First, an apology.

To everyone who reads what I write; my quiet subscribers who check in from time to time, I know I disappeared for a while. I missed writing. Truly. But life has a way of pulling you inward sometimes. The past few months have been a season of figuring things out, of learning, of stretching, and of becoming. I needed that space.

During that time, a lot changed.

Before I talk about my own journey, I keep asking myself a question: What is the difference between growth and change?

Change is simply becoming different. It is movement from one state to another. Sometimes it happens suddenly, sometimes it happens quietly. Change can be intentional or accidental. It is the shift itself.

Growth, on the other hand, is deeper. Growth is development. It is progress. It is when change moves in a direction that improves you; when you become stronger, wiser, healthier, or braver than you were before.

So change is transformation, but growth is transformation with purpose.

Which brings me to the real question: what has been happening in my life lately? Is it growth, or is it change?

Honestly, I don’t think I can choose.

Yesterday marked two months since I started my diet—strictly, intentionally, and with discipline. Anyone who knows me knows how hard that is for me. Losing weight has never come easy. In fact, gaining weight? That part comes effortlessly. So imagine how proud I felt when I stepped on the scale last week and saw that I had lost 6.5kg.

Six point five kilograms.

For some people that might just be a number, but for me it represents commitment. Early mornings. Self-control. Days when motivation was low but I kept going anyway. It represents choosing myself again and again.

And I’m proud. Extremely proud.

But that’s not the only change that has happened.

Something else happened last month that might sound small to other people but felt huge to me: I learned how to drive. For the longest time, driving scared me. It felt intimidating, overwhelming even. But last month I decided to face that fear. I took driving lessons, slowly building confidence with every session.

And now?

You can call me Faith the driver.

When I look back at the past few months, I realize that what has been happening in my life isn’t just change, and it isn’t just growth either. It’s something that sits right in the middle of both. Maybe the best word for it is transformation; the kind that happens quietly, step by step, when you start choosing courage over comfort.

I’m grateful. Deeply grateful.

Grateful for the discipline that carried me through two months of consistency. Grateful for the courage to sit behind the wheel even when I was afraid. Grateful for the realization that sometimes the biggest progress in life happens in the smallest, most ordinary moments.

And maybe that’s what this season of my life is really about.

Becoming.

Not perfectly. Not instantly. But intentionally.

So whether this journey is called growth or change, one thing is certain: I’m proud of who I’m becoming. And for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to keep going.

Hi my loves 🖤
I’ve missed you.
Did you miss me?

I’m sure I’m not alone in this; the feeling that if you could just go back in time, even for five minutes, you’d do something differently. Change a decision. Say less. Say more. Walk away earlier. Or stay a little longer.

Something happened today that made me start thinking about it again.

I’m starting a calorie deficit today. Gym included. And no, it’s not because I suddenly woke up hating my body. I won’t lie and say I’m one of those people who “love every inch of themselves” every single day but generally, I’m fine. I exist. I live. I wear my clothes.

But my stomach?
That one thing.

I have a line on my stomach. Some people say it’s an ab line and maybe they say it to make me feel better but it makes my stomach look divided. The top part is flat, then there’s this lower belly fat that gathers underneath. And I know exactly where it came from.

Senior secondary school.

We wore skirts then, and for reasons I genuinely cannot explain now, I decided to sew the waist tighter. My skirt was already fine. There was no need. No one forced me. It wasn’t even a “fashion” or “trend” thing. But I did it anyway. Over and over again.

One thing about me, my skin is soft. Very soft. And five years later, here I am, still seeing the result of that small, careless decision every time I look in the mirror.

I can’t say I haven’t tried things. I have. I also can’t say I hate my body. I don’t. But this stomach? I won’t lie I hate DISLIKE it. I’m insecure about it. I think about it too often. I sit down sometimes and just whisper to myself, “If only you knew. Why did you do that?”

And that’s where the time-travel thoughts come in.

Because at least once a month, I find myself wishing I could go back to that version of me; tugging at the waist of her skirt and just tap her shoulder. Just once. Tell her to stop.

But this time, instead of wishing, I’m taking a step. And I’m happy about it. I hope it works out well.

That’s not the only time I want to go back in time, though.

Sometimes it’s 3 a.m. I’m tired. I want to sleep. I put my phone down. And then, boom a memory pops up. Something I said. Something I did. The way I spoke. The way I acted. I cringe so hard it feels physical. I replay it over and over, wishing I could just rewind and behave differently.

At least once a week, I want to go back in time.

And sometimes it’s not even deep. Sometimes it’s small, almost stupid things.

Like going to the market. Someone tells me a price. I think it’s expensive, so I leave. I go somewhere else and realize the price is double. I can’t even remember the first place anymore. I’ll never find it again. But I’ll think about it. Deeply.

There was a short once. The price was fair. It was comfortable. I liked it. I didn’t buy it. I don’t even live in that state anymore and yet, randomly, that short still crosses my mind. Why didn’t I just buy it? I would have worn it. I know I would have.

Or the opposite; times I’ve overpaid for things, only to later discover the price was actually much lower. And again, the thought returns: If only I could go back.

It’s a whole collection of moments. 

Big ones. Small ones. Emotional ones. Ridiculous ones.

All stacked together in my mind.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me. Or if everyone secretly carries a version of their past they wish they could edit; just a little.

Maybe we all want to go back in time.
Not to live there.
Just to fix one thing.
Or to forgive ourselves for it.

And since we can’t…
Maybe the best we can do is take steps forward anyway.

Even if it’s starting with something as small and as personal — as your stomach.

Happy sad birthday

I’ve always wondered who decided that birthdays must be happy. Like genuinely, who sat down one day and said, “Yes, this day, no matter what, must be happy.” Because what if it isn’t? What if I didn’t agree? What if nobody asked me how I felt before attaching happiness to the day?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I can’t remember the last time I had a happy one. It falls in the first week of January, which already feels like a bad joke. Everyone is broke. Everyone is tired. Everyone has an excuse. “Christmas drained me.” “New Year took everything.” Sometimes it’s not even my friends my own family, my own parents, will say they spent too much during the holidays. No gift. No anything. I mean I don’t even blame them. Me too, I’m always broke on my birthday. And honestly, I’ve gotten used to it.

But the thing is, it’s not even about the gifts. I’ve learned to live without gifts. It’s the promises that hurt. I hate promises that don’t show up. If you won’t do it, don’t say it. It’s not entitlement; it’s expectation management. I would rather you say nothing at all than tell me “I’ll get you something” and let the day pass quietly like it always does.

Somewhere along the line, I developed birthday anxiety. Every year, without fail, there’s this overwhelming sadness that sits on my chest. I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe it’s because I haven’t achieved what I thought I would by this age. Maybe it’s because I had silent goals I never said out loud but still held myself accountable for. Or maybe it’s just the weight of another year added to a life that doesn’t feel fully figured out yet. I genuinely don’t know.

I don’t hate my birthday; that would feel ungrateful. Adding another year to your life is not small. Not everyone gets that privilege. I understand that. I really do. But I dislike the day. I always want it to come and go quickly. I want the clock to move faster so I can breathe again the next morning.

And that’s why the phrase happy birthday bothers me.

Why happy?
Why must it be happy?
Why not honest birthday?
Why not quiet birthday?
Why not surviving birthday?
Why not new age?
Why not growing birthday?

Who decided happiness was compulsory?

Sometimes when people say “happy birthday” to me, it feels like they’re telling me how I should feel instead of asking how I actually do feel. Like happiness is an obligation I owe the day, even when the day has never really shown up for me.

So maybe this isn’t a sad birthday. Maybe it’s just a real one. One where I sit with my emotions instead of pretending. One where I acknowledge that I’m grateful to be alive, but also tired. One where I don’t force joy just because tradition demands it.

So no maybe it’s not a happy birthday.
Maybe it’s just my birthday.
And maybe that’s enough for now.