MANAGING MY EXPECTATIONS

Lately, I have been managing my expectations.

It’s not something I set out to do intentionally. It happened quietly, over time. Somewhere between trying and failing, hoping and adjusting, I realized that nothing really phases me anymore. I don’t get overly excited. I don’t look too far ahead. Excitement, for me, has learned to walk hand in hand with disappointment, and I got tired of that pairing.

I don’t think this came from one specific event. It’s a collection of experiences layered on top of each other. A lack of job opportunities. A lack of visible victories. A lack of recognition in spaces where effort is supposed to matter. I have made peace with the fact that you will never catch me in a competition. Not because I don’t try, but because I know what losing feels like. I know it too well.

Winning has never been my forte. I am not the person with the loud success story or the dramatic breakthrough. I am usually on the sidelines, cheering others on, encouraging them, championing their wins. I have become very good at that. Maybe that, in itself, says something about me.

My life with startups has been particularly humbling. I start things with intention, with vision, with effort. But getting them off the ground has always been a struggle. Even when something looks successful from the outside, the reality on the ground tells a different story. Behind the scenes, I am often enduring more than I am gaining.

I think of my magazine often. It existed. People saw it. People acknowledged it. But I spent more keeping it alive than I ever gained from it financially. At best, I received recognition, kind words, encouragement. A thumbs up here. A well done there. I hold on to the hope that my writers got something meaningful from it, even if I didn’t. That thought brings me some comfort.

There are other startups I don’t even have the energy to unpack anymore. Their endings sit quietly in me. What I have learned, over and over again, is that a large social presence does not mean things are going well. Visibility can be misleading. Applause does not pay bills. Likes do not translate into stability. I still try to show up for Spinkly, to keep things going, but even that effort comes with its own weight.

Take my YouTube channel, for example. I put in the work. I plan. I shoot. I edit. I show up. But that effort exists in a vacuum. I cannot monetize. I do not qualify. I do not meet the prerequisites. It is my work, yes, but that seems to be all it is.

People are quick to advise. They tell me what to do. What is expected of me. What worked for them. But what works for one person does not automatically work for another. I seem to exist on the wrong side of victory when it comes to accomplishments and achievements. And when I sit with that truth, I ask myself who to blame.

Sometimes the answer is me. My lack of direction. My fractured sense of purpose. My ambition, chipped away slowly over time. I no longer desire the way I used to. I no longer hunger the same way. There are days I feel emotionally hollow, carried by the waves rather than steering the ship.

I don’t plan much anymore. I just be. I exist because I am here. I write because I can. Not because I am certain anyone will listen, or read, or respond. I am not chasing validation anymore. I am simply documenting my presence.

I close this chapter of complaint carefully. Not because the feelings aren’t real, but because I know how easily reflection can turn into bitterness. Complaining does not change the outcome. If anything, it risks making me ungrateful. And gratitude is something I am constantly reminded I should have.

Despite everything, I am still here. Despite the onlookers. Despite those who quietly pray for my failure or celebrate my struggles. As long as I exist, the story is not fully over. If I can continue, then it is not the end of the road. Not until it actually is.

Success is brutal. People talk about the goal, rarely the journey. And even then, the journey is only admired when it ends well. But what about those who tried and never arrived? What happens to them? Are they forgotten? Are they deemed unworthy? Or are they simply human, navigating a world that does not reward effort equally?

I don’t have the answers. I only have my experience. And for now, managing my expectations is how I survive it.

BEING IN THE RIGHT PLACE, AT THE RIGHT TIME, CHANGES EVERYTHING

 

Like the ocean, I rise, restless, wild, and full of purpose.

There has always been something about the sea that mirrors the creative life so clearly. Its movement is never accidental. Even in its wildness, there is intention. Even in its restlessness, there is direction. The waves do not ask permission to arrive; they come because they are meant to.

And yet, the ocean teaches another truth just as important: it doesn’t rush its tides, yet it always arrives.

Holding both of these ideas together has changed how I understand seasons, especially creative ones. Purpose does not mean panic. Movement does not mean haste. You can be deeply driven and still move with patience.

Creative seasons are not linear. They are cyclical. They rise, retreat, gather, and return. Sometimes they are loud and expressive; other times they are quiet and observant. Both are necessary. Both are valid.

The struggle begins when we try to force purpose into the wrong place or demand arrival before the season is ready.

In the wrong place, even if you give your very best, it will never be enough. You can be full of ideas, vision, and commitment, yet feel constantly behind. You begin to measure yourself harshly, your output, your consistency, your relevance… hoping improvement will finally unlock belonging.

There’s a saying that keeps returning to me: what’s not measured cannot be improved.

But measurement, without discernment, can become a trap.

When you’re in the wrong environment, measurement doesn’t lead to growth; it leads to exhaustion. You improve endlessly but feel unseen. You adjust yourself instead of questioning the space. You mistake refinement for alignment.

Not everything that feels stagnant needs more effort. Some things need relocation.

The right place changes how measurement functions.

In the right place, measurement becomes clarity, not pressure. You notice progress without urgency. You refine without erasing yourself. Growth feels collaborative rather than combative. You are no longer trying to fit your tide into someone else’s shoreline.

And that’s where timing reveals its quiet power.

The ocean never arrives late. It arrives when the conditions are right.

Being at the right place at the right time doesn’t mean you’ve lost your restlessness or your fire. It means your energy finally has somewhere to land. Your purpose is no longer fighting the environment; it’s flowing within it.

This is what a new creative season feels like. Not frantic reinvention, but grounded arrival. Not chasing visibility, but choosing placement. Not proving worth, but recognizing it.

There is a kind of peace that comes when you stop rushing your becoming. When you trust that purpose doesn’t need to shout to be real. When you understand that timing is not delay, it’s preparation.

Like the ocean, you can be wild and intentional at the same time. You can rise with purpose and still move with patience. You can measure what matters without shrinking yourself to fit spaces that were never designed to hold you.

Because when you are in the right place, at the right time, improvement happens naturally. Growth feels honest. And your presence… restless, wild, and full of purpose, is not only enough.

It is celebrated!

 

MOTION: ON TIME, TRUST, AND LETTING LIFE MOVE

 

Time is strange.

When you imagine it ahead of you, it feels abundant, stretching endlessly into the future. You think you have time. But once you arrive there, it slips through your fingers, leaving you wondering how it all passed so quickly. Suddenly, there’s “no time.”

No one really talks about how much thinking ahead reshapes our relationship with time, especially as creatives. Planning content, scheduling posts, and imagining projects not yet created means your mind is constantly living in the future. You’re always ahead of yourself.

As children, time feels slow and generous. A year feels like forever. As adults, years collapse into moments. Perhaps it’s because we’ve trained ourselves to perceive time differently. We’ve grown used to its movement. We’ve normalized its speed.

Time has no pause button.

It moves forward whether we plan perfectly, make mistakes, or do absolutely nothing. We don’t control it.

And realizing that, that surrender has quietly led me back to trust.

Last year, my word was Providence. Through it, I learned that there is no formula for life. No guaranteed blueprint for success. What works for someone else will not necessarily work for me. Accepting God’s will means releasing the illusion of control and learning to trust the unfolding.

And so, life has taught me to move differently.

I’ve noticed that I don’t plan creativity the way I used to. I no longer sit down and force ideas for the next artwork or project. Inspiration arrives as I live. The world teaches me. Lessons reveal themselves. Creativity wakes up naturally, one moment at a time.

Our creations are not empty; they are given meaning. And that meaning is shaped by how we perceive them. We choose our interpretations, consciously or unconsciously, and in doing so, we bring the work to life. When we force interactions or try to rigidly place our thoughts onto a piece, we often interrupt its natural becoming. But when we allow space, the work breathes. It meets us halfway. As creators, we don’t just make, we translate, giving form to what we sense, feel, and notice as we move through life.

That realization has softened me.

It has made me less uptight, less anxious about planning weeks ahead, and less stressed over things that don’t yet exist. Letting life unfold has allowed creativity and provision to arrive without resistance.

I keep moving, trusting that I will not lack. Trusting that the next client will come, even when I don’t know where from. Trusting that abundance flows, not because I chase it desperately, but because I remain prepared to receive it.

Preparedness and trust are not opposites.
They move together.

Time continues to move. It waits for no one. And while science tells us time may be linear or perhaps even exist all at once, with past and future intertwined, only God sees the full picture. We don’t. The futures we rehearse in our minds often become sources of unnecessary worry, shaped more by fear than faith.

So this year, I choose something different.

I let it move.
I expect the best.
I trust that God has my back.
I believe that all things work together for my good.

And my image of time has changed, too.

People often represent time as an hourglass, something you flip over and start again. Rinse. Repeat.

But for me, time feels more like ice.

Ice melts. It doesn’t reset. It transforms into water, into motion, into energy. You don’t get it back in its original form. It becomes something else. The past survives only as memory: a frozen image, a photograph, a piece of art we revisit and relive. The future, on the other hand, exists only in perception, constructed in our minds, planned but not yet lived. And so, time continues. The present is the only thing that is truly accurate. Knowing this, I let time move as it will. I let it flow naturally because time isn’t something I can manipulate, even if I wanted to. We don’t control.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Not just to flow, but to move.

That is why I chose Motion as my word for the year. As time moves, and as I remain in motion, so does the depth of my work, my continuity, my perception of time, and my lived reality. I cannot pause time, I can only adapt to its movement and continue creating, knowing that transformation is inevitable and that with time, things become better.

 

WHAT 2025 TAUGHT ME:

 

As we close the year, and as I quietly step into being a year older, I wanted to end it the only way I know how: with reflection. This will be my last blog of the year, a soft wrap-up rather than a loud conclusion.

It’s wild how fast the days have moved. One moment you’re planning, dreaming, pushing… and suddenly you’re here, looking back, realizing how much has shifted without you even noticing.

One of the biggest lessons this year has been the beauty of pride in my work, real pride. The kind that comes from knowing I put in the effort. I struggled through it, learned through it, found my weaknesses, and worked through them. In a world where shortcuts are celebrated, there’s something deeply grounding about knowing my hands, my mind, and my patience built what I put out. Whether people choose to watch, read, or appreciate it, it doesn’t matter. That kind of consistent output shapes you in a different way. It forces patience, honesty, and growth.

I’ve also learned that standing out doesn’t always mean being loud. I would rather have a small group of people who genuinely love and understand my work than millions who constantly attack, insult, or undervalue it. Not all visibility is necessary, and some attention simply isn’t worth the cost.

This year also reminded me what it feels like to navigate the world as an ‘other’, as an afterthought in certain spaces. To realize that sometimes, you’re not the main character in the rooms you enter. And strangely enough, that realization brings clarity. It teaches you how to move differently. How to create anyway. How to exist fully without needing to be centered or celebrated.

Travel this year wasn’t just about getting away; it was about remembering parts of myself.

In July, I went to the Maasai Mara to volunteer at a medical camp. In serving the community, observing, assisting, and learning, I found myself reconnecting with my love for biology and medicine. A part of me I had quietly buried resurfaced. It reminded me that curiosity doesn’t disappear just because life takes you in a different direction. Some callings wait patiently until you’re ready to listen again.

Later in the year, I visited Lamu for the first time. Experiencing a new culture, slowing down, and witnessing different ways of living brought me deep joy. Travel has always done that for me; it widens my perspective, softens my assumptions, and reminds me that there is no single way to live a meaningful life.

For my birthday, I chose Samburu. Not the familiar parks I’ve returned to time and time again, but somewhere I’d always wanted to experience. As a photographer, I was especially drawn to the species unique to the region: the Grevy’s zebras and the reticulated giraffes. Being able to observe and capture them felt like checking off a long-held creative and personal dream.

And then there was the leopard.

On my birthday, I saw one… not once, but twice. After not having seen a leopard in a long time, it felt almost surreal. Maybe birthday luck really is a thing after all. I managed to capture some beautiful photographs, and in those moments, I was reminded how much I love photography, how it grounds me, excites me, and keeps me deeply present in the world around me.

Across these journeys, one thing stayed clear: whenever I can, I want to help. To contribute. To show up for community in ways that matter, even if they’re small. Service has a way of grounding you, of pulling you out of yourself and reminding you why connection matters.

Discipline has been another quiet teacher this year. I’ve learned that discipline always comes with loss. You have to give something up, comfort, habits, distractions, versions of yourself that no longer serve where you’re going. Self-awareness isn’t gentle. It asks for sacrifice before it gives you freedom. That’s why I’ve committed to daily walks, regular check-ins, and working out religiously. There’s something powerful about keeping the mind, body, and soul aligned.

I’ve also learned that the evidence of desire is pursuit. Wanting something isn’t enough. Loving something isn’t enough. If you’re not moving toward it, even slowly, even imperfectly, then it’s just a wish. This year reminded me that consistency speaks louder than intention.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped needing to be cheered and became more comfortable being the cheerleader. Encouraging others. Clapping from the sidelines. Enjoying the dance without needing the spotlight. There’s a quiet joy in that; one I didn’t expect but deeply appreciate now.

And perhaps the most freeing lesson of all: this world doesn’t have a formula. No guaranteed steps. No perfect timeline. No universal blueprint for success or fulfillment. And maybe that’s the point. We are all figuring it out in real time, carrying what works, releasing what doesn’t, and becoming along the way.

As this year closes, I’m not tying things up with a neat bow. I’m simply grateful for the lessons, the journeys, the rediscovered parts of myself, and the version of me that keeps going.

Here’s to continuing.
Without a formula.

 

GROWING THROUGH FEAR: REWIRING THE MIND FOR SUCCESS

I never imagined I’d reach a point where I was afraid to paint, at least in the traditional way. Over the years, I moved fully into digital art, leaving my canvas behind. The image beside is an acrylic piece I created years ago with my siblings, Vanessa Oloo and Wayne Oloo. Yet now, the simple act of picking up a brush by myself feels intimidating. I’ve been away from canvas for so long that I sometimes fear my talent has slipped away, or that if I try again, I’ll fail… as though the creativity that once came naturally might not show up for me anymore.

And isn’t that exactly how success often feels? Every time we attempt something bold, starting a new project, launching a business, posting a video, or stepping into any kind of change, fear whispers louder than confidence. It pulls us back toward self-doubt, toward what feels familiar, toward doing nothing, or even toward procrastination disguised as “not being ready yet.”

1. Your Brain’s Job Isn’t to Make You Successful, It’s to Keep You Safe

I've learned that the brain doesn’t know the difference between danger and discomfort; it just knows change, and change feels unsafe.

Every time you try something new, your brain sounds the alarm: “We’ve never done this before! Abort mission!” That’s why growth often feels like anxiety. It’s not that you’re doing something wrong… It’s that your brain hasn’t yet learned that this new path isn’t dangerous.

You will be surprised to know that many of us fear success more than failure. Success represents change, a new version of you, and your nervous system doesn’t recognize that version yet, so it resists.

2. Do The Hard Things; It Strengthens You.

There’s a small but mighty part of your brain called the anterior mid-cingulate cortex, think of it as your willpower muscle. It grows stronger every time you do the hard things you don’t want to do.

Waking up early, saying no to distractions, finishing that project, these moments are tiny workouts for your brain. Studies even show that people who regularly do uncomfortable things live longer and build more trust within themselves.

Procrastination and perfectionism often come down to one thing: lack of self-trust. You don’t follow through because, deep down, you don’t yet believe your word. The only way to rebuild that trust is through consistent action, doing the hard things, even when you don’t feel like it.

Motivation won’t save you. It’s like an outfit, cute, but temporary. Discipline is built through repetition under resistance.

3. Dopamine: It’s Not the Reward, it’s the Chase

Here’s a fun fact that changed how I look at productivity: dopamine isn’t the reward; it’s the pursuit.

We don’t get dopamine when we achieve something; we get it while we’re chasing it. That’s why it feels easier to scroll endlessly on social media than to work on your business. Turns out that your brain is chasing micro-rewards instead of long-term payoffs.

Quick wins feel good for a moment, but they fade fast. Real fulfillment, the kind that lasts, comes from staying in the pursuit even when it’s hard. The slower you build it, the stronger it lasts.

4. Trauma and the Illusion of Chaos

If peace feels boring and chaos feels normal, you’re not broken; your brain has just been overprotecting you.

When you’ve gone through trauma, your nervous system gets wired for survival. You might start mistaking stress for motivation, or confusion for passion. Until you retrain your brain to feel safe in calmness, you’ll keep calling dysfunction “drive.”

Healing is learning that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe, and safety is the soil where creativity, confidence, and growth bloom.

5. You Are Not Stuck, Your Brain Can Rewire

There’s this myth that people can’t change after a certain age. But neuroscience has proven otherwise. It’s called neuroplasticity, your brain’s ability to rewire itself at any time.

Every new thought, habit, and action literally reshapes your brain. That means you are never too old, never too far gone, and never too late to start again. You just haven’t repeated the right things long enough yet.

Change doesn’t happen because you understand something new. It happens because you feel something new deeply enough to make a different choice.

6. Emotion is the Teacher

The brain learns through emotion, not information. You can read a hundred self-help books, but until something moves you, you won’t act.

That’s why storytelling is so powerful. Stories make you feel, and feelings create change. Whether in business, relationships, or healing, connection always beats logic.

7. Rest Is Reprogramming

Here’s the one most of us forget: rest is not laziness.
Rest is neurological wealth.

When you rest, your brain merges memories, solidifies learning, and connects your ideas. Without it, your creativity, focus, and emotional stability suffer.

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is pause, because your brain does some of its best rewiring in stillness.

Final Thoughts: Rewire, Don’t Replace

After going down the rabbit hole of understanding how the brain handles fear, change, success, and survival, one truth keeps revealing itself:

You don’t need a new life, you need new wiring.

When you retrain your mind through discipline, emotion, rest, and consistent action, the life you want begins to align naturally. Success stops feeling like danger, and growth stops feeling like a threat. Because fear and success aren’t opposites… they’re twins.
Fear shows up the moment you begin rising, not to stop you, but to signal that you’re stepping into unfamiliar territory where your next level lives.

So if fear appears when you try to grow, return, start, or change, it simply means your brain is doing its job.
But so are you.

Every time you choose courage over comfort, your brain rewires a little more.
Every step you take forward, even the hesitant ones, teaches your mind that this new version of you is safe, that you are allowed to expand.

So, I need to keep reminding myself that my brush never stopped belonging to me.
And that the creativity I worry I’ve lost has simply been waiting… patiently… for me to reach for it again.

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.