The first time I uttered those words out loud, it was your birthday. Instead of calling you to wish you, I posted your picture with a “happy posthumous birthday.” Nne? That changed me. I initially thought it was just my perfect ability to exaggerate things, because there was no way I meant what the sentence said. Right? But it wasn’t, and every word carried the exact weight of how I feel daily.

The day you died, it wasn’t just you. A part of me died with you—the part of me that was somewhat healthy, happy, enthusiastic about life, and confident about the future. I can’t find them since you left. And ever since that day, the earth changed shape, and nothing has quite fit the same again.

Grief is a strange thing. It sneaks up in the quietest moments—when I see fathers with their daughters in vulnerable moments like graduation, marriage, when I hear someone say something that you would say, when I remember the way you used to say my name in a sing-song “Omobolanle Oluwabukola Ele daddy, Faith baby, Faith baby, oyoyo”. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about the future like you’re still in it. How I’d like to take my convocation shoot with you. How I’d want to walk down the aisle with you. I just catch myself and stop because you’re not here to experience anything anymore.

My favorite memories of you are the ones where you loved me and showed me you did. The ones before sickness came, before life got less simple. The ones when I’d welcome you back from work with a big hug, and you’d be waiting. You’d call me your baby and hand me whatever goodies you bought for me.

One day, your daddy passed two weeks ago, the next, they are doing one year remembrance for him. Where did all the time go?

My daddy.

Sometimes I wonder if you knew just how much you meant to me. If you knew how much I love you. If you knew that the little things—the hugs, the way you called me your baby, the small treats you brought home, the validation you used to give that I wouldn’t suffer a day in my life as long as you were alive, the promises of the things you’d do for me and the places you’d take me to, the little intentional plans you made for my future, my little trust fund and insurance and the way you showed me several times that you’d drop everything for me everytime— became the memories I now hold onto the tightest. Time keeps moving whether we are ready or not, but the love you gave me is one thing grief hasn’t been able to take away.

It’s been a whole year since you left, daddy. A lot has changed, I have changed. E go really pain me if there are any clouds blocking the view. Everyday I try to make you proud, I hope that even in times I fail, my efforts count for something. I love you and I miss you so much.

Love, Faith.🤍

I sat down to write this and realized I don’t have anything profound to say. I’ve been trying to survive lately– not build, not bloom, not become– just survive. And survival doesn’t leave much room for creativity. So no, I don’t have anything to say.

For days now I have been trying to figure out what exactly the problem is. Is it exam tension, faith, body dysmorphia, anxiety or my daddy’s one year remembrance? What exactly is it, I wondered. But as I sat to think of something to write, it finally hit me! It is everything. Everything is wrong. The pieces don’t fit like they used to and I don’t know where to find another puzzle board. I don’t know if I would.

It has been a very stressful week for me. So stressful that this time I didn’t have any word of encouragement for myself. This time I didn’t have any more lies to tell myself. This time I was more than okay with the idea of giving up.

“But it can’t be everything, can it? Something would certainly be going on as it always has in your life.” And you’re right, but not entirely. The only thing really constant right now is my anxiety and as much as I want to work on it, as many sessions as Mrs Onadipe– my therapist– would have with me, it’s still there because it’s safe. It’s home. I have always known it and it keeps my mind occupied.

Unlike my other newsletters, the only word I have to give is don’t die. It’s better to not die, I can tell you for a fact.

I absolutely hate that most of the time I just come to trauma dump on you guys, but it is what it is. It’s what you signed up for and it’s honestly what keeps me going.

~Until the day I’d write to you all with a clearer head, Faith🤍

I’m not built to handle strong emotions. You think that’s crazy talk, right? But it’s true. The reason my guards are always up — the 30% of the time I am not fooling — is because I’m not built to handle strong emotions. I already feel things so deeply, so yeah.

One of the ways I’ve convinced myself of this — repetition? It’s to drive home a point, stay with me — is through relationships. And no ew, I’m not talking about you and your stupid man. I mean platonic relationships.

I heard sometime ago that I am very clingy, and that I center my life too much around people. Very new. Very hurtful to hear. But, in the same vein, very true. I’d like to excuse myself by saying that the concept of leaving doesn’t sit well with me. It feels too much like death.

A few days ago, I told a friend that I couldn’t wait for my daddy to come back from Abuja. It was only after I said the whole sentence that it hit me anew. There’s something about “was here yesterday, isn’t here today” that completely confuses me.

But we’re not talking about sad stuff. At least, not death.

I sat across from a stranger last week. It was crazy because I knew her favorite color, her favorite food, her house address, and the food she doesn’t eat. It felt absurd to my little mind that this stranger used to be an intricate part of my life.

You think I’m drifting. I’m not. Stay with me.

It was awkward too. As awkward as the first conversation you have with a friend after an explosive fight. When you’re stuck between loving someone genuinely and building a wall around yourself because you’re no longer sure who they truly are. Yeah. That awkward.

Yesterday in class, I thanked my Jesus for not allowing me find my man — and no! 100 level doesn’t count — in school because Chineke mo! I cannot imagine. Me wey dey quickly shame? Imagine breaking up with your man and still having to be in the same class with him. Now imagine the said man moves on to date someone else in your class. Gosh. Every day would feel like a test from the Lord of Hosts. God forbid! If this sounds familiar, I wish you Jehovah’s strength. You’ll definitely need it.

Anyways, that’s an example of the strong emotions I’m talking about. If ex-relationship people need to tap into Heaven’s strength, now imagine friendship people.

Friendship breakups are especially harder because no one expects it to be.

First of all, you know your soulmate can be your friend, right? Now imagine cutting off the person you called your soulmate, your sister, your closest friend, your future maid of honor — whenever you decide to get married. Imagine that.

And unlike what people on TikTok or Twitter say, it’s not easy. Because not being close friends with them doesn’t mean they disappear. They’re there when you turn left. There when you turn right.

In class. In the same group chats. On the ward. In pictures frozen in time, where everything was rosy and you were both still in love. In text conversations where you both promised each other Heaven and Earth.

I don’t know how to deal with strong emotions, because all I want to do is run into my girl’s arms and promise not to go anywhere ever again.

But what if I’m tired of being the one running? What if I want to be ran into?

I saw a stranger tonight. And that stranger used to be my best friend. That’s not okay. So no, I am not built to handle strong emotions.

Love, Faith.🤍

I found him on Twitter. A man I once talked to. Not someone I want anymore, not someone I miss, but someway somehow, still someone who held up a mirror I wasn’t ready to look into.

He’s a PhD student now.

How?

And no, this isn’t me questioning how he did it. He’s always been smart. Even back then, I knew.

The real question that hit me in the chest was: how did he get there so quickly? How did life move that fast for him while mine feels like it’s stalling?

I’m in my final year, and instead of excitement, I’m afraid. Afraid of the silence after school. Afraid of the question “what’s next?” because I don’t have a confident answer yet. Afraid that I blinked and everyone else figured it out.

Some days, it feels like life is a race and even though I didn’t quit, I just paused.

I told myself I deserved a break. I stepped off the track. I went to eat. I rested.

But somewhere between catching my breath and surviving, I forgot to return.

Now when I look up, everyone is far ahead, publishing books, collecting titles, becoming things. And I’m standing here with my breath finally steady, wondering when and if I missed my turn.

Did life continue without me? Did I fall behind while I was trying not to fall apart?

Comparison is a thief of joy, I know. Everyone’s timeline is different, I know. I know all the right answers. But sometimes knowing doesn’t stop the shame of feeling late to your own life. I wonder if this is what people mean when they say it’s possible to wake up in the middle of your own story and not know which chapter you’re currently on. Because sometimes growth doesn’t feel like growth, it feels like being left behind.

It’s not like I stayed at a point too, I didn’t! I’m just here, but I don’t know when “here” started feeling so small.

If you can relate to this, I want you to know that I see you, I hear you, and I fully understand you. But I have nothing to say that is different from what you’ve probably heard before: people’s times are different. And I think it’s time to make peace with the fact that it’s okay.

So maybe we don’t have our lives figured out yet, so what? We’re still here, and that’s all that matters. And I’m positive that although it might take a while, we eventually would. I love you, and I hope you get all you’ve ever prayed for.

Your friend in confusion,

Faith.🤍

Like every good writer, I have written this in my notepad since last year (yurrrh), but as I was drenched in my tears while the rest of the congregation were excitedly wishing themselves a happy new year, I realized that maybe God doesn’t want me to pretend I’m okay, or to feign appreciation. Maybe He just wants me to keep trusting that He’d forever have my best interests at heart. And that’s what I’m holding on to.

So back to what I wrote earlier:

Honestly, I have been seeing a lot of people do this, so I thought to try. I cannot say that there’s much I’m grateful for this year, because genuinely sometimes some losses are so great that they eclipse every other thing, and this year was defined by one of those losses. But surely I can still find something, let me think.

Watching people celebrate what I no longer have hurts in ways I can’t explain. Not because they’re wrong, but because grief is a weird thing that leaves a permanent ache.

I also ended up losing people I thought were my safest places this year, and I’m ending the year with fewer people than I started with. Not withstanding, I’m still holding on tightly to God. He’s dependable, that He has shown.

Some days, survival is the only thing I can name. Other days I’m riding the high of opioids. I don’t have many words of gratitude. But I’m grateful. I’m grateful for Damilola and Favour. They both make my life a lot less cloudy. I’m grateful for Bucknor. She held me in ways I didn’t know I needed to be held.

Last year, my daddy was here. This year, he isn’t. And he won’t be again.

Regardless, God is good and I’m grateful that I’m still here, breathing.

Happy new year, my lovies. I hope this year bring love, joy, goodness, wealth and peace. Honestly, I hope it brings you everything you’ve ever wanted, prayed and wished for.❤️

Love, Faith.🤍

February: Big moment. I told God I wanted Him to send me a man named Zion the next month, just to prove to me that He listens. Key point: I didn’t know a Zion, just liked the name.

March: This month was unforgettable. I was in a talking stage with a boy I’ll never forget, not because he broke my heart (lol 😂), but because I want to always remember to hate him. “No be only you dey suffer” type shit. And then, Jehovah showed that He really does have a sense of humor. Started struggling with migraines and vertigo. I finally decided to go to the hospital. Walked into a consulting room, and guess the name of the doctor that attended to me? Zion. 😂 The rest is history. My daddy died, and I started losing my mind.

April: No big moments. Just cried. And cried. And cried. The tears, baby, were too many to count.

May: Life started working. A little madness, a little magic, nothing too crazy.

June: Absolute chaos. The hospital became my second home. Best in sickness fr. 👍🏾

July: “That’s when I found out you lied.”

August: I can’t remember specifics. Just me surrendering my life to Christ for the umpteenth time and promising things I knew I wouldn’t keep. Chai, why always me?

September: One of the most confusing months ever. Zlc came. I handed over Bible study and took over as financial secretary. I cried, blasphemed, begged every person I knew for help, then rejected the position. Did I feel bad? No. Was I supposed to? Yes.

October: Lots of fun. Too busy to feel sad. Life cheated me, but whoopty doo.

November: Lost my mind again. Lost my life a little too. But made lots of money I didn’t even work for, I am just a girl after all. Also realized I might have been doing life alone, even surrounded by people. Not fun. BECAME A REGISTERED NURSE!

December: Olololo.

I don’t want to jinx anything, so I won’t say anything about 2026. But one thing I know for certain is that my God cannot allow me suffer very well this year, and suffer again next year. I’m confident that He would do sumn for me.

Till I regain my spark,

Faith.🤍

There was a heaviness in the air last night, the kind that tells you a chapter has closed even though the book was barely open.

So crazy that nothing dramatic happened. Everyone that knows Faith (me) knows I deserve an award for assuming, overthinking and jumping into conclusions, so yes I knew and yes, I was expecting it. I thought it would be dramatic. Some whys, maybe some why nots too. But it wasn’t. Just a stillness that felt different, like the room exhaled before I did. I can’t exactly point to a moment or a reason, only the way my chest felt unfamiliar when the morning came.

I moved through the morning, and eventually today, the way you carry a hot cup of coffee - carefully, quietly, hoping not to spill whatever it is you’re holding. Some days, the body knows before the mind does. It registers the shift, the subtle rearranging, the soft ache that doesn’t announce itself but still changes the rhythm of your breathing.

I kept thinking about how life doesn’t pause for any form of internal weather. The world still asks you to show up, to pull an all-nighter for your exams, to sit, to write, to answer, to nod “yes” that I’m okay. Ah! Can’t you all see I’m losing my mind? But I still did. I showed up with a chest that felt slightly tilted, carrying something I didn’t yet have words for. I’m saying it like I did something out of the ordinary. I actually didn’t have a choice. Would I have missed my exams? Lol, no.

Maybe that’s what last night was, one of those unspoken recalibrations. A tiny tilt in the universe, felt only in the body, understood only in hindsight.

It wasn’t an ending. Not even a beginning. Just a shift. Would this shift lead me to self-discovery? Or, would it move me closer to tipping over the cliff? Who knows? Stay tuned.

(And whether you think I’m back from my hiatus or not - you’re wrong.)

Until our next difficult conversation, Faith.🤍

Hi, pookiessss. My name is Faith, and here are a few things I have to say:

One: Don’t die. Whatever happens, whatever you think you’re going through, whatever you think is so huge, it’s really small as long as you’re still breathing and your heart still works.

Two: It’s totally okay to be envious of people. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not. It only starts becoming a problem if you don’t acknowledge it and find ways to move on from it. Do you get me?

(Disclaimer: my thoughts are scrambled. Use your discretion, please.)

Three: If things don’t get better, let them go. That’s all I’ll say on this subject.

Finally: Don’t lie to yourself that you’ve moved on. Stay in your slump; wallow in your suffering for as long as you need to that first time. Don’t be so quick to dust yourself off and start throwing the words “strong” and “powerful” around, you’ll regret it, I’m certain.

I apologize for ending the newsletter just before we celebrate our two-year anniversary. It’s not my fault; it’s life. That’s how it goes, it really doesn’t care for the rest of us or what we feel.

I love you all so much. This little community saved me more times than I can count, and I’ve always loved writing my deepest thoughts and secrets to you. You all made being an inexperienced writer so fun! Goodbye, my lovies. ❤️

Till another mind ramble, somewhere, somehow.

Love, Faith.🤍

I once had a misunderstanding with one of my very close friends on an issue that shouldn’t even cause one. It was so serious that it almost destroyed the very fabric that held our friendship strong. It was a “she said you said” situation. If you’re on the side of TikTok that I am on, you’d know that the “I don’t know which friend hurt you, but…” trend. It was something similar.

I read a newsletter and the writer said, “hurt people bleed on those who never cut them,” and it stuck with me. The more I paid attention, the more I saw it everywhere—friends, family, even in myself. The truth of the matter is that when we don’t tend to our wounds, they don’t just stay contained inside us, they leak out in different ways; how we speak, how we react, even how we love. After all, unhealed wounds have a way of spilling into spaces that don’t deserve them, they rarely stay quiet.

Anger, bitterness, coldness, or harshness don’t just happen, they come from stories. A person who lashes out might be carrying years of rejection. Someone who struggles to trust may have lived through betrayal. A person who seems distant may simply be protecting themselves from being wounded again. The child who grows up unloved may struggle to show love later in life. The person who feels abandoned might become the one who abandons. The bullied sometimes become bullies. Their actions don’t excuse the pain they cause, but they do explain it, and without intervention, pain recycles itself endlessly, passed along generations like an unwanted inheritance.

But here’s the hopeful truth: cycles can be broken. Healing is always possible. It begins with awareness of when our reactions are born out of past wounds rather than present reality and recognizing that there’s nothing as unfair as bleeding on people who didn’t cut you. It grows through the willingness to face the root of our pain instead of numbing or projecting it. And it flourishes through compassion for ourselves and for others.

Compassion doesn’t mean tolerating mistreatment or excusing harmful behavior. Boundaries is always of importance. But it does mean looking at people with softer eyes, understanding that behind cruelty there is often a wound that has been picked at and never allowed to heal. To respond with empathy instead of retaliation is one of the most powerful ways to disrupt the chain of pain.

Most importantly, we must look inward. It’s uncomfortable, but each of us has, in one way or another, hurt someone because of our own unhealed wounds. Acknowledging this fact opens room for growth and healing.

Finally, let’s remember: Loved people love people. Hurt people hurt people, the same way healed people heal people, because at the end of the day, hurt doesn’t have to keep hurting.

Love, Faith.🤍

Because God’s love is the place where your wounds can finally close.

Let’s start with the obvious: you will most definitely cry in nursing school. Honestly, the goal isn’t to avoid the tears, but it’s to learn the art of suffering (and crying) gracefully. Because crying in the hostel bathroom while you have your bath? Acceptable. Crying in front of your supervisor or your HOD? A mistake! Don’t do this.

So because I like to think of myself as kind and compassionate, plus I have years and “tears” of personal experiences, here’s my unofficial, unaccredited guide to surviving nursing school without publicly breaking down:

1. Master the Art of Strategic Disappearance.🚪

When you feel tears coming, don’t fight them. Excuse yourself with the speed of a married Yoruba man in Lagos on his way to cheat. The toilet, an empty classroom, or even the cafeteria that not many people go to anymore can serve as temporary therapy rooms for you.

2. Always Carry Distraction Props. 📔

A big water bottle, a heavy textbook, or even a sudden cough. Nothing masks red eyes like pretending you were focused on hydration or research. “Faith, your eyes are getting red. What’s wrong?” “Nothing, I didn’t sleep well last night. My supervisor gave me a deadline to submit my chapter 3 and questionnaire” “I’ve been coughing and now I have cold” “The book got into my eye”. Always have something to “save your face from the eyes of the wicked”.

3. Perfect the Neutral Face.😐

The goal is not happiness. The goal is “nothing to see here.” Practice looking like you’re just tired — which is believable, because, well, you are. Don’t be a smiling face all day every day. That’s the fastest way to fail because when you begin to lose your mind and crash out, everyone would notice. And, you definitely do not want that! Pick a day (or two) in a week to be angry at the world.

4. Build a Secret Cry Buddy.🫂

Every nursing student needs one (or two) friend(s) who understands without words. The one who’ll slip you tissue under the desk, or cover for you when you can’t anymore. The one who would give you space to feel big emotions knowing fully well that they are also going through the same. You need a partner, nursing school should NEVER be done alone, you’d just die (exaggeration? Yes, but you get what I mean).

And in cases that you DO get caught crying, the most important one is this:

5. Have an Alibi.🎭

If someone catches you mid-sob, never admit it’s about nursing school stress. Cry harder and blame something else, something untouchable. “I was just thinking about my late father.” “Nigeria wants to take my life. The economy is really terrible, I’ve not eaten since yesterday afternoon.” “I just remembered that American visa is not as easy to get as it was in 2017.” Nobody argues with grief, Tinubu or poverty. The point is: redirect suspicion so convincingly that people feel bad for even asking.

The truth? Surviving nursing school is less about medical knowledge and more about emotional stamina. So yes, cry — but do it privately, wash your face, reapply your lip gloss, and walk back in because you cannot afford to give up.

Anyhoo, if you spot me with suspiciously glossy or shiny eyes, don’t worry — it’s not tears, it’s just my non existent skincare routine thriving under pressure.

You might be wondering, “Faith, why only 5 guides?” Well, I’m still in the program myself, so I’m limited in information and help, but I promise to revisit this when I graduate next year.

Love, Faith.🤍

Song of the day: “No Tears Left to Cry” because Ariana gets it.

I remember it so vividly, like it was just yesterday. My daddy had been sick. He refused to go to the hospital for specialized care, and instead went to a quack doctor.

I remember the morning he died—some minutes after 2 a.m. on Sunday, the 16th of March, 2025. I was in school. I couldn’t sleep—insomnia and I are not strangers. But that night was different.

At around 1:40 a.m., I watched a reel on Instagram about losing a parent. I couldn’t imagine it. I like to think of myself as an empath, so I cried anyway—cried deeply—because the thought of such loss felt unbearable. I cried until some minutes after 2 a.m., then left Instagram reels for TikTok.

I should have known. And maybe, deep down, I did know—because almost every video on my feed was about death, loss, or grief. I eventually managed to fall asleep around 5:30 a.m. because it was a church morning.

But barely 15 minutes later, my phone rang. The hostel matron was calling. Odd because she didn’t have my number, and I didn’t have hers. She asked me to come to her apartment with one of my roommates. Only one of them was awake, and she wasn’t even around—she was helping to cook iftar (it was Ramadan, and she’s Muslim). I called her anyway, thinking it was something small like room allocation. I was tired, irritated, even a little offended. What could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait till morning?

When I got to the matron’s apartment, she said nothing—until the SUG president and the welfare director arrived. Then, she handed me her phone. My mom was on the line.

I knew. I just knew.

As soon as I heard her voice, I started crying. She tried to mask it, tried to keep it together. She asked me to come home. Told me someone should come with me. “Why?” I asked. She said things that didn’t make sense. I knew he was gone.

I returned to my room screaming and crying. My roommates woke up, alarmed. They tried to calm me, to reason it out—maybe she just misses you, they said.

But I knew. I knew.

By exactly 7:05 a.m., we left the hostel—two of my roommates, the welfare director, and I. At the bus stop near my house, my mom called and told us not to alight there. I cried even more. She directed us to a different place. I knew I was going to a hospital. She met us at the new bus stop. As soon as our eyes met, she burst into tears. “Your daddy is dead,” she said. My entire world collapsed. I cried and cried until we got to the hospital.

She held my hand and led me into a room filled with people—her friends, my uncle, our tenants, and my brother, Damilola. Damilola took me into the room where he was. That was the exact moment I lost my mind.

There he was—my daddy. Lifeless. A white cloth covering his face. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t even pray. I just cried on Damilola’s clothes, screaming, “I told him! He didn’t listen. I told him.”

I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone.

What hurt the most was knowing. I had told him. I had begged him. And yet, I couldn’t stop it. He had sent his daughter to study nursing, yet wouldn’t listen to medical advice from that same daughter in her final year. Why?

He died, and a part of all of us died too.

Every day, I miss him. Every day, it hurts that I can’t call him anymore. He was so young. I wish he had more time. He never got to be a nurse’s daddy, a grandfather, a father-in-law, a traveler… all the things he wanted to be.

Some days hurt more than others. Today is one of them.

Hope the clouds are not blocking the view, daddy.🤎

Love, Faith.🤍

Welcome to Love, Faith.🤍

A space for thoughts I whisper into the night. For feelings I almost deleted. For God. For grief. For growth. For me. For you. For us.

This isn’t a rebrand. It’s just more me. Same writing. Same honesty. Same quiet chaos. And most importantly same girl, everything is the same just with a name that sounds like how it’s always felt.

So whether you’ve been reading from the start or you just found me — thank you. You make this worth doing. See you in my next one.

Love, Faith.🤍

I have to be the most logical person I know. I love giving rational explanations to things that happen to me.

But one time, I was alone in the room trying to sleep, and I kept hearing tapping sounds. I convinced myself it was the breeze blowing the keys in the door handle, even though I knew that wasn’t possible. That was when I realized I’d lost all my rationality.

Let’s not even talk about eerie stuff.

In my friendships too, I need things to make sense. Not because I demand an explanation from you, but because I need to have one for myself.

Of course you would say that to me. You’re probably going through a lot — exam stress, this frustrating school, the crazy economy.

Of course you’d treat me like that. You haven’t really been in a good place this week. Maybe your family is going through something. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I’m too much. Maybe I’m too little. See what I mean? That’s how my head sounds.

So what happens when I can’t find a logical reason? It keeps me up all night. It drowns me in my own mind. It slowly, but surely, suffocates the joy out of me. It haunts me.

But, gba f’Ọlọrun ní sìmí. At least that’s what my mommy always says.

But at what point do you stop to “gba”?When do you stop being quiet and start asking God, what exactly is this? Because I’ve been real quiet, and I’m tired.

I remember telling someone I can’t place my finger on the exact emotions I feel. It’s like a combo deal: buy one, get seventeen free. Yay! Except it’s not yay. All I know is that I need answers.

The cave of Adullam. The cave of refuge. The cave of seeking. The cave of intimacy. The cave of answers. Over time, I’ve realized something: maybe God loves me so much because I’m broken. Not to be offensive to God (lol), but He seems really attracted to people who are lost. Confused. Depressed. Anything but strong and firm. Just like David. I relate to David a lot. The man after God’s heart, even when no one else could see why.

One time, I explained a dimension of God I deeply experience to someone. He didn’t understand. He told me to grow more in faith because I was limiting myself. I understood the “grow” part. I didn’t understand the “limiting” part. Did I tell him this? Nope. Will he see this? Probably. But it is what it is.

Back to David. He went to Adullam because he was running from Saul. He was anointed, but he was still running. Why? Because apparently, it wasn’t the time of manifestation. This is exactly where I struggle. It’s not that David wasn’t ready, it’s that God wasn’t ready for David to be king. I feel like God could be violent, but He didn’t want to. Because the Bible says, as soon as David was anointed, the Spirit of God left Saul and entered him. So why the delay? Maybe God just wanted to watch the story unfold. Maybe it gave Him joy to see David prove himself. Maybe it’s like the story of Job.

Whether you agree or not, that’s your business. I’m not your pastor, I’m not even A pastor. Ask your own. Or ask God. Leave me alone.

This is why I struggle so much with God and Christianity, I have a mind that won’t shut up, but a soul that’s trying to surrender anyway. How is that supposed to work out in my favor? It is well. Jésù ṣàánú mi

Honestly, I’ve forgotten the whole reason I started writing this. Just remember that when your brain is spinning and God is silent, there’s only one thing left to do: Gba f’Ọlọrun ní sìmí. It’s actually even easier that way.

~Faith🤎

I’m tired of pretending and breaking. Tired of praying and nothing changes. Tired of saying “all is well” when infact all isn’t. I’m tired of trying to hold it together when every fiber in me is falling apart.

There are days I wonder if You still see me. If You still count me as one of your children. If You’re watching me struggle this much because I deserve it. I don’t want to question You, but I do. I don’t want to doubt You, but I am. I hate that this is what I have turn to, a girl that believes in You, but can hardly see or feel You. I did this to myself, I know.

But God, I'm not asking for a miracle tonight, I just want to rest in a way that reaches my bones and the deepest parts of me. Just hold me because I can’t hold myself anymore. Please remind me that I'm not alone in this quiet ache.

I’m tired, God. Please don’t be tired of me.

And I got angry.

I finally saw her, exhausted, bent over work, needles in hand, running from one task to another. She was working bi-duty in the gynecology ward, juggling patients and responsibilities I understand all too well. She was genuinely, undeniably busy.

But still… I was angry.

And that’s what got to me. The anger didn’t leave just because the reason made sense. Instead, it sat there like a weight on my chest, quiet, but heavy.

So now, what do I do with this anger? What do I do with the anger that doesn’t respond to logic? Or the kind that lives deeper than missed calls? The kind that traces back to a loss I never signed up for?

My dad died before I even had the chance to grow up. Before I could show him who I’m becoming. Before I could ask him how to deal with these moments, these quiet and angry moments.

Yes, I know God. I know God is my Father. I know Him as my El Roi, the God who sees me. I know He holds me when I cry, when I feel invisible, when the anger burns my insides as though I’m in a fiery furnace. I know Him as my Abba. I know He watches, listens, stays when others don’t. I’ve felt His presence in the silence, in the stillness, in the midnight cries.

But I’m still angry.

Because knowing God is near doesn’t always erase the ache of absence. It doesn’t always calm the storm fast enough. Sometimes, faith feels like standing in the midst of a heavy pouring rain, believing there’s a bright sunshine coming, but still getting drenched. And that doesn’t make me faithless. It just makes me human.

So again, what do I do with this anger?

I used to think I had to hide it. That I had to package my prayers in a polite language (make God no go vex, lol), say “thank You” before “help me,” or worship louder and pray harder to drown out my doubts.

But now? Now I’m learning something else.

Maybe I don’t fight it tonight. Maybe I sit with it. Maybe I lay it at His feet; not neatly, but messily, just as it is, just as I am. Maybe I don’t need to silence it before I pray. Maybe I bring it with me into the prayer. Maybe that is the prayer.

But even Jesus wept. Even He cried out, “Why have You forsaken Me?” Even He knows what it feels like to carry unbearable emotion to a dark and silent sky. So maybe that’s what I’ll do with this anger. I’ll bring it to Him. Raw. Unedited. Open. Unfiltered.

And I wait, not always for answers, but for presence. Because presence heals what explanations can’t. And maybe God isn’t asking me to pretend I’m okay.
Maybe He’s just asking me to come angry, hurting, full of questions.
But still coming.

~Faithyy.

I’ve been angry lately. The kind of anger that settles under everything, beneath the laughs, the “I’m fine,” the schoolwork I barely show up for. Not explosive, not loud. Just present. What makes it worse was the fact that I couldn’t recognize what exactly ruffled my feathers.

But last night it finally hit me: I thought I’d be somewhere else by now.

Fifteen-year-old me had plans. Big ones. She even wrote all these ideas in her journal ready for the day they would be unleashed. (newsflash: we never see anything unleash yet o, chai. My Chi o.) She was very strict. She thought by 19, we’d have our own skincare and cosmetics brand that has flawless packaging, customers increasing day by day, features in cosmopolitan and vogue magazines because of how “up there” the brand would have been, money flowing like water. She thought we’d be building empires, not suffering and barely surviving in a 300-level nursing program, wondering if we’ll pass the next exam or just barely scale through again.

She had no idea we’d be this broke. This tired. This unsure.

And she definitely didn’t think we’d still be alone.

I haven’t found the one. Not even close. I don’t know if I’m supposed to care, but I do. Deeply. Some days it feels like everyone else is figuring love out; dates, loving, matching wallpapers, soft launches (the hard ones too!) and I’m just here in the front-row seat watching everything, screaming “God, me nko?” with my friends, refreshing chats, crying to my El-Roi every Eke market day, and spending the whole of my time trying to convince myself I’m not the problem.

But maybe what hurts more than the money, or the loneliness, or even the failure is the fact that my father’s gone. Forever. That he’ll never get to see who I become, that’s if I even become anything worth seeing. That’s if life actually starts working in my favor. That’s if I actually crack the code to the cheat game called life.

And I’m angry about that too. Angry at the universe, at timing, at God sometimes. Angry that life keeps moving when I feel stuck.

I really thought I’d be somewhere else by now. Not crying over slides I have to read. Not doubting every step I take. Not feeling like I have nothing going on for myself except this education, which even then feels like a gamble half the time.

But I’m here. Still breathing. Still angry. Still trying.

Maybe that counts for something. Maybe it doesn’t. Who knows? Who cares?

If you’ve ever felt behind, like you missed the train everyone else seems to be on, I see you. I feel you. You’re not crazy. You’re just human.

Maybe we didn’t become business moguls at 19, and maybe life hasn’t wrapped us in soft love and money and clarity just yet, but we’re not done. Not even close.

Somewhere else can wait. For now, we’re here. And that’s enough. Maybe the real growth isn’t in arriving, but in learning how to be okay with wherever you are right now. Maybe it isn’t. Who knows? Who actually gives a damn?

-Faithyy

I called my daddy’s number on Monday, but he wasn’t there. The phone rang, once, twice, and then silence. It was the same number I’d called a thousand times before, the same number my siblings and I were forced to learn as kids, but this time, I knew it wasn’t going to be answered, at least not by him. I knew Damilola has the phone in his room, so I was sure my daddy wasn’t going to pick up, but in that moment, I wished I hadn’t known.

The silence that followed felt louder than any words he could’ve said. His absence settled into that empty space, like a weight on my chest, reminding me of what I’ve lost. It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as simple as a phone call can hold so much power, a reminder of someone who isn’t there anymore. I don’t know why I even called; maybe in some way, I was hoping to hear him again , to hear his voice, to hear him start the call with “baby” in an intonation I don’t think anyone can say (on days we’re not fighting, lol).

But the phone stayed silent, and with it, I was reminded that no matter how many times I dial that number, he won’t answer. He’s gone, and I can’t call him back. It’s a hard truth to face, one I thought I was learning to live with, but sometimes grief just hits you in unexpected ways, at the most ordinary moments. The kind of moments you think you’re prepared for, but you never really are.

I don’t know how to deal with grief, this I’m so sure of now. I want to treasure everything that used to be my daddy’s; wear his clothes, spray all his expensive perfumes, keep his Bible that has has handwriting; anything to remind me of him and to “keep” him closer than I did the first time.

But I’m scared, sometimes I forget how his voice used to sound like. His pictures in our living room seem so foreign, his room looks the same, yet somehow feels different.

I really hope Heaven has a window for him to look down. I miss you so much, Mr Oshungboye. I would never forget you.

I love you so much.

~Faithyy

Grief is weird. It doesn’t just bring sadness. It opens the door to everything I’ve been trying to run from; memories, old pain, regrets, questions I never got to ask, stuff I thought I was “over.” And lately? It’s also been dragging up a lot of feelings about the ways men in my life have hurt me.

And that’s what I want to talk about today (unusual? I know).

As I typed this newsletter, my mind kept replaying every experience I’ve had with Lagos men (can my girls scream “demons” with me?): The ones who lied. The ones who ghosted me when I needed them. The ones who loved me in pieces but never fully. The ones who made me feel like I was too much, and somehow not enough at the same time. I realized I had been carrying this silent wound from every time a man disappointed me. And now, without my daddy’s presence, it feels as though my entire world is crashing down.

I’m not going to lie, the last few weeks have felt like an emotional rollercoaster. One minute I’m crying about my dad, and the next I’m spiraling into, “Why do men always leave?” or “El-Roi, is it until I’m forty?” That’s not just grief, that’s trauma. That’s the fear talking. And in some moments, it’s even PTSD; those flashbacks, that anxiety, that deep ache in your chest you can’t explain.

BUT here’s the crazy part, I’m still here. I’m still showing up. For myself. For my healing. For this version of me who is finally giving herself grace. The truth is, I don’t have a choice. I’m Faith, my father’s child and my mother’s daughter, strength is honestly the only option. I’m learning that grief and heartbreaks aren’t weaknesses, they’re proof of how deeply I love. I’m learning that I don’t have to carry the weight of all the men who didn’t choose me because right now, they don’t matter. I’m realizing now, more than ever, that they never did. I choose me, that’s all that matters.

And maybe, just maybe the real healing starts when you stop begging for closure from people who were never equipped to love you fully.

My Shaylass, if you’re feeling this way too, know that you’re not alone. Maybe you lost someone recently. Maybe you’ve been heartbroken many times than you can count on your ten fingers. Maybe you’ve bled through your heart so much you never had time to heal. Maybe your wounds are acting type-2 diabetes-ish with the way they are refusing to heal. Maybe you’ve daddy wounds, ex wounds, trust wounds and you’re tired. Honestly, me too. But here we are. Healing anyway. Breathing anyway. Loving ourselves anyway.

So moving forward, let’s be softer with ourselves, okay? Let’s stop pretending we’re okay when we’re not. Let’s keep showing up even when we are our messiest, honest and broken version. Because that’s genuinely what makes us human.

Sending love to every version of you that’s ever been hurt. Those people didn’t deserve you anyways. I love you immensely!!!

~Faithyy.🤍

Lock it out. Shut it down. Don’t feel. That’s the big girl’s mantra. Lock it out. Shut it down. Don’t feel.

There are different stages to this: One, anger. That initial spark of pain and frustration, steam almost literally rising from your chest, clenched fists that makes you wish you could actually throw a punch and the words you wish you could say, but you can’t. It’s easy to let the anger take over, easy to let it consume you till you are utterly destroyed. But that’s where you lock it down. You keep it all together, even when everything inside of you wants to explode. Something in you is telling you to cause a scene, but you don’t.

Two, the numbness. You’ve felt it before, this is nothing new. It’s that familiar empty space that replaces the anger. A very strange kind of peace if you ask me. The rage dies down, and you’re left with nothing but a cold stillness, like you’ve crossed over, like you’re not even here. You’ve mastered this part, haven’t you? The part you don’t let anyone see the raging storm inside of you, but you’re quietly drowning in it. “Shut it down, don’t let them see”, you know this.

The third stage is the wall. You build it so high, brick by brick, stone by stone. No one can see what’s inside. No! You don’t let them. It’s the only way to protect what’s left of you. It’s the only way you know anyways. To feel anything would be dangerous, so you keep it locked. You can’t let yourself be vulnerable again. No! Not after what happened. But behind that great tall wall, there’s a quiet whisper, often heard, but always ignored. It’s speaking a little louder now, it’s saying it’s okay to feel, to break down, to be real.

Even though the big girl’s mantra is about holding it together even when you’re spiraling, there’s a point where you need to tap it out, let it out, FEEL, and move forward! Let the tears flow if they have to, or scream if you need to. It’s alright. You don’t always have to be strong all by yourself. You were strong enough to survive the storm, now its time to release it and be released. Its’s okay to feel, and it’s definitely okay to heal. Because even the big girls need to let go sometimes.

Rooting for you, babes. With all my love, Faithyy.🤍

Isn’t beautiful how God has been with us even before we realize a need for Him? The beauty of His love lies in the way He meets us where we are, long before we can even see the shaky path ahead.

Today I cried a lot of tears. If Nursing is what God wants for me, why is it this difficult? Why isn’t everything going like a properly planned out script of a happy movie?

But as I tried to sleep, my mind began to wander about how much preparation has gone into me before I even got here. How God allowing me to write Jamb twice made me learn perseverance. How witnessing my grandparents death made me stronger. It is so amazing how much work God puts into us. Gosh! I didn’t realize it then, but He was shaping my heart, my character, and my desires, prepping me for the numerous challenges I’d face and even the grace I’d need to accept growth. It’s like He already knew what I’d face, and He was quietly laying the foundation for everything ahead, even when I was unaware.

Then there’s my role as an executive in the fellowship, for one. All my life I never thought I’d be in a position like this, but God placed me there, teaching me leadership in ways I never expected. I’ve learned to serve, to guide others, and to be humble in my position—all the while being reminded that it was never about me, but about His plan and purpose for my life. Even when I feel unqualified, He has been faithful to equip me for the role, teaching me to trust in His strength rather than my own.

Through all my life’s “gbagun gbagun”, my relationship with God has been my strength. It’s nowhere close to perfection, there are times I doubt, times I question, and times I feel uncertain, but He’s right there with me. I’ve had/still having my fair share of struggles, but God has been a constant presence, quietly guiding me, loving me, and reminding me that He is always ahead of me, making a way. In the highs and the lows, I’ve come to realize that He’s been there all along—meeting me before I even knew what I needed, holding me when I was unsure, and showing me that His plans are bigger than anything I could have imagined.

It is indeed so beautiful how God has been with us way before we realize a need for Him. The God who sees me, my El-Roi indeed.

~Faithyy🤍