Confessional

What they don’t see

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There’s something no one tells you about being perceived as “strong”: it’s exhausting.

People see what you offer them. The output. The curated energy. The smiles, the wit, the competence. And if you’re really good at performing the role, they rarely ask how you’re doing. They just assume you’re doing fine. Thriving, even.

What they don’t see is the fight beneath the stillness.

The pep talks before you show up.

The tears that come after the phone call ends.

The way your chest tightens before you click “send.”

The mornings you sit at the edge of your bed, willing yourself to just… start.

They don’t see the rituals that keep you upright.

The playlist that summons your voice back.

The coffee you reheat three times before it ever reaches your mouth.

The voice notes you record and delete. Then record again.

I’m learning that part of the ache comes from being invisible in plain sight. And it’s not because people are careless. Sometimes, we become very good at hiding—at being functional, charismatic, articulate—while slowly eroding from the inside out.

There have been days I’ve performed confidence while feeling like a fogged mirror. Present but unclear.

There have been seasons I’ve ghosted people, not because I didn’t love them, but because I was afraid they’d ask questions I didn’t have answers for.

And there have been long stretches when I’ve written nothing, not because I had no ideas, but because I couldn’t face what those ideas might reveal about me.

So if you’re someone who seems “fine” to others but feels like you’re barely holding the seams together—this is for you.

I see you.

And I’m trying to see myself too.

The Day I Almost Quit Writing

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So, there was a day—not too long ago—when I genuinely considered quitting writing. Like, for real. Not the dramatic “I’ll never do this again!” kind of moment, but the quiet, heavy kind. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind you don’t say out loud, because saying it would make it true.

I had opened my laptop and stared at the screen for a solid hour. Typed a few words. Deleted them. Typed something else. Deleted that too. Then I just sat there, arms crossed, blinking into the void of the blinking cursor. That thing is a menace, by the way. Judgy little stick flashing at you like, “You good, sis?”

I wasn’t.

That day, I felt like I had nothing left to say. Or rather, I had things to say but didn’t trust myself to say them well. That’s the difference. It’s not the blank page that scares me—it’s the fear of not doing justice to the thing I care about. The story I want to tell. The person I want to honour. The truth I’m not sure I can shape without softening it too much… or slicing too deep.

So yeah. I almost quit. Not in a meltdown way. Just… quietly. Neatly. I thought maybe I could bow out gracefully, stop trying, and redirect all that creative energy into something else. Something less… exposing.

But then, something unexpected happened.

I got a voice note from a friend. She was laughing about a line I’d written in something ages ago. It was a throwaway line—nothing special. But it stayed with her. And in that moment, I remembered what writing can do. Not in the grand, earth-shifting sense. But in the small ways. A sentence that stays. A line that lets someone exhale. A story that makes someone feel a little less weird, a little more seen.

That was enough to keep me from quitting.

Barely, but still.

So I didn’t write anything amazing that day. I didn’t suddenly get a brilliant idea or complete a half-done draft. I just showed up again the next morning. And the one after that. And I started learning that the practice of writing—especially on the days when it feels pointless—is what makes you a writer.

Not the accolades. Not the perfect sentence. Not even the finished work.

Just the showing up.

And so here I am, still showing up. Still not always knowing what I’m doing. Still hoping that something I write—maybe even this—will land where it needs to.

Returning to the Page

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Yesterday night, I couldn’t sleep. That’s nothing new—middle age things. That’s right. I am now officially middle-aged. Or at least somewhat close. I keep thinking maybe, because of human advancement, we’ll be living until at least 120 years. In which case, I am nowhere near a midlife anything. But still.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a restlessness that no scroll, no conversation, no Netflix binge can still. Even during the day. And when I’m really quiet, I can hear the itch to pick up my journal and write. At night, the urge is stronger. During the day, some voices are louder…

“What if you wrote again, Ema?”

I usually shake my head in dismal response. Because… FEAR. I don’t know how to answer that question.

Whereas the romantic in me thinks writing again would feel like returning to a friend I once loved, my inner child remains unsure if that friend even wants to speak to me. And so… I’m paralyzed.

(Ok. Pause. Now that I think of it, there’s a friend of mine who isn’t speaking to me and—well—this is exactly how I feel about that too. I’ll double-click on that later.)

I’ve written before about writer’s block, but I recently unlocked a new layer of hell: creative paralysis.

For a long time—say, about four years—I haven’t really been writing. At least not in the way a serious writer should. Part of it was life doing what it does. The other part? Just a lot of noise. The kind of noise that drowns out any flicker of humor, tragedy, or inspiration that could drive a story.

I think I lost touch with my inner narrator—the one who connects to the characters and listens to their stories, then reaches out to me so I can spin moments into metaphor and silence into sensation. Losing her was terrifying. Life got so loud in my head that I couldn’t hear myself. And losing that connection to story made me imagine a dead muse in a castle somewhere—or at the very least, passed out.

As I write this now, I think the reason I couldn’t write wasn’t that I had nothing to say. I stopped because I didn’t know how to say what I needed to say without breaking.

Man, I really admire people who can channel sadness into writing. For me, grief choked out every bit of light. I felt like there was nothing left to connect me to my creative core.

But in the last few months, I’ve kind of started returning to myself. I think the insomnia and the urge to write are some forms of muscle memory. The words have started to return—not in a rush, but in fragments. What excites me is that these half-formed thoughts come while I’m showering or doing life things. When I’m driving. When I take slow walks on the beach.

It feels like I’m reconciling with my inner story concierge. Maybe I can start trusting that the world of story can hold me again.

I know this isn’t a triumphant return. It’s not a grand announcement either. I left so many projects hanging when I went on freeze, so there’s no shiny new thing to plug. But I do feel like there’s plenty inside me that’s aching to be heard.

So, I’m here. Once a week. For the rest of the year.

Not to impress.

Not to perform.

Just to tell the truth, as best I can, in the moment I’m in.

I’m back.

And I’m beginning again.

Nefelibata

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A friend sent me a really beautiful picture with a word that I am not even sure I can pronounce. The word – Nefelibata – describes a dreamy individual who dances to their own tune. I jokingly asked my friend if that was me. She surprised me when she said yes. I giggled, actually. Mostly because on my best day I would honestly wish I was this person.

I have written before that I think the writer version of me is my best self. I feel that I was built to be a writer but I just didn’t know. And so, my life has taken me down roads that leave me writer-adjacent with deep longing to truly live a writer’s life. I honestly think that if I had chosen the writing track, my life would have been totally different. In some ways, I hold a belief that there is a whole life that awaits me on the other side of embracing my Nefelibata-ness.

What remains astonishing to me is that even after all this time and after all those affirmations from the interwebs, the novelty of walking the road less traveled is more a marvel rather than a lived experience. What is this courage that I (maybe you, we?) need to really live? Maybe it’s not too late to try and be Nefelibata?

Rethinking Ema

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So when I first started this blog, I wanted to have a way of connecting myself as an author to my future audience. In my mind, I was going to be writing and publishing many many books every year. My dream was that I would be sensational and lots of people would want to know me… hehehe… and so my blog became performative in some sense. When I read these posts, I find only snippets of myself and wonder who this person was that wrote these words. They sound like they could be my words but they also give me a sense of holding back. Some posts are quite raw – showing my insides and make me cringe ever so slightly. Being witness to your past pain is quite a jarring experience. Being witnessed to a version that you have evolved from makes you introspect a bit more… So I guess in all this, I have a question – what is true now? What remains true? What is the essence of Ema?

I think I still want to write. I continue to write. I have some great days of discipline and some not so great days. I am surer of the voice in which I write. I am humble in my pursuit of this craft. This is truly a gift that flows its own course — to be subject to its whims is quite the lesson I sometimes need — being too sure of oneself has some downsides. I have less doubt and this makes writing that much easier. There are still stories inside me that are bursting to be told. I will try my best to honor this call. This is my greatest dream and it to be a prolific writer will be my greatest achievement.

What does this mean for Ema? The name lives on, I guess. I will continue to write and Ema will continue to publish. What I hope to create is a world that feels authentic to me – the storyteller me – you know, which is a small part of the other parts that make me, me!

Re-awakening

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It’s been close to a year since I posted anything on this beautiful website. This year has been one of the hardest ones yet. I lost my writing mojo and lost my darling Father. It’s been grueling. Some days I know who I am and some days I am lost. The words to express the grief are just beneath the surface on my pain — but it’s so very hard to reach myself. And so I have been in a holding pattern.

I had a conversation with my brother yesterday. And I encouraged him about managing the sadness we feel by setting a minimum number of activities for each day. Right after Daddy died, I started with one activity minimum. I had to shower. And even then, showering was often not taking a real shower. It was hard. And then with time, I raised my minimum to three activities per day of which taking a real shower was not negotiable. You see, in the past, when I have battled depressive feelings, taking a shower has been so hard. So I knew if there’s one thing I should deal with decisively, it is showering. I leave the day open for two major activities that may include work or just managing life as an adult.

I feel like I am ready to make an upgrade to five activities per day. Showering properly is one of them and now, exercise is another. I have to put in at least 30 minutes per day. I think I will still leave two major activities open and for the last slot, I have to get the writing in.

Writing keeps me balanced and keeps me sane. It puzzles me when I am unable to write. I can’t tell if it is a sign of the state of my inner being or if it is a consequence of my true state of mind. I suppose it doesn’t quite matter. I need to do better because it really does make me feel better.

I guess my fifth commitment is about balance in the end. Writing gives me balance. And so I will write.

Christmas, Writing, and this year

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It’s been so long since I wrote anything. It’s been really difficult to get into the space where I connect with inspiration to write and express and leave my heart on paper.

Writing is mostly cathartic but also an extension of who I am. This year has tried me in the deepest way and pushed me to be so much more than I ever thought I could be.

I am so grateful.

So many people had it way harder than I did. I suppose if finding inspiration to do this thing that I desire so much is my only difficulty then I am so fortunate. So yeah… I am grateful.

Gratitude is such a funny thing. It is defined both by what we say and what we hide… this post hides a lot too… even so, at its simplest, it conveys that there was much that was lost by so many. Inspiration, for me, and perhaps time… time that mostly shifted in a blur… and now it is Christmas.

I suppose I will be bleeding on this here keyboard because I am back. And with so much story.

Emotional hangovers – part deux

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One of the benefits of working from home during these COVID times is that my experience of other humans is highly curated – read: I don’t get out much… and I had forgotten about how anxious I get in social situations ordinarily.

Soooooo… It’s not a debilitating anxiety – just a nagging sense of unease coupled with a feeling like I am talking too much… or saying too much or laughing too loudly… or sharing too much or … and the racing thoughts keep going. I had also forgotten the beginnings of the emotional hangover and how it can just stop me in my tracks. These are feelings I hadn’t felt in a long while…

I suppose one of the perks of working from home and social distancing, for me, has been the limited range of anxiety… limited anxiety has meant more energy… more energy has meant that I accomplish more… accomplishing more has meant that I feel so damn good about myself… feeling so damn good about me has literally kept me happy … and made me less self-conscious.

But today I went out of the house and had a nice early dinner. It was nice to be out and be in a social space. But now I have come back to my space feeling mildly assaulted by the racing thoughts and the feelings of falling short – they seem irrational but already fighting myself of this has exhausted me… I suppose after being alone for so long, it’s not unusual that I came back feeling assaulted by the vulnerability of being close to another human and sharing my thoughts.

It was fine in the moment. I was okay in the moment… it’s the after… the emotional hangover…

Delving into the romance of things

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So right before the COVID-19 lockdown and restricted movement shenanigans, I attended a writers salon and read for a group of people (most of who I did not know). It was a big night for me and I think I wrote about it here… though I am pretty sure I had a few more reactions to that night that I should delve into in another post… it was quite heavy stuff so maybe I will wait.

I think I love this word – delve… it’s got the right mix of sophistication without being too uppity and feels good when I write it and say it in my head… Slight digression but anywayyyy….

I am challenging myself and being really intentional about writing some sex scenes in my new romance novel. I skirted around this in my first book… I was slightly uncomfortable because I kept thinking about all the people that I know that would read that book. Also, there is a little voice inside that tells me that worse than people judging me for writing about sex, they would make judgements about my own preferences or experience.

Oy… very complex this… but you know, I think a good sex scene couched in a moving romance can be distinguishing and really elevate a story. As I am an avid reader of romance, I do think that a good love making leads to more satisfaction for the reader … from a story line perspective…

I think love making also provides the writer a more intimate space to explore complex issues about love and loving that would be difficult to otherwise delve into… you’d think that with such intimate spaces, a good sex scene can hopefully lead to an even better understanding of the characters, what motivates them, and really what they are looking for… but I am yet to overcome this fear of being silently judged.

I also think that there is also this African side of me that just feels shame about writing so openly about sex. This is more problematic because I think that the consumption of our stories requires a venture into those uncomfortable spaces and my hesitation maybe points to the need to soften and immerse myself into this experience. I imagine that this resistance is also about my ego and it’s rigid judgement about being open about sex and pleasure.

Whatever the reason may be, I think I owe it to myself to be brave and embrace this challenge.

I have decided to be intentional about facing this fear and write a couple of isolated sex scenes and see how I feel about it. I am wondering whether they are worth posting in the Confessional but I think I will decide when I get to a sizeable number. Maybe when I review them I will understand whether love making is in my repertoire of writing skills or not. I might even be able to confront and put to bed (— see what I did there — tee hee) this rigidity that makes me so aware of what is natural for lovers to do and for romance writers to describe.

Do you see how many times I used delve? Love this word. Maybe I will use it in all my sex scenes… mmmhhh…

*Oh wish me luck!*

And then COVID-19 changed the world

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So I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a tough couple of months since the first case of COVID-19 was registered in Kenya. I am not playing with ‘Rona so I have been self isolating… and have limited the number of people I interact with on a daily basis (careful to keep it under 3). Then I have worked from home since that case was announced.

Like many people, I thought that I would finally do the Shakespeare thing and come out of this COVID-19 isolation with a novel. Except I have been spent and not an ounce of creativity could be squeezed from my insides. I think I have been subconsciously directing all my energy towards survival and being content with the isolation, the silence, and the sometimes loneliness.

I have to admit that I am more hermit-ish than most people and so being isolated is not a big deal. But there are times when I wake up and wish there was someone else in the house to say “Good Morning” besides my dog… but then again, I am so happy that I get to expose my neurosis only to myself especially in these uncertain terms. So… well… it’s not clear if I am winning or not…

Anyway… for the first time today, after a writing dry spell of about two and a half months, I was finally able to write. Yes — this blog note is a major breakthrough for me! And also, I was a responsible author today and even looked at some edits from my previous book… I can’t stand the typos that were there… (palm-connect-to-face-several-times). I had started the re-edit process before COVID-19 and then lost my mojo.

I am not sure if I have enough mojo to do a new book (or complete all the ones I have started but can’t seem to finish) but I am hoping that I will have it in me to express all that is sitting inside me. There are so many stories that I hope I will get to tell — and so I pray with all that is within me that I will be able to let the creativity flow.

But I am grateful that I can write again. It feels like my soul is sighing and stretching into that magic that makes storytelling the most satisfying of activities.

*Blissful Sigh*