VISUAL INTERPRETATION AND THE POWER OF STORYTELLING

 

I recently found myself reflecting on Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s talk, The Danger of a Single Story. And naturally, I related it to my art.

The beauty of an image, especially when paired with a caption, is that we give meaning to it by the story we decide to tell.

Take the image you’re looking at, for instance: the girl on the train.

We see dark skies. Immediately, questions arise. Is it late evening? Or an early morning commute? She’s holding a hot beverage, coffee perhaps, or tea, something to warm her up and start her day. Or maybe she’s wrapping up the day in a cold winter in New York, holding a hot chocolate to fight the chill. She’s dressed warmly after all.

But then… does it even have to be a train?

Could she be on a bus in a cold July in Kenya? Starting her journey from the city, leaving for the countryside? Or maybe she’s not traveling far at all, maybe she’s simply stuck in Nairobi traffic, holding her cup of tea as the morning drags on. Watching the world move slowly outside her window.

The narrative belongs to you.

And that’s the beauty of art, it is open to interpretation.

That’s why I speak about the danger of a single story.

As an artist, I always find it interesting when I’m asked to explain my art. Most times, I draw led by emotion. I channel my imagination based on what inspires me in that moment. I am not always planning every detail or mapping out the meaning beforehand. I create first. I feel first. And then once it’s complete, I’m almost forced to give it meaning.

It feels like working backwards.

Painting without fully knowing what will come out of it, and only afterward asking myself, what does this make me feel? What is this saying?

And once I articulate that meaning, it can sometimes feel like that becomes the “official” version. As though everyone must now see it that way. Whether it was intentional or not. Whether the moment was simply driven by instinct, emotion, and my dependence on my talent.

But here’s the irony.

Sometimes we do plan. Sometimes we draw based on what we see around us. The themes we set. The environments we’re placed in. The inspiration that meets us in a particular season. And so, we create intentionally.

Yet even then, once the artwork is complete, it no longer belongs to us alone.

Because an image is always open to interpretation.

And I believe that’s the real beauty of art.

What you see.
What you feel.
What meaning do you attach to it?

Not just as the artist, but as the viewer upon completion.

It becomes a conversation. It can determine whether we connect. Whether we see the same thing or something entirely different. And honestly, that difference is the fun part.

Do we all have to see one story because of its description?

Or can we allow ourselves to see something else?

Let me know what you see.

Maybe she’s thinking about her day. Maybe she’s reflecting. Maybe the train is moving. Maybe it’s at a standstill. Maybe you relate to her. Maybe you believe she’s carrying thoughts you’ve carried before during your own quiet commute.

And here’s something else I’ve realized: the meaning can change over time.

The way you see a piece today may not be how you see it tomorrow. Your experiences shift. Your emotions evolve. And suddenly the same image carries a completely different story.

There’s so much we can see in a single image.

And that to me is the beauty of it all.

 

LOVE, INDEPENDENCE & THE QUIET BALANCE BETWEEN US

 

As the years pass and I grow older, I have come to a quiet realization: I am single. I have been single for a long time. And chances are, I may remain that way.

Strangely, that truth does not scare me.

Because I have been single longer than I have ever been in a relationship, I have grown comfortable with it. I have learned how to exist fully on my own. And that comfort has made me question something deeper: Why are we raised expecting partnership as a guaranteed destination? Why is it presented as the norm, the goal, the inevitable outcome?

Especially for women.

From a young age, many of us are taught to look forward to marriage, to children, to building a home. We are told, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully, that our lives will naturally unfold this way. There is even the assumption that children will care for us in old age, as if old age itself is promised. As if life does not hold uncertainty. As if the roles assigned to us are contracts signed before we are born.

But life is not that linear. Nothing is guaranteed. We could leave this world early. We could leave children behind. We could choose not to have them. We could simply choose differently or find that, for reasons beyond our control, a suitable partner never quite comes along.

And that is where the real conversation begins: the assumptions of roles.

The Shifting Roles & The Growing Gap

Relationships today are not what they were decades ago. The balance has shifted.

There was a time when women needed men for financial security, physical protection, and social legitimacy. Over time, women were trained, sometimes by necessity, to be physically and mentally independent. Many learned to provide for themselves. To build. To secure. To survive.

But while women were evolving into independence, many men were not equally trained to be emotionally independent or domestically capable. In conversations I’ve had with men in my life, a pattern emerges: men were not raised to cook, nurture, self-soothe, or manage a home in the same way women were raised to build resilience and autonomy.

And so a gap formed.

Some men laugh at the idea of women growing old alone with cats. Yet those same women have often been taught how to survive independently. They have been trained to build security. They have been taught intentionally or unintentionally to carry both the “masculine” and “feminine” responsibilities.

Meanwhile, some men were taught that their traditional roles were superior. That providing financially alone defined their worth. And when women began filling those spaces themselves, it disrupted the hierarchy.

Suddenly, the question becomes: If a woman can provide security for herself, what does she need a man for?

And that question is uncomfortable.

Competition Instead of Collaboration

Some of what we see today is not partnership, it is competition.

Some men resent women’s independence because it removes the leverage once tied to reproduction and dependency. Some women feel men are unnecessary because they have filled the gaps themselves. Both sides are reacting to change rather than learning to adapt within it.

But relationships were never meant to be competitions.

It takes two to tango.

The missing piece is not dominance. It is balance.

Faith, Change & The Balance of Authority

Even in scripture, the conversation is more nuanced than we often admit.

The Bible speaks of men as heads of households, but it also instructs husbands to love their wives deeply and to listen to them. It calls for submission, but it also calls for sacrificial love. Both can be true at the same time.

Submission without love becomes control.
Leadership without listening becomes dictatorship.

Time itself is God-created. Growth is inevitable. If we refuse to grow with time, are we becoming wiser or simply more rigid?

Traditionally, women were expected to submit physically, to rely on men for provision and security. At the same time, women were often the emotional core of the relationship: nurturing, understanding, holding the emotional atmosphere together.

Men were expected to provide physically. Women were expected to sustain themselves emotionally.

It created a symbiotic balance.

He offered structure and protection in the external world.
She offered emotional depth and relational grounding in the internal world.

Both forms of strength were necessary. Both required trust.

But now that many women can provide their own security, the structure shifts. When physical reliance is no longer essential, what replaces it?

Emotional connection.
Shared purpose.
Mutual respect.

The balance is no longer about survival. It is about intentional unity.

Emotional Intelligence & Loyalty

Another uncomfortable truth: we are not as different as we pretend to be.

Men are often raised to detach emotionally and tie intimacy primarily to desire. Women are often raised to attach emotionally and detach from physical autonomy. But in reality, both men and women are emotional beings.

Men with emotional intelligence, those who are self-aware and emotionally available, tend to build longer, healthier relationships. Loyalty is tied to emotional attachment. When you are deeply connected to someone, betrayal costs more.

Detachment, on the other hand, breeds chaos. It creates emptiness. It builds cycles of dissatisfaction and infidelity, not because desire is strong, but because connection is weak.

Emotional maturity is not feminine. It is human.

Choosing Peace Over Pressure

And so here I am.

Comfortable.
Traveling when I can.
Making decisions for myself.
Living alright, even with limited resources, because my needs are my own.

I do not worry about leaving children behind. I do not live in fear of dying alone. I have been privileged enough to know love in other forms… family, friends, community. I have been cared for. And because of that, I have so much love to give.

To myself.
To others where needed.

I no longer long for the trap that society insists is mandatory. If a partnership comes, it will be a partnership of balance, not necessity. Not fear. Not social pressure.

If it does not, I am still whole.

And that, too, is love.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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.