I couldn't describe feeling of not being able to grieve thinking I was just human.

I once thought I had lost touch of my emotions, until one night.

A baby.

A mother.

A father.

I tried my human best as a nurse and it didn't work out.

The mother carried the child on her chest and cried. I was numb and kept looking at the mother. I couldn’t even break the news to her because I couldn't believe it myself. Unknowingly, I was already crying. Tears streaked from my eyes.

That's when I realized: I hadn't lost my emotions. I had just buried them so deep that only someone else's breaking heart could dig them out.

Then, I lost a dear mentee recently. A mentee close to me and I lost contact with just recently. I still feel guilty and feel i should have put in more effort to look fo her. She had dreams and we had plans to see. I really wanted to see her win and I'd celebrate her. I still blame myself so much. I still can't believe she is gone.

I can't even express myself. I'm so, so sad.

Not the kind of sad that finds words but the kind that sits in your chest like a stone and also the kind that makes you stare at a wall and call it rest.

I thought being human meant trying your hardest. But maybe being human means trying your least, and still breaking anyway.

All in the chaos, I remembered this scripture, "Psalm 34:18 – "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

This doesn’t happen after they're fixed. Not when they stop crying but close in the middle of it, when the tears come before you knew they were coming and still when you can't even express yourself.

So, this is dedicated to you who thinks you can't grief and can't have emotions. Jusy know that sometimes its ok to be numb in situations. What mayters most is how you process your grief.

Don't skip the process, process it well and release it all out and hold on to that scripture.

He is always near to the brokenhearted.

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Just like He is with me right now..

…pen that speaks…

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Not necessarily the dramatic silence of a slammed door, but the quiet one, where you wait for an echo that never arrives.

We treat unrequited love as a failure, miscalculation or a glitch in the otherwise rational system of human exchange. You gave too much, you chose wrong. You should have protected yourself.

But what if we have the story backward?

To love and not be loved back is not the absence of love. It is love in its raw, unedited form, love with no transaction, no guarantee, no reciprocity clause. It is love that continues to pour even when the cup remains half-empty on the other side of the table.

Think of the gardener who plants tulips in winter. The ground gives nothing back, no green, no bloom, no warmth. Yet, the act of planting is itself a declaration. I believe in spring, even if this patch of earth doesn’t believe in me.

Unrequited love is not a waste. It is a practice of radical attention. You learn the shape of another person’s joy. You memorize the way they lean into a story. You become fluent in their quiet hungers. And yes, none of that vocabulary is spoken back to you. But you still expanded your dictionary.

There is a danger here, of course. Staying too long in unreturned love can calcify into self-erasure. Real love, the kind that sustains should not ask you to vanish. But the capacity to love without immediate return? That is not weakness. That is a muscle. …and muscles, once built, can be turned toward someone who will one day hold out their hand.

So let us stop pitying the one who loves without being loved back. Let us instead recognize them for what they are: a person brave enough to risk the most human thing there is, to shine warmth at a cold wall, just in case the wall might someday remember how to glow.

Not every seed becomes a tree, not every prayer is answered and not every outstretched hand finds another.

…but the reaching? The reaching matters.

Oh! To love and not be loved back , and to survive that love anyway, and to walk away still whole. That’s the real bravery.

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She is the nurse who held a hand at 3am when no family member had called in weeks.

He is the nurse who cleaned vomit, blood, and fear from the same floor three times in one shift, and still smiled at the next patient like they were the first.

They are the nurses who clock out, drive home in silence, remove their scrubs at the door, and do not tell anyone what they carried that day.

Today is International Nurses Day. And I do not want to write a tribute that sounds like a speech at a government event , polished, distant, and full of words like commendable and selfless until those words mean nothing.

I want to write the real thing.

The Weight We Carry

Nursing is not a calling because God whispered your name. Nursing is a calling because you keep answering even when no one is calling anymore.

You know the truth they don't put on recruitment posters:

That you have calculated, at 2am, whether you have enough left in you to save the patient in Bed 4 and hold yourself together.

That you have cried in supply closets , not from sadness, but from the strange loneliness of caring for everyone except yourself.

That you have been yelled at by a patient's relative, swallowed it, served 10pm drugs with steady hands, and then cried in the staff bathroom for exactly three minutes because that was all the time you had.

That is not weakness. That is the hidden curriculum of nursing that no exam can prepare you for.

The world celebrates dramatic saves, the crash cart, the code blue, the last-minute intervention. And those matter.

But I know what you celebrate quietly:

The first sip of water a post-op patient takes without choking.

The confused elderly patient who suddenly remembers your face and says, "You were here yesterday."

The night shift when no one died, and you drove home with the window down, breathing like you'd won something.

Those are not small things. Those are the actual work. And no one puts them on a plaque.

Who Nurses You, Nurse?

This is the question I want to leave with you today.

You spend your days measuring intake and output, checking vitals, drawing blood, adjusting drips, documenting everything , but who measures your intake of rest, of kindness, of silence?

You tell patients to take their medication, to rest, to ask for help. Do you take your own prescription?

I am asking because I know the answer for so many of us: No.

We are terrible patients. We run on adrenaline and leftover tea. We say "I'm fine" when our backs ache, our hearts are heavy, and we have not had a real conversation in weeks.

So today, on your day, I am giving you permission ,not that you needed it , to be the one who is cared for, even for five minutes.

If you pray, pray this:

That your hands remain gentle even when they are tired.

That your mind forgives itself for the patients you could not save.

That someone ,today, asks you how are you? and actually waits for the answer.

That you remember: before you were a nurse, you were a person. And that person is still there, worthy of rest, worthy of joy, worthy of being held.

If you do not pray, then just breathe this in:

You have done enough. You are enough. Not because you saved everyone, but because you showed up, again and again, to try.

To My Fellow Nurses in Nigeria and Everywhere

I know our reality. Underpaid. Overworked. Understaffed. Sometimes unappreciated by the very systems that cannot function without us.

And still , you gown up. You show up. You stay up.

That is not naivety. That is not stupidity. That is a quiet, stubborn, almost absurd commitment to the idea that human beings deserve dignity even when the system forgets.

Happy International Nurses Day.

Now go and rest, or at least try. I will be trying too.

With love,

Oluwasikemi Ilori,

RN, RM,RPHN,BNSc

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Rhe rants, the name-calling, the vitriol we pour onto others, sometimes deserved, often not. That kind of hate is loud, vsible and easy to condemn.

But there's another kind of hate. The kind you never give to anyone else. The kind you keep, nurture and turn into a quiet, private ritual against yourself.

That's the hate you don't give.

...and it will destroy you slower than any external enemy ever could.

It starts small. You mess up at work and call yourself an idiot under your breath. You look in the mirror and mentally catalogue every flaw. You accomplish something good, but instead of celebrating, you whisper: "Anyone could have done that."

Over time, that voice stops sounding like criticism. It starts sounding like truth.

You don't hate others. You're not cruel or bigoted. But inside, there's a running commentary of contempt aimed at the one person who never gets a break from you, yourself.

That's the hate you don't give. No one sees it and no one calls you out for it. And that's exactly why it's so dangerous.

This isn't just low self-esteem. Low self-esteem says "I'm not good enough." Self-directed hate says "I'm a waste of space."

One is a lack of confidence. The other is a moral judgment against your own existence.

When you hate yourself quietly, you:

· Sabotage your own success because you don't believe you deserve it

· Stay in bad relationships because you think this is all you're worth

· Apologize for everything, including taking up space

· Burn out trying to be perfect enough to earn your own forgiveness

· Feel exhausted all the time, but from fighting yourself

You become your own abuser, but without the bruises anyone can see.

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Most of us didn't invent this voice. We inherited it.

Maybe it came from a parent who only noticed your mistakes. A teacher who labelled you "too much" or "not enough." Bullying that you internalized as evidence. Or a culture that taught you your body, your accent, your background, or your dreams were wrong.

Somewhere along the line, someone else's hate got inside you. And instead of throwing it back at them, you turned it inward. You decided they were right.

That's the tragedy of the hate you don't give. It rarely starts with you. But it ends with you, carrying it alone.

You can't just stop hating yourself because someone tells you to. That voice is old. Strong. Familiar.

But you can start noticing it.

Next time you hear yourself say "I'm so stupid" or "I hate this about myself," pause. Ask:

"Would I say this to someone I love?"

If the answer is no, and it almost always is, then you've just caught the hate in action. Don't fight it. Just see it. Name it. There's that voice again.

That small act of awareness is the first crack in the wall.

From there, you can try something radical: neutrality. You don't have to love yourself today. Just stop adding new hate. After neutrality, sometimes gratitude sneaks in. And after gratitude, rarely, love becomes possible.

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We spend so much time policing hate toward others. We forget that the hate we keep for ourselves is just as real, just as corrosive, and often harder to heal because there's no one to apologize to except the person in the mirror.

So here's my question for you today:

What if you gave yourself the same grace you give everyone else?

Not because you're perfect. But, because you're tired and because the hate you don't give outward deserves no home inside you either.

....pen that speaks...

We build apps, empires, strategies, and selves with furious energy, impressive resumes and still something wobbles. Like a table with one leg a millimeter off. It holds, but you wouldn't eat off it.

Bezalel knew something about this.

He was the first person in Scripture described as being filled with the Spirit of God and notice who he was: not a prophet, not a priest, not a king. An artisan and a craftsman. His hands were stained with resin and stone dust and the Spirit came and occupied him completely.

Here's what's strange about Bezalel's story. Before he built a single thing, God named him. Then, God filled him and then he worked.

Read Exodus 31 slowly. God doesn't say, "Bezalel, if you work hard, I'll bless you." He says: I have called. I have filled. Now he makes.

Calling first, then filling, then work.

We do the opposite. We work to earn a name. Then we beg for filling. Then we hope someone calls. Bezalel flips the whole thing on its head.

Alignment with God is not you finding the right formula. It is you becoming the right vessel.

Bezalel did not brainstorm the Ark's design. He didn't run a design sprint or hold a workshop. He received it. Moses saw the pattern on the mountain, the exact dimensions, the mercy seat, the cherubim, the rings and poles. And Bezalel translated that heavenly pattern into earthly wood and gold.

Imagine him holding the sketch of a cherub with six wings and eyes. No one in Egypt had ever carved such a thing. His hands trembled. "Moses, are you sure this is what He said?"

His genius was not originality. It was fidelity. In a culture that worships disruption and novelty, Bezalel says something deeply countercultural: Your greatest work is not what you invent. It is what you accurately transmit from the heart of God.

Here's where this gets practical, and I want you to feel the weight.

The Spirit didn't whisper inspiration to Bezalel. He hot-wired his fingers. Cutting stone. Setting gems. Weaving fabric. Managing a construction site. Teaching others. There is no secular work in Bezalel's world. There is only sacred work, done by filled people, for a holy purpose.

If you are a programmer, the Spirit wants to fill your logic. If you are a parent, the Spirit wants to fill your patience. If you are a leader making a difficult decision about budgets or personnel or strategy, the Spirit wants to fill that too.

The Ark was not built by Bezalel's natural talent alone. It was built by his filled talent. The same hands that carved cherubim were ordinary hands, until the Spirit occupied them. Then they became extraordinary, not because Bezalel leveled up, but because heaven decided to show up in the dust of the workshop.

But here's the harder truth.

Bezalel saw the pattern on the mountain. He knew what Moses knew. He could have said, I have the Spirit. I don't need to check in anymore.

He didn't.

Every ring in its place. Every curtain measured twice. Every clasp exactly where the blueprint said. That's not anxiety. That's reverence.

Alignment is not a one-time anointing. It's a daily returning to the pattern. And the litmus test is ugly and simple: when you succeed, do you still ask, Is this what He wanted? Or do you just assume?

When your team applauds, do you still check the blueprint? When you feel the Spirit moving through your gifts, do you still submit to the quiet, unglamorous work of obedience?

Bezalel passed every test. And because he did, the glory of God descended on the finished work.

Exodus 40 tells us: when the Tabernacle was completed, every board, every veil, every piece of furniture built exactly to the pattern, the cloud covered the tent and the glory of the Lord filled it. Moses himself could not enter.

That is the outcome of aligned work. Not applause. Not impact metrics. Presence.

You do not need more charisma. You do not need a better strategy. You need to be filled. Then you need to build what you see—nothing more, nothing less.

Bezalel's lens is terrifyingly simple: stay close enough to heaven that your hands know what heaven's hands would make. Then make it. Then check it. Then offer it back.

That is alignment.

What if you build and the cloud doesn't come? What if you measure twice, pray hard, obey the pattern, and still wake up to a tent that feels empty?

Bezalel doesn't answer that. But maybe that's the point. Alignment is not a guarantee of glory. It is simply the posture that keeps you at your workbench long enough to find out.

The Ark carried the glory of God. But before it carried anything, a carpenter carried it, hands stained, breath heavy, checking the blueprint one more time.

Go build like that.

…pen that speaks…

It is the day after the world ended.

And the day before it began again.

Imagine them.

The disciples, scattered behind locked doors. Peter cannot look at his own hands. Thomas has stopped speaking. John keeps seeing his face, not the glorified face, but the one that said "I am thirsty." They have no plan. No hope. Only the memory of three years that now feel like a beautiful, broken dream.

And Mary.

His mother.

She who held him, fed him, watched him grow from a child into this. She who stood at the foot of the cross while the sky turned black. She who caught his last look, not of despair, but of love, before he bowed his head.

Now she sits in someone else's house. Someone else's silence. She does not weep loudly. That was yesterday. Today, she simply breathes in and out, each breath a small question: What now? What now? What now?

They do not know that the tomb is already working.

They do not know that death is choking on its own victory. They only know the in between.

That is where so many of us live, isn't it?

Between the prayer and the answer. Between the promise and its keeping. Between the goodbye and the reunion you cannot yet see.

Holy Saturday is not holy because it is dramatic. It is holy because it is faithful. It is the day when every feeling says "it is finished" in the worst way, and yet, somehow, the sun still rises. The birds still sing. The earth still turns.

Not because the world is callous.

But because something has already been set in motion that cannot be undone.

They did not know it yet.

But the stone had not won.

It was only waiting.

…the pen that speaks…

It is a day to reflect.

For the benefit of His death, He died to save us all.

That sentence alone carries more weight than any sermon. Read it again slowly.

For the benefit of His death.

Not for obligation. Not for cosmic scorekeeping. For benefit. For our good. For our rising.

And today, Good Friday, is not the end of the story. It never was. It is the middle chapter where love proves it will not look away from suffering. It will walk straight into it, through it, and out the other side.

So no, I don't think we are meant to stay in sorrow today. Sorrow already did its work. Today is for remembrance. For quiet gratitude. For sitting with the reality that someone chose to stay when every door said leave.

He died so we could live. Not someday. But now.

That is worth reflecting on.

Not with tears of grief. But with the deep, steady breath of someone who knows: the dark has already been broken.

….the pen that speaks…

The Thursday had begun like any other. But by nightfall, one of the twelve had sold him for thirty pieces of silver. We imagine betrayal as a dramatic thing. A villain in a dark cloak or possibly a whispered conspiracy. But betrayal is often slower, it is the gradual loosening of a thread that once held something together.

For Judas, the thread had been loosening for a long time.

He was one of the twelve. A Chosen. He had walked with Jesus, seen the miracles, held the bread as it multiplied. He was trusted with the money bag.

Somewhere along the way, something shifted. Perhaps Jesus was not the Messiah Judas had wanted. No sword, no throne, no honor. Just a cross.

When he went to the chief priests, his question was simple: "What will you give me?"

What makes the betrayal so chilling is not the money, It is the intimacy.

When Judas came to Gethsemane that night, he did not announce himself from a distance. He walked up to Jesus and kissed him. The Greek word means a strong, emphatic, repeated kiss. The kind a devoted disciple gives his beloved teacher.

A stranger cannot wound you like that. Only the one who has sat at your table.

Judas saw the outcome he had not anticipated, not a revolution, but a condemnation. He tried to return the silver. "I have sinned," he said. "I have betrayed innocent blood."

The priests shrugged. So Judas went out and hanged himself.

It is perhaps the saddest detail. Not that he betrayed, that is tragic enough. But that he could not imagine being forgiven. He had walked with the one who said "Father, forgive them" while the nails were still being driven. Yet he saw his sin as final, beyond mercy.

He died on Saturday, in the long silence between promise and fulfillment, unable to wait for the dawn.

On this day, the day between the kiss and the cross, we sit with Judas. Not to condemn him from a distance, but to recognize something uncomfortable: the capacity for betrayal lives in every human heart.

The difference is not that we are better. The difference is that we know how the story ends. We know that betrayal did not have the final word. We know that the one who was kissed by a traitor still walked out of the tomb and offered peace to those who abandoned him.

Judas never knew that.

On this day, he betrayed him.

But on the third day, Love rose anyway.

If this reflection stirred something in you, share it with someone wrestling with failure. The gospel was written for people like us, people who have betrayed, and people who have been betrayed, and people learning that neither has the final word.

Shalom!!

...the pen that speaks...

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When sleep wouldn't come and the ceiling stared back at me, I have whispered it into the silence like a prayer I was too ashamed to pray out loud. Would God ever forgive me? Not the theoretical, Sunday school version of me. Not the me who has it together and walks around with polished faith and perfect words.

The real me. The one who knows what I did last night. Last month. Last year. The one who carries memories like wounds that won't heal because I keep picking at the scabs with guilt.

Would God ever forgive me?

THE WEIGHT

There is a heaviness that comes with unworthiness. It sits on your chest when you try to pray. It muffles your voice when you try to worship. It makes you feel like a fraud walking into church, like everyone can see the stain you're trying to hide.

I know this weight intimately.

I have made mistakes that keep me up at night. I have hurt people I loved. I have chosen my own way over God's way more times than I can count. I have stood in the middle of my sin and thought, This time, I've gone too far. This time, I've finally done something He can't forgive.

The enemy loves this thought. He feeds it. He waters it like a plant and watches it grow into a forest of shame that blocks out the light of God's love.

Look at what you did, he whispers. You call yourself a child of God? After that? After everything? He is disappointed in you. He is disgusted by you. He has turned away.

And for a while, I believed him.

THE STORY

But here is the thing about the Bible: it is full of people who did unforgivable things and were forgiven anyway.

I think about David. A man after God's own heart, the Bible calls him. And yet, this same David saw a woman bathing, slept with her, got her pregnant, and then had her husband murdered to cover it up. Murder. Adultery. Deception. The kind of sin that makes my mistakes feel small by comparison.

Surely, surely, David was too far gone.

But when Nathan the prophet confronted him, David did not run. He did not make excuses. He did not hide behind his crown. He fell on his face and cried out to God:

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin." (Psalm 51:1-2)

And God? God forgave him. Not because David deserved it, but because God is God.

…because mercy is who He is.

I think about Peter. The disciple who swore he would die for Jesus, then denied even knowing Him three times in one night. Three times. While Jesus was being beaten and mocked, Peter was warming himself by a fire, telling a little girl, "I don't know the man."

The shame Peter must have felt when Jesus looked at him from across the courtyard. The weight of his betrayal. The sound of the rooster crowing, mocking his failure.

Surely, surely, Peter was too far gone.

But after the resurrection, when the angels told the women to tell the disciples that Jesus had risen, they added something specific: "Go, tell his disciples and Peter." (Mark 16:7)

“And Peter.” Peter's name was spoken separately. Jesus wanted him to know that the invitation still stood. That the denial had not cancelled the calling. That forgiveness was waiting.

I think about Paul. He stood by and watched as Stephen was stoned to death. He approved of the killing. He breathed threats against Christians and dragged them from their homes to prison. He was a terrorist to the early church.

Surely, surely, Paul was too far gone.

But on the road to Damascus, Jesus stopped him anyway. Blinded him with light and called him by name. Not to punish him, but to transform him. Paul went on to write half the New Testament.

If God can forgive murderers and deniers and persecutors, who am I to think my sin is the exception?

THE TRUTH

The truth is, the question "Would God ever forgive me?" is not really about me. It is about God. It is about who He is and what He is like.

And the Bible is clear: God is not holding out on us. He is not waiting for us to mess up so He can finally wash His hands of us. He is not keeping a ledger of our failures, waiting for the balance to tip so He can finally give up.

Psalm 103 says it this way:

"He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us."

As far as the east is from the west. Not north from south, you can measure that. East and west never meet. They stretch infinitely in opposite directions. That is how far God removes our sin when we bring it to Him.

Micah 7:19 says He will "tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea."

I love the imagery of that. God doesn't just forgive us; He gets rid of the evidence. He takes our sin and throws it into the deepest ocean, then puts up a sign that says, "No Fishing."

But we keep fishing, don't we? We keep diving back into the depths, searching for the sins God has already drowned, dragging them back to the surface and wearing them around our necks like anchors. We keep punishing ourselves for things He has already forgotten.

1 John 1:9 is not a suggestion. It is a promise:

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness."

Not some of it. Not the small stuff. All of it. Every last bit.

I know what you're thinking because I have thought it too. But you don't know what I did. You don't know how many times I've promised to change and failed. You don't know the thoughts I have, the things I've said, the people I've hurt.

You're right. I don't know.

But God does. And He is not surprised by it. He knew every sin you would ever commit before you committed the first one, and He chose you anyway. He saw the worst thing you would ever do, and He still stretched out His arms on the cross and died for you.

Romans 5:8 says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."

Not after we cleaned up our act. Not after we proved we were worth it. While we were still in the middle of our mess, He loved us enough to die for us.

So what makes you think He would stop loving you now?

There is a story Jesus told that I cannot read without crying. The prodigal son.

A young man who demanded his inheritance early, essentially telling his father he wished he was dead. Then he went and wasted every penny on wild living. He hit rock bottom so hard that he was eating with pigs, starving, alone.

He decided to go home and beg to be made a servant, because even servants in his father's house had enough to eat.

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him. The father had been watching. Waiting. Hoping. And when he saw his broken, filthy, disgraceful son shuffling up the road, he did not wait for an apology. He did not cross his arms and demand an explanation.

He ran.

He gathered his robe and ran to his boy. He threw his arms around him and kissed him. He put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet and threw a party.

"For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found."

That is who God is. Not a judge waiting to sentence you, but a Father waiting to run to you. The moment you turn toward home, He is already moving.

So would God ever forgive you?

Yes.

Not because you deserve it. Not because you've finally done enough to earn it. Not because your sin is small enough to overlook.

But because He is good. Because He is faithful. Because He is just, and justice for our sin was already served on the cross. Jesus paid for it all. All, including the past, present, future. Every mistake you've made and every mistake you will make.

The only thing left for you to do is receive it.

Stop running. Stop hiding. Stop letting shame keep you from the only One who can heal you. Come to Him exactly as you are (messy, broken, guilty, ashamed) and let Him do what He does best.

Forgive. Restore. Redeem.

"Come now, let us settle the matter," says the Lord. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool." (Isaiah 1:18)

Scarlet. Crimson. The deepest, most stubborn stains. And He says, I can make them white. I can make them like snow.

So I am learning to stop asking the question and start living in the answer.

Yes, God forgives me. Yes, God forgives you. Yes, there is nothing you have done that is beyond the reach of His grace.

The door is open. The Father is watching. And He is already running toward you.

Come home.

For everyone carrying shame they were never meant to carry. You are forgiven. You are loved. You are welcome here.

…the pen that speaks…

Some moments, I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyes. Other times, I’m just numb, going through the motions. There are moments I wish I were built differently—nonchalant, untouched by the weight of it all. And then there are the darkest moments, the ones I’m not proud of, where I wish I didn’t have to exist at all.

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Recently, someone I thought was a relic of my past showed up and ripped an old wound wide open. The weight they placed on my heart is almost unbearable. I find myself wishing I had never crossed paths with them, wishing so badly that I could just disappear from the face of the earth.

But here is the one thing I know for certain, the truth that anchors me in the storm:

I am a strong woman.

No matter what life throws at me, I have a track record of coming out on the other side—battered, maybe, but victorious. Always victorious.

Right now, I don’t have the energy to care about anyone else. My focus is singular: me. I just want to do me, to be so successful that the sky isn’t my limit, but my starting point.

I am so, so sad. I am so, so angry.

But guess what?

I won’t back down. I won’t stop.

I’m going to take this rage, this fire in my chest, and channel it into something so powerful it becomes the fuel for my success. Because at the end of the day, that's all that truly matters.

It is well with my soul.

Just a rant from a tired Nigerian girl.

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…the pen that speaks…

I am typing this with hands that will not stop trembling and a heart so full I fear it might spill over onto my keyboard.

For months, I have shown up in your inboxes with snippets and behind-the-scenes glimpses and vulnerable reflections I probably wouldn't share anywhere else. You have been the quiet witnesses to this journey. You held space for my doubts. You celebrated my small wins. You reminded me again and again that this story mattered—even before it existed.

Today, I get to say something I have dreamed of saying my entire life.

My book is finally here.

Chronicles of Jasmine is now available.

She is no longer just mine. Jasmine Williams—the girl who felt too big and too small all at once, the girl who learned to be invisible long before she learned to be seen, the girl who questioned if God was even paying attention—is now yours to meet.

This story began as a whisper in my heart, a quiet ache for every young woman who has ever felt overlooked. For every girl who has been told, directly or silently, that she is not enough. For anyone who has ever wondered: Does anyone truly see me?

It became a novel. And now, it becomes yours.

Within these pages, you will meet Jasmine, who learns that her worth was never up for debate. You will meet Favour, the friend who refused to leave even when pushed away. Kelvin, the childhood friend carrying his own shadows. Miss George, the teacher whose prayers moved heaven. Mabel, the housekeeper whose love became home. And Daniella, a reminder that hurt people sometimes hurt people—but that is not the end of the story.

I wrote this book for the girl I once was—the one who looked in the mirror and saw only flaws. The one who wondered if God had looked away. The one who collected loneliness like pocket change. I wrote it for every young woman navigating the noisy, cruel, beautiful chaos of finding herself. I wrote it because stories save lives. They saved mine. And I believe—I know—that Jasmine's story will touch someone who needs it.

Maybe that someone is you.

Here is what I can tell you with my whole chest: Chronicles of Jasmine is available now for 2000 naira. (https://selar.com/81k2k2595e)

For the price of a meal, you can hold a story in your hands—one that will sit with you and challenge you and remind you that you are seen. It comes as a PDF eBook, delivered instantly to your email as soon as you order.

If you have been following my journey here on Substack—if you have ever commented or liked or simply sat quietly in this space with me—this book exists partly because of you. Your presence here told me that my words mattered. That someone was listening. That maybe, just maybe, I was not alone in the things I felt and believed.

So today, when you open this book, know that you are not just reading a story. You are holding a piece of my heart, wrapped in paper and ink, sent out into the world with trembling hands and endless gratitude.

If this story speaks to you—if Jasmine's journey resonates with your own—I would be so honoured if you would order your copy using the link below.

https://selar.com/81k2k2595e

Share this post with someone who needs to hear that they are seen. Leave a review after reading; it helps other readers find their way to this story. And if you want, reply to this email and tell me what Jasmine's journey meant to you. I would love to hear.

Order Chronicles of Jasmine here — 2000 naira/ $3

Link to order: https://selar.com/81k2k2595e

This is not the end. It is the beginning.

Jasmine's story is out in the world now, and I cannot wait for it to find its way to the hearts that need it. If that heart is yours—thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for making a writer's dream come true.

Now go meet Jasmine. She has been waiting for you.

With all my love and then some,

Ilori Oluwasikemi Paulina

P.S. If you know someone walking through their own season of invisibility—a young girl, a friend, a sister, a student—consider gifting them this book. Sometimes, being seen starts with a story.

Remember that friend you whispered your dreams to before the world could laugh? That’s you to me. The quiet corner where I could say, “I’m writing a book,” without feeling like an impostor? That’s here. With you.

And now, because you held space for my shaky beginnings… you get to meet her before anyone else.

Meet Jasmine.

She isn’t just a character.
She is every girl who has ever whispered, “Do you see me?”
She is every heart that has ever wondered, “Am I enough?”
She is the quiet voice in a loud world.
The hidden light in a dim room.
The story I carried, prayed over, and finally… released.

You’re the First to Know Because…

You read my messy drafts—not of the book, but of my heart. In your comments, your shares, your “I feel that too” replies, you taught me that my words could land softly somewhere. So it only felt right that you meet Jasmine first. Before the hashtags, before the launch graphics, before the world gets to have an opinion—she belongs to you first. You first oo!!!

The official launch is coming soon—with a virtual gathering, conversations, and special offerings I’m crafting just for you. Pre-orders will open quietly tomorrow and yes—you’ll hear it here first(don’t be afraid).

But for today… let’s just sit with her.
With Jasmine.

Look at her cover.
Hold her story in your heart.
And know—this is for you, too.

Soooo, drumrolllzzzzzz…….

CHRONICLES OF JASMINE COVER UNVEILED!!

Here it isss!!!!

Thank you for walking this journey with me.
For every comment, share, prayer, and silent nod of encouragement.
You are the soil where this seed grew.

I cannot wait to place this book in your hands.

Until then, here she is.
Our Jasmine.

Forever grateful,
Ilori Oluwasikemi Paulina

…the pen that speaks…

I’m typing this with shaky hands and a full heart. The reason I haven’t posted for a while is finally readyy!!

Five years. Countless edits. Endless design tweaks. Moments of “this is amazing” followed by “this is terrible.” And now… it’s done. Not “almost done.” Not “just one more read-through.” DONE.

My book is no longer a Word doc or a Google Drive file. It’s a real thing. With a cover. With pages. With a spine. I stared at the final design yesterday and a tear dropped from my eye.

If you’ve been here a while, you’ve heard me talk about the fear. The procrastination. The “life got in the way” of it all. Well… life didn’t win. We did.

So… what now?
I’m not just dropping a link and running. I want you to be part of the launch, because you’ve been part of the journey. Here’s what’s coming:

1. COVER REVEAL
   I’ll show you the cover that made my designer cry (good tears!). You’ll get the title, the mood, the vibes. It’s stunning and, it’s a banger.

2. EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT
   You’ll read the first chapter before anyone else. No newsletter sign-up gate, no pre-order required. Just for you, here.

3. PRE-ORDERS & LAUNCH WEBINAR/PARTY
   Special pricing. Definitely a virtual celebration with Q&A, readings, and my eternal gratitude.

This book was written for anyone who has ever:

• Doubted themselves at any point in time

• Felt fear louder than excitement

• Needed permission to keep going

• Need to see themselves as one with the biggest achievable dreams

• Felt ridiculed because of your peculiarity

That’s you. So this is for you.

Your support—your comments, your hearts, your “you’ve got this” messages—literally kept me going on the hard days. Thank you.

Now… LET’S DO THIS !!

The title??

Just hold on ok??

With confetti in my heart,

…the pen that speaks…

I have news, the kind that feels surreal to type: My book is finished.

Drum rollssszzzzzz

Not “nearly there,” not “just a few more edits,” but truly, completely finished. This journey began almost five years ago, and if you had told me then how long it would take, I might have never written the first sentence.

The timeline wasn’t supposed to look like this. Life, of course, had other plans. School demanded its hours(don’t even let me get started on this.). Days filled with obligations, leaving scraps of time that never felt big enough to hold a creative project. There was procrastination—oh, the glorious, self-sabotaging art of finding anything else to do.

But if I’m being truly honest (and I owe you that), the real architect of the delay was Fear. Fear that the idea wasn’t good enough. Fear that I wasn’t the right person to write it. Fear of the silence after hitting “publish,” or worse, the noise. Fear is a superb editor; it doesn’t just redline your sentences, it tries to delete the entire document.

So why keep going? Because the story—this story—refused to let go. It whispered in the quiet moments. It grew roots in me. It kept lingering in my heart and it never stopped. And I realized that the fear of not writing it, of leaving this universe trapped in my head forever, became greater than the fear of failing.

The last five years weren’t just a writing process; they were an unlearning. I had to unlearn the need for perfect conditions, unlearn the belief that time would magically appear, and unlearn the idea that courage is the absence of fear. Courage is writing despite it. One word, then another, while at work, at my reading table at midnight, in five-minute bursts between everything else.

This book is the proof. It carries the fingerprints of every doubt and every hard-won victory.

And now, the most thrilling part: I get to share it with you.

This is my formal invitation to you, my earliest supporters, to anticipate. Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing more here—the title, the cover (which I’ve not even decided yet. My designer and I are still battling with my perfect style), snippets of the world inside, and the story of the characters who became my companions. This space will be our behind-the-scenes room.

If you’ve ever had a dream that took longer than you hoped, or wrestled with a quiet fear of your own, I wrote this for you.

Thank you for being here, for your patience, and for your trust.

The waiting is almost over.

Something I’ve carried for five years is about to become yours.

Like I said, ANTICIPATE!!

…the pen that speaks…

Today is my birthday. I didn’t throw a party. I didn’t plan a trip. There was no elaborate party but I did the funniest thing .

I went to the market.

Not for groceries, but for gifts to myself. A pair of earrings that caught the light just so—a small, sparkly declaration for no one but myself. I bought food that pleased only my own palate, and I carried it all home under a quiet, observant sky. The day was super bright today and the sun also had no mercy.

The activity wasn’t the point. The curation was.

This is twenty-something: the conscious construction of a self, piece by piece, day by day. It’s moving from the borrowed identities of adolescence into the sometimes-daunting freedom of choosing your own.

What do I wear? What do I value? What tiny luxuries are worth my time and money?

Back home, I rested and ate the good food I bought. I savored the ice cream, letting it melt on my tongue without hurry. I put on a movie I’ve seen a dozen times—the comfort of known dialogue, a predictable emotional arc. There’s a profound peace in pleasure that asks for no audience, no validation, no social media documentation. Just the simple, unshared joy of being a body in a space, content.

Birthdays in your twenties become less about accumulation and more about discernment. The gifts shift from objects to realizations. Today’s realization was this: my happiness is increasingly woven into these small, self-authored ceremonies. The deliberate choice to find beauty in a piece of jewelry. The permission to spend an afternoon in pure, unproductive sweetness. The understanding that “celebrating” can mean honoring your own company.

It’s a welcome to the new, yes. But not a loud, fanfare welcome. It’s a whisper. A nod to the person I was last year, who might have felt the need for more noise. A gentle opening of the door for the person I am today, who finds a deep resonance in the quiet procurement of joy.

This is twenty-something. It’s less about having it all figured out, and more about figuring out what “all” even means to you. It’s realizing that sometimes, the most profound act of becoming is buying yourself a pair of earrings, eating ice cream for lunch, and knowing, with a calm certainty, that it is more than enough.

Here’s to the new. It’s already here, in the simple, chosen things.

P.S. Thank you, sincerely, for being here. Your presence in this corner of the internet is a gift.

…and before the turning of a new year of my life, I find myself sitting with who I was, who I am, and who I am slowly becoming.

There was a version of me that was broken and I mean, truly, deeply broken. I don’t say that for sympathy, but for truth. Life, in its unkind wisdom, sometimes breaks things in us that we didn’t even know could shatter. Dreams, trust, a sense of self becomes all scattered like glass. For a long time, I walked carefully, afraid of the pieces I might still be stepping on.

But broken things can heal. Not to become exactly what they were before because that’s the myth we carry. They heal into something new, something stitched together with patience and grace and quiet courage. My healing didn’t come in a dramatic moment of revelation. It came in small acts: saying no when I needed to.

The healing was in learning to mother myself. To speak to my own frightened heart as I would to a beloved child: “I see you’re hurting. It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll get through this.”

I am still sitting with my own silence. Learning, slowly, to forgive myself. Letting tears fall without rushing to wipe them away. Letting kindness in, even when I felt I didn’t deserve it.

And yet, I am still learning.

Learning that healing isn’t a destination, but a rhythm. Some days, I feel whole. Other days, an old ache returns, a tender spot I thought had mended. I am learning to hold both without judgment , the strength I’ve gained and the fragility that remains. Learning that growth isn’t always upward; sometimes it’s inward, downward, deeper into the soil of the soul.

And now, here, on the edge of another trip around the sun, I sense life beginning to unfold again. Not in a rushed, forced way, but like a flower that knows, in its own time, when to open. There is space ahead. There is light waiting. There are chapters I haven’t lived yet, and I am no longer afraid of their blank pages.

This birthday isn’t about arriving. It’s about continuing. It’s about honoring the cracks that let the light in, the scars that tell a story of survival, and the heart that still believes in beginnings.

If you’re reading this and you, too, have known brokenness , I see you.

If you, too, are learning as you go , I am with you. Maybe that’s the real gift of growing older: realizing we are all beautifully unfinished, still learning how to bloom.

With tenderness,

Oluwasikemi.

...the pen that speaks...

A flip of a page.

A reset of a number.

A collective, global exhale that says this chapter is over.

But tonight, as I look back, I don’t feel an ending. I feel a continuation..

This was the year I graduated as a nurse. I emerged not just with a certificate, but with titles etched in duty: Registered Nurse. Registered Midwife. Registered Public Health Nurse. First Class. These are not mere academic accolades but a vow. They are the vows my hands and heart now carry into the world to serve the health of the masses. This was the year I moved from learning procedures(iykyk) to embodying a promise.

This was the year I spearheaded one of the biggest events in my school as an undergraduate from vision to reality. The event became a memorable one that transformed the mindset of many. A hugeeee milestone!!

Most quietly, most profoundly, this was the year I found a clearing within myself. A place called peace.

A wellspring of joy that wasn’t tied to an outcome, but to being present in my own life. I found love, not as a dramatic arrival, but as a steady, breathing presence in others, and slowly, in the woman I am becoming.

This isn’t a finale. It is a foundation. The ground is just now level enough to build a life upon.

“This year was a lot.” A simple understatement. There were days the weight threatened to tip the scale.

But here is the core, the truth upon which everything else rests: God helped me. It was the strength that came when mine was spent, the clarity in the fog, the unseen hand that pieced together broken fragments into a mosaic I couldn’t yet see.

Now, standing here in these final hours of the year, I am… overwhelmed.

But overwhelmed by grace.

Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of blessings that came disguised as challenges. Overwhelmed by the quiet certainty that every stumble was a step forward on a path I was meant to walk.

So yes, the year ends. We will say goodbye to its number, toast its passing, and turn the page.

But the things that happened?

The growth that cracked me open?

The grace that held me together?

The person I was becoming all along?

That is not ended.

That is just now getting started.

So I don’t say goodbye to 2025. I bow to it. I thank it.

And then I turn, not to a blank page, but to a story already in glorious progress.

The characters are richer. The plot has thickened. The protagonist is stronger, softer, and armed with a peace that passes all understanding.

The year ends.

But the life it made possible?

The purpose it revealed?

The love it planted?

That, my friends, is just entering its season.

And to you, reading this; as this year closes, I invite you to gently lay down the simple, reductive report card of wins and losses.

Instead, ask yourself the deeper, quieter question: What in me is ending, but not ended?

What peace did you touch that deserves to be your foundation?

What small joy did you discover that can be your hearth fire?

What love, for yourself or another, quietly changed your inner weather?

That seed is your true inheritance from this year. It is the living, breathing thing you are meant to carry across the threshold. Don’t leave it behind. Nurture it.

The new year doesn’t need a new you; it needs the real you, the one this year helped uncover, to finally step forward. Your most important beginning is already in progress.

Here’s to the ending that was always a beginning.

And the story—oh, the story is just getting good.

...the pen that speaks...

It was the small, blue mug that did it.

The one with the chip on the handle, the one he always reached for in the morning. I was unloading the dishwasher, my mind a blank to-do list, when my fingers brushed its familiar curve. And just like that, the kitchen wasn’t a kitchen anymore. It was a silent stage where his absence performed a loud, daily routine. I could see him leaning against the counter, steam from his coffee curling into the quiet, his presence a warm, solid anchor in the early light. The emptiness that followed the vision was so precise it felt like a physical object, a hollow cast made exactly in the shape of his quiet companionship.

This isn’t a romantic lament. Or rather, it’s not only that. It’s about a specific kind of missing, the missing of a witness. The one who saw your day not as a highlight reel, but as the entire, unedited film. The one who knew why you were tired without being told, who remembered to buy the specific brand of mustard you prefer, who was your living, breathing archive for inside jokes and half-finished thoughts. To miss your man, in this sense, is to miss the keeper of your context. The world feels strangely un-documented, as if the experiences of the day are piling up like unlabeled photographs.

It made me think of the Apostle Paul, of all people. Not often cited for sentiments of personal longing, he was a man driven by mission, often alone, often imprisoned.

Yet, in his letter to his dear friend and son in the faith, Timothy, he writes with a startling vulnerability:

“I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. As I remember your tears, I long to see you, that I may be filled with joy.” (2 Timothy 1:3-4)

Here is Paul, the spiritual giant, admitting a human ache. He longs to see a face. He remembers Timothy’s tears, a deeply intimate, emotional detail. His desired outcome is not merely strategic ministry planning, but to “be filled with joy.” This is the missing of a man. It’s a holy, human ache that exists even in the heart of someone saturated with divine purpose.

There’s a lesson in this alignment. We sometimes spiritualize our lives to the point of disinfection, believing that godly contentment means the absence of human yearning. Paul shows us otherwise. He held his profound calling and his profound loneliness in the same heart. He did not dismiss one as weakness to make room for the other. He acknowledged the tear-shaped hollow, even as he pressed on.

So what do we do with the missing?

First, we sanctify it. We take that ache out of the shadowy corner of “just a feeling” and hold it up in prayer. We say, “Lord, this longing is evidence of the good thing You gave. It is a testament to connection, to companionship, to a love that reflected Your own faithfulness in some small way.” The missing becomes a prayer of gratitude for what was, even as it pains us.

Second, we learn from the hollow. That empty space teaches us what we truly valued. Was it peace? Certainty? Laughter? Shared burdens? Often, we only understand the architecture of a relationship once it’s no longer physically present. We see the load-bearing walls of daily kindness we took for granted.

This knowledge isn’t meant to breed regret, but to inform how we build all our other connections. It teaches us to be that steady, present witness for others.

Finally, we let it point us to the Ultimate Witness. Human love, at its very best, is a reflection. It is a glimpse of the God who sees us completely, who is the ultimate keeper of our context, who collects our every tear in a bottle (Psalm 56:8).

The ache of an earthly absence can, if we let it, create a deeper capacity for the divine presence. It can make us lean into the One who promises never to leave.

I still miss my man. I miss the way he filled the blue mug and the quiet morning. But in that missing, I am learning.

I am learning that love leaves a shape, and grief is the painful honor of tracing its edges. I am learning that my longing is not a failure of faith, but a part of it a honest echo of Paul’s own heart, and a faint, human reflection of the eternity God has placed in ours.

The hollow is real.

But so is the love that formed it.

And so is the greater Love that holds them both.

…the pen that speaks…

It is true.

But this year, that truth lands with a different weight.

The manger in Bethlehem was not merely a beginning. It was a deliberate descent. The first breath of celestial air in infant lungs was not just a start, it was the first step on a road that wound through Nazareth, by the shores of Galilee, and up to the hill of Golgotha.

Every coo from the cradle was a step closer to the cry from the cross.

Every held hand as a child was a step closer to the pierced hands of the Messiah.

Every joyful "Amen!" in the temple was a step closer to the final "It is finished."

His birth was the inauguration of our salvation, yes.

But it was also the quiet, courageous acceptance of a journey whose destination was a tomb, a tomb that, blessedly, would not hold Him.

So, as we gather, as we feast, as we exchange gifts and sing carols, let us Remember.

The celebration is not in spite of the cross, but because of it. The joy of Christmas is inherently tethered to the victory of Easter.

Don't let the season's warmth simply fade into January's chill. Don't allow this sacred reminder to go to waste. Let the reality of His purposeful journey, from cradle to cross to crown, reshape your own.

Let the One who took every step in perfect obedience lead you, guide you, and walk with you until the very end of your days.

Selah!

…the pen that speaks…

Let me tell you about a gardener I once knew.

She had a rose bush that thrived for years, a glorious tangle of blooms. But one season, it began to falter. The stems grew woody, the leaves sparse, the flowers small and pale. She watered it, fed it, gave it more sun but it only declined further.

Finally, an old man visited, took one look, and said, “It’s suffocating itself. All its energy is going into maintaining this thicket of old, dead wood. It has no room, no energy, for new growth. You must prune it back and hard at that. Almost to the ground.”

The thought horrified her.

To cut back what had once been so beautiful felt like violence, like loss. But she did it. And for a time, the bush looked like a collection of bare, wounded sticks. Yet that spring, from those stark cuts, erupted the greenest, most vigorous shoots she had ever seen. By summer, it was covered in blooms more magnificent than before.

Your body begins to eat itself when you refuse to grow.

This is a stark, physiological fact.

In the absence of new nourishment, a process called “autophagy” begins where the body breaks down its own worn-out cells to recycle materials and clear space. It is a survival mechanism, but also a preparatory one. The system must consume what is obsolete to fuel what is essential.

Our minds and spirits follow a similar, sacred logic. When we refuse the growth that calls to us, when we cling to comfortable patterns, familiar resentments, or safe but soul-narrowing stories, we remain static.

A spiritual autophagy begins. We turn inward, not to cleanse, but to consume. We feed on our own potential with worry. We digest old disappointments on a loop. The energy for life is drawn not from engagement with the world, but from the slow breakdown of our own vitality.

We are, in a sense, eating our own hearts.

But there is another way. True growth is not just accumulation; it is a sacred surrender. It is allowing the Divine Gardener to prune what is dead in us, so that life may rush in.

“He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” (John 15:2)

This is the gentle, necessary violence of grace. The pruning is not punishment for refusing to grow; it is the very process that makes profound growth possible. God, the vinedresser, cuts away what we cling to, the identity that’s too small, the bitterness that’s too familiar, the fear that’s overstayed its welcome, not to diminish us, but to release us.

Finding peace, therefore, is not found in avoiding this holy pruning, but in leaning into the trust it requires. It is in distinguishing between the harsh voice of self-criticism and the quiet, firm snip of divine love, making space.

That hollow feeling?

It might be the cleared space after the deadwood is gone.

That sense of being broken down?

It might be the sacred recycling of your old self into wisdom, compassion, and humility, the nutrients for what is coming.

You are not falling apart. You are being prepared.

You are making room.

And from this trust, from this surrendered ground, will emerge a life more resilient, more fragrant, and more deeply at peace than you could have grown in the old, tangled thicket.

…the pen that speaks..