Here Are 40 Life Lessons I Have Gathered Along The Way!

 

As I reflect on my journey and celebrate this milestone, I am deeply grateful to God for the gift of life, love, and growth. Life is a precious and unpredictable adventure, and through it all, I’ve come to understand the importance of faith, family, patience, and perseverance. These are the things that truly matter—the ones that ground us and remind us of our purpose.

Choosing to celebrate my 40th birthday in Cape Town filled my heart with joy and gratitude, marking a beautiful chapter of celebration. It also served as a powerful reminder of how quickly time flies. Looking back at my post from when I turned 30, it feels like it was just yesterday. This has taught me to cherish every moment, for life moves faster than we realize.

Here are 40 life lessons I’ve gathered along the way, lessons that have shaped me and continue to guide me as I embrace this new chapter:

1. People come and go, let them, and don’t take things personally.
2. Take responsibility for your happiness, don’t wait for others to bring it to you.
3. Every challenge is an opportunity to learn and grow.
4. Be kind to yourself—progress is rarely a straight line.
5. People can be mean and may even wish for your downfall, but don’t let their negativity consume you. Continue doing good and staying true to your values, it’s your light that matters most.
6. Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s; everyone has their own timeline.
7. Make time for things that bring you peace, whether it's nature, hobbies, or loved ones—time is valuable, and it goes by fast.
8. Success isn't just financial; it’s about balance and fulfillment too.
9. Surround yourself with people who uplift and inspire you.
10. Change is inevitable; learning to adapt is key.
11. Let go of grudges—they weigh you down more than they affect others.
12. Celebrate small victories as much as the big ones.
13. Invest in experiences rather than things; memories last a lifetime.
14. Forgive yourself for past mistakes; they’re part of your growth.
15. Practice gratitude daily; it’s the simplest way to find joy.
16. Learn to say “no” without guilt; your time and energy are precious.
17. Listen more than you speak; it opens you to new perspectives.
18. Set boundaries to protect your mental and emotional health.
19. Never stop learning; curiosity keeps you young at heart.
20. Laughter truly is the best medicine—find humor wherever you can.
21. Patience is a virtue; sometimes the best things come with time.
22. Stay humble; we’re all human and constantly evolving.
23. Focus on the present; worrying about the past or future wastes energy.
24. Don’t let fear hold you back; comfort zones are meant to be expanded.
25. Protect your peace by removing negativity from your life.
26. Trust your intuition; it’s often your most honest guide.
27. Acknowledge and honor your feelings, even the tough ones.
28. Love deeply but don’t lose yourself in others.
29. Rest is productive, don’t burn yourself out chasing goals.
30. Let yourself be vulnerable; it leads to genuine connections.
31. Treat others with respect, even when they don’t deserve it.
32. Give without expecting anything in return; kindness is its own reward.
33. Adapt your goals as you grow, your dreams may evolve.
34. Be intentional with your time; it’s the one thing you can never get back.
35. Don’t dwell on the “what ifs”; focus on what is.
36. Find something you're passionate about and pursue it wholeheartedly.
37. Prioritize health and well-being; without it, everything else falls apart.
38. Value solitude; it’s where you find clarity and self-discovery.
39. Accept that not everyone will understand you, and that’s okay.
40. All things work together for my good; do things trusting and believing in God.

Writing this In My 30s Before I Turn 40

 

I am afraid. Once again, I find myself on the brink of a new decade as I will be turning 40 in just a week. Before I wrap up my thirties, I thought I would come here to write down my thoughts, as I’ve always loved to do. At a point, I started being afraid to write but when I realized that nobody was looking it gave me a sense of relief and honestly, the encouragement I needed to share. There is a beauty in the silence of knowing that I don’t have an audience and that nobody cares which allows me to be able to write again.

It’s crazy how I’ve imagined a world that feels so far-fetched… picturing myself living a life that is completely out of reach. Eventually, it sinks in that I haven’t achieved any of it and that I probably never will. Maybe that’s the beauty of books and movies: they let you imagine what life could have been. If not your own, you get to experience another life by imagining and partaking in someone else’s. You imagine a life well-lived, and at some point, these imaginings even intertwine with your memories.

Sometimes the memories you plant and envision for yourself feel so real… because, in the end, your past becomes a memory. It no longer feels as tangible as it once was, in the same way that a thought, once written or dreamed, is never real or part of the present. Neither can you determine the future because, in truth, the future is never really promised but just planted as a hope in your memory that you keep on reliving as if it were real and yet it is not. The one thing we can only know for certain is now—the present moment. It’s the only feeling that is undoubtedly real, and you can’t debate it.

So, if I were to live my life like I only had today, how would I live it?

I think about my life’s journey and how, depending on where I met someone, they know me differently. Just the other day, my sister ran into someone I had also met and I asked her if they remembered or asked about me, she said they did, and she told me they had saved my number as Sylvia from Cambridge. That got me reminiscing about the year I lived in Cambridge, UK. I thought about how my American friends call me Kenyan, while I call them my Americans because I lived in the U.S. for five years. It's funny cause some of my cousins still refer to me as their cousin from America, which is funny to me because the reality is, that I am from Kenya and was only in America for a short time.

I think about how my primary school, growing up my friends nicknamed me Damascus because I made trips to Damascus during the holidays. When they’d ask, “Where’s this from?” the answer was always Damascus. I did most of my shopping from there, everything to the tee, like my pencil and sharpeners came from Damascus, such that everything I owned was unique to me. You never really think about the influences of all the places and interactions that shape you over time, yet those experiences create the memories of the person you are today including the bits and pieces of the cultures you adapt while there.

It hit me: I am a TCK (third-culture kid). My experiences are unique to me. All my life, I’ve wondered why I don’t feel like I belong and why I feel so different from my peers. Sometimes, I’d suppress parts of myself to relate better to others, even though I’ve spent most of my upbringing in Kenya. I realized there’s never been one person I can fully relate to, except for my siblings, especially my sister Beryl since she is closer to me in age and has been around me the longest… It’s no wonder we’re so close. I never thought about how growing up in different cultures would intertwine to create a unique culture that is truly my own.

I also reflect on my career, how I’ve switched paths so often, and wonder: Who am I today? What happens to all the different versions of me I’ve been before?

I was first known as an artist in primary school, everyone loved and remembers me for my drawings, besides my drawings, I always aced my classes. In fact, I was always one of the top students but that changed drastically after a tragic accident that scarred my face, leaving me traumatized. I never like to talk about the accident as for the longest time it was an been an experience I never really addressed, at least not fully, the impact it had in my life was huge. At the time when it happened, I was only nine years old battling the scars of my damaged face and was admitted in the hospital for months. I was blind for weeks and didn’t know if I would ever see again at the time. I suffered a concussion and missed a lot of school. When I finally returned, my scars were visible, and other children found them scary. I was called ugly, and I was hated and feared, most ran away from me when they saw me, and even called me names. The insults stuck with me, as you can imagine that phase of my life was traumatic and it changed me completely as a person. It was a tough period in my life that affected my performance in school. I was very insecure and I had to grow through that season accepting that I was no longer the beautiful, and smart person I knew before, the person I was before died in that accident, my life had completely changed and survival for me now meant something else. Despite all my insecurities, it meant that I had been given a second chance at life and I applaud my family for helping me through that dark period as they saw me for who I was, besides my scars. Of most importance, I learned to always spot out the ‘singled out child’ everywhere I went. I learned the importance of needing a friend, of giving love when it matters most, because honestly, we all need love in this world, especially children. I learned that as much as children are innocent, they can also be the meanest and most hurtful beings that can truly break you as a person, as they do not understand the purpose of filtering.

In high school, I focused on my sciences, believing I wanted to be a doctor, I abandoned my love for the arts. At the time, my passion stemmed from the times I spent in the hospitals at my younger age. I fell in love with the work doctors and nurses did. I spent time in their offices as they would allow me to play doctor. So much so that despite my struggles in classes and discouragement from my teachers, I pursued pre-med and even studied nursing. I think about how funny it is when people from my high school ask why I never took art in school when they now see my art. It’s like they are meeting a different version of me because they never really knew me as an artist, the person I suppressed, and they still seem confused by my choices today as I had only been passionate about being a doctor then. If they had known I was chasing a doctor's dream as it was a promise I had yet to fulfill that I once made to my younger self. A promise to save a child like me, the same way the doctors and nurses did for me as they restored my eyesight, not only that, I made it out of the accident alive, and I was able to continue living my life.

Some people will never meet that version of Sylvia who did science and wanted to be a doctor. They can’t imagine me in a lab coat dissecting, under a microscope, or studying anatomy… naming the parts of a skeleton. Some will never know the version of me who walked the hospital corridors in scrubs. On the other hand, others are bewildered by my artistic adventures, asking, “When did you learn to draw? I never knew you could draw” It sometimes feels like these two people are separate from each other and lived two different worlds apart, yet, it is still me.

Then there are times like now, when I write, and I remember my English professor, is the first person who always encouraged me to pursue writing. Dr. Varn restored my passion for writing, otherwise, I never would have considered myself a writer. I still keep my writing a secret, it’s the one thing I fear to embrace. When you see me write, know that I do it in the confidence of my professor, Dr. Varn, who encouraged and trusted in my writing and unveiled a piece of me that others never saw, this version of Sylvia that somehow exists. It makes me remember those who still ask about my women’s magazine and why I stopped publishing it. I also think about the people who remember me for my impact on schools and digital library endeavors, and they wonder what happened, and why I stopped, and then I realize that’s another part of me I have chosen to suppress, and it's mostly not by choice but circumstance.

When it comes to relationships, I have learned that there is solace in oneself and that peace can be found in contentment. I am content with being alone and embracing the quiet understanding that peace is a gift. What fills my cup are the sweet romances found in stories of hopeless romantics. Stories that stir my memories and warm my heart. There’s nothing quite like a beautifully told love story. Despite the absence of love in my life, I still love love. My love lives on through others, and I get to experience it through their stories, their memories, and even my own whether once lived or imagined.

Despite each of these different chapters in my life, I am reminded that every version of me, every phase of my life, matters and makes me who I am today. The different versions of me make me think that in every contribution made, whether minimal or big, they have been impactful. At least I hope so, that someone, somewhere out there appreciates me, and to me that alone is enough to feel accomplished. I want to say bye to my thirties as I will soon be welcoming my forties if God wills, and I hope that while I grow older, I remember that as I have lived as many different versions of myself, I am glad that I get to pick and choose which one of me you get to meet. Cheers to that!

A Twilight Dream

I miss the days when my life felt like a simple twilight dream, where joy came effortlessly from the small, beautiful simplicities of life. Back then, the world felt slower, softer, untouched by the need to please or impress. The days were not shadowed by expectations, nor were they governed by the ticking of a clock that measured success by the standards of ambition. Life was just a quiet rhythm of moments—moments that held their own magic, unsullied by the weight of goals yet to be achieved.

Those days seem distant now, almost like the fading hues of a sunset, just out of reach, but still visible in my mind’s eye. I can still remember what it felt like to exist without constantly wondering if I was enough. Enough for the world, for others, for myself. There was a time when my heart was light, when the sound of laughter or the sight of the first light of dawn was enough to fill me with joy. Now, those feelings are buried beneath the ever-growing layers of expectations—expectations that I have come to carry as if they were mine all along, but in truth, they were imposed. Imposed by a world that measures worth by ambition and success, a world that tells us that if we are not striving toward something, we are nothing.

How many of us have bought into that belief? How many of us have allowed ourselves to become consumed by a vision of the future, always chasing, never fully arriving? We walk this path, constantly busy, heads down, eyes focused on the horizon, hoping to achieve something great. But in doing so, we often lose sight of the beauty that surrounds us in the here and now. I know I have. There are days when I wonder what could have been if I had not been caught in the race to become more. What if I had allowed myself to just be, to bask in the joy of the present moment without the burden of ambition weighing down my every step?

And yet, I know that ambition is not inherently bad. It can push us to grow, to explore the far reaches of our potential. But the defeat that comes with unmet expectations—it is that which lingers. The defeats that are not even memories, but rather dreams that never came to be. Creations of the mind, shaped by the desire to meet a standard I was never sure I wanted to follow in the first place. A world that demands we run ever faster, ever farther, without pause to catch our breath. And in that running, it is so easy to lose ourselves.

I wonder, as I often do in these quiet moments, what it would take for the world to slow down again. I wonder, maybe, just maybe, if God loved me enough, He would answer the prayers I once thought myself worthy of. There was a time when I believed in the power of those prayers, believed that if I was good enough, if I followed the right path, those prayers would be answered. Maybe I thought that by being good, I could earn my dreams. I could dream a life worthy of being lived, worthy of a love so strong that I would lose myself in it, utterly and completely.

But could it be that I am only imagining such a life? Could it be that this wish I hold so dearly will never be fulfilled? It’s a thought that stirs deep within me—an uncomfortable thought that breeds envy, anger, and desire all at once. It’s a wish so tightly wrapped in expectation that it can’t help but entangle me in its snare. Maybe that’s the real curse, this binding of the mind to a vision that may never manifest. A vision of love, of success, of peace—each one a figment of a reality I may never touch.

I wonder if I am alone in this, or if others, too, find themselves lost in their own visions. We live in a world that tells us to dream big, to wish for more, to strive endlessly. But at what cost? How many of us are caught in this endless loop of wanting and waiting? I swim in this loop, constantly moving, constantly hoping. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I wish hard enough, if I pray hard enough, it will come to pass. That one day, my dreams will take form, will become real, will become my life.

But for now, I exist in the in-between—a place where hope dances with doubt, where I am neither here nor there. I dance in this pretense, pretending that I am content, that the loop of maybes is enough to sustain me. Maybe, just maybe, one day, I will wake from this twilight dream, and it will no longer be a dream but a reality. Perhaps, one day, I will step out of the shadows and into the light of a dream fulfilled.

Until then, I wait. I wait in this space of endless maybes, caught between what is and what could be. I wait, because what else can I do? There are moments when the weight of waiting feels unbearable, moments when I want to give in, to let go of the dream entirely. But something keeps me holding on—perhaps it is the hope that lives deep inside of me, the hope that whispers that maybe, just maybe, this dream is worth waiting for.

And so, I wait. I wait with the quiet understanding that dreams take time, that they do not always manifest when we want them to, but in their own time, in their own way. I wait with the knowledge that life is not about rushing toward a destination, but about the journey we take to get there. Perhaps that is the true meaning of this twilight dream—to teach me to slow down, to be present, to find joy in the journey itself.

Because maybe, just maybe, the journey is the dream. And that, in itself, is enough.