It was on a commute last January when I asked myself a question that seemed to come from nowhere:
“What is the point of all this?”
I remember the moment clearly.
It was a grey, gloomy morning, and the one-hour journey ahead of me felt as though it was pressing down on my very soul.
The question caught me off guard. I didn’t know where it had come from — or why it had suddenly surfaced.
But looking back now, I think I had already felt it coming.
A few months earlier, I had taken a solo trip. When I returned, something had shifted.
I was no longer the same woman. And yet… I wasn’t entirely sure who I had become.
People often say that life begins at forty.
When I was younger, I never agreed with that statement.
But once I reached forty, I understood.
Because something changes.
You are no longer willing to shrink to fit other people’s narratives.
And sometimes, that realisation creates a quiet tension within you.
You can feel something shifting — but you can’t quite explain it yet.
That’s the thing about real change.
It happens internally first.
Quietly. Slowly. Almost invisibly.
At that point in my life, I felt like I was in conflict with myself.
I was trying to summon the energy I had used for years just to survive — but it was like pulling blood from stone.
The old version of me… she simply stopped working.
The shift began with how I saw myself.
Growing up in dysfunction had taught me to shrink.
To quiet my voice.
To make myself smaller so I could belong.
Even though I was writing and expressing myself publicly, there were still many areas of my everyday life where I struggled to show up fully.
In truth, I had become the one policing myself.
And that didn’t happen by accident.
Someone had taught me how to do that.
It was in therapy that I first heard the phrase: self-compassion.
That phrase changed my life.
Because when I began practicing it, I realised something deeply uncomfortable: I had been incredibly cruel to myself.
The people who had once hurt me were no longer in my life… but I had taken on their role.
I had become my own bully.
And that didn’t just affect how I saw myself — it shaped how I allowed others to treat me.
I found myself in friendships where subtle disrespect was normalised.
Backhanded compliments.
One-sided expectations.
Being there for others in ways they would never be there for me.
I gave freely — but I never felt allowed to ask.
Somewhere along the way, I had learned to believe that I should feel grateful just to be needed.
But there comes a moment when you can no longer unsee what you’ve finally recognised.
And when that moment comes…some relationships cannot continue as they were.
I began to notice the same patterns everywhere.
In friendships.
In family dynamics.
In professional spaces.
I had been contorting myself to meet expectations that were never mine to carry.
And something inside me finally said: Enough.
I was no longer willing to abandon myself.
I was no longer willing to abandon Koya.
When you’ve lived in survival mode for a long time, you become very good at shrinking.
At adapting.
At keeping the peace.
Even when it costs you everything.
But once you see it clearly…something inside you refuses to go back.
After my solo trip, I knew I couldn’t return to the version of myself I had been.
Through therapy, journaling, and honest reflection, I had seen too much.
And once you see it — you can’t unsee it.
There was a tug of war happening inside me.
The version of me who knew how to survive.
The version of me who was becoming aware.
And somewhere deeper…
The woman who wanted to live fully.
Honestly.
Without apology.
That process wasn’t easy.
It came with discomfort.
With grief.
With questioning everything I thought I wanted.
Because transformation often requires letting go of the life you thought you were supposed to live.
A therapist once described this stage as outgrowing your shell.
You shed the old one, but the new one hasn’t fully formed yet.
So you exist in between.
Raw.
Exposed.
Tender.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what she meant.
Now I do.
Because once I began catching glimpses of who I truly am — and the girl I was never allowed to be — something inside me changed permanently.
That girl…
She is strong.
Magical.
Unapologetically herself.
And the woman I am becoming?
She shines.
Sometimes the most profound transformation begins quietly.
In the small, almost invisible moments
where you realise…you can no longer go back.
Today, I love that younger version of myself fiercely.
I allow her to show up in my creativity.
I try to parent her with the compassion she always deserved.
You can see it in how I am with my niece and nephew.
In the space I try to give them to just be.
And the woman I am becoming…
She fascinates me.
I admire her.
She is graceful.
Grounded.
No longer ashamed of the path that brought her here.
She holds space for others — the kind of space she once needed herself.
But she is also a protector.
She no longer allows what once drained her to enter her life unchecked.
If you see yourself in any part of this…You are not alone.
I write here to create space — for reflection, for honesty, for becoming.
And if you’re finding your way back to yourself too, you’re welcome here.
Because sometimes…
our stories become the light
that helps someone else find their way home.
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Koya Nkrumah 
Absolutely, I can’t.
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