Coping

Learning to Ask for Help

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I used to think asking for help was something you did only when you had no other choice. Like a last resort. A white flag. You know how Tom and Jerry would chase each other until they were completely worn out and then one of them would wave a little white cloth in surrender? Yeah. Like that. Somewhere in my mind, there was a ka-small belief that asking for help was a quiet admission of failure. A giving up.

And let’s be honest — the 8-4-4 system didn’t help. Asking questions had to be strategic. If you weren’t careful, asking a teacher a question could rain down public humiliation. The wrong timing or tone could get you dismissed, or worse, embarrassed in front of the whole class. It taught a lot of us that strong meant silent. Silent avoided licks. Capability meant being self-contained. Getting it done without drama was the gold standard. Resilience became synonymous with smiling while exhausted. In fact, smiling while exhausted was just par for the course.

Then came Boss Babe culture. There was no relenting in that world. No room to pause. I became the one who carried it all. The one who figured it out. I knew how to check in on people, offer support, manage the chaos — but rarely answered honestly when someone asked me, “How are you?”

And maybe that worked. For a while. Until it didn’t. Until I quietly burned out and began a long, complicated love affair with anxiety. My first panic attack started this cycle of hypervigilance and self-doubt. I found myself watching for invisible enemies, always preparing, never resting. I had a plan A and B and C for everything. I resented the people who didn’t notice when they were overloading me. Who couldn’t just tell that I was tired. Who expected me to keep going because I looked like I had it together. I felt like I was battling alone. And the loneliness of that nearly took me out.

Eventually, I crashed. And with that crash came a hard truth: no one was coming to save me. Not because they didn’t care — but because I never let them know I needed saving.

Learning to ask for help has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it’s also one of the most healing commitments I’ve ever made. I don’t owe anyone my superman cape. I will not suffer alone! 😬😬😬

In the beginning, choosing vulnerability over control meant I overshared everything. I didn’t know how to ease into the ask — I just cracked wide open. But I like to think I have a bit more finesse now. These days, I know who is a safe space and I have learned how to make the ask with softness. I know the people I can let in to witness the mess without needing to clean it up. My inner circle is solid. I trust them. And letting them hold me doesn’t make me less worthy — it just makes me more human.

The miracle of asking for help is that it creates permission. It opens the door for other people to ask, too. And nothing brings me more joy than showing up with the right kind of care for the people I love. My refusal to perform strength has given others the courage to stop performing, too. The depth my relationships have found through this reciprocity. It’s beautiful. We’ve learned to hold each other, in turns. And now, “I can’t do this alone” isn’t an admission to be ashamed of — it’s a sacred little prayer.

And the truth is, I’ve been honored by the vulnerability people have shared with me. I’ve been blessed by those who’ve shown up — with meals, with voice notes, with memes, with practical suggestions and emotional oxygen. I’ve learned how to receive those things. And I’ve offered them back. In that giving and receiving, we’ve created emotionally safe spaces that feel real and sacred.

So here’s what I remind myself now:

Asking for help is love in practice. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s a quiet, brave reclaiming of interdependence.

Still the best lesson I’ve learned.

Grief Wears Many Faces

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Grief doesn’t always announce itself with tears.

Sometimes, it just makes you tired.

Forgetful. ANXIOUS!!! Impatient with small talk. Disinterested in things that once made you giddy. IRRITABLE!

Sometimes, grief looks like silence. Other times, it’s laughing too loudly at the wrong time.

It shows up as “I’m fine” in a text. Or that little pause before you say someone’s name, even years after they’re gone. 

Grief doesn’t like attention. It certainly loves solitude and isolation. It wears ordinary clothes (sometimes, with shower optional alternatives like lots of cologne). It shows up to work on time.

It smiles at the neighbor. But really hates surprises. It eats lunch. Then sits in your throat for the rest of the day like something unswallowed. And then it clouds your eyes with tears – making you wait for the other shoe to drop. Did I mention the foreboding of doom. Not knowing that the worst has passed.

I used to think grief was a season. Something you pass through.

But I don’t believe that anymore.

Now I think grief is a shape-shifter. It comes and goes. It makes itself comfortable in strange places — in the song you skipped, the birthday you forgot, the photo you weren’t prepared to see.

And I’ve stopped trying to outgrow it. Instead, I make space for it when it shows up. Like a language, I try to learn its peculiar vocabulary. I let the words roll of my tongue. I let grief sit beside me. Not to be tolerated, per se.  Just to be able to say, “Hi. I see you. Please no wahallah!” (ehehehe…) And really it’s enough.

There’s a quiet power in naming what hurts without expecting it to go away. A permission to redefine happiness and job in the presence of profound sadness. In fact, I am totally convinced that there’s a special ring of glory bestowed by our ancestors for allowing sadness to visit without trying to redecorate it as something else.

Anyway, this week, I’m not writing a solution. I’m just writing a recognition. Grief wears many faces. And it doesn’t make me broken to know them all.

The Worst Advice I ever Took

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There’s something especially frustrating about realizing you followed bad advice—not because it was malicious, but because it was normal. The kind of advice everyone nods at and that you are almost always required to take. Simply because it is such good advice that you can’t possibly have anything against it.  I mean this is the kind of advice that fits in polite conversation and LinkedIn posts.

Some of the most destructive advice for creative people often takes this VERY SENSIBLE form. I mean one of my favorite terrible pieces of advice is: “Be realistic.”

It sounds harmless, right? Grounded. Wise. A call to humility. But what it really did—at least for me—was shrink possibility. It taught me to dream within frameworks other people had already tested. It taught me to ask smaller questions. To choose paths that felt “proven.”

I remember being told not to focus so much on writing.

To “keep it as a hobby.”

To find something more practical to pursue. A 

And for a while, I listened. I let the voice of “realism” override the voice of wonder. I made safe choices. Applied for the sensible jobs. Stopped calling myself a writer unless I had something published to prove it.

I don’t blame anyone. They meant well. They just didn’t see the version of me that lights up when I build a world from scratch, or spend five pages on one conversation between imagined people who feel so, so real.

But still—that advice cost me something. Time. Courage. Maybe a few stories that never made it to the page.

The thing about “realistic” is that it often centers other people’s fears, not your vision. It wants you to be legible. Predictable. A good fit for the systems that already exist.

But I’ve since learned: some of the best things in my life happened because I ignored that advice. Because I bet on something that didn’t make sense to anyone but me.

So now, I keep a little internal filter. When advice comes my way, I ask: Is this protecting me, or limiting me? Is this helping me build something, or just keeping me from falling?

I still don’t have it all figured out. I’m still learning how to trust my own rhythm. But I’m done trying to be realistic.

I’d rather be faithful to the wild, slightly irrational parts of me that still believe the impossible is worth chasing.

That One Bad Review

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There’s a particular kind of hurt that comes from being misunderstood in public. Not criticized. Misunderstood.

I once got a review for one of my books—buried deep in a blog I hadn’t even known existed until someone sent me the link. And let me just say: I don’t go looking for reviews. But when you hear the words “I found someone talking about your work,” you click. Of course you do.

At first, I was okay. Curious. Even nodding at some of their points. Yes, there were typos. Yes, the structure was a little jagged. I could own that.

But then came the sentence that made my throat tighten:

“1.5 out of 5.”

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that they said I had a strong sense of place. It didn’t matter that they mentioned potential. I could feel my lungs get smaller in my chest. My stomach flipped. It was like someone had looked at the whole of me and said, “pass.”

What hurt wasn’t the rating. It was the finality of it. Like I’d been scored as a person, not just as a writer. Like the sum of years spent collecting ideas, sitting through doubt, pushing past paralysis—could be wrapped up in a number and dismissed.

That review made me question everything.

Why I write.

If I’m any good.

Whether I’m wasting everyone’s time—including my own.

I cried a little. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Like something tender had been poked one too many times.

And then—I don’t know—I remembered that, much like friendships, the relationships a writer has with her readership is deeply personal. I think I needed to embrace the fact that as a writer I may not be for everyone. In fact, it felt like you know creating any form of art is a journey of sorts. Sometimes, even good art shows up before it’s ready. Or before the reader is ready. Or maybe before the writer is ready.

I think I was successful in consoling myself. So, I keep going. With typos. With imperfect plots. With the kind of writing that might earn me another 1.5 somewhere down the road. Because I also know the kind of writing that earns a message like, “I didn’t know anyone else felt this way.” 

And true… now that I am sitting here, remembering someone who asked me how I am able to write this and capture something so relatable to them. And for that kind of connection, I’ll risk another review.

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.

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.

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*

Can I be me?

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So a while back I watched one of the many docu-stories on Whitney Houston on Netflix. It was all very riveting… I mean, she was the queen of voice, right? Super Bowl XXV and Star Spangled Banner…

Anyway, one of her docu-stories has stayed with me. I can’t remember the title – it might even be the same title as my post – but in one of the most poignant scenes, they tell her that she’s about to go on an interview and she innocently (so hopefully) asks, “Can I be me?”

Now, I don’t recall the exact answer she gets but the change in her face makes it clear that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And you can almost see her slowly shift into a manufactured person. The vibrancy in her eyes fades. But she does well in the interview. Her responses are well-timed and seasoned with the right amounts of bubbly. And she… she is so very severely diminished.

I revisit that image and scene in my mind often. When I encounter people who have high walls and eyes full of secrets. When I try to shade myself and make it look like feminine mystique (I often fail miserably — but the efforts are hilarious even to me). When I hear pain in stories that are so bravely told. When I hear deprecating humor and sarcasm come through in conversations. When I see longing in children’s eyes for affirmation from their siblings. When I hear my mother missing me but trying so hard not to say so. When I see my friend act out only to pull back in shame and guilt. When I interact with people at work and struggle not to reach out a hand and say, “Just be you… I promise to be me, in return.”

I don’t know why the process of human domestication requires denial of vital parts of ourselves.

Maybe the stress and exhaustion of work everyday is not in the tasks or the cleverness demanded by the roles we play. Maybe it is from the shimmying in and out of these necessary performances. Maybe our greatest fetes as humans is not in exhibiting consciousness but in the continuous acting and performance we do and pass off as living life.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I making it sound — gosh I am obsessed with the story behind the story, aren’t I?

I wonder who will serve up “Can I be me?” face today.

Channeling the happy thoughts

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Today was a rough day for me.  I was basically okay but had a case of melancholia.  I was very happy when my nap on the couch went by slowly and time didn’t zip through as it usually does. I woke up from my nap without a panic or anxiety so that was great! But I couldn’t explain this sunken feeling.

When I have the blues, if I can explain the source, I am more likely to ride the wave faster.  But I couldn’t pin this one down.

Usually, it is part longing for someone to be with me on lazy Sunday afternoon.  Part of it is loneliness and the tension of walking a space where I desire the alone time too.  Part of it is despair because I can’t figure our fast enough what I want.  Part of it is wondering if this is all that life has to offer.  Part of it is playing victim, part of it is fatigue, part of it is the neurotic brain, and part of it is… just exhausting.

And even after all that, I couldn’t understand why I had this feeling of emotional distress. I couldn’t journal it away. I couldn’t screen it away – you know, watch enough Netflix episodes of a show and put myself in a catatonic state. I tried a couple of empowering thoughts.  A half-ass attempt at meditation.  I tried to get into a quick HIIT workout.  But then there not enough that I could do.

And so I gave in to the sadness and waited for it to seep out of my pores.

It was a long day.

 

On brave new things

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So I did something so brave today and it was totally not what I expected.  In this space that I voluntarily led myself, I was completely and truly vulnerable and I am not sure that I enjoyed it.

I was able to really confront myself and I am not sure I liked what I saw reflected back.

All these people who claim self love is natural clearly have not been brought up around religion, tradition, and societies built wholly on expectations that serve only to carmoflauge reality.

My experience is that it is so hard to love myself because of all these expectations I have.  And truly seeing myself is even harder.  I am more than happy to pretend that I embrace myself even when I know that my heart is far behind my mind.  And when I know that the struggle of adulthood is to make sure that mind-heart alignment is right.

What’s even harder is when what your mind believes is so much farther from what your heart reflects back.  Or to be in space where your inner person is so separated and distanced and far away from your physical self.  And to be in a place where your rational mind is so completely aware that correction to balance and alignement is a life principle – so it’s better to act than be forced to act.

Oh the fear. I am afraid.

But perhaps I am also brave.