What 34 Taught Me About Joy
I used to mourn my birthdays. Not dramatically, quietly. The kind of mourning you don’t tell anyone about because it sounds ungrateful, maybe even a little strange. Growing older felt like something to endure rather than celebrate, so every year, I let the day pass with as little fanfare as possible.
Since turning 31, I had fallen into a rhythm of barely finding excitement in things. 33 was no different. And if I’m honest, 34 was shaping up to be exactly the same, until it wasn’t.
Something shifted in these last few months. Since committing more time and creativity to building BE Lifestyl, I’ve released so much: worry, self-doubt, and the quiet negativity I’d been carrying around like it belonged to me. In its place, I’ve been making room for joy. Not the loud, performative kind. The small, steady kind that shows up in the morning before anyone else is awake, in a journal entry that surprises you, in a piece of content that takes longer than expected but feels exactly right when it’s done.
These last few months have stretched me, physically and mentally, in ways I didn’t know I was capable of. I’ve poured a lot into my family, without an ounce of regret, but often from a leaking pot.
You know that feeling. When you’re giving and giving and giving, and somewhere along the way, you realise the pot you’re pouring from has a hole in it. Nobody filled it. You didn’t notice the draining until you were nearly empty. Finding joy in my daily life, in small, intentional moments, has been what’s kept that pot from drying out completely. It’s something I’m deeply grateful for.
And now, turning 34, I’m more committed than ever to sealing that hole. To filling the pot on purpose, not just in response to being empty.
So what does year 34 look like for me?
It looks like going hard on my goals, not because I have something to prove, but because I finally, genuinely believe I’m worth betting on. It looks like making time for rest and self-care in whatever form I need, without guilt and without explanation. It looks like dressing up because I want to, because my body is worthy of celebration right now, not ten pounds from now. It looks like embracing where I am while continuing to become.
Most of all, it looks like joy. Chosen, intentional, unapologetic joy.
34 is not a destination. It’s a direction. And for the first time in a long time, I’m genuinely excited about where I’m going.
Now I want to hear from you.
Did any of this resonate with you? Are you in a season of becoming too or have you recently stepped into one? Maybe you’re still figuring out what joy looks like for you right now.
Whatever it is, drop it in the comments below. I read every single one and I’d love to hold space for whatever you’re carrying today.
Until next time,
Still becoming. Still being. Still celebrating.
Mother Tongue
There is a conversation that happens between mothers and daughters,
where one woman’s past meets another’s becoming.
In these moments, voices carry more than words.
They carry expectations, sacrifices, and quiet revolutions.
On a warm Thursday afternoon somewhere in suburban Maryland, Kemi sat across from her mother. Sunlight spilled between them, resting gently on an untouched table. The air was thick with everything neither of them had yet said.
“Kemi, what do you mean you’re not sure you want to be a fashion designer anymore?” her mother asked, raising an eyebrow. “When you came to your father and me eight years ago, saying you wanted to leave architecture and go to Paris, do you know how many nights I had to beg your father to agree?”
Kemi frowned. “But Mum, you didn’t act like it was a big deal then. Why bring it up now?”
Her mother sighed, the weight of memory settling into her voice.
“Why now? Because I believed in you. You left a good career, went to Paris, got married, moved here… all for this dream. I even thought, finally, I can stop wasting money on tailors who cannot sew a proper iro and buba.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“But where is the brand, Kemi? You’ve not launched anything. The daughter you said you needed time to raise is already in primary school. So tell me, what is stopping you now? If you don’t have work to show for it, then have another child.”
Kemi shifted in her seat, something tightening in her chest.
“Mum… I can’t believe you’re saying this. Don’t you remember what it was like for you? I lost myself after having Celine. I almost died, Mum. For years, I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
Her voice softened, but did not break.
“At least you had Grandma. You had help. I’m raising Celine here, largely on my own. And just because I don’t give you a daily report doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing. I’ve been creating. I’ve been rebuilding. You may not call it a career, but it matters.”
Her mother scoffed lightly.
“Look at you. Were there not four of you? You children of these days always have something to complain about - ‘finding yourself,’ ‘self-care’... nonsense! If you had a proper job instead of this designing and creating you claim to be doing, or even another baby, you wouldn’t have so much time to be lost. See your sister Gbemi, two boys and a girl, and she’s managing well.”
Kemi exhaled slowly.
“Mum… she goes by Joan now. And she’s managing because her husband shows up. He cooks, he bathes the children, he does the night shifts. That’s why she can handle three!”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked sharply.
“Is it not James who pays for this house? The car you’re driving? Last month when you said you went on a solo vacation to clear your head, who paid for it? Oh, so you’re trying to emulate your friends now, eh? I hope you’re not trying to be like that Jessica, gallivanting around with one child… or that one who is always hosting women’s programs…”
Kemi blinked. “Do you mean Udochi? The Special Adviser on Women’s Health?”
“Exactly!” her mother replied. “That one. Is she not the one who says she doesn’t want children? How can a woman not want children unless something is wrong with her?”
Kemi inhaled deeply, choosing her words with care.
“Mum, Udochi is a medical doctor. She has enough insight into how deeply childbirth changes a woman’s body and enough self-awareness to know she doesn’t want that for herself. Her husband also doesn’t want children, and they’re happy together.”
Her mother clicked her tongue.
“Ehn, ki lo so? What did you just say? O ma se o!” Her mother’s voice rose. “Her mother must be weeping where she is. Do you know how much pain your cousin Shade is causing her mother? Forty-two and still not married! Yet she’s busy buying houses all over Nigeria. What is an unmarried woman doing with a duplex, ni t’ori Olorun?”
Her voice grew firmer, anchored in conviction.
“You girls of nowadays do not understand what it means to be a woman. You must sacrifice for your husband, for your children. It is the woman that holds the home! Do you know the sacrifices I made so your father could succeed in his career? Do you not remember that it was just me and you children in Lagos while he was in London for ten years? If I had been doing all this ‘self-care’ nonsense you people talk about, would you be where you are today?”
Kemi’s voice cracked but steadied as she spoke.
“No, Mum, and I mean no disrespect, but there is so much buried anger in women of your generation. Anger from giving up your dreams so men could live theirs.”
She held her mother’s gaze.
“We are trying to change that. My generation refuses to inherit silence. We’ve seen what happens when women shrink themselves to fit into what the world expects – dreams dry up, bitterness grows. Every woman has the right to choose her body, her life, her path. Being unmarried or child-free does not make her incomplete. It makes her honest.”
She paused, then continued more quietly.
“Yes, we celebrate women who thrive in motherhood and marriages; they are powerful too. But power should come from choice, not pressure. For the first time, women are creating spaces where we can breathe, lead, fail and rise without apology. We are learning that you can’t pour from an empty cup, and that rest, joy and boundaries are not rebellion, they are survival.”
Her voice softened, but her resolve did not.
“And as for me… becoming who I want to be – not who you, Dad, or even James expect – doesn’t make me a failure. I would rather wake up in ten years knowing I chose myself than spend a lifetime living for everyone else.”
Her mother looked away, blinking quickly. The waiter approached, hesitant, menus in hand.
“Mo ti gbo, o, Kemi, I’ve heard you,” she said quietly. “May God spare our lives till then.”
Kemi smiled faintly.
“Yes, Mum. Happy Mother’s Day. Can we order now?”
Her mother nodded, glancing down at the menu.
“Yes… do they have spaghetti here?”
As they placed their orders, silence settled between them – soft, but not empty.
Outside, laughter drifted in from the patio, a reminder that the world was still turning, still being rewritten by women who dared to choose differently.
Kemi glanced at her mother then, really looked at her, the lines etched by years of carrying, enduring, becoming. And for a brief moment, she saw beyond the resistance. She saw a woman shaped by her time. A woman who had carried more than she ever named.
Across the table, her mother sighed, reaching for her glass.
“You children,” she murmured, half in exasperation, half in wonder.
Kemi’s smile was quiet, but sure.
“We’re just learning to carry it differently, Mum.”
And when the waiter returned, he broke the silence, but not the love that still lingered between them.
Until next time,
Still becoming. Still being.
Under One Umbrella
In this season of affection, I honour the essence of what has sustained me, the force that endured before I arrived and continues to shape who I am becoming.
This short piece is written in gratitude: for foundations laid, for mercy inherited, for a persistence that transcends time.
You are the anchor
of human existence and being.
You are kindness, peace, and calm
green, white, and blue.
Our greatest feeling
soul-craving, heart-racing desire.
Yet from you we experience our deepest anguish,
somehow making a myocardial infarction seem a jest.
You are poetry - pristine and passion,
a presence within, tranquility inexplicable.
Whimsical, messy, joyful.
Emotion hidden, published, subdued.
When nurtured, you bloom.
A mother’s unique experience
deepest cut and unforgiving pain.
Evading human logic,
through oxytocin and dopamine you linger.
Waiting, wishing, longing
to experience you in unique variation.
For where we fail in our longing,
you exist yet in another.
From the idea, the notion, the entanglement of you,
we increase from hundreds to billions.
Black and white interlaced, bearing no colours,
yet you birth variety.
What if you are an illusion
a presence without, yet deeply felt?
Through seasons and dates, you persist.
You are inheritance - contemporary, ancestry looming.
Blood shed, floodgates, ashes.
From death.
From the One whose sides were pierced,
whose essence embodies your true nature,
you profuse the earth.
Coincidence, perhaps.
Today, religion irrelevant, souls commune
under one umbrella
the theme of which is you.
Whether illusion, inheritance, or divinity,
Love remains the thread underscoring our becoming.
May we honour it, celebrate it, and sustain it.
Until next time,
Still becoming. Still being.
The Year Is Far Back
I thought and rethought a befitting first post for 2026, until I realised nothing could be better than an introduction to me and why you’re here.
I’m Eniola - the girl who’s always wanted to publish a book about her life.
Let’s go back to the beginning. For as far back as I remember, I’ve always lived in my head. Every scenario I couldn’t voice out for fear of being misunderstood or judged was played in my head. Every thought I couldn’t share with siblings - who I considered too old to talk to - or my parents - who were more busy with better things than my childish whims - I conversed in my head.
As a teen, I remember feeling misunderstood by my mum. My dad got a hard pass for taking me to Mr Biggs after Mass on Sundays and eating from the same plate for the longest time. He’s also only ever scolded me three times, so naturally, he got a pass. But my mum - my mum took all the blame for being the disciplinarian. I was mad at how easily she scolded me when I erred, and when I would refuse to eat, she’d say, “It’s good, you need to fast and pray to God” to overcome whatever I had been scolded for.
Opening up to my mum about anything, even inconsequential things, always felt like a missile waiting to be launched. So I kept to myself a lot. I saw our differences as unique, but painful to live through, so I vowed that when I got a little older and had my own laptop, I would write a book about The Mother–Daughter Relationship - to share my pains and help another girl like myself who might be going through the same peril.
Well… I got older. A little wiser. My priorities changed, and so did my writing focus. Once I got through the rigour of university and getting my first job, relationships and love became my pain point. It also became the frequent topic of conversation among my folks. They’d always encourage me to bring home any “friend” I had. Friend is the way Nigerian parents speak about the forbidden boyfriend word.
It’s funny how, while in school, the conversation was always about focusing on my studies, and suddenly, we were now talking about friend. The trajectory though… anyway, I digress.
Interestingly, their focus became my target. In the span of one year, I went from relationship to situationship - filled with drama, personal growth, and love lessons. So I decided to write another book titled 25, Female & Finding. I had the tools I needed for this quest this time around, so I wrote a nine-chapter, 12,000-word story about the experience of being a woman in Nigeria, living life according to the timelines set by society. I shared it with a number of friends and got positive comments. After a few edits and rereads, it didn’t feel quite finished to me, so I shelved it for a while.
Fast forward to 2020. On my way to being married, with some more love lessons under my belt, I reworked this story into a two-part “Before 30” and “After 30” series. I’ve only just realised that a television series and movie with the same titles and a similar plot as my book exist on Prime Video. You should check them out if you haven’t seen them.
Anyway, back to me.
For most of my life, I felt entirely flawed. Rather than express my thoughts, ask questions, or create the opportunity to be corrected, I barely spoke until I was sure I sounded intelligent. I’d rather write - sometimes a full-blown chapter in my head - than talk. I have two safe places: my head and my paper. It’s no surprise I became a perfect introvert and a researcher.
However, the more I wrote, the more I became scared to share. I criticised my writings to deletion. I questioned my thoughts to erasure. Fear hindered my path to growth, to be - until I found my way back to me.
Hence, this blog.
This blog - what you read and experience - is my journey to rediscovery. My path to be: be me, be true, be scared, be human, and be motivating. While I have pages and pages of pieces written but too scared to share, I figured I’d start with this blog site. What’s the worst that could happen?
Over time, I learnt that the only way to truly conceptualise love - which inspires a lot of my writing - is by being myself, irrespective of what that looks like. I realised that the things I am most scared of are usually the most worthwhile.
After all, as Emerson said in his essay Self-Reliance:
“There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried.”
So here’s my commitment: to share pieces of my writing unapologetically every third Wednesday of the month (for now). I hope you join and continue with me on this journey to Be.
A moment to pause
Roll your shoulders in slow circles, easing any tightness.
Let your muscles relax with each rotation.
Sometimes, becoming begins with letting go - not adding more.
Until next time,
Still becoming. Still being.
Songs of Praise
This month’s post is a little delayed, for good reason. It’s the last month of the year, just days away from a new one. It’s also that time of year when we take stock of our goals: the ones we achieved, the ones we tried to achieve, and the ones we didn’t.
This reflection, however, is not a list of regrets, it is a song of praise. A conscious decision to honour survival, growth, and grace over perfection. Because even when the melody felt off-key, the year still deserves thanksgiving.
We often begin the year with lofty goals, but for some of us, life took a different turn. And if you’re a unicorn, perhaps you achieved and exceeded every single goal you set.
As we reflect on the year’s activities, it’s easy to adopt a gloomy lens, focusing on what we planned to do but didn’t while forgetting all that we overcame and achieved. For starters, you survived one of the hottest years on record and are likely navigating an intense winter shaped by climate change. You’re still standing amid trade tensions and tariffs that have driven up the cost of everyday essentials. You most likely avoided becoming a victim of the ever-increasing wave of online scams, among many other unseen battles.
So why dwell on your losses instead of your wins? After all,
“gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others”
So praise your Maker, and then yourself. Take stock of all you achieved. One of my favourite things my mum said to me this year was: if no one praises you, then you should praise yourself.
So I’ll go first.
This year, I survived pregnancy with very low haemoglobin and gestational diabetes while nurturing a toddler. I moved countries at 32 weeks pregnant with my dear little one and set up our home in a brand-new place.
In the midst of all that, I submitted my first academic research paper to a highly rated peer-reviewed journal, and it has since received a revise-and-resubmit.
I started this blog, which now has subscribers beyond my initial projections.
I also created my first e-guide on how to start a podcast alongside my co-host, Evergreen, and we made our first sale (if you’re interested, feel free to reach us at thenewbiesistas@gmail.com).
I secured a daycare spot for my child before we moved and survived our first season of daycare germs, including the worst cold sores I’ve ever had.
And then - because life loves a full-circle moment - I passed my driving test.
I also planned and styled my husband and little ones for our very first family photoshoot as a family of four.
Did you notice what I did there?
I didn’t focus on what I could have done better or what I didn’t achieve. I focused on what I did achieve, on the positives, not the could-have-would-have-should-haves.
So if you haven’t already, take stock of all you achieved: the challenges you overcame and the new things you dared to try. If no one praises you, praise yourself. In fact, go big! Toot your horn!! Who cares what anyone thinks?
You did that.
You achieved.
You existed.
And most importantly, you bloomed.
If you still feel shy saying it out loud, internalise it until it becomes your rhythm.
And remember: perfectionism is a myth, it doesn’t exist. When you feel like a failure, you behave like one. So embrace self-love, self-acknowledgement, and appreciation.
You’ve done more than you think.
As this year comes to a close, I hope you find a moment - however brief - to acknowledge yourself. Not for what you failed to do, but for what you endured, learned, and became.
If no one praises you, may you learn to praise yourself.
Until next year,
BE grateful. BE gentle. BE proud.
Avoidable Failure
Some failures can be avoided. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s true. Let’s dive into it.
“We live in a culture that glorifies speed, but true growth often happens in stillness.”
The 21st-century world is fast-paced. With the limitless possibilities of technology and now AI, it’s almost ridiculous not to be engaged in one activity or another, paid or not. These days, it feels like everyone is a content creator, which means we’re all busy. Slowing down to learn, reflect, and plan sounds archaic… or so I thought.
Motherhood, the second time around, has been demanding, as expected. It’s also the reason I’ve not been on track with monthly posts (I apologise). Yet, in true 21st-century fashion, I didn’t want to slow down. After all, my peers are having babies, creating content, and snapping back, so what was my excuse?
My final moving-to-a-new-city task was getting my driver’s license, an activity that could have been delayed. But in my self-pressuring manner, I didn’t see the need to. After three failed attempts at the tests - and a gentle reality check from my husband - I realised I didn’t need to keep punishing myself with avoidable failures.
My first failed attempt came when I was grossly sleep-deprived and stressed. This one broke me. It brought to the fore every ounce of stress I had stored up: maintaining exclusive breastfeeding, planning my toddler’s birthday, preparing for winter, keeping the house clean, and the fridge stocked. I was burnt out. I cried until I felt relief, and then went back to finishing the to-do list for my son’s birthday.
My second and third attempts? They were fuelled by a need to prove that I could tick this task off my list before my six-week postpartum check. Go, superwoman!
It reminded me of the summer of 2023 when I was determined to complete my thesis and sit for my viva voce before traveling to Canada to have my baby. I was far from finishing - and even farther from finishing well - yet I pushed to prove that I could. A self-inflicted and unnecessary pressure.
Thankfully, my associate supervisor saved me from myself. In the kindest way possible, he told me I wasn’t ready for a submission that would earn minimal corrections. Then he asked, “What’s the rush? If you finish in record time, what next?”
He called out my perfectionist nonsense (politely, of course), and I wept, in both realisation and relief. It turned out to be the best decision I ever made. I was proud of the work I eventually submitted, and my viva voce became the easiest part of my PhD journey. Thanks to my supervisor, a heart-wrenching failure was avoided.
Fast forward to today - three failed attempts later - and I’ve been humbled once again. I needed more time to prepare, to practice, and to plan. Because really, if I had passed at my first attempt, then what? I hate that I put myself through unnecessary pain, stress, and heartbreak, all to prove something that wasn’t worth proving. I hate that I succumbed to the whims of society.
Experience may be the best teacher, but not all failures are required experiences. Some are - and should be - avoidable.
Taking time to plan, reflect, reassess, and be honest with yourself is essential for true success. So, while I’m learning and practicing before trying again, I hope you’re encouraged to pause and be.
Taking time out isn’t outdated, it’s essential. Whether that means taking time off work to reassess your path, a gap year from school, a break from social media, or a weekend away for a self-reflective retreat, remember this:
Pausing is good. Pausing is required. Pausing can save you from failure.
Pausing isn’t always natural, sometimes it has to be practiced. Here’s a simple weekly challenge to ease you into it.
Have you ever found yourself going through an avoidable failure, or are you of the school of thought that every failure is a teaching experience?
Share your thoughts in the comments, I’d love to hear your perspective.
The Weight of “Anything”
It’s interesting how our dreams shift as our circumstances change.
Back in 2019, I set a goal to own at least an apartment by 2023. I began financially preparing for it, imagining it as proof of my hard work over the previous years. But by 2022, I realised I hadn’t lived enough to tie myself to a mortgage in one place so soon. Why not live across countries and continents for a few years before putting down roots? It was a wishful thought I didn’t take too seriously.
Little did I know the universe would lean into that dream. Very recently, I’ve had the privilege of moving country and continent again. And while this feels like a dream, I’ll admit: I dislike the pre-settlement phase. I put immense pressure on myself to get everything in order within a tight timeline. Yet I still haven’t learned that making a house a home takes more than furniture and toiletries, it takes time, patience, and more than I usually allow.
In the midst of this latest move, I found myself thinking about my village, and once again on the receiving end of a well-worn phrase: “I’m here if you need anything.”
I know it comes from a good place (and truthfully, it’s something I’ve said to others many times). But I can’t help wondering: is it simply an obligatory expression of support, or is it meant to be taken literally? How far can “anything” really stretch before it becomes too much for the one offering?
The truth many of us don’t name is that the promise of “anything” sounds wide open, but in practice, it rarely is. There’s usually an invisible line around what’s “reasonable” to ask: nothing too heavy, nothing too frequent, nothing that tips the balance. And so, instead of comfort, the offer can breed hesitation.
If you’re anything like me, you know the weight of perception: Am I asking for too much? Will this make me seem needy? These questions often silence the very needs we hoped to voice.
“Perhaps the real gift isn’t in offering anything, but in offering something specific, simple, and within our capacity.”
What’s missing, I believe, is specificity. The kind of support that sounds like:
“Can I bring dinner this week?”
“I’m free Saturday, want me to take the kids for an hour?”
“I’ll come by to help unpack boxes.”
These are concrete, clear, and doable. They tell the other person exactly what’s on the table, removing the second-guessing that so often blocks connection.
You might ask: But how do I know what someone needs without them telling me? A valid question. Yet isn’t it better to offer what you can - say, an hour a day - and let the person choose how that hour is spent, rather than dangle “anything” that might go beyond your capacity?
Because here’s the reality: if I ask for “anything” and hear, “I’m sorry, I can’t help with that,” chances are I won’t ask again - not now, not later. And so the well-meaning blanket offer becomes an empty one.
In seasons of change - whether moving countries, welcoming a child, or navigating a new chapter - it’s not the wide-open promise that matters most. It’s the small, clear gestures, offered within our capacity, that help us feel seen and supported.
Have you found yourself in this situation, torn between the help you need and how much you can ask for? Or have you been on the other end, offering a blank-cheque kind of support because you didn’t know what was needed, or trusted the other person to “be reasonable”? I’d love to hear your thoughts, feel free to share in the comments below.
A Miracle in the Ordinary
Have you ever considered that we might not all be meant to be exceptional? It’s a tough thought to entertain, especially if you’ve spent your life chasing excellence.
And what if we’re not meant to be multi-talented either? What if you have just one gift, something you're still unsure about or maybe only average at?
For many, being “average” feels like settling. For others, it’s a label they’re constantly trying to outrun.
Society reassures us that being average is just temporary, that our moment of brilliance is still ahead. But what if that’s not true? What if you’re simply average at most things - and that’s not a flaw, but a reality? Could you make peace with that?
What if, instead of endlessly striving for greatness, you allowed yourself to find joy in your enoughness?
Not out of complacency, but as an intentional release, from the pressure to do more, be more, prove more. What if fulfilment lives in the simple, everyday rhythms of life?
From my work in talent management, I’ve seen this play out in real time. The most resilient and successful organisations aren’t powered solely by “A-players” or standout stars. They thrive on a blend - people who show up consistently, bring creativity, and pursue progress with quiet resolve.
“B-stars,” as we sometimes call them, are the steady heartbeat of any great system.
This isn’t about giving up on growth or ambition. It’s about embracing who you are while still evolving.
It’s understanding that you may never spark a global movement or revolutionize an industry - and still, your life matters deeply.
Recently, during a devotional, I was reminded that it’s not how many talents we have that counts, it’s how we use the one we’ve been given.
If you believe in God like I do, here’s a perspective to hold onto: we are already a miracle to Him.
A miracle, to the Creator of the universe. Can you believe that?
“Not all gifts look extraordinary, but they are still divine.”
There’s beauty in a life filled with quiet joys:
A stable job that covers the bills.
A home just the right size for your family.
The sacred rhythm of motherhood.
A morning walk.
A deep conversation.
Peace.
In our hyperconnected world, this simplicity often feels invisible, overshadowed by curated ambition and constant motion.
I’m also reminded of Me Before You, where Louisa (played by Emilia Clarke) finds delight in life’s smallest moments - a quirky outfit, a spontaneous laugh, a walk through town.
It’s a beautiful reminder: joy isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s tucked into the stillness between doing and becoming.
And yet, the internet makes choosing this path difficult. Comparison is constant. Just when you feel at peace, a scroll through social media whispers:
"You should be doing more."
Mindfulness Prompt: Gratitude
But today, I invite you to pause.
What would it feel like to stop striving… and simply be?
Dear Daddys
“Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.”
I’ve read and heard people say, “When choosing a husband, make sure he’s someone you’d want to be the father of your kids.”
I’d add this: you need to have experienced what having a great dad feels like to even know what to look for. And even then, you can't really know what kind of father someone will be, until they become one.
I’m a daddy’s girl in every sense of the word. My mum says it’s only by God’s grace that I didn’t grow up spoilt. I’d say it’s also by God’s grace that I never felt entitled to that love or care. Maybe seeing my older siblings get disciplined shaped me. Or maybe watching my dad work so hard to provide for us removed any sense of pride I could have had. I honestly can’t tell you for sure.
But one thing was true: there was love at home.
And it wasn’t just my dad who showed me what it means for a man to show up.
My brothers crawled so I could walk.
Whether it was learning from their mistakes or watching them show up for me time and again, I always knew what it meant to be supported.
I remember once, as a teenager, feeling extremely weak, my oldest brother carried me on his back to the nearest clinic. I remember falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed, countless times. My immediate older brother was the first to talk to me about boys, he had open conversations with me, even when all I did was listen. He gave me an open cheque for my 19th birthday and even guided me on how best to invest my savings.
With the men I grew up with, it was never about having a lot, it was always about showing up. And boy, did they show up a lot.
So when it came to choosing a partner, I didn’t immediately think about what kind of father he’d be, that wasn’t top of mind.
But it was in the little things.
Like driving hours in traffic just to drop me off on a date, even though his own place was minutes away from the venue.
It was the way he researched the things I love so he could get them just right, without needing to ask.
It was in the way he spoke affirming words into me, always reminding me that I’m exactly where I need to be.
It was the way family gave him purpose.
Or how he’d make light of my poor decisions so I’d know it’s okay to mess up, as long as I learn.
I remember feeling scared to get married. But I trusted his actions more than my fears.
When parenthood came, the early days we spent together showed me how deeply he would show up.
And when I felt like I was drowning in the weight of motherhood, all I needed to do was speak, and just like that, I found my way back to shore.
Parenthood isn’t perfect. We don’t always get it right. Heck, it’s rarely easy.
But having someone who shows up when it matters? That makes all the difference.
I’m grateful for the men in my life,
For the one I’m raising,
And for the generations of men to come, those who will continue to show up when needed.
You are seen.
You are loved.
You are appreciated.
As we honour the men who’ve shown up for us - fathers, brothers, partners, mentors - here’s a gentle prompt to continue the gratitude.
Whether it’s a father figure, a friend who stepped in, or someone who supported you in silence, this week, let’s say thank you with intention.
Motherhood, In All Its Forms
“There’s no perfect way to mother. Only your way.”
A special midweek post in honour of Mother's Day
It was the American and Canadian celebration of Mother’s Day this past weekend. Living across continents, I didn’t realise until my best girl from Canada messaged me. But I’m choosing to acknowledge it now, because motherhood deserves more than a date, it deserves pause, recognition, and reflection.
My Story of Mothering
I’m the last of four children, so the only version of motherhood I could truly understand, until recently, was through the lens of being mothered. And what a journey it’s been, now that I’m experiencing it myself.
The first four months of my pregnancy were tough. But my postpartum memories? They're laced with gratitude. Since becoming a mother, I’ve come to appreciate my own mum so much more.
I remember praying fervently that her visa would be approved so she could be by my side, and thankfully, it was. She became my extra support, my strength, my soldier. I can still hear her insisting on keeping the volume up on the fetal monitor after I received the epidural (bless the inventor!). She said she needed to hear my baby’s heartbeat, it gave her peace. When my OB finally said it was time to push, before things took an interesting turn, he told her, in Yoruba, “Grandma, move to the back of the room and continue your prayers there.” I remember laughing in that moment. I was exhausted but comforted by her presence. After my son was born, she kept walking out to ask the OB questions. I’m sure he didn’t want to see her coming again, but I was relieved that she cared enough to ask.
Remembering Other Mothers
I also remember my sister stepping up when our mum couldn’t. On my 13th birthday, with my mum away in Brazil and none of the men in the house batting an eye, my sister made the best fried rice I’ve ever had. At the time, my spoiled self still wrote in my diary that it was the worst birthday because my dad didn’t take me out like he promised. It’s funny now, thinking back on how entitled I felt - that’s such a kid thing, isn’t it?
But those memories, of being cared for in different ways by the women around me, mean everything.
To Every Version of Motherhood
So this is to you.
To the woman who had to grow up fast to care for her younger siblings.
To the “favourite aunty” who never misses a birthday or baby shower.
To the mentor guiding younger women through life with grace.
To the one waiting, quietly, while weathering her own storm.
To the members of the sandwich generation, parenting their children while also caring for their aging parents.
To the nannies and caregivers who love and care for others’ children like their own, while often leaving their own in the care of others.
I hope this past weekend gave you a moment to celebrate yourself, or earlier in the year if you go by the British calendar. And even if no one else acknowledged you, I see you.
There’s no single way to mother.
We’re all just doing our best to make it to the next day, sometimes joyfully, sometimes barely.
Don’t let the know-it-alls of this age convince you that you’re not doing enough or that you’re doing it “wrong.”
You are purposeful.
You are valuable.
You are doing just fine.
Who mothered you in an unexpected way? Or maybe you’ve mothered others without even realising it. I’d love to hear your story, share in the comments below.
Before you go, here’s a moment of rest. A snippet from my RELAXATION card, one of the mindfulness tools I’ve been creating with Be Lifestyl.
Take a moment. Breathe. You deserve that too.
Progress, According to You
Life comes with an unspoken script.
You grow up focusing on school and picking up a skill. You pursue further education that catapults you into your first job, marking the beginning of adulthood. And if you're from a culture like mine, where African traditions shape expectations, then marriage should follow, then kids, and then, well… life as it should be.
Or so I thought.
Despite how “open-minded” our world claims to be, many of us are still silently measured by how well we fit this mold. Deviate from it, and you're seen as lost, rebellious, or somehow less accomplished.
I never actively chose to follow this script, but my path conveniently aligned with it, until it didn’t.
Getting through my PhD was the most intellectually gruelling journey I’ve faced. Halfway through, I promised myself I’d take a break if I made it to the end. I didn’t overthink the implications of being jobless; I just knew I’d earned rest. Yet, when I defended my thesis early into motherhood , that planned professional pause - once a gift to myself - suddenly felt like a stain.
Dr. Mommy wasn’t enough.
To some, it was as if my potential evaporated because I chose stillness and care. And the worst part? I started to believe them.
Recently, still on break, I shared some joyful news with people I considered close. I had expected warmth, maybe even celebration, but instead, I was met with passive concern and subtle disapproval. It stung. One person openly questioned my decision-making. Another said little, but their energy said enough.
That moment forced me to ask:
Was I sharing for connection, or for approval?
And when approval doesn’t come, what does that say about the relationship?
Mark Manson writes in The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck*:
“You can’t be an important and life-changing presence for some people without also being a joke and an embarrassment to others”
That quote hit me deeply. Because even when we walk with good intentions, someone will misunderstand. Someone will project. And if we’re not careful, we’ll start carrying their doubts as if they’re our truth.
But here’s what I know now:
My life’s journey - my progress - is mine.
I’d rather walk an “unconventional” path than shrink into a version of life shaped by someone else’s fears.
Lately, I’ve started choosing peace over performance. I no longer feel the urge to share everything right away, especially not for validation. Funny how we understand the delay in sharing sad news, yet feel entitled to immediate access to someone’s joy.
No one has the right, or the audacity, to define your rhythm, your story, or your success.
So if my recent decisions feel disruptive to some, good. Because I’m not here to follow a broken order, I’m here to break it.
And if you’re also ready to choose you, to define progress on your terms, and to live a life that honours your peace,
then come along - because it’s about to get beautifully catastrophic.
Have you ever held back your joy because of how it might be received?
Share your thoughts in the comments, I’d love to hear your experience.
A New Chapter
It all begins with an idea.
Yaaay, it’s my birthday!
I’ve not always been one to anticipate birthdays, but turning 33 feels different, it’s brought with it a fresh perspective on living in the present and embracing life fully.
So, why this blog? And why now?
I’ve ruminated on this idea for years, driven by my deep love for writing. Growing up, I wrote in so many notebooks - stories, reflections, random thoughts - that would’ve made for really good blog posts. But I was scared. Scared to share pieces of myself with the world. Scared of being judged for my decisions. Scared of being seen.
In 2021, during a slower phase of my PhD, I gave this idea another shot. But life, as it does, got in the way - again.
Then came the last year: an unplanned career sabbatical after completing my PhD, the birth of my son, and a move to the second country I’ve called home since leaving Nigeria. It was a whirlwind, but somewhere in the stillness, I found moments of reflection, creativity, and now, execution.
I wouldn’t have imagined that the quiet would birth something I’m both terrified and excited to share.
“There’s no perfect time to begin, just the courage to begin from where you are.”
The birth of Be Lifestyl
The idea of Be Lifestyl first came to me on a sunny day in my tiny studio apartment in Birmingham, England. It was a symbol of my growth through the PhD journey, the solitude and self-discovery of living alone, and the highs and lows of figuring out adulthood. “Be” felt like the perfect word, it captured the essence of blooming, evolving, and simply being.
Strangely, the heart of BE still rings true today. But the past year has shown me that in every stage of life, we need things that help us stay grounded: tools, practices, spaces.
This blog is me choosing to start from where I am, not where I “should” be. It’s me accepting that there’s no perfect time.
Because life will always throw us something. A curveball. A delay. A detour. And in chasing the next thing, we often forget how far we’ve come, and how beautiful becoming really is.
This is an invitation
I’m building Be Lifestyl not just as a brand, but as a philosophy and platform; a place for grounded, honest, and intentional living.
Let’s be real, life is wild. Economic shifts, digital overload, and the pressure to outdo previous generations is exhausting. And yet, we keep going.
If you’re feeling the weight of it all, I hope this space becomes a soft landing. A reminder that you’re not walking alone.
This isn’t about glorifying mediocrity, it’s about celebrating the entire journey: the wins, the detours, the stillness, and the becoming.
Can you imagine a world where everything happened exactly as planned? How boring would that be?
What’s ahead
Over time, I’ll share resources, starting with snippets from my mindfulness cards that have helped me stay centered in the midst of change.
So, if you’re in a season of change, stillness, growth, or rediscovery; welcome.
Let’s walk this path together, one mindful step at a time.
Tools that help me stay grounded - coming soon to Be Lifestyl.
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