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.