FEELING TRAPPED IN A CAGE, YET THE DOOR IS WIDE OPEN

I had a dream recently that still lingers in my mind.

In my dream, I was on vacation with my family by a lakeside. We had been given a beautiful table by the water for dinner, and the sun was beginning to set that golden hour where everything feels calm and full of promise. I was in my bathing suit, ready to take a swim, because the place had both a beach and a pool.

The view was breathtaking, and I remember thinking I just had to capture it. So, I told everyone I’d be back; I was going to the hotel room to grab my phone. I thought it was just around the corner.

But as I started walking back, the paths began to look unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember the way. I turned around to retrace my steps, but nothing looked the same anymore. Confused, I climbed up a pathway I thought led back, only to find myself in a completely different place. I was at a school, full of children in uniform.

Panic began to rise in me. I didn’t understand how I got there. I knelt down beside a little girl, about six or seven, and asked if she knew the way back to the beach near the hotel. She nodded confidently and said she could take me there.

As we started walking, I noticed something remarkable: she was blind. Yet she walked with such assurance, moving as if every turn and step was already mapped out in her mind. She didn’t need any guidance. She knew where she was going.

Something in me softened. I knelt again and told her she was amazing, that she was beautiful, capable, and that she should never let anyone make her feel otherwise and that disability is not inability. A single tear rolled down her cheek. I took her hand and we continued walking.

Soon she said, “We’re here.” I looked around and realized we were at the port, not the beach. Then it struck me, I had seen her before when we arrived at the port earlier in the day. Back then, she had a white cane. She suddenly pulled it out again, as if realizing we were now in new territory. It slipped and fell through a small gap into the lower deck of a ship.

I didn’t think twice, I jumped down with her to get it. I stretched and reached until I found it, which took a while, but when I looked up again, the ship had started moving. Panic set in. I had no phone, no money, no way to reach anyone. I could see the shore growing smaller as I shouted to someone in the distance that I somewhat recognized, “Tell my parents I’m on a ship and I’ll find a way back!”

All I could think about was the little girl, how to protect her, how to make sure she was safe. And right before I turned toward the inside of the ship to see what awaited us ahead, I woke up.

Oh, what a relief.

But even awake, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Did I ruin her life by taking her with me? Why did she trust me, and why did I feel so responsible for her? Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I don’t have children, if deep down I question my ability to guide another life.

Still, the dream felt like a message. Maybe it wasn’t about parenting at all, maybe it was about faith, trust, and how often we underestimate our own abilities. That little blind girl, who couldn’t see yet knew her way, represented strength and courage I often overlook in myself to move forward.

It made me realize how often we feel trapped, like we’re in a cage when, in truth, the door is wide open.

We live surrounded by opportunity: our phones, our internet connection, our hands, our skills. We have tools, limbs, and minds capable of creating, learning, and connecting to earn a living. And yet we convince ourselves we’re stuck.

It’s crazy how human beings have been placed in this vast, beautiful world, with skies, oceans, forests, and mountains, yet we lock ourselves inside boxes called rooms. We label ourselves introverts or hide behind depression, and before we know it, we’ve built cages in our minds. No wonder they say it’s mental.

That dream taught me something powerful: even when I feel lost, I am still equipped. I still have something to give because it became clear to me that I have so much more around me.

And it reminded me of a saying that now feels truer than ever:

“The direction of your life shifts the moment you change your daily rhythm because every small step shapes the journey ahead.”

I now realize, maybe the ship wasn’t taking me away, maybe it was taking me forward.

A FALLEN HERO

For the longest time, I’ve wondered how a man like Jesus, so pure and righteous, could have been rejected and hated so deeply by anyone. From the stories we hear, He seems to have been a truly lovable man. Yet, it was only in His death that people came to realize who He truly was, and by then, they had already crucified Him.

As a Catholic, during Lent, when I participate in the Way of the Cross, I always reflect on His journey here on earth. I often ask myself, out of all the people in the crowd, who chose to crucify Jesus over a thief, Barabbas? Why? Why didn’t anyone say anything? Watching The Passion of the Christ is always a painful experience. I just can’t understand how people could be so inhuman; it breaks my heart every time. And yet, despite that pain, we forget. We still sin. We still do wrong as if His death means nothing to us.

I like to compare our life lessons to that of Christ, and so I always say if Him, what of us, just mere human beings?

Today, I want to celebrate a fallen hero, Raila Amolo Odinga.

He meant so much to me, even though I never met him personally. In my community, he was deeply praised for the work he did for the people, not just for us, but for the country at large. A man of many names, both loved and hated passionately on either side.

As for me, it breaks my heart that he’s gone, 15th October 2025. As an empath who even cries during movies when moved, it’s no surprise that the tears came naturally. I cried, truly cried, for a man I never knew personally. But he was a father figure to our community. It’s no wonder we called him Baba. He kept hope alive… the hope that one day we would see a better Kenya, because he always put the country first.

He ran for presidency so many times, and though he never sat in that chair, in my heart, he was always my president. The People’s President, as many called him, and I voted for him every time. I hoped, each election, that we would finally see him lead the people who loved him so much, myself included.

He successfully fought for multi-party democracy and devolution. I can only imagine what he might have achieved if he’d been given the chance to lead this nation. He fought for peace, even after winning elections that were stolen from him. Yet as a nobleman, he let it go and chose to work with those who had taken his victory. I admired his forgiveness, how he always rose again, telling us, “We live to fight another day.” He even worked with his political enemies for the good of the country.

What hurt most during those times was the mockery. Imagine having your victory stolen and then being laughed at for it, and as a community, we endured that pain and insults.

But now, in his death, I pray Baba can finally rest. He suffered so much for the people, for a better Kenya. Imagine being detained without trial for nine months, then coming back again and continuing the fight, for the same people who would later mock you.

After all is said and done, at least I can say he got the send-off he deserved. He received a state funeral, the kind given to presidents, because to me, he was my president. The People’s President. And it was well deserved.

I don’t even know what to do with my vote anymore, or what direction to take. He was one of a kind, the reason they called him the Enigma, Agwambo! Seeing how a man can be both deeply loved and equally hated reminds me of Jesus. If even the Lord and Saviour was treated that way, then what of our mere Raila? Not that I say the two are the same, but the lesson feels familiar that nobody in this world can be loved by everybody.

Through Baba, I’ve learned perseverance and consistency. I’ve learned to hold my head high despite abuse and mockery. I’ve learned forgiveness. And with all that, I can only pray that we, too, take those lessons to heart, to love one another, live peacefully, and together build this nation into the great and prosperous Kenya that not only Baba but that we all dreamed of.

As he once said,

“I have been to the mountaintop; I have seen the glory land. I may not get there together with you, but together you will get there.”

 

SILENT BATTLES AND THE GRACE TO HEAL

 

There are seasons in life where silence feels safer than words. Where speaking becomes too heavy, and even explaining feels like reopening a wound that’s trying its best to close. I’m in that space now, the space where not talking to people feels like a form of protection. I’ve been sitting with my thoughts lately, and I can admit it: I feel shame. I feel embarrassed. I feel stuck, not doing “anything”.

Part of it came from the condition in my eye, which I had a week ago, a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Walking around with a bloodshot eye caused by a burst vein can make you want to crawl into a hole and stay there. It’s the kind of thing that draws attention, even when you wish it wouldn’t. You catch people staring a second too long, their expressions shifting from concern to discomfort. It’s no wonder I kept my sunglasses on the whole time, even indoors, not because the light hurt my eyes, but because I wanted to protect everyone from how hideous I felt I looked. I didn’t want to see that flicker of horror or pity reflected at me.

The strange thing is, this small condition brought back so many buried memories, ones I thought I had long made peace with.

I remember the accident. My face was barely recognizable. Hideous, that’s the word I recall and imagined, as I saw my reflection in the mirror. I saw the stares, the uncomfortable glances, the way people shifted in their seats when they looked at me. Their reactions cut deeper than the physical pain ever did. The wounds healed, but the scars both seen and unseen lingered because of how people squirmed around me as if my face was something to be avoided, as if scars could somehow be contagious.

That’s when I learned something about people, about behavior, compassion, and the power of silence. I realized that, as much as some love you and give you comfort, they may not always be the ones who take the time to understand your story. Sometimes, it’s strangers on the internet who stumble upon your words and feel them more deeply than those who’ve known you your whole life. Maybe it’s because I can articulate myself better in writing than I can out loud. And maybe an experience lived daily loses its edge for those around you, but for someone reading it fresh, it hits differently. You get a raw reaction that relives the moment and relates to you at a deeper level.

People’s behavior taught me that if you want to hide something, you should put it in a book. Because truly, most won’t read. Even when you write it right in front of them, even when your story is laid bare, they’ll scroll past it, skim it, or avoid it altogether. It’s no wonder that saying exists. But somehow, that realization doesn’t make me indifferent anymore. It’s freeing. It means I can tell my story without fear. I can write without worrying about judgment because most of those who would judge won’t even take the time to read or understand.

Whether people read or not, whether they choose silence or pity, it no longer matters. In fact, I’ve learned that sometimes, silence is better. Pity, though often well-intentioned, can be more painful than the wound itself.

And somewhere in between all that noise and quiet, I learned an important lesson:

Choose peace over poison.

To stop drinking from the cup of other people’s opinions and reactions. To stop replaying their stares, their whispers, their pity in my head. Peace, even when it’s lonely, is still softer than the poison of self-doubt, pity, and shame.

I often think about what Bella said in Twilight, how she’s “the suffer in silence” type. I get it completely. There’s something about quiet suffering that feels… controlled. You choose not to let people in, not because you don’t need help, but because explaining everything while it’s happening feels impossible. You can’t form words for a storm that’s still raging.

And that’s the hard part, for both sides. It’s hard to be there for someone who won’t let you in. You can only ask so many times before you start to feel like you’re prying. I’ve been on both sides of that wall, the one hurting and the one waiting outside it. It’s taught me to be gentler. To understand that sometimes people need space to fall apart, to sit in their own mess, to find their own way back.

I’ve learned to give people grace, to let them go quiet without judgment, to allow them to wallow if they need to, and to trust that maybe one day they’ll come around. Because we’re all fighting something, even if our battles don’t look the same.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is sit with your pain until it teaches you something. Sometimes healing looks like isolation, like quiet mornings where you barely recognize yourself but still choose to show up. Sometimes it’s writing words you’re not sure anyone will read, just so you can breathe again.

The good thing is, my eye is healing now. The red has faded, and I’m slowly seeing more of the white return, something so small, yet it fills me with gratitude. It’s funny how we take little things like that for granted until they remind us just how fragile we are. Illness really puts life into perspective; it reminds you of the gift of health and how easy it is to overlook what once felt ordinary. There’s a quiet joy in recovery, that moment when your body begins to feel like your own again, and I constantly remind myself never to take that for granted.

If you’ve ever felt ashamed, unseen, or broken, I see you. You’re not alone in your silence. You’re not strange for pulling away. Sometimes, stepping back is the only way to move forward.

And when you finally find your way back into the light, you’ll realize that even in your quietest moments, you were growing patiently and beautifully.

YOU REALLY DO BECOME WHAT YOU THINK

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the incredible power of our minds. Every thought we entertain, every belief we hold onto, quietly shapes the way we see ourselves and the world around us. It’s easy to underestimate the impact of our inner dialogue on our peace, confidence, and sense of purpose. Yet the truth remains: you really do become what you think.

If your mind is filled with clutter, negativity, and self-doubt, it becomes almost impossible to live with joy. I’ve experienced seasons where I let my thoughts spiral into worry, comparison, or fear, and soon enough, I felt drained and disconnected. But when I intentionally fill my mind with gratitude, hope, and truth, everything begins to shift. My energy feels lighter, my focus becomes clearer, and I start to see life through a lens of possibility rather than limitation. The state of our minds determines the state of our lives.

Emotions are not problems that need fixing; they are signals that invite us to listen. Fear often points to what truly matters. Anger reveals where our boundaries have been crossed. Anxiety usually means we’ve wandered too far into the future, and it gently calls us to return to the present. I’ve learned to see emotions as teachers rather than enemies. They don’t define us, but they help us understand where we are and what needs healing.

Many people chase motivation, hoping it will change their lives. But motivation is fleeting, it fades the moment things get hard. What truly transforms us are our habits. The small, consistent actions we take each day hold more power than bursts of inspiration. When we build habits rooted in purpose, like spending time in stillness, choosing kindness, or showing up for ourselves even when it’s hard, everything begins to shift. Little by little, our habits shape our character, and our character shapes our destiny.

Our past, too, has a way of trying to hold us captive. But the past is only a chapter, not the entire story. I remind myself to learn from it, to take the lessons it offers, but not to keep living there. Living in the past steals the beauty of the present moment. We can’t rewrite what has already happened, but we can choose how to move forward and what we carry with us.

As a creative, I’ve learned that this truth extends into the work we put out into the world. It takes faith to believe in your talent when no one seems to notice, and courage to share your art even when you doubt if it’s good enough. There are times when the results don’t come right away, and yet that’s where quiet trust is built. Every sketch, photo, painting, design, or idea is a seed. It may not bloom immediately, but with consistency and belief, it eventually finds its place. Faith in your creative purpose means releasing control over the outcome and trusting that the work you create with sincerity will reach who it’s meant to reach, in its own time.

Interestingly, this week’s Gospel reading from Luke 17:1–10 spoke about faith, the kind that starts as small as a mustard seed and moves mountains. Whether you’re a person of faith or not, the message holds true for everyone. It reminds us that transformation doesn’t come from massive leaps but from small, steady steps in the right direction, like the mustard seed, which begins tiny yet grows into a great tree over time. Just as with faith, the smallest change in thought or attitude can grow into something powerful when nurtured daily. Besides, we know that faith without action is dead.

In the same way, when someone triggers us, it’s rarely about them. It’s often a reflection of something within us that still needs attention. I’ve learned to pause in those moments and ask, “What is this trying to show me?” That pause creates space for growth. It reminds me that healing is an ongoing process and that grace must start with ourselves.

We spend so much time trying to control everything, yet control is an illusion. The only real power we have lies in our responses, in our habits, and in our choices. That’s where freedom begins.

At the end of the day, everything circles back to this truth: your thoughts shape you, your habits build you, and your choices define you. When we nurture our minds with positive, grounded thoughts, cultivate habits that align with who we’re becoming, and make intentional choices each day, we begin to step into a life of peace, purpose, and quiet faith.

Even the smallest seed of belief in yourself, in hope, in God, or in the goodness of life, is enough to grow into something extraordinary.

COMPARISON, PEACE, AND THE LONG GAME

 

There’s a quote I often come back to: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” It’s one of those truths that creeps into our lives quietly, stealing contentment before we even realize it’s gone.

We live in a world where it’s impossible not to notice what other people are doing. Every scroll through social media reminds us of someone else’s highlight reel: an award won, a new house purchased, a vacation by the beach, or even just a beautifully edited photo. At first, it looks harmless, even inspiring. But over time, comparison takes root. What was once admiration becomes dissatisfaction. What was once a celebration becomes self-doubt.

Instead of enjoying what we already have, we convince ourselves it isn’t enough. We start chasing what looks shiny, desperately trying to keep up with the Joneses. But here’s the truth: the Joneses don’t even exist. They’re an illusion, a carefully curated story. Chasing them is a race without a finish line.

And this isn’t just about wealth or lifestyle; it runs deep, especially for creatives.

The Artist’s Struggle with Comparison

Being an artist, I know this reality all too well. You put your heart into your work. You spend hours sketching, painting, designing, or creating something you believe has meaning. Then you post it. You wait. A few likes trickle in. Maybe one or two comments if you’re lucky.

And then you scroll.

That’s when you see another artist’s work; sharper, brighter, seemingly more profound. Their posts get hundreds, sometimes thousands of reactions. They’re being recognized, celebrated, and even commissioned. Meanwhile, you start asking yourself: Why not me? Is my work even worth it? Am I really good enough?

The harsh truth is, art is not a meritocracy. The best work doesn’t always get the spotlight. Sometimes it’s luck, timing, or simply the right person sharing it with the right audience. Watching others “make it” while your work goes unnoticed can feel crushing. It’s a weight that makes you question not only your talent but also your purpose.

And yet, here’s the secret: the only way through is persistence

Short-Term Praise vs. Long-Term Peace

Chasing recognition feels good in the moment, it’s that rush of short-term praise. But it fades quickly. The likes stop. The applause dies down. And then what? If your value rests only on that fleeting attention, you’ll constantly feel empty.

The real secret to true wealth is not applause, not fame, not even sales. It’s peace. It’s the quiet knowing that your work matters, even if the world doesn’t recognize it immediately. It’s creating because you love the process, because your art heals you, challenges you, or allows you to speak when words fail. That kind of wealth lasts.

The Persuasiveness of Pessimism

Another thing I’ve noticed is how different optimism and pessimism sound to our ears. Pessimism is always more persuasive. Someone says, “That’ll never work” or “It’s too risky,” and immediately, we believe them. It sounds wise, almost protective.

Optimism, on the other hand, often sounds like a sales pitch. “Keep going, it will pay off one day” feels vague, naïve, and sometimes even delusional. But the truth is, pessimism lives in the short term. It tells you what can’t happen tomorrow. Optimism, however, lives in the long term. It doesn’t promise days. It promises decades.

Think about it: every artist who’s ever been remembered wasn’t validated in a week. Some weren’t even celebrated in their lifetime. But the impact of their work grew over the years, decades, even centuries. Optimism is the quiet belief that if you keep showing up, your work will find its place.

And when I reflect on this, I’m reminded of God’s timing. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). This speaks directly into my word of the year, Providence. It’s the assurance that God’s timing is never rushed, never delayed, but perfectly aligned with His purpose for us.

Playing the Long Game

So where does this leave us? It leaves us with a choice.

We can choose comparison, short-term praise, and pessimism, and live in cycles of frustration and burnout. Or we can choose peace, the long game, and the kind of optimism that sustains us through dry seasons.

Choosing peace doesn’t mean settling. It means refusing to let external validation dictate your worth. Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring the struggle. It means accepting that the best things, whether success, recognition, or mastery, take time.

And playing the long game means trusting that what you create today may not be appreciated tomorrow, but it still matters. It’s still planting seeds, and eventually, seeds grow. As Paul reminds us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9). That’s the promise of long-term gain; the harvest comes, but only after patience, consistency, and faith.

Final Thoughts

Comparison will always be there, whispering in the background. Recognition may come slower than we hoped. And pessimism will often feel more convincing than optimism.

But in the end, joy is found in persistence. Wealth is found in peace. And greatness is found in the long game.

So to every artist, creator, or dreamer wondering if their work is worth it… Yes, it is. Even if it doesn’t look like it today. Especially if it doesn’t look like it today, because your art isn’t just for applause; it’s part of the story you’re building.

And stories, like masterpieces, are best told over time.

 

GOD KNOWS AND THAT’S ENOUGH!

 

Lately, I’ve been realizing something about how God works in our lives: He gives us just enough. Not too much that we get comfortable and forget Him, and not so little that we’re completely hopeless and abandoned. Just enough to keep us leaning on Him, remembering that we can’t do it all on our own. And you know what? God knows, and that’s enough. I actually have those exact words written on my manifesto hanging on my wall, and the older I get, the more I see the truth in them.

That phrase became real to me in a very personal way. For a long time, I had this bad habit of overexplaining myself, always trying to defend who I was or prove my truth, especially when people thought I was lying or chose not to believe me. It used to drain me, because no matter how much I explained, some people had already made up their minds. Then I started telling myself, “God knows, and that’s enough.” Whether people chose to believe me or not, it didn’t matter anymore. I know my truth, and more importantly, God knows my truth. And with that, I’ve found peace.

When I look back, I notice how life always seems to present a new challenge right after a victory. You think you’ve overcome one mountain, only to find another waiting ahead. At first, it feels unfair, like, why can’t I just breathe for a while? But then it hits me: if I had everything handed to me with no struggle, no waiting, no uncertainty, I’d probably stop praying. I’d stop asking. I’d stop depending. And I know I’m not alone in that.

The Bible tells us that God is a “jealous God” (Exodus 34:14). He wants our attention, our love, our dependency. Not because He’s insecure, but because He knows that when we turn away from Him, we turn toward destruction. So sometimes that “just enough” is His way of keeping our hearts close, teaching us to trust Him with tomorrow instead of drowning in the false security of today.

It reminds me of the Israelites in the wilderness. God provided manna for them daily, but notice how it was only enough for that day. If they tried to store it up, it spoiled (Exodus 16:19–20). Why? Because God wanted them to depend on Him every single day. And honestly, isn’t that still the story of our lives? We worry so much about where our next meal will come from, how the bills will be paid, or who will provide for us. Yet Jesus reminds us in Matthew 6:26 that if God takes care of the birds of the air and feeds them, how much more will He take care of us? If He can provide for the birds and the bees, then who am I to doubt His provision? He reminds us daily that His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22–23).

And here’s something else I’ve come to realize: deep down, when you stop and think about some of the things you once prayed for, you’ll see that you’re already living in an answered prayer. God gave you what you wanted, but because we are constantly asking for the next thing, we often forget that we’re blessed according to His timing and His understanding of what we needed in that season. That’s why we must strongly believe that everything happens for a reason, and always in God’s perfect timing (Ecclesiastes 3:1). At the end of the day, we can rest in this truth: God knows, and that’s enough.

Now, let me go back to a conversation I had with my brother that really made me think. He said, and I quote, “Blessings come with a curse.” At first, that sounded heavy, almost negative. But as he explained further, it began to make sense. A blessing, by nature, is good, but it also comes with responsibilities, sacrifices, and challenges that can feel like a curse if we’re not prepared for them. You pray for a better job, and along with it comes longer hours and more stress. You pray for influence, and along with it comes criticism and pressure. You pray for love, and with it comes sacrifice and responsibility.

It’s not that the blessing itself is bad, it’s that every blessing stretches us. And stretching can sometimes feel like breaking. That’s why Luke 12:48 is so true: “To whom much is given, much will be required.” What my brother meant is that we have to recognize this balance and learn to choose contentment. We can’t just expect the good without the weight it carries. So the key is being happy with what we have, trusting God’s wisdom, and knowing that even when blessings feel heavy, they are still gifts from Him.

That’s why it’s so important not to lose yourself in the middle of the sacrifices you make. Society loves to glorify sacrifice, calling it noble, and yes, there’s honor in serving others. But if in the process you neglect yourself, your health, your soul, what good is that? Even Jesus, who gave everything, still took time to rest, to pray, to withdraw from the crowds (Luke 5:16). He showed us that self-care isn’t selfish; it’s necessary to keep going.

So here’s where I’ve landed: God gives us just enough because He knows us better than we know ourselves. Just enough to remind us to pray. Just enough to keep us grateful. Just enough to stretch us without breaking us. Just enough to make us realize that He is the source, not us.

And when the blessings feel heavy, or when the sacrifices feel like too much, maybe that’s the moment to pause and take care of yourself. To sit with God, to rest in His presence, and to remember that He is still good, even when the “just enough” doesn’t look like what we wanted.

Because the truth is, God’s “enough” has always been enough. As Philippians 4:19 says, “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” Not all your wants. Not all your plans. But your needs, your real needs, and that’s more than enough.

 

LOVE, PASSION, AND THE SILENCE BETWEEN

Love is supposed to be gentle and kind, but is it really? It does not come with instructions or a filter that makes it easier to swallow. Love exposes us, lays us bare, and often shames us mercilessly. We can pretend to control it, to manage it, to dress it up with sweet words and forced smiles, but the truth is harder to hide. Love lives in our thoughts. It presses against the walls of our hearts, demanding to be felt, even when we fight against it. And the more we resist, the louder it seems to echo inside us.

We often convince ourselves that moving on is simple. We tell ourselves time heals, that new beginnings erase old endings, and that we are strong enough to outgrow what once consumed us. But is this true, or is it only what we tell ourselves so we can keep functioning? Moving on sometimes feels less like healing and more like survival. We pile our emotions one on top of the other, hoping fresh experiences will bury the past. A new friendship, a new love, a new routine. Yet the silence always catches us. In the quiet, memories resurface. They linger like shadows, shimmering at the edges of thought, reminding us of what we have tried so hard to forget.

Maybe the truth is that we never fully move on. Maybe love is not meant to leave us. It leaves scars, deep and invisible, but always present. Scars that whisper of who we were when we gave ourselves away, when we dared to feel. We may call it hate, or we may call it indifference, but often these are only masks we wear to cover the ache. Hate is not the opposite of love. Sometimes it is just love’s residue, hardened and twisted, but still tethered to what once was.

This truth does not only belong to the realm of romance. It finds its way into the passions we pursue in life, art, work, dreams, and the things that once set our souls on fire. We begin with conviction, convinced we have found our calling, and we dive in wholeheartedly. But over time, the flame changes. What once felt like joy begins to feel heavy. The love we had for a craft, a dream, or even a career can shift into fatigue or even bitterness. And we wonder, was it ever love at all? Or was it a desire dressed as passion, destined to fade once lived in reality?

Perhaps love and passion share this one cruel truth: they are rarely permanent. They evolve, they transform, and sometimes they fade. When passion withers, we often resent it. It feels like a betrayal, as though we were abandoned by something we once trusted. Just like with lost love, we may disguise that grief as hate. It is easier to call it bitterness than to admit we still care. It is easier to shut the door than to admit part of us still longs for the fire.

But maybe that lingering ache is not a curse. Maybe it is a reminder that we once lived with depth, that we once cared enough to give ourselves fully. Whether it is for a person, an art form, a career, or a dream, the scar that love and passion leave is proof of life. Proof that we were not numb, that we were willing to risk heartbreak in the hope of joy.

So how do we live with this? Perhaps the point is not to escape the wound or silence the echo. Perhaps the point is to accept that love and passion will always carry weight. They are not meant to be tidy or easy. They are meant to move us, to shape us, to scar us. And in those scars lie the stories of our memories.

Love and passion are blessings and burdens, flames of fire turned to ashes. They do not always stay, but they always leave their mark. And in the silence between what was and what is, we learn to carry both the beauty and the ache. We learn that the scar itself is a kind of love, not for what we lost, but for the proof that we once dared to feel.