to do it.

He didn’t wait for me to notice.

He just did it.

I know.

It’s just lotion.

It’s just a pump.

I’m probably making too big a deal out of it.

Who cares?

I care, because for a few seconds, standing there in my towel, holding that bottle, I felt something that is surprisingly difficult to put into words.

I felt considered.

He’d paid attention.

To something so small that even I had forgotten I’d mentioned it.

Maybe love is paying attention.

And maybe being loved is realising someone has been paying attention all along.

I had a conversation with a friend today.
We were feeling the same thing. No shocker there; to be honest, I am usually on the same wavelength as my friends.

We spoke about this quiet we have both been sitting in lately.

But it is not really quiet.

It feels like the sound around us has been softened, like someone turned the volume down on the world but not all the way. Everything is still happening. People are still talking, laughing, moving, posting, living. But somehow it reaches me differently. Distant. Slightly delayed. Like I am there, but not fully in it.

It is a strange place to exist in.

I go outside and everything looks normal. The sky is still the sky. Cars pass by, people cross the street, conversations overlap. Nothing has stopped. But inside, it feels like I am watching it all through a layer of glass. Not disconnected completely, just enough to notice it.

And the quiet sits there.

But at the same time, it is loud.

My thoughts feel louder than everything else. Small things echo longer than they should. A sentence I said earlier in the day replays in my head. A feeling I cannot fully name keeps tapping at me, asking to be understood. It is not peaceful quiet. It is full. Heavy in a way that is hard to explain without sounding dramatic.

It is like being surrounded by noise you cannot hear but can feel.

We tried to explain it to each other and kept circling back to the same thing. Everything feels like it is moving too fast and too slow at the same time. Days pass quickly. Weeks blur into each other. But moments stretch. Thoughts linger. Feelings take their time.

I know that does not make logical sense.

But I am starting to think that not everything we feel is supposed to make sense in a clean, logical way. A huge part of being human seems to live in contradiction. Wanting and not wanting. Feeling everything and nothing. Being present and somewhere else entirely.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe it is what happens when you are in between versions of yourself. Not who you used to be, but not fully who you are becoming either.

That in between space is quiet.

And loud.

You start noticing things you did not before. The way conversations feel different. The way certain places do not feel the same anymore. The way you can be surrounded by people you love and still feel slightly removed, like you are observing instead of participating.

It is not loneliness exactly.

It is something softer. Something harder to define.

I think part of it is change. The kind of change that does not announce itself. The kind that instead settles in slowly until one day you realise you do not quite fit into your own life the way you used to. Not in a bad way. Just differently.

And instead of resisting it, I am trying to sit with it.

To accept that maybe this quiet is not emptiness. Maybe it is space. Space for something new to take shape. Space to understand myself a little better. Space to listen, even when what I hear is messy or unclear.

The loudness, too, might not be something to run from. Maybe it is just everything I have been too busy to notice finally catching up with me.

So for now, I am here.

In this quiet that is not quiet.
In this noise that no one else can hear the same way I do.
In this strange in between.

I know we all have burner accounts. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.

Anyways, it’s one of the few safe spaces that still exists on the internet. Some people use theirs only for NSFW tweets and retweets. For others, it’s a weird mix of everything — horny tweets sitting right beside existential spirals, random rants, relationship updates, and oversharing tweets no one asked for.

At its foundation, though, it’s a controlled space. A place where you can say almost anything because you’re almost certain of the eyes that will see it.

And maybe that’s why I asked the question there.

I fall into a peculiar category where I know the people on my timeline would probably answer honestly. Or at least honestly enough.

So I asked:

The answers were… interesting.

Some people said yes immediately.

One person replied:

“Yesss it can be, but in a good way.”

That’s an important distinction.

Because when people hear the word performance, they automatically think fake.

But I don’t think performance and authenticity completely cancel each other out.

Another response said:

“Yes cos if you really love you’d want to please them and that involves some razzle dazzle.”

Which is fair.

Because sex is an engaging effort. Even outside of love.

You’re not doing it by yourself.

There’s another person there whose reactions, pleasure, comfort, insecurities, and desires are all interacting with yours in real time. Of course there’s some level of performance involved in that. You want to make them feel good. You want to feel desired, too. You want the energy to feel mutual.

Some people are lucky enough to exist in bodies that are automatically read as sexy without trying very hard.

Other people learn very early that desirability feels tied to effort.

To presentation.

To how well they can perform confidence, seduction, and sensuality.

And I think that shapes the way people experience sex more than we admit.

Another person said:

“Only with people who aren’t accustomed to each other’s bodies yet.”

I actually agree with this, too.

I think the first couple of times with someone can absolutely feel performative.

You’re learning each other.

You’re still aware of yourself.

Still conscious of how you look, sound, and move.

You’re trying to read reactions correctly while also trying to present the best version of yourself.

There’s tension in unfamiliarity.

But then sometimes you keep sleeping with that person, and something begins to change.

The performance starts dissolving.

Not completely—because I think there will always be some level of intentionality in intimacy—but enough that you stop curating yourself so heavily.

Your body relaxes.

You stop trying to look sexy every second.

You stop calculating.

And sex becomes less about being perceived and more about being experienced.

That’s probably the closest intimacy gets to feeling truly unperformed.

Not even in a cynical way. More in a “of course it is” kind of way.

One person said sex is basically theatre—with fluids.

Another said they don’t think they’ve ever had sex without subconsciously thinking about how they looked while doing it.

Someone else said the performance starts long before sex itself — in the flirting, the texts, the teasing, the pretending not to care too much, and the calculated pauses before replying; even the sexting beforehand is a performance.

When we talk about “performance,” most people immediately assume something fake. Artificial. Forced.

But performance doesn’t always mean dishonesty.

Sometimes performance is just awareness.

You know when you become conscious of yourself during sex?

Not present. Conscious.

There’s a difference.

Present feels warm. Instinctive. Embodied.

Conscious feels like accidentally stepping outside yourself and watching your own body like a third-party observer. Suddenly, you’re thinking about angles. Sounds. Facial expressions. Whether you look desirable enough. Whether you’re doing enough. Whether you’re reacting correctly.

Whether you’re giving the “right” performance.

And I don’t even think this comes from nowhere.

So many of us learned sex through observation before experience.

Porn. Movies. TV shows. Fanfiction. Stories from friends. Twitter threads. TikToks. Half the internet is one giant masterclass on how sex is supposed to look.

Not necessarily how it’s supposed to feel.

Look.

There’s a reason people joke about arching their backs until they get muscle cramps.

There’s a reason people are worried about how attractive they sound during sex.

There’s a reason people fake moans, fake confidence, fake orgasms, and fake experiences.

Performance.

And I think what makes this conversation difficult is that nobody wants to admit they perform intimacy.

Because we associate intimacy with authenticity.

We want to believe that the people having the “best” sex are just effortlessly existing in some liberated state where they never overthink anything.

Meanwhile, half of us are mentally directing ourselves like:

Okay, laugh softer.

Don’t make that face.

Should I move my hand?

Was that too much?

Am I being sexy right now or just aggressive?

And maybe the wildest part is how gender changes the performance entirely.

Women are often taught to perform desirability.

Men are often taught to perform capability.

One is expected to be wanted.

The other is expected to know exactly what they’re doing.

And both are exhausting.

A lot of women grow up internalizing the idea that sexiness is something visual. Something to curate. Something to offer.

A lot of men grow up internalizing the idea that masculinity during sex is tied to control, stamina, confidence, dominance, and initiation.

So everyone enters intimacy carrying a role.

And the scary thing about roles is that eventually you stop noticing you’re playing them.

One response I got said:

“I think sex becomes a performance the moment you stop prioritizing pleasure and start prioritizing perception.”

Seduction is a performance.

Flirting is a performance.

Even romance is sometimes a performance.

Candles. Date nights. Lingerie. Certain tones of voice. The way people intentionally deepen eye contact. The way someone positions themselves when they know they’re being looked at.

Humans perform attraction all the time.

The issue is when performance becomes pressure.

When you become more committed to looking sexy than actually feeling anything.

When your body becomes an audience instead of a home.

And I think social media has intensified this in ways we aren’t ready to fully unpack yet.

Now people don’t just experience sex.

They experience themselves experiencing sex.

There’s an aesthetic to desire now.

People curate sexual energy online before they even understand their own relationship with intimacy offline.

We know what “good sex” is supposed to sound like before we know what we personally enjoy.

We know the visual language of attraction before we know our own bodies.

I think that disconnect is why conversations about sex still feel weirdly lonely.

Everyone’s talking about sex.

But very few people are talking honestly about insecurity during sex.

About awkwardness.

About dissociation.

About needing reassurance.

About the fear of disappointing someone.

About how vulnerable it feels to be fully seen by another person without editing yourself.

Because vulnerability doesn’t always look sexy.

Sometimes vulnerability is laughing in the middle of sex.

Sometimes it’s asking someone to slow down.

Sometimes it’s admitting you don’t know what you like.

Sometimes it’s realizing you learned intimacy through performance and now you’re trying to unlearn it in real time.

And maybe that’s why I asked this question on my burner account.

Because anonymity creates honesty.

People will confess things from behind an alt account, things that they’d probably never admit with accounts attached to their real name.

Like how often they fake confidence.

Like how often they feel disconnected during sex.

Like how badly they want intimacy without expectations.

And my personal favourite response said:

“Sex is definitely a performance sometimes. But the best sex I’ve ever had happened when both of us forgot the audience.”

Forgot the audience.

Maybe that’s the goal.

Not perfection.

Not flawless seduction.

Not trying to embody whatever version of sexuality the internet told us was desirable.

Just presence.

Just honesty.

Just two people existing in a moment without treating intimacy like an audition.

And I think we need more spaces to talk about that.

Not just the glamorous parts of sex.

Not just the funny parts.

But the deeply human parts too.

The awkwardness.

The uncertainty.

The performance.

The tenderness underneath it.

So now I’m asking you.

Do you think sex is a performance?

And if you think it is… when did you first realize you were performing?

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I hope we all had an eventful one. Wink wink.

Also, a lot of you are new here because of that short story I posted. The one that somehow got 600+ likes. I’m still trying to process that. It felt really nice, but also strange. My brain tried to imagine 600 people standing in one place telling me they liked something I wrote, and I couldn’t breathe.

That kind of attention is new here.

I don’t usually do short stories. This space is mostly for strange little thoughts. Conversations that go nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

Today’s post is one of those.

Sit back. Enjoy this yap session.

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Like a lot of young adults living in this slightly chaotic country, I still live with my parents. I work hybrid, which sounds flexible in theory but really just means I am always working. I’m home most days, in my room, on my laptop, occasionally stepping outside just to confirm the world is still there.

On this particular day, work was serious.

The kind of serious where you tie your towel, ready to shower, then end up sitting in that same towel for two hours because a meeting suddenly appears and you have to be there. Camera off. Nodding occasionally. Pretending your life is together while water is literally drying off your skin.

Corporate life is funny like that.

I’m the first daughter in a middle-class Nigerian family. My brother is at uni, so it’s mostly just my parents at home and me. Sometimes my aunt drifts in and out. If you know, you know.

It means I do a lot of the heavy lifting around the house.

So on this faithful day, I found myself in the kitchen. In a towel. Laptop open. Frying plantain for my dad while half-listening to whatever meeting was happening in my ear.

Yes, I know. Fire hazard. I’m careful, I promise.

And of course, because life has a sense of humor, my mom decided she also wanted some.

At some point, after taking my dad’s batch out of the oil, I finally put my phone down and actually paid attention to what I was doing.

That’s when I realized I wanted some too.

So I started cutting mine. I like to prep it first, sprinkle a bit of cinnamon, let it sit in the fridge before frying. It just tastes better that way. I don’t know how to explain it.

But while I was cutting, I noticed something.

The oil was hotter now.

Much hotter than when I started.

Which meant each new batch of plantain browned faster. You had to watch it more closely or it would burn before you even realized what was happening.

And for some reason, that stuck.

The oil keeps getting hotter.

Things don’t cook at the same pace they did at the beginning.

You don’t get the same amount of time to adjust.

I stood there, still in a towel, still technically in a meeting, watching plantains turn from soft yellow to deep golden in what felt like seconds.

And it hit me.

Maybe time works like that.

At first, everything feels slow. You think you have space. You think you can look away for a second and nothing really changes.

But as things build, as the heat increases, everything starts happening faster.

Decisions. Consequences. Growth. Mistakes.

You don’t get as long as you think you do to figure things out.

You have to pay attention.

You have to move when it’s time to move.

Because if you don’t, things burn.

I’m still figuring out what that means for me right now. I’m in one of those phases where everything feels like it’s speeding up at once.

But standing there in that kitchen, trying not to burn plantain, I felt like I understood something small but important.

Life doesn’t slow down just because you’re not ready.

Sometimes all you can do is stay present and adjust as the heat rises.

Anyway.

That’s today’s thought.

PS. This is what my bowl of plantain looked like after. I added a sausage. I couldn’t help myself.

Really tasty

I don’t just want to be desired.

I want to desire.

Somewhere along the way, we learned to pick a role. You’re either the pursued or the pursuer. The cool one or the invested one. The prize or the admirer. No one talks about what happens when you feel like both at the same time.

Because I do.

I like to identify as a real lover. In theory, at least. I haven’t exactly been given the opportunity to put my theories into practice, which feels a bit like calling yourself a chef who has never been allowed near a stove. Still, in my mind, I am passionate. Devoted.

I don’t just want someone to look at me like I’m rare. I want to look at someone like that, too.

Yes, I want the thrill of being chosen. The ego rush of someone wanting me first. There’s something intoxicating about being seen and knowing someone decided, without hesitation, that you are who they want. It feels safe. It feels powerful.

But I also want the other side. The pull. The tension. The kind of wanting that almost embarrasses you. I want my heart to speed up when they walk into a room. I want to catch myself smiling at my phone and hate that I’m smiling at my phone.

Modern dating culture worships indifference. The less you care, the more attractive you become. Don’t double-text. Don’t say you like them too soon. Don’t be too available. Don’t want too much. God forbid you admit you want someone and want them to want you back just as openly.

I don’t want to be adored by someone I don’t crave. And I don’t want to crave someone who treats me like background noise.

I want mutual combustion.

I want eye contact that lingers on both sides. I want effort mirrored. I want someone who is just as excited about me as I am about them, not performatively, but honestly.

Maybe that makes me idealistic. Maybe I’ve consumed too many love stories where desire is symmetrical and dramatic. Or maybe I just don’t believe passion is something we should dilute to seem digestible.

Here’s what I’m realizing. Pretending you only want to be desired protects your ego. Pretending you only want to desire protects your pride. Wanting both requires vulnerability.

To desire someone is to risk rejection.
To want to be desired is to admit you care about being chosen.

It is easier to act detached. It is safer to act self-sufficient.

But I don’t think I’m meant to be a detached lover.

In theory, at least.

I know I am meant to feel deeply and not have to apologize for it. To want reciprocity without pretending I’m above it. To believe the best connection is not a power struggle but a shared flame.

So no, I don’t want to choose.

I want to be wanted.
And I want to want.
On purpose.

We said “I love you” at two in the morning, sitting across from each other with a tub of ice cream between us, arguing about a book like it mattered more than it did.

It felt like it started there.

Like the words had just arrived, like they belonged to that exact moment.

But they didn’t.

I knew the day before.

Thursday wasn’t special. It was full in the way my days usually are, work open in front of me, emails I needed to answer, and things pulling at my attention from every direction. I like my days like that. Structured. Mine.

My phone buzzed somewhere in the middle of it, and I glanced down without thinking.

His name.

A picture from his job. Something half-finished, something I didn’t really understand.

This is why my day is going to be long.

I smiled anyway, typing back a quick response before setting my phone down, only to pick it up again when it buzzed a minute later. Then again. A voice note this time, his voice quieter, distracted, like he was talking while doing something else, explaining just enough before trailing off with, “I’ll tell you the rest later.”

And that stuck with me more than it should have.

Later.

Not if we talked. Not when are you free.

Just later, as if it were already decided that I would be there for it.

I went back to work, but that small assumption followed me through the rest of the day, settling somewhere in the background of everything else.

When I got home that evening, I moved through my apartment the way I always did. Shoes off, bag down, hair up. Routine, automatic.

I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stood there for a second, not really thinking about what I wanted, just looking. Then, without planning to, I started shifting things. A container pushed to the side, drinks lined up, space made where there hadn’t been space before.

I didn’t notice it until I stepped back.

There was room.

Not empty. Just… available.

I leaned against the counter, looking at it, and let out a small laugh under my breath because I understood it immediately and didn’t want to say it out loud.

It wasn’t for anything specific.

It was just that he was coming over the next day, and somewhere along the way, without asking myself, I had started including him.

Not changing anything.

Just… including.

I shut the fridge and made something simple for dinner, something easy, something I wouldn’t mind eating again. Halfway through, I realized that too and just shook my head at myself, smiling a little, but I didn’t change it.

Later, I was on the couch with my laptop open, trying to finish a few things before I lost the motivation completely. One of the cats walked straight across the keyboard like she had a point to prove. The other climbed into my side and stayed there, warm and heavy, like she had decided I wasn’t going anywhere.

My phone buzzed again.

A picture of his desk this time. Messy.

Ignore the chaos.

Then, right after:

I tried to clean it. Gave up.

I laughed, typing back with one hand, and we fell into that easy back-and-forth we always did. Nothing important on its own. Just small pieces of our days, handed to each other without effort.

At some point, I closed my laptop without finishing what I had opened it for.

I didn’t even think about it.

I just sat there, the weight of the cat against me and my phone in my hand.

“He’s coming over tomorrow,” I said quietly, mostly to myself.

The cats didn’t react.

I smiled anyway.

Friday felt lighter before anything had even happened. I noticed it as soon as I woke up and tried not to think too much about it, moving through my morning and through work, answering what I needed to answer, and checking my phone more than I needed to.

When he texted that he was close, I was already near the door.

The elevator dinged, and my chest did that small lift it always did before I could stop it.

The doors opened, and there he was. Bag over his shoulder, already smiling when he saw me, like arriving here mattered.

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

My arms were around him before he could say anything, his laugh soft against me as he pulled me in, easy and familiar, like this had already become something we didn’t have to think about.

For a second, it was just that.

Then the cats came running, weaving around our legs, loud and insistent, and he shifted slightly but didn’t let go, just laughed again and said, "Hi babies,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I pulled back just enough to look at him.

At how comfortable he already was and how easily he stood there in the middle of my space like he wasn’t visiting, as if he belonged.

And the thing that surprised me wasn’t that he did.

It was that nothing in me pushed against it.

There was no hesitation. No instinct to protect anything or pull something back.

Just a quiet, steady acceptance that this felt right.

That was the moment.

It wasn’t loud or overwhelming.

It didn’t come with any kind of realization that knocked the air out of me.

It was simple.

I love him.

The thought settled in without resistance, like it had been waiting for me to notice it.

I didn’t say it.

I just took his hand and pulled him inside.

The rest of the night moved the way ours always did, easy and unstructured. Food on the couch, conversations overlapping, the TV playing to no one while we talked over it.

Time passed without either of us paying attention to it.

By the time we ended up in the kitchen, it was late enough that everything felt soft and quiet, like the world had pulled back a little and left us alone in it.

We sat across from each other with a tub of ice cream between us.

“You’re taking bigger bites,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

We fell into the book again, arguing in that way we always did, both of us too invested.

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does.”

“She doesn’t.”

I pointed my spoon at him, and he just smiled, and somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped paying attention to what he was saying.

I was just looking at him.

At the way he leaned forward without realizing it. The way he held my gaze. The way he looked like this, right here, was exactly where he wanted to be.

That feeling from earlier came back, deeper now. Settled.

I love you.

The words were right there. Easy.

I leaned forward slightly, ready to say it.

And then he did.

“I love you.”

It didn’t feel surprising.

It felt… right on time.

I let out a small breath, something soft leaving my chest, and shook my head just a little.

“How did you know I was about to say it?”

“I did not.”

I believed him.

That was the thing.

He didn’t know.

He just got there on his own.

I looked at him for a second longer, taking that in, the way we had somehow met in the same place without trying to.

And then I smiled, quieter this time.

“I love you.”

Hi guys,

I absolutely love that so many of you enjoyed the first part, all 100+ of you.

I won’t lie, writing this one, I rewrote it more than ten times. I’ve never had that much engagement on a story before, and I felt immense pressure while writing it.

So do we like it? You know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

I hope we all have an amazing week. Bye, guys.

I’m sharing a song from one of my playlists; I think you will enjoy it while reading this.

We had started sleepovers five months into the relationship.

I remember the first time clearly. The nervousness of it. The way we both pretended it was casual, even though it was not.

But that was not the moment I knew.

I know that moment by heart. I replay it every time I say the words because that was when I realized they were true.

That week had been long for both of us. The kind of week that drains you slowly and makes Friday morning feel like the light at the end of the tunnel.

That Friday morning was the best one I had had in weeks.

I was packing my weekend bag.

I threw things in with the confidence of a man who already knew where he would end up. Two shirts. Sweatpants. A hoodie she would steal the moment she got cold. My toothbrush.

I never packed for Monday.

Every weekend, we promised to be responsible.

Every weekend, I said I would leave Sunday evening so I could prepare for the week.

And every weekend, Sunday night came, and we looked at each other like two idiots who could not imagine sleeping anywhere else.

So we would drive to my place together, half asleep, just so I could grab clothes for work the next day.

Then we would drive right back to her apartment because sleeping apart for one night was not an option.

When I walked out with my bag over my shoulder and my work bag in my hand, my brother looked up from the couch.

He studied me for a moment, then smiled.

“At least this time you packed clothes,” he said. “Because if you woke me up at eleven on Sunday night to open the door again, I would not answer.”

I just grinned and left.

I walked on clouds the entire day.

I was seeing my girlfriend. I would have her in my world for two whole days.

Do you know what that does to a man?

On the way to her place, I stopped at a small store.

I grabbed drinks, snacks, and a couple of those face masks she liked doing on Saturdays while pretending we were having a spa day.

The cashier did not ask who they were for.

I told him anyway.

“These are for my girlfriend and me.”

He nodded politely, the way people do when someone is clearly too happy.

It did not hit me then.

The drive to her apartment always felt longer on Fridays. Forty minutes stretched with anticipation.

Music played, but I barely heard it. My mind wandered.

Her laugh.

Her cats.

The way she always opened the door before I knocked because she tracked my location and knew exactly when I arrived.

When I stepped into the elevator I realized I was rocking on my feet.

Actually rocking.

Like a kid.

I caught my reflection in the elevator doors and shook my head.

You are a grown man.

Still, I could not stop smiling.

It did not hit me then either.

When the elevator doors opened, she was already there.

Leaning against the wall outside her apartment.

Waiting.

Her smile appeared the second she saw me.

I dropped my bag before I even reached her.

She laughed softly when I pulled her into my arms. The kind of laugh that vibrates against your chest.

Her cats came running immediately, weaving around our legs and purring loudly like they had been waiting all week.

“Hi babies,” I said to them.

But I did not let go of her.

We stood there in the doorway of her apartment, holding each other while the cats rubbed against our feet.

It did not hit me then either.

Later, we showered and changed into comfortable clothes.

We sat on the couch with takeout containers balanced on our knees. The television was on but muted. It always ended up that way because we would rather talk.

We ate and stole food from each other’s plates.

Her cats took their usual positions. One against my leg. The other draped across her lap like royalty.

Something about the normalcy of it settled into me.

The comfort.

The way my body relaxed the moment I stepped into her apartment, like it had been waiting all week to be there.

Hours passed quietly.

By the time we noticed the clock, it was nearly two in the morning.

We sat across from each other at the kitchen island with a tub of ice cream between us.

Two spoons.

“You are taking bigger bites,” she said.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Then the conversation drifted the way it always did.

Books.

We were reading the same one, and suddenly we were leaning across the counter arguing about the characters like they were real people.

“She is lying,” she said.

“She is not lying. She just has not figured it out yet.”

“She knows exactly what she is doing.”

“No she does not.”

“Yes she does.”

She pointed her spoon at me like it settled the argument.

And I remember really looking at her.

Her hair was slightly messy.

Her eyes were bright with excitement.

There was a small smudge of ice cream near the corner of her mouth.

She was sitting across from me at two in the morning, passionately defending a fictional character.

She was there.

Right in front of me.

And something in my chest settled into place.

She was there.

And I loved her.

“I love you.”

The words left my mouth before I realized I had spoken them.

She stopped mid-sentence and looked at me.

Then she smiled.

Not surprised. Just warm.

“How did you know I was about to say it?” she asked.

“I did not.”

She held my gaze for a moment.

Then she said it.

“I love you.”

No “too.”

I think about that sometimes.

She never said “too.”

Later, we stepped onto her balcony.

The night air was cool and quiet in that late hour when the city finally softens.

We brought a blanket and her big chair. The one meant for one person that somehow always fit both of us.

She sat first and I settled behind her, pulling her back against my chest.

My arms wrapped around her waist. The blanket covered our legs.

Her head rested against my shoulder.

We lit a blunt and passed it between us slowly.

The city hummed far below. Cars in the distance. Wind through the trees.

Neither of us spoke much.

We did not need to.

Her breathing was slow and steady against my chest while we shared the smoke and the quiet.

And I sat there holding her, thinking the same words again and again.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I did not say them out loud.

I just let them live quietly in my mind while we breathed in the cool night air together.

Because sitting there with her in my arms, listening to the city breathe beneath us, I understood something with perfect certainty.

This was the moment.

The moment I knew.

Hi guysssss,

How are we? I apologize for my inconsistency, but unfortunately, I can’t promise that will change anytime soon. Work has been a lot lately. I can’t complain though. I love it; it’s just taking up a lot of my time right now.

This is the first story I’m writing this year. What did we think? Do we like it?

I’m working on her POV, and you’ll get that soon, I promiseeee.

I hope we all have an amazing weekend. See you next time!

PS. I’ve been obsessed with the new Bruno Mars album (The Romantic). This is the song I wrote this story to.

The Favourite songs from the album:

You could be the sweetest peach on the tree and still come across someone who simply does not like peaches.

I think about that quote a lot when it comes to dating and relationships. At first, it sounds simple, almost funny. But the longer I sit with it, the more it starts to explain so much about how we experience love.

Because in dating, it is very easy to forget yourself.

So much of the process is about being chosen. Whether we admit it or not, there is always this quiet hope that someone will pick you. And at the same time, you are also trying to figure out if you want to pick them. Love really happens when those two things meet in the middle.

But before that moment, there is often a lot of uncertainty. A lot of trying. A lot of wondering if you are enough for someone.

And when someone does not choose you, it is very easy to start questioning yourself. Maybe you were not interesting enough. Maybe you were not attractive enough. Maybe if you had said the right thing at the right time, things would have turned out differently.

But the peach quote interrupts that whole spiral.

Sometimes the problem is not that the peach is not sweet enough. Sometimes the person standing in front of the tree just does not like peaches.

I see this play out in relationships all the time. From the outside, it can look so obvious. You can see someone who is kind, thoughtful, emotionally present, and really trying. And yet the person they are with treats them like they are ordinary or an inconvenience.

Then you see that same person with someone else later in life. Suddenly, they are being appreciated, valued, and treated like they are something rare.

Nothing about them changed.

The sweetness was always there.

The only thing that changed was the person tasting the fruit.

And I think that is where self-worth gets complicated in relationships. When you are inside the situation, it is much harder to see clearly. Feelings blur your perspective. Hope fills in the gaps where reality might be trying to speak a little louder.

You hold onto the good moments. You convince yourself that maybe if you just try a little harder, the other person will finally see what is right in front of them.

Sometimes they do.

But sometimes they never will.

Not because you are not valuable.

But because they simply are not the person who recognises what you are.

I think real self-worth in relationships comes from understanding that your value does not change based on who chooses you.

The sweetest peach does not become less sweet just because someone walks past the tree.

And in relationships, the most meaningful connections rarely come from convincing someone to see your worth. They come from recognition. From someone seeing you clearly and appreciating what is already there.

Okay. I need to say this out loud because it has been circling in my head for a while.

Sometimes when I am into a woman, I cannot tell what kind of into it is.

Obviously, I want her. That part is real. The attraction is not theoretical. I notice her. I feel it. It is physical and immediate and not something I have to intellectualize.

But then there is this other layer that sneaks in.

I start paying attention to how she moves. How she speaks. How she laughs without checking who is listening. And somewhere in there, my brain shifts from I want her to I wish I could do that.

And that is where it gets messy.

It is not that I think there is one right way to be feminine. I do not. There are a million ways to inhabit a body, a voice, a presence. What gets me is when someone feels fully at home in their version of it. When they are not adjusting it for the room.

There is a kind of sexual confidence that makes me short circuit a little. Not because it is loud or attention seeking. Just because it feels owned. Like she knows she is desirable and does not need it confirmed every five minutes.

And I am sitting there thinking two things at once.

I want her.

And also, how does she do that?

If I am honest, sometimes the jealousy is not about her at all. It is about how effortless she makes it look. I overthink my tone. I replay things I said. I wonder if I am coming off as too much or not enough. She just exists.

So when I feel that pull toward her, I have to ask myself what I am actually reaching for.

Do I want to be with her?

Or do I want to feel the way she seems to feel inside her own skin?

Because those are not the same thing. But in the moment, they blur.

There is something slightly uncomfortable about admitting that part of my attraction might be aspiration. That maybe I am not just drawn to her body, but to her certainty. To her permission. To the way she does not seem to hesitate before taking up space.

It makes the whole thing feel more complicated than a simple crush.

And maybe that is fine.

Maybe wanting someone can also reveal the places where you feel unfinished. Maybe desire is not just about the other person. Maybe it is also a mirror.

I do not have a clean answer. I just know that sometimes when I say I want her, what I mean is layered. And I am still learning how to tell which layer is speaking.

I think it is only fair to let you know what is happening in my love life before I start giving unsolicited opinions about love and relationships. You deserve to know my qualifications, or in this case, my lack of qualifications.

Unfortunately, there is nothing to report.

I will not get too deep into it, but my being single is a combination of many things. A huge one is that I am simply not ready. And honestly, that excuse does not even fully convince me. Even in my state of unreadiness, I am making no real preparations to be ready. It is less about readiness and more about the fact that I have not met someone who makes me want to commit. I know that sounds harsh, but it is the truth. I have not met anyone who has given me a reason to want to build something real. A relationship feels far off. I have not been in love in a long time.

Some people might argue that my inactivity is because the dating streets are chaotic and filled with warlocks who desecrate love. I am admittedly a lover girl. I do have standards. They are probably not even what you think, and they apply to me as well, though maybe not perfectly. Still, I refuse to compromise on certain things I expect from a partner.

I also do not really believe in preparing for love like it is an exam. When you meet your person, or your people if you are poly, you just know. Yes, you should feel somewhat stable in your life. Yes, readiness matters. But when you are truly in love with someone, and you know it is not unrequited, does readiness even matter as much? If the other person is willing to take that leap with you, does it matter if your life is not perfectly arranged?

To me, the love of your life should be someone whose absence feels worse than their presence in your incomplete life. That is what I want. And since I have not felt that with anyone, I suppose I will be single for a while. Honestly, I do not mind.

I am not without fault. I rarely let my interactions get too personal. I talk to people long enough for them to form an attachment, but not long enough for me to. If I like someone and realize I cannot have them in the way I want, I disappear. It is a bad habit.

Case in point, someone I met in 2024. I liked him. We talked, we kissed, we enjoyed each other. But we were not in the same place in life, and that difference showed up everywhere. Nothing concrete could have come from it. Normally, I would have been fine keeping it casual. But that is not what I want anymore. So I removed him from my life. We never had a dramatic conversation about it. I doubt he even noticed.

I am slightly ashamed to admit that this has happened more than once, though not always for the same reason. Sometimes it was distance. Other times it was simple misalignment. For a while, I felt embarrassed by the number of almosts I could have had. All those could have been stories. But I do not beat myself up about it the way I used to. Not every connection is meant to become a commitment, and not every exit is a failure.

Dating in your twenties is strange (and I know it’ll only get stranger from here). There are people you want deeply but cannot build with. There are people who are not evil, just not aligned. Sometimes there is no spark beyond the physical. My rule is simple. If someone clearly fits in one category, do not force them into another.

So what is the real problem with dating right now?

People are lying.

They lie to others, and they lie to themselves. You meet someone you genuinely like and would explore something serious with, but they say they only want sex. Instead of being honest about wanting more, you shrink yourself and pretend you are fine with less. Now you are in an unrequited situation you built yourself.

Or the opposite happens. You meet someone, and you only want something physical. There is nothing wrong with that if you communicate it clearly. But the other person wants a relationship. They tell you that. Instead of walking away because you do not want to seem cruel, you play along just long enough to get what you want. That is where things become unfair.

Dating feels insane because honesty feels rare.

Part of my New Year’s resolution is to actually try. Not in a desperate way. Not in a performative way. I mean, truly trying to connect with people. Giving situations a fair chance. Being honest about what I want and allowing other people to do the same.

So that is my status report. No Valentine. No tragic heartbreak. Just standards, self-awareness, and a commitment to stop lying to myself.

Maybe next year the report will be different. Or maybe not. Either way, at least it will be honest.

When men talk about women, they often refuse to say the word women. Instead, they say females. Or that gender. Or your gender. Every time it happens, I feel the same sharp discomfort. Not confusion. Recognition.

Because when women talk about men, we say men. We do not say males. We do not reduce them to anatomy. We speak about them as people.

So why does that respect stop with us?

Calling women “females” is often defended as neutral, factual, or harmless. It is none of those things. Language is never neutral. Woman is a human and social identity. Female is a biological classification. One acknowledges personhood. The other strips it away.

And yes, it feels like a step down.

It feels like being pulled out of the room and placed under glass. Observed. Categorized. Spoken about rather than spoken to. The word creates distance, and that distance is the point. It makes it easier to generalize, judge, and dismiss. It turns women into a concept instead of people with voices.

What makes it worse is what comes next.

When this language is questioned, women are expected to respond gently. Patiently. Educationally. As if it is our job to correct grown adults on basic respect. As if we owe explanations for why being reduced feels demeaning.

I do not.

I am not Google. I am not a glossary. I am not here to translate your detachment into something palatable. I am tired of being cast as the instructor in conversations I never volunteered to teach.

At a certain point, ignorance stops being accidental. It becomes convenient.

Notice how rarely men call themselves males in casual conversation. Notice how rarely they refer to themselves as “that gender.” They reserve that distance for women. They remain individuals. We become a category.

Men. Females.

That imbalance is not subtle. It tells you exactly who is being granted full humanity and who is being spoken about from above.

And no, intent does not erase impact. You do not get to dehumanize by accident and then hide behind good intentions. Words shape perception. Repetition turns language into belief. Belief turns into behavior.

When women are consistently described in clinical, abstract terms, it becomes easier to talk over us, dismiss us, and ignore us. The language does the work before the conversation even begins.

So yes, it makes me angry.

I recently saw a tweet from oomfs (one of my followers) that said: once you refer to women as ‘females,’ it immediately signals hatred toward women, no exceptions.

It was blunt. It was deliberately confrontational. And while I wouldn’t phrase it that way myself, I understood the instinct behind it.

That kind of language doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from a willingness to see women as objects, a category, something safely abstracted. You may not hate women. But when you repeatedly choose words that strip us of personhood, you are showing how comfortable you are with disrespect.

I am angry that something so basic still has to be said. I am angry that respect is framed as sensitivity. I am angry that women are expected to tolerate being linguistically downgraded just to keep the peace.

If you can call yourself a man, you can call me a woman. If you can speak about men as people, you can do the same for us.

This is not about semantics. It is about recognition.

And I am done pretending that being reduced does not make me angry.

Bitch Slap anyone who says ‘females’ or ‘your gender’ this week.

Love you guys

People get uncomfortable when they hear the phrase “a jealous God.” I’ve seen it in church spaces and casual conversations alike. Some people rush to explain it away, like the word doesn’t mean what it clearly says. Others double down, as if divine jealousy is something to be feared more than understood.

As someone who isn’t Christian, I don’t have the instinct to defend or reinterpret that language for comfort. I can look at it more directly. I’m not part of the belief system, but that doesn’t mean I can’t explore the ideas. In fact, being outside of it gives me a kind of freedom. I’m not trying to protect a doctrine. I’m just observing.

So let’s take the statement seriously for a moment. If God is jealous, what does that actually suggest? Not metaphorically, not softened or explained into something else. Just what it is.

In human terms, jealousy often gets a bad reputation. It’s associated with insecurity, possessiveness, or fear of being replaced. But it can also come from knowing your value and feeling frustrated when it’s ignored. Wanting loyalty isn’t inherently toxic. It depends on the context, the motive, and the awareness behind it.

So when I hear that God is jealous, I don’t hear it as divine insecurity. I hear it as a being who knows what they’ve offered and who notices when it’s taken for granted. In that sense, maybe God isn’t petty. Maybe they just have standards. Maybe they expect people to be accountable for what they choose to love and follow. Not out of ego, but out of knowing what’s real.

The Bible says humans are made in God’s image. I don’t interpret that literally, because I don’t believe God looks like anyone. But if we think of “image” as shared essence, then maybe our emotions aren’t just random traits. Maybe they are reflections. That would include our capacity for longing, for disappointment, for desire. Maybe those things exist in us because they exist in something greater.

It’s possible to imagine God as something entirely above emotion, but that version feels abstract and disconnected. If God doesn’t feel anything, then what’s the point of a relationship? If God does feel—whether love, anger, or even jealousy—then maybe they’re not above us, but with us. Not in limitation, but in shared experience.

think about it

I’ve also always found it strange how people assign gender to God without thinking about it. “He” is the default, but that’s a human default, not necessarily a divine one. If God created all things and exists beyond the limits of biology, then wouldn’t “they” be more accurate? Not as a nod to gender politics, but simply as an acknowledgement that God is not a man. Or a woman. Or any one thing.

In that light, divine jealousy doesn’t feel like a flaw. It feels like a boundary. A way of saying, “I know what I’m worth. I know what I’ve given you. And I see when you ignore it.”

That’s not small. That’s not fragile. That’s real.

So maybe when people hear “jealous God,” they should pause before brushing it off. Not because it’s comfortable, but because it might be honest. Maybe we’re projecting, or perhaps we’re just afraid of a God who actually expects something from us in return.

As someone on the outside, I’m not trying to argue theology. I’m just asking questions, observing the language. And noticing that sometimes the words we’re most uncomfortable with are the ones that tell us the most.

This random idea came to me on one of my infamous evening walks, i hope you enjoyed this random brain dump

I used to be terrified of asking for things. Not just big things, like jobs or opportunities, but the small things too. Clarification. Help. Space. Honesty. I would rather sit with the discomfort of not knowing than risk hearing the word no. Because no felt like rejection, and rejection felt like proof that I shouldn’t have asked in the first place.

So instead of asking, I waited. I hoped people would figure out what I needed on their own. I convinced myself that if they really cared, I wouldn’t have to say anything at all. But that never really worked. The silence only led to more silence. And eventually, to resentment not only toward them, but also toward myself.

It took me a long time to realize that not asking was its own kind of answer. And it wasn’t the one I wanted.

The truth is, most of us aren’t scared of the word “no.” We’re scared of what we think it says about us that we’re too much. That we’re not worth the yes. That we misread the moment or overstepped. But all of that is just fear talking. Because when you strip it down, “no” is just a word. It’s not a character judgment. It’s not a life sentence. It’s not a sign that you’re wrong for wanting something.

And still, we hold ourselves back. We overthink every message. We write it out and delete it. We imagine how the other person will react. We run through a thousand versions of the worst-case scenario before we even give ourselves a chance at something better.

But lately, I’ve been trying something different. I’ve been asking. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when I’m scared of how it’ll be received. And sometimes I get the no I was afraid of. But other times — and this is the part I keep reminding myself — I get a yes. Or I get understanding. Or I get closure. And every single time, no matter the outcome, I feel more at peace than I did when I was sitting in silence, waiting.

I’d rather deal with the sting of rejection than the ache of wondering.

This isn’t just about career stuff, by the way. It’s about all of it. The text you don’t send. The feedback you’re scared to ask for. The boundary you don’t set. The feelings you pretend not to have. The opportunity you tell yourself you’re not ready for. All the tiny ways we keep ourselves small because we think silence will protect us from pain. But it doesn’t. It just drags it out.

The people who move forward — in their career, in their relationships, in their lives — aren’t the ones who never hear no. They’re the ones who risk hearing it. They’re the ones who ask anyway. And they’re the ones who stop wasting time waiting for things to magically work out.

So I’m telling you what I keep telling myself: ask. Ask even if you’re scared. Ask even if your voice shakes or your hands tremble while you type it out. Ask even if you don’t know exactly what you want to say. You don’t have to get it perfect. You just have to get it out.

Silence won’t save you. Politeness won’t protect you. Waiting won’t change anything.

Ask for the job. Ask for clarity. Ask for the kindness you deserve. Ask for more time. Ask for the truth. Ask for what you need, even if you’re scared they won’t give it to you.

The worst they’ll say is no.
But at least you’ll know.
And that’s better than wondering forever.

I’ve been called a narcissist before. More than once. Mostly by men. Cocky. Full of myself. Too confident. It’s said like an insult, like I should shrink a little or tone it down. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe I carry myself with a certain clarity that unsettles people who expect something else.

It made me stop and think. Am I actually cocky, or is this what happens when you don’t ask for permission to take up space? Is it really about me, or about how others respond when someone doesn’t perform self-doubt for their comfort?

What makes it more complicated is that I’m actually quite shy. I tend to fade into the background in big groups. I’m more of a wallflower at loud events, and I often feel more like an observer than a participant. But in one-on-one conversations, or with people I feel safe around, I shine. That’s when I’m fully present, engaged and expressive. I carry both of those selves—quiet and bold—and maybe that confuses people. Maybe it confuses me, too.

We use the word “narcissist” so casually now. Sometimes it’s accurate. Some people truly center everything around themselves, who manipulate, who take and take. But I don’t think that every person who holds themselves with confidence deserves the label. I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting, checking in with myself. I care deeply about how I affect others. But I also have a strong sense of who I am, or at least who I want to be. And that vision motivates me.

If I hold a high idea of who I am, it’s not about thinking I’m better than anyone. It’s about believing I can become the person I imagine. It gives me direction. It helps me grow. And sometimes, yes, it gives me the energy to move through a world that often wants to make people like me second-guess everything.

So maybe there is such a thing as a good narcissist. Not someone who needs constant praise or control, but someone who has learned to back themselves. Someone who sees their own potential clearly and dares to build toward it. Someone who doesn’t pretend to be less just to make others more comfortable.

If that’s narcissism, then maybe it’s time to rethink the word.

Confidence with kindness, clarity without cruelty, and belief without arrogance is not something to shrink from. That’s something to grow from.

I found the paper by accident, scrolling through Twitter one night when I should’ve been sleeping.

Say what you want about that app, but I love it. I’ve found more strange ideas, weirdly specific rabbit holes, and unexpected inspiration there than anywhere else online. This one? It was a tweet that casually mentioned a scientific study where a dead trout managed to swim upstream. I stopped scrolling. I had to know more.

So I read the paper.

And it did not disappoint.

The story of the dead fish

The paper is called Passive Propulsion in Vortex Wakes, and it’s not even metaphorical. It’s literal. A group of researchers from MIT and Harvard placed a euthanized rainbow trout in a water channel just behind a cylinder that disrupted the flow. You’d expect the fish to just drift back with the current, but instead, something weirder happened.

A dead fish may first synchronize with a vortex wake, and then move forward against the flow, well outside the suction region.

Let me translate that.

A literal dead fish started moving upstream, against the current, just by syncing with the chaotic water flow around it. No effort. No muscles. No willpower. Just a floppy fish body getting pulled forward by the rhythm of turbulence.

I stared at that paragraph for a while.

Then I laughed. Then I felt personally attacked.

If a dead trout can do it...

There’s something poetic about the idea that even in death, the trout had forward momentum. But more than poetic, it’s instructive.

The trout didn’t swim in the way we think of swimming. It simply found itself in the right place, at the right time, with the right shape. The flow of water did the work. The trout just had to let it.

This proves that trout are, in fact, capable of recovering enough energy from the unsteady wake to use it for propelling themselves.

Again. Dead. No swimming. Just flapping passively in the chaos and somehow getting somewhere.

Lazy brilliance

We’ve been trained to believe that effort equals progress. That if you’re not grinding, sweating, or sacrificing something important, you’re not really trying. But the dead fish reminds us that sometimes, trying harder is not the answer.

Sometimes, the answer is to stop fighting the current and start listening to it.

Let’s call it lazy brilliance. Strategic stillness. Passive propulsion.

Whatever you name it, the principle is the same. The trout advanced not by muscling through the water but by syncing with the rhythm of the flow. It resonated with the turbulence and got carried forward. No self-doubt. No to-do list. No burnout. Just movement.

What’s your current?

Reading the paper made me think about how many of us are caught in resistance mode. We’re exhausted not because the work is hard, but because we keep trying to do it the hard way. We try to create from scratch when there’s energy we could borrow. We resist structures when we could ride them. We keep paddling when we could drift, just for a bit, and let something else take the weight.

What if your next creative breakthrough doesn’t need a grind? What if it just needs alignment?

What if, like the trout, you’re already surrounded by energy, but you’re too busy flailing to notice it’s trying to help?

The science is real, but the metaphor is better

Here’s the thing. The study wasn’t just about fish. The same researchers tested a mechanical foil—a kind of artificial fish tail—mounted behind a cylinder. It also moved forward without expending any energy of its own. It just had to flex the right way at the right time.

It’s all about resonance. Timing. Finding the sweet spot between effort and surrender.

“A flapping body can follow another wake-producing body, even at a distance, without expending any energy.”

Again. This is real science. But it also sounds like a manifesto for anyone who’s burned out from forcing things that don’t want to move.

Final thought

You can’t control the river, but you can choose how you move in it.

The trout didn’t fight. It flowed. And in doing so, it achieved the one thing we all want. Forward motion without burnout.

So if today feels like too much, if you’re tired of swimming and getting nowhere, ask yourself what the dead fish would do.

Then find the wake. Loosen your grip. Let the chaos do some of the work.

If a dead trout can figure it out, you probably can too.

📎 Read the original paper here:

Passive Propulsion in Vortex Wakes (Beal et al., 2006)

Hi guys,

How are we? How’s the year going so far? Have we all dumped our New Year’s resolutions already? Just me? Okay.

This is my read for the month and OH. MY. GOD. I love it so much. I can’t wait to yap about it when I’m done.

Song of the Week

Went to Ibadan for the weekend to see some friends. At some point, we all ended up in the living room playing old school Nigerian bangers.

Pure joy. Simpler times. No skips.

If you grew up with a brother, you probably already know what I’m talking about. And even if you didn’t, you’ve definitely seen it. Maybe at home. Maybe at work. Maybe in a relationship. Maybe you just never had a name for it.

I’ve been on Reddit a lot more recently, mostly because I’m trying to cut down on how much absolute brain slop I consume every day. A few days ago, I came across a post where a woman was asking if she was the asshole for being upset at her husband for giving away a bottle of her sake. A bottle she had very clearly told him not to touch. Obviously, she wasn’t wrong. But the comments went in a direction I wasn’t expecting, and suddenly everyone was talking about weaponised incompetence.

And I just sat there thinking, oh. That’s it. That’s the thing.

Weaponised incompetence is when someone pretends not to know how to do something, or does it badly enough that you eventually stop asking them to do it at all. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because you’re tired. Tired of correcting them. Tired of reminding them. Tired of feeling like you’re nagging or overreacting. So you think, whatever, I’ll just do it myself.

My first real experience with this was with my younger brother and chores. Dishes. Sweeping. Mopping. Chores in general. For a long time, I genuinely thought this was normal. That he just wasn’t good at these things. Until I noticed something strange. He never got better. And somehow, he always ended up doing less.

And then it hit me. He wasn’t incapable. He was strategic.

He knew that if he did things badly enough, consistently enough, we’d stop asking. And we did.

Once I clocked that, I couldn’t stop seeing it everywhere.

I remember reading one comment under that Reddit post that really stuck with me. Someone pointed out that people absolutely know when they’ve made a mess. They can see it. They can smell it. They just choose to ignore it until someone else comes along and deals with it. Because the moment they acknowledge it, the expectation kicks in. Now they have to clean it. So instead, they play dumb and wait for “mommy” to show up and handle it.

And honestly, that’s when the whole thing snapped into focus for me.

Because this isn’t about not knowing. It’s about not wanting the responsibility.

You see this behaviour everywhere once you start looking for it. In group projects where one person somehow never understands the instructions. At work, when someone claims they’re just not good with organisation, and that work quietly lands on someone else’s plate. In relationships, where one person becomes the default planner, the one who remembers appointments, birthdays, groceries, life. You even see it with finances. Someone says they’re bad with money, and suddenly, one person is carrying all the stress and all the risk.

Weaponised incompetence doesn’t look aggressive. It doesn’t look cruel. It looks harmless. Like confusion. Like forgetfulness. Like a lack of skill. Something you’re not really supposed to get mad about. So you don’t. You just compensate. Again and again.

Until one day you realise you’ve become the safety net for everything. You’re the one holding it all together. And someone else gets to move through life knowing that if they mess up, someone will catch it.

At some point, it stops feeling accidental.

Because this isn’t really about incompetence. It’s about the distance from consequences. About knowing that if you mess up, forget, or pretend not to notice, someone else will deal with it.

And once you realise that, you start looking at a lot of “I didn’t know” moments very differently.

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Hi guyssss.

Did you miss me? Because I missed you so much.

First things first, welcome to 2026.

This year feels important to me. Not in a dramatic way, just in a quiet, sit-with-yourself kind of way. The age I am turning this year feels like a reminder that my life is actually in my hands, and if I want things to feel different, I have to start moving like it.

2025 was a good year. I met people, I lost people, I changed my job, I wrote for you guys, and I learned more about myself than I expected. I would not change it for anything. But we are here now, and I am ready to talk about what comes next.

Here is the honest part. I do not like myself very much right now. Not in a self-hate way, but in a I-know-I-can-do-better way. And this year, I want to change that. I want to live a life where I am genuinely happy, not just surviving or getting through the days, but actually enjoying them.

I saw a post that said if you want to change your life, you just need to lock in for six months. Whatever you do consistently for six months becomes easier. It becomes familiar. It becomes who you are. That idea stayed with me. So instead of overwhelming myself with huge promises, I am choosing to focus on small, intentional habits and letting time do what it does best.

One thing I really want this year is experiences. I want side quests. I want random plans, soft mornings, new places, and stories that come from actually living. I want to say yes more often, try things I have never tried before, and give myself material to write about instead of just scrolling and observing other people live.

I have already started small. Morning walks. No headphones sometimes, just me and my thoughts. I want to decentralise social media and stop letting it be the main character of my life. I want to touch more grass, literally and figuratively. I want to be present enough to notice my surroundings, my feelings, and the people around me.

There is this video I keep thinking about. A woman cuts her plant, looks straight into the camera, and says, “I bet you it will grow back.” Time passes. Her locs are longer, she looks happier, and the plant has grown back. She was right.

And that is really the point of this post.

Time will pass regardless.

Whether you start the thing or not. Whether you choose yourself or stay comfortable. Whether you try or wait for the perfect moment. The only difference is that when time has passed, you will either have lived, learned, and grown, or you will still be wondering what could have happened.

If you take nothing else from this, take that.
Time will pass regardless.

I cannot wait to live, write, and grow with you all this year.

This is the song I’m singing right now

I know I’m privileged. I’m aware of it every time I open my mouth. That awareness sits on my shoulder, listening to everything I say, ready to remind me that I probably shouldn’t complain. And honestly, that reminder gets shoved in my face whenever I try to talk about anything I’m struggling with.

But even with all that privilege, life can still hurt. It just does. And whenever I try to say that out loud, I feel myself shutting down mid-sentence, because the world is full of people going through things so much worse. It’s as if my brain has an automatic filter: Stop. Don’t say that. Someone out there has real problems.

And that’s true. I’m not ignoring that. I’m not pretending my problems are the biggest in the room. I’m not trying to steal space from anyone else’s pain. I get it. People are living through things I can’t even imagine, real trauma, real danger, real loss.

But that doesn’t mean what I’m feeling suddenly becomes fake or unimportant.

What I find strange is how quickly people jump to the conclusion that “others have it worse.” It’s almost instinctive. As if pain works like a ranking system. As if suffering needs to be severe enough to qualify before it’s allowed to exist. As if someone else’s situation automatically erases mine.

And the result? Talking about your own struggles starts to feel like you’re committing a moral crime. You end up explaining yourself, justifying every emotion, shrinking everything down so no one thinks you’re being dramatic.

So I end up carrying things quietly. I rehearse sentences in my head before I say them. I soften everything, water it down, apologize before I even explain what’s wrong. And still, I question myself. Am I being selfish? Am I overreacting? Am I a terrible person for even feeling this?

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if admitting I’m struggling makes me some kind of monster. Like, I’m ungrateful for the good things I have, like feeling anything automatically means I don’t appreciate anything.

But the truth is simple: privilege doesn’t cancel out pain. It never has. Two things can be true at once. I can care deeply about what other people are going through and still not be okay myself. I can feel empathy and still feel exhausted. I can acknowledge someone else’s suffering without erasing my own.

This isn’t me acting entitled. This isn’t me ignoring anyone else’s reality. It’s just me admitting something I think a lot of people feel but are scared to say:

My feelings still matter, even if someone else’s are heavier.
My pain is still real, even if it’s not the worst in the world.
And I deserve space to express that without being made to feel guilty.

If anything, maybe saying this out loud lets someone else breathe a little too.

There’s always a comeback. However, the truth is that sometimes things must fall apart completely before they can come together in a new way. It has to be so over for us to be so back; it isn’t just a catchy line. It’s how life actually works.

I once heard someone say, “You can’t uncrack an egg.” And he was right. You can’t rewind the moment the shell broke. You can’t go back and choose different words, or undo the choices that led you here. Time doesn’t pause, rewind, or negotiate. It just moves.

But here’s the part people forget: a cracked egg isn’t ruined. You can cook a cracked egg. You can turn it into something it never could have been while it was still whole.

We spend so much energy looking backwards, staring at the shell and wishing it hadn’t cracked. We think the best version of our lives is the one we were holding before everything slipped. But what if the break wasn’t the end? What if it was the beginning of something else—something that only becomes possible after the fall?

Moving forward starts with accepting that time only flows in one direction. Not as a threat, but as a quiet promise. Time invites us to let go of the fantasy of “what could’ve been” and step into the reality of “what can be now.”

There’s a strange relief in that. Once you stop trying to restore the old shape of your life, you can finally start shaping a new one. You can take what’s left and create something that feeds you instead of haunts you.

No, you can’t uncrack the egg. But you can choose what the cracked egg becomes. And that choice is where the comeback begins.