Writing

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.

The Stories We Inherit

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Some of the stories I tell didn’t start with me. Or rather, the storyteller in me didn’t start with me. This yearning for words woven together — it was passed down. And I’m still trying to find the stories that were passed down… or that should have been. The longing to connect through story didn’t arrive in leather-bound volumes. It came in outside kitchens and family gatherings. In long queues and matatus. In whispers during weddings.

I grew up in a family that loves to talk. They didn’t always call it storytelling. They called it “talking,” or “remembering,” or “just saying.” But they were archiving. Preserving. Making maps out of memory. And the joy of retelling was mine. Our stories weren’t shaped like literature — they were shaped by life. And in that living was all the adventure we ever needed. I’ve come to realize that so much of who I am as a writer was formed by listening.

The way my auntie said someone’s name when she didn’t approve. The way my grandmother used pauses for punctuation and sarcasm for punchline. The way stories were told, and repeated, and told again until they became ritual. The way the grapevine did its thing — ensuring the story passed through every ear at least once, depending on when you jumped into the mix.

I think of those voices often when I write. I feel them behind me, or maybe inside me. As though, in telling these stories and recalling those names, I’m keeping something alive. I hear them in my inner narrator, like I’ve been plugged into the central vestibule of our family’s hopes, regrets, resilience, and song. These stories connect the threads I want to weave together — not just in what was said, but how it was said. The rhythm. The emotion. The silences that held meaning. The jokes. The laughter. The way we cherished the moment. The ache of missing those who left too soon. Or those who just plain left. Of those who we don’t mention but hold important parts of the story.

Lately, I’ve been trying to archive more of these stories while I still can. To sit with my uncles and aunts and even cousins. To ask again. To write it down. Because when I hear about our people, even in fragments, I feel fuller. Richer. I feel connected to a wellspring of love that I didn’t have to earn. My inheritance lives in that love and in the stories that demonstrate this love.

These are the stories I inherited. Not because someone handed them to me formally, but because I was there. Because I heard. Because I listened. And now, I carry them into my own work — not to rewrite, but to respond. Not to preserve the past in glass, but to let it breathe through something new.

I’m always aware of the privilege of telling. Of being given space to shape these stories in my own voice. Of turning memory into meaning and hoping that, in doing so, we don’t lose our people. That we keep mentioning their names. That we keep the thread woven and intact.

I am certainly not the beginning. I’m the continuation. And I think I tell stories because someone once told a story… and then another. And because my ancestors dreamed me into existence with story inside them, the story now lives in me too.

What I Meant to Say (Do)

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There are things I wish I’d said when it mattered. Not big, sweeping declarations. Just simple truths that I held back — out of fear, timing, pride, or that awful belief that I’d have another chance.

What I meant to say was: “I didn’t know how to love you right then, but I wanted to.” Or maybe: “You hurt me more than I admitted — but I still think of you kindly.” Or: “I’m sorry I didn’t show up when we agreed, because I feared you were more important to me than I was to you. I didn’t want to lose.”

I just wish those moments hadn’t been so full of fear. Or competition. Or pride. I wish my heart could have recognized when it was important to be transparent — to be bold. I wonder if people become wiser with age and can identify a pivotal moment that has the potential to change the shape of a relationship. And if that kind of wisdom exists, how can I tap into it faster?

Sometimes, the loss of the moment isn’t only about what I didn’t say — but what I didn’t do, because I thought I had more time. Lately, I’ve been remembering a conversation I wanted to have with my father before he died. I wanted to know more about him — how he grew up, how he lived, how he saw the world. I wanted an oral history. But I waited too long. I thought we had more time.

Or that man I loved so deeply. I wish I had pushed us to take the leap. But the moment passed. He was also gone. And there’s no going back.

But not everything I didn’t say was profound. Sometimes, I just wish I had expanded the moment a little. Said something like “Don’t go.” Or, “I hear you.” Or even, “Tell me more about that.” But the moment passed, and the pause was too long to say more. Or the person passed — and now I carry the words like little pebbles in my pocket. Not heavy enough to stop me, but impossible to ignore. And my heart keeps saying: I wish I had said it. Can I go back and say it? The regret lives at the base of my brain, and I rest my neck on it.

I suppose the lesson is that not every truth arrives on time. But how can I accept that there’s beauty or purpose in the delay? How do I make peace with the distance that silence — or death — creates? Accepting that the moment is gone doesn’t mean I don’t still wish I had said the words, or done the thing.

These days, I pray for the courage to speak when the urge is kind and clean. I pray I can recognize the moment when choosing now over maybe could change the shape of everything. I hope I’ve learned how to say the thing when it’s warm — not when it’s stale. To risk the awkward moment over the lingering ache of “too late.”

I wonder if it’s a skill I can master… this bravery to act in time.

Unsent Letters

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I’m a romantic. So yeah… I’ve written more letters than I’ve sent.

Long, spiraling ones with no punctuation. Short ones with just one sentence I couldn’t say out loud. On napkins. On the backs of receipts. In my Notes app at 2:43 AM. In my journal — which, honestly, I dread thinking about anyone reading in the future. What will my relatives make of my late-night musings? Hehehe…

These unsent letters — some start with “I miss you,” and others begin with choice expletives. A few open with “This hurt.” Some never make it past “Dear…” before my mind takes over and rewrites the page before I can finish the thought.

I usually write them when my chest feels tight with unspoken things. When I’m not sure a conversation would fix anything, but I still need to clear the static building in my heart and head. Sometimes I write them because I fear that saying something out loud would make forgiveness feel too fragile — or worse, that naming a thing would make it impossible to ignore, and then we’d have to deal with the truth. And then… the impasse.

Most of these letters stay hidden. Tucked into drawers. Folded into ziplocks like sterilized prayers. Deleted from drafts. Forgotten altogether. A few times, I’ve burned them in the kitchen sink — not out of anger, but as a kind of quiet ritual. A release.

The truth is: some letters aren’t meant to be sent. They’re meant to be written — to make space. To say what needs to be said, not to someone else, but to yourself. That’s the real magic of being a writer. Words spoken in silence have a strange kind of power. They remind me that I haven’t abandoned myself. That I can give my feelings shape without giving them away. That I can honor my voice without needing a response. That I can choose peace over performance.

And sometimes — not often, but sometimes — the letter is a rehearsal. A first draft of the thing I’ll one day have the courage to say out loud. A soft landing before the truth is spoken with full voice.

Maybe that’s what the hidden words are for. Not drama, not even clarity — just honesty. A mirror. A rescue. A reminder of what I needed to hear all along.

So yes, I’ll keep writing them. Not for closure. Not to provoke. But because even when no one else hears it, the act of writing it down means I did. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Why I Still Write

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There are days I wonder why I keep doing this — writing. Not in a dramatic way, but in that low-simmering kind of doubt that creeps in when nothing is working. When the drafts collect dust (like over four years), the plot stutters, and I can’t seem to land a sentence that sounds like me. When the stories I once held close feel unfamiliar, like a language I haven’t spoken in too long.

I tell myself maybe I’ve said all I needed to say.

Maybe the silence isn’t temporary.

Maybe the writing thing is something I outgrew quietly, without noticing.

And yet… something nudges me back. There’s still something asking to be written.

I don’t write because I’m brimming with ideas. I write because it helps me understand the ones that won’t leave me alone. Because the page doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t look away. It doesn’t ask me to make it pretty before I tell the truth. Writing is how I make sense of the world.

Writing slows the spin. It lets me stay with a thought longer than I normally would.

It gives shape to feelings that tend to live in corners.

And more and more, I find that I’m not writing to prove anything.

Not to justify the time spent or to present myself as interesting or clever.

But to make room. For myself. For what I’m still trying to figure out. For the parts I haven’t spoken aloud yet.

Sometimes I imagine a reader — someone I don’t know who might find a piece of themselves in something I’ve written. But mostly, I write for the girl I once was. The one who never knew what to do with all that feeling. The one who used to say “sorry” before every sentence. The one who still does sometimes. The one who held her breath when someone asked what she did and she longed for the day she would say, “Writer,” with conviction.

I still write for her.

Not because it’s easy, or even because it’s always healing.

But because it’s the one place I don’t have to perform.

Because even when the words feel slow and uncertain, they’re still mine.

And I think that’s enough.

I Didn’t See That Coming

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Sometimes life doesn’t whisper. It yanks the rug.

Other times it just taps you lightly on the shoulder, says, “Oh, by the way…” and then casually changes your entire trajectory.

I used to think I was good at anticipating plot twists. I am the type of person that believes in calculated risk, scenario planning. I overthink. I over-plan. I draft mental scripts for conversations that never happen. But real life? Real life has no respect for the outline.

A job I thought would last had so many things happening that I just had to leave. A person I thought would always be there violated my trust and I had to allow the friendship of years to atrophy. A version of myself I had worked hard to become outgrew me and well, it was taking me a while to adjust. A morning conversation with my Dad on wanting to document his life history didn’t happen because he died that evening. For all of this, the only thing that I knew for sure is that I didn’t see any of it coming.

I know I said I anticipate plot twists, but I don’t necessarily cope well with them. So, when these surprise events occur, I always question if I will make it. Thank God, I come out on the other side. Mostly intact. Sometimes even a little lighter. Definitely wiser.

That’s the strange thing about being surprised by life: the first reaction is often fear. Or grief. Or confusion. Or a big WTF to my ancestors. But sometimes, later, when the dust settles, there’s space to see what opened up. My brother always says to never waste a crisis and to gather data about everything including my reactions to how things unfold.

These observations have taught me that every time something ended, I felt it well, well. But it always gave way to something new. When someone left, I met someone new — even if that someone was a softer version of myself. When a plan fell apart, I finally had room to try something I wouldn’t have otherwise dared. 

I’ve stopped expecting life to follow my drafts. I’ve started hearing the call to trust that I will be okay either way. These days, I’m trying to leave space for the unexpected and I don’t mean that in the Pinterest-quote way. I mean it like, really making room, for the unplanned and the spontaneous. I am even seeing how some of the best moments in my life have happened when I was standing in the debris of my best-laid plans.

So, if you’re like me and the last few years have felt like a prolonged season where everything feels off-script, I hope you know: That’s not failure. That’s movement. Sometimes the plot twist is the beginning of the good part – the best parts of you!

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.

Softness Is Not A Weakness

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There was a time I thought softness made me fragile and that being tender meant I’d be overlooked, talked over, taken advantage of. I thought softness was something you had to outgrow. Or hide. Or iron out with discipline. Or even sharpen with an edge of grit and hardcore “gangista-ness”.

But over the years, as I have mellowed and settled into myself, I’ve come to see it differently.

Softness has evolved to not be about being passive but about being quietly present. Often asking myself to sit with a bit of the discomfort of wanting to move faster. And then about feeling things fully while still choosing to stay open. When I remain soft, I don’t necessarily become blind to my propensity to lean heavily towards hope, or that there are risks in the loving, listening, hoping — and showing up anyway.

Perhaps the greatest gift that softness has given me is how to hold space and how to pause before reacting. I have become more comfortable with sitting with my own and others’ silence without trying to fix anything. I have even become quite good at writing without rushing to the conclusion and allowing my characters to speak… for the volume of the story to swell into something I could never have anticipated in my planning.

By leaning into softness, I find an opening into a fluency of language that is new and refreshing… and over time, I have found so much that is rich.

I have to admit though, that sometimes the Universe sends me little tests here and there. They’ve been times when people have assumed that my softness means that I won’t say no or that I will always give more or worse, that I will shrink to keep the peace. Let’s just say with softness in hand, I have learned to declare sacred space around it and well, for the sake of softness, I have found boundaries. I don’t abandon myself. I am soft but no less firm.

So. These days, I really protect my peace and instead of saying to myself, “toughen up,” I say, “Pause. Wait. Listen.”

I’m learning to trust that my tenderness is a skill and a tool of moving around the world in a way that serves all of me. I have come to appreciate that I feel so richly and so deeply. I love that I cry at well-written commercials. That I can’t read certain books without hugging them at the end. That I say “I love you” a little too easily sometimes. And for that I have been rewarded with many beautiful relationships, meaningful conversations, and an understanding of our human nature that makes me a better writer.

Softness is not a weakness. It’s one of my sharpest tools.

Writing While Afraid

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No one tells you how loud fear can be in a quiet room.

You sit down to write and suddenly everything gets noisy.

What if it’s not good enough? What if no one relates?

What if this is the piece that exposes too much?

There are some stories I’ve carried for years. Not because they’re particularly extraordinary, but because they’re… fragile. I know once I say them out loud, they’ll change shape. They’ll become shared. And that scares me.

I’ve written whole essays only to delete them at the last paragraph.

Closed journals mid-sentence. REFUSED TO READ journals because I was afraid of what I would find there. Typed confessions and then backspaced myself out of them.

It’s not that I want to hide. (ok, so maybe yes, I want to run from what I will find there… but let’s focus!). It’s that I don’t always feel ready to be fully seen or even to see myself. Sometimes the truth feels too naked. Too raw. Too soon.

But here’s the thing I keep learning:

Some of the best things I’ve written were written scared. 

Not because I had conquered the fear.

But because I decided that fear wasn’t the final editor. Oh! The joy of meeting myself in that vulnerable space was so so special. There’s a special kind of power in writing through the trembling and putting your finger to the page despite the doubt. When I am able to brave the truth, it resonates so deeply… it is not perfect but it so faithfully speaks about the condition of the heart and soul, of the experience of the moment… and there’s no greater gift!

I don’t always publish those pieces. In fact, many of them stay tucked in my folders, or sit quietly in my handwritten journals. It’s kind of like a waiting room of all my little projects waiting for their number to be called. But even as they wait, there’s something comforting about a storehouse of written stories. And I know that when the time is right and when the stars align and the main something shifts, I will be able to share. 

In any case, the act of writing is a kind of exhale and so, I continue to be convinced that even if I am afraid, I should write. Slowly I am accepting the journey of then taking the next step and sharing it anyway. Especially sharing those that feel the scariest to look at.Ultimately, for a writer and a storyteller, fear doesn’t mean stop. Sometimes, it just means pay attention and speak in the text. 

That First Rejection Letter

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I still remember the first time I got a rejection letter.

Printed. Formal. Almost polite enough to feel like a compliment—if you didn’t read it too closely.

I had submitted a short story I loved. It was raw, maybe a bit clumsy, but honest. I had stayed up two nights revising it, cutting and rearranging until it breathed right. I believed in it. I had determined that I need to get some awards under my belt. Up until that point, everything I had worked on would sail to the top. I was confident this would be no different. Hard work always paid off. 

I also painfully paid for many submissions in different short story competitions. Most ranged between ten dollars ($10) and no more than $15. So, yeah, I was confident. I was giddy. I told everyone about razing through this one competition that was quite great (I don’t have the heart to write the name of the competition).

And then the email came.

“We regret to inform you…”

The words that followed didn’t matter. As is my habit, I just closed the door on the nastiness that must have followed. I’ve never reread them.

But I remember the feeling. That slow sink in the chest. That flush of embarrassment, even though no one else saw it but me. I remember putting the letter in a drawer like it might contaminate the rest of the day.

What struck me most was how final it felt.

As if one editorial committee’s “no thanks” meant “never again.”

As if someone I’d never met had quietly shut a door I didn’t know I needed open.

I didn’t write for weeks after that. Maybe longer. I don’t remember. I just remember avoiding blank pages. They felt too loud. Too risky.

But eventually, I wrote something again. Not because I felt brave. But because the stories kept tugging at me. Quietly. Persistently. Like children tapping at the edge of sleep.

And here’s what I’ve learned since then:

Rejection is not a verdict.

It’s not a label.

It’s a moment. A signal. A chance to pause, maybe—but not to stop.

That letter didn’t mean I wasn’t a writer.

It just meant that piece wasn’t the right fit for that place at that time.

Which, by the way, is not a sentence I would have accepted back then. But here we are.

These days, rejection still stings. But it doesn’t define me. Not anymore.

Now, it’s just one line in a very long paragraph.

And I keep writing.