Month: December 2025

Romance and Regret

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I’ve been writing two characters lately. And somewhere between their dialogue and missed moments, I realized… I know these two. Not exactly. But I’ve met them. Felt like them. Maybe even been them, once or twice.

Their story isn’t dramatic. It’s not one of those love affairs that ends in broken plates and tearful monologues. It’s quieter than that. More almost than aftermath.

They remind me of all the “almost maybes” and all the loves that had so much potential. The loves that hovered just at the edge of becoming something more. The ones that fizzled without a fight. That slipped through, not because of betrayal or rage, but because no one was brave enough to say what needed saying in time.

And writing them has made me reflect on how many love stories never even begin. They just linger. In a sentence that never got said. A door no one knocked on. A moment you talked yourself out of.

I think one of the reasons I’m drawn to these two characters — the one who looks back too often, and the one who never fully showed up — is because I know what it is to hold regret. Not the loud, cinematic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that hums underneath your skin and makes you think, If only I’d been a little braver.

But the beauty of writing — the real magic — is that I get to explore all the versions of that moment. I get to ask: What if they’d stayed? What if they’d said the thing? What if they’d chosen the mess instead of the silence?

And maybe the best part? I’m not writing from a place of despair. I’m writing from possibility. From understanding. From having lived long enough to know that timing really does matter — but so does tenderness. That some of the best stories come from the tension between what was and what could have been.

So no — this isn’t just about old heartbreaks. It’s about how regret has made me a better writer. How paying attention to the ache has sharpened my ear for truth. How letting a character long for something they just missed teaches me to tell stories that are not always happy, but always honest.

And in that way, these characters are not unfinished business. They’re a new beginning.

Not a mourning. A reimagining.

Breaking the Rules

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Some of the rules I broke were never written down. They didn’t hang on classroom walls or appear in handbooks. They were implied. Inherited. Expected. Like background music or elevator music or Christmas jingles that plays softly and compel you to hum along.

Be polite.

Stay agreeable.

Don’t interrupt.

Make yourself smaller so others don’t feel threatened.

Wait your turn.

Don’t want too much.

Don’t take up too much space.

And for a long time, I followed them. Quietly. Skillfully. I became really good at playing by rules I never agreed to — rules that were passed down with love sometimes, and fear other times. I keep referencing how I got my first lessons in school. But it didn’t help that we were also a military family — more rules on top of the regular ones. And then, bonus rules because we’re Kenyan. And Kikuyu. And women. It was rule on rule on rule. All of it kind of made me feel like I was supposed to be palatable instead of present.

But something shifted. Not all at once. It wasn’t a grand rebellion or a dramatic declaration. It was more like a slow peeling away. A series of quiet “no’s.” A quiet voice in my chest that whispered, “That doesn’t sit right anymore.”

It looked like saying what I meant, even when it wasn’t easy. Writing what felt true, even if it didn’t sound “nice.” Choosing joy even when it didn’t come with credentials. Wearing red when everyone else wore beige. Laughing too loud at the wrong moment — and not apologizing for it. Resting, unapologetically, in a culture that worships burnout. Saying, “This matters to me,” and not waiting for anyone to validate that truth.

At first, it felt like failure. Like I was letting someone down — someone I couldn’t quite name. Maybe a version of myself I was taught to be. Maybe the imagined voice of a teacher, or a mentor, or a silent crowd. But now? It feels like return. A return to myself. To breath. To a voice that was never meant to echo someone else’s comfort.

I don’t break rules for shock value. I’m not trying to cause a scene. I break them to breathe. Because there’s nothing holy about performing palatability. Nothing noble about being invisible.

And sometimes the most radical thing I can do is to write my own script. Even if I have to tear up the old one, line by line, and start again. It is so clearly brave.