Looking for love

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.

Being Enough

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I’ve spent years measuring myself against invisible metrics. How much I got done. How many words I wrote. How available I was. How well I held it all together without asking for help. Even rest had to be earned. Joy had to be justified. Love had to be deserved.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself: what if I’m already enough? Even on the days I don’t perform. Even when I’m not productive or pleasing or proving anything. What if I’m allowed to just… be?

There’s a version of me I used to chase. She was more disciplined. More “together.” More consistent. But she always felt just out of reach — like every time I got close, she’d move the finish line again. And I’ve started to wonder if I’m not meant to catch her at all. Maybe I’m meant to return to myself instead. To the version of me who breathes slower. Who laughs easily. Who doesn’t trim herself down to make others comfortable. Who doesn’t perform wellness or perfection. Who just… exists.

“Enough” used to feel like a verdict I had to earn. Now it feels more like a birthright I forgot how to trust and I really can allow myself to possess.

I’m not always confident. I still spiral. I still compare. I still want gold stars, praise, reassurance. But more and more, I have these moments where I feel still inside my own skin. I’ll notice the way the light filters through the window and think: this is it. This is life. This is being. I’m not asking to be more. I’m not chasing the next version of me. I’m just letting myself exist here, as I am.

So today, this is my reminder — to myself, and maybe to you too:

You’re not behind. You’re not lacking. You don’t need to fix everything before you’re allowed to feel whole.

You are already enough.

Even without the striving. Especially without the striving.

A Love I Didn’t Keep

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Some loves don’t end with drama. No betrayal. No big fight. No final goodbye yelled into a rainy night. Just slow unspooling. You find yourself thinking of them less and less. The texts become fewer. Then the pauses between replies stretch longer — before being ignored even becomes a thing. And then… there’s just no feeling. The phone calls are shorter, the silences longer. There’s awkwardness. And that strange moment when you realize the laughter isn’t quite the same, and neither of you knows how to ask why.

I used to think love had to last to be real — that if the feelings faded, then maybe it wasn’t love to begin with. But life, ha! I think now, more and more, that some of the deepest loves don’t stay. They arrive to teach you something. To stretch your heart. To open a door. And then they leave.

This is about one of those loves.

We didn’t end in anger. In fact, I feel guilt sometimes — because I ended up feeling nothing. Well, not nothing exactly… maybe a kind of passive-aggressive bitterness. A resentment that came not from betrayal but from boredom. From realizing that we were growing in different directions — slowly enough for us both to notice. It became clear that he wasn’t as motivated to stop the disintegration of us, and I was a little too tired to keep denying that the shape of us had changed. And the truth? I didn’t quite feel the loss.

Still, I remember the mornings that felt sacred. The inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. The ways we tried. The moments we got it right. The warmth and joy and spark of it. The fire. The chemistry. The romance. The tenderness. The urgency. I remember all of it, and I (mostly) don’t regret it.

I think this might have been the first time I could look back at a relationship and feel that I was actually ready for a love to end. That loving someone and not wanting to keep them wasn’t a betrayal of my romantic ideals. And that I didn’t need to vilify him to make sense of the ending. I could simply say: he loved me — maybe not in the way I needed forever, but in the way he could, then. And that was how it was meant to be.

I still find myself wondering whether it’s okay to file this under loved and gladly shelved. I mean, I don’t think I get to decide the categories of love. Maybe they were set by the gods or the ancestors long ago — that not every love is meant to be permanent, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t valid. There’s comfort in that, I think.

Not every ending is a failure. Sometimes it’s just a quiet closing of a chapter.

So aside from the small-small sadness, the soft ache of parting, I carry a kind of gratitude. A softness around the memory of a love that was real, even if it didn’t last. A love that mattered — for as long as it did.

I wonder if this is how it is with some friendships too.

sigh

Notes to my Younger Self

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Dear girl,

Oh dear, little girl. I wish we had had this conversation earlier.

You don’t have to prove your worth by how much you can endure.

You don’t have to fix everything before you allow yourself to rest.

You don’t need to explain why your joy matters. Or why your tears are valid.

Someone, some time, convinced you that love is earned through effort. That you have to be useful to be kept. That you have to keep working harder and faster than anyone to stay ahead of crises unknown. That you have to anticipate needs before anyone speaks them. And honestly? You’ve gotten really good at that.

But I want you to know — you were never supposed to disappear in order to belong.

You think you’re being “easy” when you wait just a little too long to ask for help.

You think you’re being mature when you withdraw tactfully when you’re pain to yourself.

You think you’re being strong when you say “it’s fine” even when it’s not.

But baby girl — I see you.

And I know you’re tired.

Let me tell you a few things I wish you had heard sooner:

You are not dramatic. You are expressive.

You are not weak. You are emotionally attuned.

You are not too much. You are in full color. You just have a not-so-quiet stubbornness to be just you. You are not unstable. You are just full of life and committed to living truthfully (at least by not lying to yourself, no matter what).

Oh, sweet girl. Life has taught us that there always will be people who won’t understand you. Some even in the circle of those who love you the most. That’s okay. Don’t twist yourself trying to understand why this is the way it is. Don’t even try to analyze why they don’t get it. You’ll learn, eventually, and be okay with not always being the Belle of the Ball. And the world will not end.

And here’s something else: one day, you’ll learn the joy of finding your tribe. And people who make you feel compelled to keep your softness. Keep your curiosity. People who amplify your voice, even when it trembles, and who hold your hand through everything. It is a wonderful joy to be loved by other people than those who first loved you and have been so steadfast (that huge family and those crazy siblings of yours, of course).

Most of all, you will discover that you can say with as much honesty as the sun rising in the east that you truly love yourself. I really and truly love you.

We’re still becoming.

Love,

Me.

Love in the Margins

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Some of the most formative love stories of my life didn’t end in relationships. They didn’t even begin in the way stories are supposed to. No grand gestures. No well-lit first dates. Just quiet connections that existed… on the edges.

The guy who always studied with me for our classes and did joint assignments, even though we never once called it a date. The friend who made me playlists but never said the words I needed. In fact, this guy made me laugh because he could never remember when we met and yet for me, it was one of the most significant events – I felt so much for him when we were talking… joke was, for him, it was just another great conversation (!).

So many tender moments and so many left on the way. There was one guy who very quickly, after an equally brief liaison, stopped talking to me. By then, I hadn’t wisened up to college guys and their ways. He just moved on and never looked back—but knowing him sure taught me how to spot guys like him from a mile away. 

There was one with whom we had an instant connection on a flight from North Carolina to New York. We sat there looking at each other. Our shoulders moving ever so much closer. He had these beautiful eyes and it felt like it could be something. He invited me to walk Central Park with him. But before I could answer, we remembered he was engaged.

There is another stereotype I have encountered one too many a time: the almost-lover who said, “Let me get you home,” after a night out but could never quite make a move when we got to my house.

Love in the margins is tricky. It doesn’t ask for much. It thrives on eye contact that lingers half a second too long. On inside jokes. On the careful way someone says your name. It rarely announces – or pronounces – itself. But it leaves shadowy feelings. Most of the time, these comment balloons type of love, just has enough room for longing and not much else.

It took me a while to understand this kind of love. I think it took me far too long to see that some loves are not meant to unfold. They are, instead, meant to reveal. To show you what matters to you. What doesn’t. Where your boundaries are. Where your softness begins. And sometimes just to remind you that you are alive. Breathing.

These “love in the margins” people are never for a chapter in my story. They are present in memories and only ever remembered in nostalgia, or in the demands of every love scene that comes long after they are gone.

I don’t write about them often. Mostly because I don’t want to overinflate what wasn’t. But also because I know that love can be true without being permanent. That not all loves have a destination… sometimes they’re like matching in place. Love in the margins. I think this is possibly where the most human parts of love reside – not so much in declarations, but so clear in the “it could have been.” 

Love is…

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So when I was younger I religiously read one of our daily newspapers, The Daily Nation, because it had this comic strip – Love is – which it turns outs, has an awesome love story about its creator and how she drew the cartoons for her future husband… *swoon*

I used to race each day to find what love was each day and I savored every reading.

Recently, I have been wondering what love really is — especially now that life has happened to me and things are not what I thought they would turn out to be.

Turns out that love is not as simple for me as I thought it would be. Unrequited feelings, loss, and personal tragedies make it difficult to ease into love or even to trust that things work out. Isolation is a safer space than it should be for a romantic… and I am far more familiar with loneliness than I ever thought I would be.

But this is not the only story about what love is or has been. I have loved many wonderful souls and some were really wonderful people to love. I have loved others who did not love me back. I was loved by some that I did not love back. So, really, love has been a retrospectively wonderful experience.

Some days, though, like today, love seems to be one endless journey of searching, connecting, disconnecting, falling and failing, and I suppose for the most part, just waiting. Waiting for something magical to find me and surprise me and stick with me… in the most pleasurably challenging ways.

https://loveiscomix.com/daily/20050914/

Back to simplicity

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So I have been suffering from writers’ block. I just cannot seem to get it together. But you know the funny thing is that I was feeling some sort of pressure to write a certain way.

Someone please buy me this from Whiskey River Soap Co

Okay, so I think I have figured out where the block is coming from. You see, I had a conversation with an interesting person at a cafe somewhere in Nairobi about writing. The conversation was pleasant at the time and I had no issues with the exchange we had.

Lately, though, that conversation has become some sort of private hell and replaying it in my mind has been messing with my mojo. Anyway, in the conversation, I was blabbing about my writing process and what it means for my emotional stability. The pleasant stranger stopped me to ask what I write about. I said romance and then they cringed. And I winced in response.

This conversation – cringes and winces included – has been fueling my writers’ block in the way of an accelerant to a fire. Every time I sit down to write, I have a short flash back to that convo. And yes, of course, I cringe.

But I also find myself working very hard to sound intellectual in my writing. I am so obsessed with creating deep, meaningful interactions that I feel that I am killing my own vibe. I don’t know. I like writing romance and making it not so cringe-worthy is really slowing me down. It is also making me want to sit in a corner, hug my knees, and cry… mostly because deep down I am afraid of the fact that I am insecure about loving romance novels. I suppose I feel a bit of shame that I totally eat up nyummy stories about connecting with someone, the excitement of kissing them, the anguish of conflict, and the relief of making up.

My good lord! Sounding intellectual when trying to write about love is exhausting! I have been looking for ways to disappoint my characters so that they are in despair. After all, sadness and heartbreak are a separate category of literature, right? And I am not the queen of plot twists — I confuse myself!

I am not sure why admitting to writing romance bothers me because in the secret places of my being, the magic of romance is enough. And I wish I could just go back to a simple story of lovers meeting, then loving then fighting then loving again. My current book is killing me because I feel as though I am playing to an audience that’s judging me already.

I am so behind on my word count goals that I am thinking of abandoning this book altogether. I want to start afresh and possibly just stick to a simple, sappy love story. Maybe if I do that, I will re-discover my love of storytelling and unlock this block that is costing me word counts and sanity.

Aaaarrrggggg… I could scream!

Scream
— Edvard Munch —

Okay… I must get back to the writing now.

Sometimes I am slow – part 2 of 2

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And now, the letter…

Mmmhhh… so continuing from the previous post, here’s the letter that I wrote. Somehow I am not as enthusiastic about it as I was before. I don’t even know why it was so important for me to write it or even post it. I guess it’s me needing to be heard.

I am of two minds now. Not sure if I have resolved anything. Except maybe the chance to have a one-sided conversation and make up for being really slow… Anyway, here’s the letter:

Dear Lover,

You know one of the most beautiful things about me, I think, is how much I love love… it’s kinda my thing. 

My biggest wish has been, and remains, to find this Big Love. The other night we spoke and I was not clear about the things I thought I wanted. You insisted that I knew what I needed. And I said I was not sure. I was not being disingenuous— my processor was overwhelmed by you and so things were just not ringing true in that special inner place where true wishes do.

Afterwards, nearly a week later to be honest, I was able to access myself in a way that I have not done in a long while.

It probably does not matter but I finally realized what I want. Lover, I desire to be loved deeply and truly. Being with you the other night showed me how intimacy could be. How much I missed being connected to someone. How much I really wanted to love someone back, to touch them, to nurture them, to fulfill their desires, to be close — and perhaps to give them the things they secretly wish for too — and maybe help them uncover bits and pieces of themselves they thought were lost to life experiences and disappointments.

Sometimes, like now, I am overwhelmed by how romantic and idealized my thoughts are regarding love. I am afraid that my desire to be loved in such a specific way stands in the way of me finding love. But while I know there is a good chance that these could remain longings (I am so aware of time passing), I am so totally convinced about the one thing that I cannot possibly give up: I deserve to be loved fiercely and decisively— not to be someone’s ambivalent number one. But to be wholly and boldly desired. To be chosen as the One. 

Despite being now so clear about what I desire and seek — I am terribly scared to admit it — sometimes, even to myself. 

I want to thank you, Lover, for helping me realize how important it is for me to be loved and wholly accepted and to be able to bear witness to this showing of love without confusion.  Without hesitation. And without shame of the sometimes bearing of my insecurities and neediness. 

(I am so incredibly aware of my own imperfections and inadequacies).

So you were right. I do want to be able to point and say, “Mine.” But above all this, I want the chance to be loved and to love unconditionally — and desired too — with unwavering conviction!

Conviction… Not a very romantic notion, huh?

xoxoxo

So now…

So that was the letter. I am so hopeful that I will find someone who will be sure about me.

And one who will (gasp!) give me their heart. 

And that I shall be in the privileged position of loving them too and hopefully doing it in the way they desire the most.

Sometimes I am slow – part 1 of 2

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Oh boy…

I recently had a bit more insight into myself and what I found was quite exciting. Well, to be honest, it was more terrifying than exciting but oh! the stories I tell myself!

I found that I am often slow to process my thoughts and emotions, especially when I am feeling tenderly for someone. The sharp wit, the quick come backs, and the articulate expressions often leave me. I probably will need to unpack why this happens but I now understand how people can get overwhelmed by feelings and emotions.

While I was thinking about how slow I go, it occurred to me that maybe all my senses are so tuned in to that one moment, that my brain cannot do the quick thing it does and I am at a disadvantage.

So you can guess by now, that I was in a position of disadvantage recently. I was trying to have an honest conversation with a very important “Him” … and I was incredibly frustrated by my inability to access myself and be true in the moment. I was apprehensive. I felt under pressure to appear cool. Maybe my ego didn’t help because I was already so enamored by “Him” and quite unable to process as quickly, that I was being really slow.

It wasn’t until days later that I began having the conversation, with myself obviously, that I should have had with “Him.”

It took me a week nearly to figure out my thoughts. I couldn’t go back to have a conversation because well, it was a week later. I wasn’t too keen to be as open just yet, because, well… ego… Still, my inner romantic teenager was screaming at me to ventilate my issues. I have written about ventilation before and how satisfying it is to just put things out there. Of course, the post has a different context but the theme is the same: confront the fear, deal with the issue. Anyway, I decided to write a letter.

So there’s a bit at stake here, right? There is the exposure and vulnerability of being so open. And there’s the risk of discovery— right now, I have the privilege of being undiscovered and unread. It’s so much easier to write when no one’s watching. Even better when I can disguise my most innermost thoughts and feelings as an exploration of myself as Writer (yes, with a capital W).

So anyway, I wrote this long letter. I haven’t the courage to share with “Him” so I decided to confessional it. It’s actually pretty poetic because I want to copy and paste it into the post just as the bells of a nearby Church are pealing… I will take that as a sign to proceed.

I think one of the fringe benefits of being a cowardly romance writer should be the ability to use my own inadequacies as material, not so? But I think I will create a whole new post with the letter. This one is a bit too long anyway.

You know, as I was drafting the letter, I did feel an abnormal amount of satisfaction— not only in having articulated myself as I wish I could in what I think was a defining moment of romance, but also in being honest with myself.

In my twisted romantic mind, I sometime think that one day, I will have magically earned the level of honesty with myself that will allow me to truly connect to another human being and perhaps enjoy love. Every time I am able to courageously express my innermost desires, I feel as though I am closer to finding my Big Love.

Of course, maybe I am completely off. But some romantic teenager inside me whispers, “What if you’re not wrong?”

Coming up next: Part 2 of this post.

Big Love

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I feel like I have written a confessional  with this same title before.

Let me let you in on a secret.  I love to write about love partly because of my journey to finding love.  So let me lay the ground work so that you understand why writing about love is so linked to my own experiences and search.  First, I believe in the big love.  I think there is that quintessential experience of love that we are all entitled to as human beings.  This experience comes as part of your package for going along on this journey called life.  Some people are so fortunate to have this experience multiple times, others have near misses, but you are guaranteed at least one Big Love experience.

The Big Love experience, to me, begins with finding the match.

For some people, the experience of match finding is like a comet flying through space and into the atmosphere — all fire — and it is good for them.  Everything about them is explosive: the way they love each other, defend each other, fight each other, etc.  And while the explosion fools people into thinking that they are wrong for each other, there is a sacred place of balance where they regularly check into and moderate their issues so that they fire does not consume them.  Sometimes, though, the comet lovers forget to check into the sacred space and well, things fall apart. And not in the sophisticated way that Chinua Achebe writes in his book.

Other Big Love experiences are like a warm, gentle fire burning under the skin… just enough to warm the blood and skin, but not enough to cause injury or harm.  Because the fire is delicate and just beneath the surface, things can be a bit sensitive to touch.  The ones who experience this kind of match are like those animals you heard in church choruses that walk two by two into Noah’s Ark.  Or like the picture of lovers pricked by Cupid’s Arrow… a little cliche but so well match.  Their experience of this beneath-the-surface affection is fulfilling even for those watching from outside. It’s like always having a mug of hot chocolate, warm socks, and a beautiful grey sweater, looking outside the window on a cold, damp day.   This under-the-skin Big Love is steady, safe, and always present.  It is comforting, rarely explosive, and easy to approve of — especially where judgey friends are concerned.  There may a bit of passive aggressive behavior in this love but there’s no doubting it.  But often doubt creeps in through insensitive behavior or taking things for granted.  Because it is so steady and present, it is easy to forget to nurture its glowing embers.

Then there is another experience of Big Love that begins deep in the heart. And this one has the absolute ability to shift your insides. Sometimes the love is so consuming, it makes your insides hurt.  And if you sit right, you can feel the tightening of the muscle that is your heart because this deep love physically manifests itself and makes itself known.  Sometimes when I try to describe this type of Big Love, I am reminded of the Kiswahili proverb (methali) — Mapenzi ni kikohozi, hayawezi kufichika — Love is like a cough, it cannot be hidden.  It’s so full of big gestures and events and monumental happenings. It can be quite exhausting especially if unhealthy competition sets in.  And it can end up being belittling and can kill the healthy roots that settle this love in the inner core of the heart.

My absolute favorite of the Big Love is the one that is not obvious and is hard to figure out.  For an overthinking lover, it can be a nightmare because it is not quite rational.  It is mismatched.  And because it just is, it can’t be explained.  This particular love almost always never fits the typical ideas of love … this experience is filled with mystery and surprises and not knowing.  It’s hard to predict which way this Big Love will go.  It is as fulfilling as it is nerve wracking.  It is a pure exercise in faith.  There are no guarantees but the ride is worth it all.

So where was I going with this again? … aaah yes… we are all guaranteed at least one Big Love experience and I think I already experience it once before.  But the Big Love experience did not materialize into a Forever Love.  So I keep looking…. because surely my story is not over yet, right?