WHEN CHANGE FEELS LIKE LOSS:

Learning To Let Go Without Looking Back!

In the last post, we discussed adaptation and how every shift in life requires flexibility. We learned that change is inevitable and that growth often requires us to step into unfamiliar spaces. But what happens after we choose to adapt? What happens when we finally start moving forward and realize that change also comes with loss?

On today's blog, we will understand the emotional side of transformation and learn how to let go without looking back.

1. The Unspoken Grief of Growth

When you step into something new, whether it’s a relationship, a job, a dream, or a new version of yourself, you’ll find that something has to be left behind. The space you once filled will eventually be taken up by someone else.

Sometimes your mind will compare, whispering thoughts like, “They’re doing it better than you.” That’s what keeps many people stuck, not because they don’t want to move on, but because they keep looking back.

We mistake loss for failure, but loss is simply part of moving forward. You can’t walk ahead while holding on to what’s behind you.

2. Change Creates Space, and Space Must Be Filled

Life doesn’t leave room empty for long. The moment you step out of one season, something or someone else will step in. That’s not something to fear; it’s simply how life keeps flowing.

The opportunities you don’t take, someone else will. The roles you’ve outgrown, someone else will fill. The space that once felt like yours will become someone else’s home.

But that doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It just means the world is still moving, and so are you. You can do anything you set your mind to, but not everything at once. When you try to hold on to every person, every role, and every version of yourself, you end up losing balance.

3. The Process of Letting Go

When change happens, don’t rush through it. Take a moment to acknowledge what you’re leaving behind.

It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to sit with that sense of loss and honor the version of you that once fit so perfectly in that old space. By doing this, you release the emotional weight that might keep you trapped between what was and what could be.

Most people never take time to do that. They carry their old emotions into the new, and that’s how they get stuck. They forget why they wanted change in the first place.

So pause and ask yourself: why did you want this change? What new thing were you asking for? What opportunity were you praying for? Then focus your energy there.

4. Discipline Also Comes With Loss
I was talking about this with my younger brother the other day. We often forget that discipline isn’t something you simply “gain.” It’s something you trade for.
If you want to lose weight, you don’t just wake up disciplined. You let go of something first. You release comfort. You release convenience. You release the habits that kept you exactly where you were.

You choose not to overeat.
You choose to eat well.
You choose to say goodbye to the unhealthy foods you once loved.

Discipline is never built in comfort.
It is built in sacrifice.
It is built in repeatedly choosing the version of yourself that you want to grow into, so that you can receive the changed version of you that you’re working so hard to see.

Because every change, no matter how positive, requires letting something go first.

5. You Cannot Do Everything at Once

The image for this post shows someone sleeping while studying. It captures something so simple yet so true, even rest is a choice. You chose rest instead of study. And when you choose study, you lose a moment of rest.

You cannot hold both at the same time. Every decision takes something and gives something.
Every choice is a form of letting go.

Change often begins with this quiet truth: you must release one thing to receive another.

6. Moving Forward Without Guilt

You are allowed to outgrow people, places, and situations, and still wish them well.

You are allowed to move on, even if your old space gets filled.
You are allowed to grow, even when others don’t understand your path.

You can’t stay everywhere, and you can’t be everything. Growth needs movement, and movement needs trust. So when your mind tells you that you’re losing something, remind yourself, you’re not losing, you’re making room.

7. Trust the Process

Change isn’t chaos; it’s a divine exchange. You let go of what no longer fits so you can receive what’s meant for your next season.

And yes, someone else will take your place. But that’s okay, because the next space waiting for you has already been prepared.

You’re not falling behind, you’re evolving. Keep moving, keep trusting, and believe that even the things that hurt to let go of are all working together for your good.

When we finally let go and step into something new, we often expect peace to follow right away. But sometimes, what comes next isn’t peace, it’s fear. In the next post, we will explore why that happens and how the mind can mistake success for danger.

CHANGE IS INEVITABLE, ADAPTATION IS NECESSARY

 (A Reflection on Growth, Failure, and Forward Motion)

As an artist, especially in this day and age, it’s impossible not to think about adaptation. So much is shifting around us… new technologies, changing trends, and the ever-growing presence of AI. Sometimes, it feels like I’m being pulled in every direction by my own work and skills. Every time I find a way forward, something changes again, and I’m right back to figuring it all out from scratch.

It can be exhausting, but it’s also the truth of growth. It never stops demanding movement.

There’s a quote by John C. Maxwell that says, “Fail fast, fail often, fail forward.” It sounds harsh at first, but I’ve come to see its beauty. The faster you allow yourself to fail, the quicker you learn, adapt, and grow. But that’s not how most of us were taught to see it. We were told that success means avoiding failure, not walking through it. We were taught to plan everything out perfectly before taking a step, but that’s not wisdom; it’s fear.

When you make decisions from fear, you’re not creating; you’re surviving. You’re trying to protect yourself instead of expressing yourself. And as someone who creates for a living, I’ve learned that survival and creation don’t thrive in the same space.

Adaptation, I’ve realized, means trusting movement, even when you don’t have the full picture. Sometimes you have to run before you can fly. You can’t wait for perfection to show up before you take the first step. Every phase of creation, every stage of life, is incomplete until you move. The only way to truly learn is by doing, by failing, adjusting, and doing again.

We often paralyze ourselves because we want to think everything through before we start. We want to avoid mistakes so badly that we forget mistakes are the only way to understand what needs fixing. The truth is, the answer often lies within the very problem we’re trying to avoid. What we call “failure” might just be calibration, our minds fine-tuning themselves for alignment.

Learning without practice is labor lost. Thinking without doing, without learning through the process, becomes paralyzing. I often realize this when I catch myself overanalyzing instead of acting. Thought without action builds walls, while action reveals the path. Every step forward, even a shaky one, lessens the power of fear.

If you want to solve a problem, act. Please don’t wait for clarity; create it. Overthinking drains your energy and builds resistance. But when you move, even in uncertainty, you turn that same energy into momentum. The hands begin to do what the mind fears.

Like I had mentioned in my previous blog post, ‘Transformation takes time. Even butterflies rest before they fly.’ You don’t see the movement happening inside the cocoon, but it’s there, quiet, consistent, necessary. The same is true for us. Adaptation doesn’t always look like progress; sometimes it’s simply learning to stay steady while everything shifts around you.

Adaptation, I’ve learned, is an act of faith. It’s the willingness to evolve while still unsure. So when life feels like it’s pressing you from all corners, don’t retreat. Adjust, learn, move, and trust that every detour is shaping your wings.

Because sometimes, you really do have to run before you can fly.

 

 

THE IN-BETWEEN: ARE YOU STUCK OR GROWING?

There’s this stage in life that we don’t talk about enough, the in-between. It’s that space where you know something needs to change, but you haven’t quite figured out what or how. You feel a shift inside you, a quiet stirring, but nothing seems to be moving on the outside yet. It can feel frustrating, like being caught in a fog between who you were and who you’re becoming.

I’ve been sitting in that space lately, not exactly lost, but not fully clear either. There’s a sense that I’m on the edge of something new, yet my feet feel heavy, like they haven’t learned the rhythm of this next chapter. I’ve started to realize, though, that this in-between isn’t a mistake or a delay; it’s a transition.

Change doesn’t always announce itself with a big moment or a dramatic shift. Sometimes it comes quietly, wrapped in confusion or stillness. It starts when you decide to do something differently, maybe to think differently, to set a boundary, to stop chasing what drains you, or to start believing you deserve better. That decision alone changes the pattern. And once that happens, your entire system, mind, body, and soul, begins to recalibrate.

That recalibration is what we often call being “stuck.” But what if you’re not stuck at all? What if you’re simply adjusting to the new you? The old ways don’t fit anymore, and the new ones are still forming. It’s like when a caterpillar is inside the cocoon, unseen but transforming. The in-between is that sacred space where your old identity begins to dissolve and your new one hasn’t quite taken shape yet.

I haven’t quite arrived at my “new” yet either. But I feel it, that gentle pull toward something freer, something lighter. I’ve noticed my thoughts changing, my reactions softening, and my tolerance for certain things shrinking. It’s subtle, but it’s there. And even though I don’t fully understand where it’s all leading, I’ve learned to trust that the feeling of in-between is proof that I’m not standing still, I’m evolving.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re in that same space, please don’t be discouraged. You’ve already done the hardest part, recognizing that something needs to shift. Now it’s about patience, grace, and small steps. Give yourself permission to be in the process without rushing to the outcome.

You may not have all the answers right now, but every small act of faith, every time you choose rest over worry, or hope over fear, moves you closer to what’s next.

Transformation takes time. Even butterflies rest before they fly.

Therefore, take a deep breath. The in-between isn’t the end of your story; it’s the quiet chapter where your transformation begins. The in-between doesn’t last forever; sooner or later, that quiet longing turns into motion. And that’s where adaptation begins.

 

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.