I’m in a weird season right now — a limbo made of sharp edges and soft sighs. I’ve just walked out of my main job. I’m arm-wrestling my side hustle to shape it into something structured, fair, rewarding. I’m poking at new opportunities too, the kind that promise real money and a shred of sanity — but when people are involved, the waiting room is infinite. Their timelines, their rules, their half-promises that I keep trying to sync with my own pulse.
Patience. Patience has never been my thing, yet here I am, wrapped in it like a scratchy blanket.
Then there’s my relationship — or what’s left of it. Nine months deep, and we’re nowhere near the easy part. We want different things, pretend we don’t, rebrand reality to fit our illusions. He’s not malicious — comfort is just addictive, that’s all. Committing to someone means poking holes in your safe bubble. It means stepping out from mama’s nest and letting someone else in to rearrange your furniture. It’s messy. It’s terrifying. It’s real. And not everyone is ready for real.
And so I wait. I watch. I call it what it is.
Meanwhile, Dubai and I remain awkward roommates. It’s functional, yes. It’s fine. It prints money and polishes illusions. But do I love it? No. Do I walk out my door and feel kissed by my surroundings? Not really. I tolerate it. I use it. It feeds my future plans — the ones money still fuels best.
Some cities fill your lungs with home even if they never were yours. Cape Town did that for me. Just wandering my neighborhood there — the Dutch-style houses, Table Mountain always peeking over my shoulder, ocean air crashing down the hill to meet me halfway. That was my simple heaven. But paradise isn’t enough if you don’t feel safe inside your own walls. And I didn’t. So I left. I gave up paradise for predictability. I swapped stolen walks for well-paid office hours. And no, I don’t regret it.
But sometimes it does feel like a bad trade.
So here I am: job half-lost, job half-made, a relationship twisting in circles, a city that feels like a beautiful prop. A few years ago this cocktail would have drowned me. Today? It doesn’t. Because I finally learned to sit still inside chaos. I finally stopped rebuilding myself from the rubble every time life changed its mind.
Now, the core of me stays put. The walls outside can quake and crack, but I know what’s worth saving. I know who I am, what I want, and who’s got my back when no one does: God. Not a sudden discovery, but a quiet friendship I finally respected enough to lean on.
This is how I keep breathing while everything else falls apart, reshapes, or drags its feet. This is how sadness doesn’t ruin me anymore — it just sits beside me. And I sit beside it. And we both watch what comes next.
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