“Ladies and gentlemen, Karibu duniani — welcome to Earth.
We have just landed. For your safety and sanity, we invite you to take life one day at a time.
Please remain calm until your heart settles and your purpose aligns.
As you disembark into this beautifully complex world, kindly use the road signs provided.
They may not speak in words, but they’ll whisper wisdom.
They’ll nudge you when to pause, when to press on, when to turn around, and when to simply rest.
Be careful not to carry more than you need — baggage may have shifted during the flight called childhood.
On behalf of the crew of life — your soul, your story, and the divine — we thank you for choosing this human experience.
Asante sana, and please, enjoy the journey.”

Life mirrors the roads we travel every day. Just as drivers rely on road signs to navigate traffic, we encounter emotional, spiritual, and personal signs that guide us through the turns, stops, and crosswalks of life.

Some people imagine they’ll operate at 200 KM/HR all the time. Dude — you will die. Life can feel like a rollercoaster. You’ll be overwhelmed by stress and burnout. It’s in these moments that life will hold up a red sign and whisper: “Stop. Enough.” Stillness is not weakness — it is wisdom.

There are characters who don’t think the red flags are red enough — maybe slightly pink, or not flags at all, just light sheets. Even when the warning signs appear, they stay blind to them.
That gut feeling, a repeated pattern, or a quiet nudge might be life’s version of: “Proceed with caution.” Tune in. The earlier you heed the signs, the safer the journey.

Life is not just about choosing the right road — it’s about having the courage to turn around when you realize you’re on the wrong one. The U-turn becomes sacred when you see the turnaround as freedom, not failure. You can turn around — from a career shift, a relationship that failed, or even healing from regret.

Growth often looks like a mess before it becomes a masterpiece. So, when you see the roadworks ahead, know that you are becoming. This is the detour you didn’t plan for — grief, healing, and inner work. It slows us down, makes us uncomfortable, but ultimately, it rebuilds us. Do not be afraid of the messiness. Trust the process.

Not all roads are winding. Sometimes, the sign is clear: Go forward. That’s when faith becomes fuel — when you trust the process even without all the answers. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Keep moving. Don’t be distracted by the wind.

As we walk life’s path, we come with preconceived ideas of where we want to go.
But have you heard this? “We plan, but God laughs.” Some paths won’t lead to purpose.
Whether it’s a project, a mindset, or a relationship — when you hit a dead end, it’s time to reroute. Some endings are just beginnings in disguise. May you have the discernment to know the difference.

While I may not speak of all the signs in one article, I hope you carry these with you: May the roundabouts remind you that sometimes, you’ll circle back to the same lessons — but each time, with more awareness, not punishment.

 At the intersection, where you face a crossroads, choose with clarity. Your direction, not your speed, will determine your destination.

 May the traffic lights remind you to trust divine timing. Life speaks in rhythms; traffic lights nudge us to honor the seasons we are in.

 And finally, the parking zone — it exists for rest. Don’t mistake it for quitting. Whether you’ve parked for self-care, reflection, or reset — you are not stuck. You are gathering strength and honoring a sacred act of preservation.

Life is a journey, and the signs are always there — on billboards, in conversations, within your body, and in your spirit. You just need to slow down enough to read them. Don’t get so caught up in the busyness of life that you become blind and deaf to what it’s trying to say. Next time you're on the road, look around.
The signs might just be speaking to you — reminding you that every detour, pause, and turn has purpose.

I always joke that my future husband will probably call me Dr. Babe when I get my PhD—because weuh, I’ve really worked for it. But that’s on a light note. On a serious one, we live in a world where titles shape how we’re treated. You see people being called mheshimiwa, kiongozi, Madam CEO, and suddenly, they’re being ushered to the front, people bow slightly when they pass, and someone’s sonand husband is running in the rain to fetch their trench coat because, well... the title demands it.

At the mere mention of your name, there’s a hush. People adjust how they walk, how they talk—just to appease you. Not necessarily because of who you are, but because of what you’re called. Titles have become altars of worship in our society.

We often tie our identity to the titles we carry—the roles we play, the positions we occupy, the accomplishments we stack. But what happens when you’re no longer called CEO, Director, Pastor, Doctor, Mama, or Missus? When the name tag is gone, the spotlight dims, and you're left with just... you?

I realized just how obsessed we are with titles in my line of work. One of our exercises during trainings involves asking participants to write down all the titles they carry. And oh boy, don’t they write! The twist, however, is when we ask them to put those titles aside—to show up without them. That’s when it feels like they’re being asked to stand naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.

The reality is, titles are fleeting. One day you're the Executive Director. The next, the economy shakes your position loose, and you're back job hunting. Today, you’re known as bibi ya daktari, and tomorrow, the same man is in courtrooms—not boardrooms—fighting for a divorce.

The danger of fusing identity with titles is that society rewards roles, not authenticity. So when the title goes, so does the recognition—and that can feel like betrayal.

As the movie Fight Club once put it: “You are not your job. You’re not the clothes you wear. You’re not the contents of your wallet.”

We all have a stripping moment—either by choice or by circumstance. It’s a strange stillness—the moment your title is taken away. Like a garment you've worn for so long that your skin forgot how to breathe without it. Suddenly, you’re standing bare. No applause. No introductions. No prefixes before your name. Just you.

It feels like shedding skin—raw, tender, unfamiliar. Confusing, because you thought you were the role. Painful, because you gave it everything. Liberating, because now, there’s space to rediscover who you are beyond performance.

I remember stepping down from a leadership role I had poured my entire heart into. The silence that followed was deafening. No calls. No emails. No decisions to make. For a while, I didn’t know who I was without it.

But slowly, I realized I wasn’t losing myself—I was meeting myself again. Not the version curated for public spaces, but the one who had quietly existed beneath the accolades.

That’s why I no longer attach myself too deeply to titles. They can get to your head. Haven’t we heard of fathers who insist their children call them Sir or Doctor? Or women who refuse to make meals because they’re CEOs?

In the quiet aftermath of loss—of role, of recognition, of rhythm—comes the deeper work. This is where the excavation begins. What remains when there’s no one to impress, no deadlines to meet, no title to carry? What speaks in the silence?

This is where I began to meet my core self—not the version trained to lead rooms or manage crises, but the one who prays when no one is watching. The one whose laughter is loud in her children’s company. The one who writes for healing, not approval. The one God sees before the world names her.

It is in this space that I learned the difference between doing and becoming.

So—who are you really, when no one is clapping? When the curtains close and the nameplate is gone?

Living authentically means showing up not as the role, but as the soul. It’s not easy in a culture that measures worth by productivity. But there’s a deep peace that comes with knowing your value is not negotiable.

You are more than titles. You are legacy, love, light. You are presence in a world that often only sees performance. If every role you ever played was taken from you, would you still know your worth?

That’s the heart of this journey—building a life so deeply rooted in truth, character, and faith that no stripping can unravel you.

Let your becoming be louder than your doing.
Let your identity be built on rock, not sand.
Let your life speak, even when your title doesn’t.

I know some people just like me had officially unsubscribed to being God's strongest soldier for the year. After all, we always cancel contracts, right? But then I remembered seasons of life. FYI, I have written an article on the same—you can check it out. I am fully aware that we all go through different seasons in life, much like the natural seasons. We all go through different seasons in life, and each one has its place in our journey.  Season of waiting when things feel slow, and patience is tested. Season of growth where we learn evolve and step into new opportunities. Season of pruning to let go of what no longer serves us. Season of harvesting blessings and enjoy the fruit of hard work and finally Season of transition, a period of uncertainty and preparation for new things. 

I know most of us would want to rush to the season of harvest when you enjoy the harvest, become God's favorite child, go to a restaurant and order food without checking the prices and enjoy your meal without calculating the amount of oil and seasoning used in the beef to warrant the exorbitant price. I know we want to get to the season of harvest where we can confidently tell village witches they got nothing on us. And when you dance in the rain, it is  not because you do not have the transport to get you home but the inner child in you is being fulfilled. 

But, before we get there, there is the season of waiting where you feel stagnant and start gaslighting God about unanswered prayers. Oh the patience is tested. Can we talk about the pruning that involves loss,  loss of older version of self and that it cannot be 'Oh I grew up like this' anymore, and the painful fact that we have to let go of people who we thought we would enjoy the ride with. I wish I could tell you how long these seasons last, but I can’t. What I do know is that there are lessons to be learned in every season, and until we learn them, we risk being stuck. It’s like sitting with pain until it tells you its name—sometimes, there is still work to do. Some seasons are tied to divine timing, opportunities, or even the alignment of other people’s journeys with ours. Other times, we just have to adapt quickly so we don’t get stuck in cycles.

As I sit here and I imagine myself in Maldives being sun kissed and carefree, I reflect about the seasons and while we may focus on the joy or the pain, I want to focus on the people with us in these different seasons. It is easy to be engrossed in the seasons that we wallow in pain and not see who is there. Every person in your life comes to serve a purpose even when it does not make sense. Some will be temporary and some will stay long-term but they will all serve a purpose. 

The comforters will offer emotional support and encouragement during the hardship and waiting season. They teach you how to be vulnerable. Sometimes it shows up unannounced, a call from a friend who thought of checking in on you. 

The teachers in our growth and transition come to challenge us, expand our perspectives and move you from the comfort zone-growth and comfort rarely coexist. Growth requires discomfort. These ones can be seen as mean at times. I remember one of my mentor who would push me from my comfort zone and would ask me, 'is that all you could think of, with all the knowledge you have. I am disappointed' I punched him in my mind several times but honestly, I needed to grow a backbone and stand tall. 

The pruners in your season of letting go will come to show you of things you need to release. They might show you 'pepe'. Maybe that breakup is a blessing in disguise. Curse her all you want, call her a gold-digger when you didn’t even have any gold to dig, but that breakup was a wake-up call for you to work on yourself. There are others that will remind you of the meme, 'I saw you the first time, and I knew why I did not want you in my life.' People will exit and give you redirection. In my opinion, this is the hardest period because most people get attached to things and people. Learning to let go sometimes call for a different kind of grace. 

The collaborators will be in your season of reaping and harvest. They will be multipliers of joy and not subtraction of it. They could be life partners, genuine friends.

Like I had earlier said, people come in your life for a season, some for eternity. May you learn your lessons, discern your people, and step boldly into every season—without repeating the same class twice. Learning patience in your waiting period will help you handle blessings with wisdom, gratitude, and sustainability in your reaping season. I hope you embrace the right attitude in every season. 

Love and light your way. 

                                                Pic from freepik

I think a larger percentage of women should be allowed to sit at the right hand of Jesus when we go to heaven. Their records should not even be looked at; they should enter the streets of gold, and probably, some gold should fall on them while on earth—just like manna. Because women have seen "shege." I beg, we already suffer enough. And before you come blazing guns at me, yes, there are some women who live with the devil—or probably are the devil themselves—and fit into the category of Jezebel because they are the perpetrators of chaos, not peace, love, and sanity. But today, we will not talk about the serpent’s conversation.

Songs have been sung about women, poetry curated for women, and opportunities created for women, but can we also talk about how double standard we are as a community at large?

It’s fun catcalling other women until it’s your sister or wife going through the same. It’s fun being a clande to an ancestor until another woman steps into your territory and becomes your husband’s other woman. A woman is called "ashawo" when she vies for a political seat, but when it’s your woman, she’s suddenly a gift to society.

When a woman demands better pay, she is seen as aggressive. Have we talked about how our fellow women sometimes demean and silence us when they are in positions of power? It gives "unbothered vibes" when you beat your wife to a pauper—until it is your sister who is slapped by her husband, and suddenly, you know the Inspector General.

When a woman goes through sexual violence, sometimes the first response is, "What were you wearing? Did you look at him with side-eye?" It can be draining. If you are not fighting a man, you are fighting a fellow woman. 

That is the society we live in. But I want to remind you that your power lies in your duality. You are soft yet strong—a balance of gentleness and resilience. You are compassionate yet courageous—your kindness does not make you weak. You are fragile yet fierce—you feel deeply, yet you can stand on your own. You are wise yet playful—finding joy in the simple things. You are feminine yet assertive—radiating grace and beauty while standing up for yourself.

I want you to sit in your stillness and realize that while you cannot control society, you can break down those walls. You can rewrite history. You can enter those spaces, break barriers, and claim your place.

There would be no Green Belt Movement without Wangari Maathai. Miriam Makeba wouldn’t have become the first African woman to win a Grammy if she hadn’t used her voice to fight apartheid. We went from “baddies” to freedom fighters, standing for our rights as Kenyans. Our captions changed from "chasing sunsets" to "Punda amechoka" and "Reject!"

You have gone through hell while on earth, but I hope you understand that your experiences are schools you learn from, not homes you live in. For some, you are not beautiful enough, not curvaceous enough, not educated enough, not something enough. There will always be something not enough. 

But who do you believe you are?
Who do you say you are?

Rise, woman. They walked out on you—it hurt, but rise. The business failed—crawl if you must, until you can walk again. Do it afraid. Rewrite your story.

I want you to stand before the mirror—with your fallen soldiers because you breastfed a generation, with your stretch marks and failures. Stand before that mirror, with your tears, and tell the girl inside you:

“We are doing this again.”

I celebrate you, woman.

You are worth more than gold, far beyond rubies. I hope you celebrate yourself—not just today, not just this month, but every single day you are on this side of the earth.

We are slowly becoming our parents—the ones we once heard tiptoeing in the early hours of the morning to pray over their children. We are slowly becoming the village elders in committees, whether for weddings or burials. We are slowly becoming the event organizers at our friends’ weddings, baby showers, and, sadly, their funerals.

Sometimes, we are so busy chasing paper that we don’t take a moment to breathe and realize—we are aging. Whether we do so gracefully or not is entirely up to us.

I sit down and realize: I am the parent now. When everyone is told to go to their mums, two little humans will follow me. I am responsible for them. I am responsible for myself. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about life, seasons, and moments. Looking at our parents and grandparents, I know I will be there someday. And it got me thinking—what kind of life do I want to live? What present moments do I want to fully embrace?

One of my desires was to have my master’s degree by the time I turned 30. But joke’s on me—I was nursing babies, dealing with weight struggles, battling imposter syndrome, trying to figure out my life. My skin aged, so I am not getting older again (pun intended). It wasn’t until I turned 30 that I found the light again. I will get my master's degree slightly before 40, a decade later. Did I sometimes wish I could turn back time? Yes. But here I am, slaying my goals and ticking them off one by one. Because when you allow yourself to live in the present and let go of the things you cannot change, you begin to become the best version of yourself. When you allow yourself to heal from the pain intentionally, something changes from the inside.

I know I cannot turn back time to 18. If I could, I’d make different choices. I’d probably be in a different space. But here I am, and instead of dwelling on the past, I think about the person I want to be in my 70s. I know my experiences have shaped the person I am. 

I see myself as a slaying granny—maybe not in heels, but definitely thriving. I wonder if my tattoos will shrink into a different image, (From a butterfly to something like a stinging nettle-thafai. Lol) but I am manifesting traveling, enjoying life with my man, celebrating my children's wins, welcoming my grandchildren over, living in a ranch, money working for me, drinking supplements. I hope I will still have my teeth, lol. I want to be in good physical, mental, financial, and spiritual health. And because I have a vision for my future, I must be intentional about my present.

I cannot go back to my early 20s, let alone my childhood. That realization is both a relief and a little terrifying. But it also gives me clarity. I am not yet in my future, but I have hope for it. I have my present. I have now. I will only visit my past to learn patterns and pick up lessons. I will show up in my present to do things right.

With age comes wisdom (well, for most people), and with wisdom comes the realization that we must do things differently. Our stories shape us, break us, before building us if they ever do. But no matter our successes or failures, we cannot go back—we can only focus on the present and build the future.

Let go of the burden of how they treated you. Let go of the desire to go back and fix what cannot be changed. Embrace where you are, learn from it, and move forward. Heal, because your innate desire is to belong. Do not carry burdens into your old age—they will be too heavy, and people will grow tired of carrying them for you. And damn, that’s a sad way to live.

Make tiny tiny goals to accumulate to a bigger success. Go get that degree. Learn that skill. Stop making excuses. Hit the gym and eat right—yes, you! Stop saying you’ll faint when you start working out. Work on yourself. Build relationships with intention. No one is coming to save you. You’ve got you. You have now. 

Make better choices. Stop dwelling in the past. Become a better parent, a present one. Become a better partner. Live. Love. Travel. Step out of your hometown. Learn. You have the present—use it wisely as you manifest the future.

We need to desire a future where our children don’t have to worry about us when we grow old. If the bible is anything to live by, it speaks of leaving an inheritance for our children and our children’s children—let’s work toward that. Break patterns. Go for therapy. Heal. Build your community.

I do not want to imagine you retiring only to keep three goats for company because there’s nothing else to look forward to. I do not want to imagine you growing old alone or ending up in a nursing home because your children abandoned you—your bitterness over a divorce from 30 years ago pushing them away or you were a father who went out drinking, philandering and only came back home after retirement. I do not want to imagine you sitting in your 80s, drowning in regret over lost opportunities from your 40s. That instead of enjoying rest, you are still hawking just to survive.

I am not saying everything will be perfect—none of us know the future. But we know who holds the future. So what can you do with your present? What choices do you need to make differently?

We are growing older. Soon—if not already—you’ll be the parent at prayer day, then one of your daughter introduces you to her boyfriend. One day, your children will leave home, and you’ll face the quiet of an empty nest.

Start preparing now. Reconnect with yourself. Revisit your hobbies. Live fully. Make those choices 

Because life is happening—whether you’re ready or not.

We all unanimously agreed that January was just a trial month, right? Well, the real year has officially begun! Welcome to February—the month of love—where you find out whether you are the beloved or just a beloved viewer. It’s also the month when some people mysteriously disappear. And no, it won’t be the Subaru boys coming for you—it’s just that the pressure gets 'wesser' and there is a conference to attend to. 

I’ve gone through the Institute of Character Development and aced some units and still repeated some, but I’m still a believer in love. I love love. I love being loved. I love being in a relationship, watching my person win, fight their demons, and grow. I love growing in love. I love how love brings the best version of me. I love love because I get to love my family and friends, who are my best cheerleaders. I love love, flowers and chocolates. Any day, anytime.

But I’m not here to talk about love. I’m here to summon you. I’ve heard people already calling 2025 a doomed year just because January was rough. I get it, January was crazy for many people. But have you lived the entire year yet? Your fears are valid, but here’s the thing: the more you feed them, the bigger they grow. I’m not saying we should adopt toxic positivity and ignore reality. What I am saying is—focus on what’s within your control. I’m recovering from the mindset of “I need to see the entire picture before making a move.” It has robbed me of enjoying the present simply because I couldn’t see the whole staircase. And honestly? It has been exhausting.

Gym subscriptions have already reduced because some of you are already tired of the gym because you never really thought through your plan—it just felt like the thing to do. But here’s the truth: Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Extend some grace to yourself. By all means, pursue your resolutions and intentions, but don’t overwhelm yourself. We’re only in season 2 of 12—we don’t even know how the scriptwriter will change the story. As one of our Kenyan dialects would say, “Ter mos.” Take it slow.

Some of you are already experiencing cognitive overload and decision fatigue. Your prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain responsible for decision-making and self-control) is overwhelmed. If you’re not careful, you’ll start feeling frustrated, anxious, and exhausted before the year even picks up. Instead of feeling motivated, you’ll feel stuck—caught in a cycle of overworking and fatigue. And that’s not what we want, is it?

I’m all for setting goals. But here’s a note to self (and to you) take it slow. Develop a strategy.

That relationship goal? It won’t happen in a day. Don’t expect to do everything at once—it takes time. This will stop you from over compensating and give it time as you both evolve into the best version of yourself. 
Building generational wealth? That takes time, too.
Spiritual growth? Give yourself space to evolve.
Growing a social media following? It won’t happen overnight.

You’re not a machine. Even robots need to recharge. So do you. You are human—navigating responsibilities and the complexities of life.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Make plans. Set goals. Break them into small, achievable steps. Reframe failure—it doesn’t mean the whole year is ruined.

And here’s a reminder from an acquaintance I met, 'When something bad happens, it is not a bad year, a bad month, or a bad day. It is just a bad moment. You will ace your desires. 

May 2025 work in your favor. Love and Light. 

As I grow older in age and in my career, I realize that quite a number of us have our identity tied to sickness, trauma, pain, and we are comfortable in it because healing will require one to move from the known to the unknown. It is hard to move from the familiar, which feels safe, to the unknown, which is unpredictable. The fear of the unknown makes it difficult to heal because healing requires facing uncharted emotional territory, and this is normal. Sometimes, societal expectations can hinder one from healing because we are expected to behave in specific ways.

I see adults—handsome and beautiful, elegantly dressed, well-poised—but still afraid and imprisoned by the voices in their heads. There is nothing as painful as an adult still hearing the voices of their parents and caregivers that they heard as a child.

The,

"You are not enough."

"You need to do more for me to love you."

And worse yet, it is the silent words and actions they were supposed to say but never did, like:

"You are an amazing child, and I love you."

"Hey, it is okay to cry, to fail, and you've got this."

Instead, they built a wall, and you learned that your feelings were invalid. That is why the slightest correction makes you shut down because the voice in your head is the parent who scolded you when you were 10 years old and was emotionally unavailable. For you, love does not come softly. You are always ready to walk away. Vulnerability, to you, is scary and a daunting task.

You have learned to overcompensate because to get your mother's attention, you had to appear to be the perfect child—the cleanest son, the daughter who passes her exams, sat well before visitors and bowed before the elders. Love and attention had to be hard-earned. You overplay your role in people's lives because you imagine maybe if you do more—that extra mile—you will finally be included, needed, and loved. Sadly, you keep others warm even if it makes you cold. One day they express their love for you, and the next day, they are as cold as ice. Your mother's voice still lingers:

"You are not enough. You are not as good as so and so."

"You are not as beautiful as your sister."

As a 35-year-old, you are still waiting for the bike your mom promised you in Class 3 if you passed your exams. You passed the exams, but it was not to her standard. You needed to do more.

The teacher told you that you could never amount to anything just because you were poor in Mathematics, and so you soaked yourself in books to prove him wrong. And every time you imagine becoming a failure, you soak yourself in gaining accolades, recognition. You hide behind work and never get to soak in the joys and victories of accomplishment because you are always in pursuit of the next victory—an overachiever.

The subconscious conditioning raises the voices that make us feel unworthy, in search of something that we never get to achieve. Before we realize it, time is gone, love is lost, and there is a hollow in our hearts. We end up bleeding on people that we should never have bled on from the get-go.

And well, as you grow older, the mask not only becomes too heavy to carry, but your desire to be free increases. Yet it is scary because that is all you know: the shame, the pain, the ridicule, the lack of attention. And I get it. But, I want you to know it is possible to become the better version of yourself. Without invalidating our experiences, I want you to know that quite a number of our parents raised us the way they were raised—from a point of woundedness. Some were never courageous enough to face their own demons, so they displaced their frustrations on us.

Anytime the voices in your head remind you of the wounded child in you, the child that was scarred and had no power to raise their own voice lest it becomes disrespectful, I want you to remember you are no longer that child. You are an adult who knows better, has a voice, understand things from a different perspective, can create boundaries and you can stand on your own. Right now as an adult, I hope you intentional make your voice louder. 

Recognize the patterns and acknowledge the voices and habits that stem from your past. Awareness is the first step to breaking free. Seek therapy or counseling, as a professional can help you unpack your experiences and provide tools to reframe your inner dialogue. Practice self-compassion and, when the voices in your head get loud, remind yourself that you are enough. Speak to yourself with kindness, just as you would to a friend. Set boundaries and learn to say no to protect your energy. Healing often involves letting go of relationships or habits that no longer serve you. Celebrate small wins along the way, as healing is a journey, not a destination. Surround yourself with supportive people who understand and encourage your growth.

It takes courage to heal and I applaud you for that. It takes vulnerability to sit down with pain and the realization that our experiences with our caregivers wounded us and they may never ask for forgiveness. It takes resilience to unpack your experiences. I want to acknowledge you for what you are doing. Healing is not a destination, it is journey so extend grace to yourself. Healing is the most courageous act of love you can offer yourself.