The other day, I posted a picture on my status. In it, I was wearing a shirt that said, “Be real. Not perfect.” I pointed out that the picture itself was not perfect—at least, not by my standards—but it was real. The next day was my best friend’s birthday. I found a recent photo of us that I wanted to share, but there was a visible mark on my dress where water had spilled. My first instinct was to crop it out. I did, but then I hesitated to share. In that moment, I remembered

2025 was a difficult year for me, both physically and mentally. Little by little, I lost interest in communicating with people and began withdrawing from social media. I even contemplated leaving social media altogether. I no longer reached out just to see how others were doing. As I became quieter, I began to realize something painful: my absence did not seem to be missed by most. I did not expect everyone to notice. What hurt most was the silence from people I felt close to

The other night, I was crying. Not the loud kind of crying—the quiet kind. The kind that comes when you are tired of being strong. I wasn’t saying anything. I was just sitting there, trying to hold myself together, when I noticed that my dog, Pollie, was watching me. She wasn’t being playful or curious. She was simply still, as though she could tell that something wasn’t right. So, I went over to her. I was still crying and not okay. Pollie stood up, a little unsure at first,

Growing up in my Caribbean home, I learned that some things were not to be used right away. New clothing and linen, especially undergarments, were often set aside “just in case” — in case of a hospital visit, in case something happened on the road, or in case you had to be seen unexpectedly. The older, worn ones were for sleeping in, for staying at home, and for everyday use. The better and new ones were reserved for outings and special occasions. It was one of those lessons

Never discount the value of the games and puzzles we played as children. Some of them shaped us in ways we didn’t even notice. Do you remember " Where’s Waldo?" As a child, I would visit the small library in my village, and there was a little activity booklet which I absolutely loved. I can’t remember the name of the booklet, but I certainly remember the joy of searching for Waldo hidden among crowds of people and colorful scenes. I took pride in finding him. Who knew that so

I once told my mother she didn’t really need her cane. Life had a way of correcting me. As I mentioned before , my mom has not been well for a long time. Whenever we leave the house, she uses a cane. Outside, her body is visibly unsteady. She walks slowly and cautiously, often hugging walls. Inside the house, though, she moves around without the cane. That contrast confused me. I struggled to understand how both things could be true at the same time. One day, we were in to

Imagine being upset with an eggplant. Yes, an eggplant. It didn’t happen dramatically. It showed up during an ordinary moment that began with a simple delivery. My mom received some supplies from a friend. I collected the bag but never looked inside. At the time, it didn’t seem important. As we say locally, “I doh put cocoa outside so I not looking for rain.” In other words, I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it. Later, I opened the refrigerator, and the only thing tha

I lie frequently, and it feels like I have no choice. The truth is, I’m not okay. I’m not well. However, it’s often easier to pretend that I am. When asked this very simple question, "How are you" , I often respond by saying that I’m okay or I’m holding on . If the conversation is in person, I add a smile to complete the illusion, even though my body is aching or my head is spinning. To my fellow Christians, I often feel the need to add that I’m trusting God to see me throu

I truly can’t imagine what it is like to be my mother. I watch her move through the day, making sure her adult children are cared for. Sometimes I wonder how she does it. It feels as though she runs a one-woman, fully functioning hospital from her home. One moment she’s a nurse, managing medication and checking vitals. The next, she becomes the doctor — offering her own small diagnoses, shaped by the cultural remedies she has learned to trust. Then she’s a physiotherapist, ma

Some days are hard. The pain can be unbearable, although I am not in pain all day. It comes in waves, almost like contractions. The relief may not last long, but I am always grateful when it comes. What makes it difficult is not knowing when that relief will arrive — whether it will be in minutes or hours. That uncertainty makes the waiting heavy. In those moments, I write. I write to express myself. I write to distract myself from my present reality. I write to redirect my t

Truth is, I don’t sleep easily at nights. On the rare nights when I actually want to sleep, I notice everything. One night, something amazing dawned on me. I’m able to sleep through the sound of an oscillating fan and an air purifier running at medium strength. That sound is familiar and steady. In some weird way, it feels like relief. Maybe it’s the noise itself that calms me. Or maybe I’m overlooking the sounds in favor of what they bring — fresh air, a cool room, the sense

Sometimes the hardest part of carrying an unseen struggle is moving through a world that doesn’t know you’re carrying anything at all. People respond to what they can see. They speak based on what they assume. Most days, they have no idea what weight someone is already holding beneath the surface. There are moments when that unknowing shows up harshly — through impatience, careless words, or expectations that feel heavier than they should. When someone is already stretched th

There are days when I sound okay. The words come out steady. My tone doesn’t betray the weight I’m carrying. I respond to messages, answer calls, show up in conversations the way people expect me to. Because of that, assumptions are made. If I sound fine, I must be fine. With that comes expectation and, sometimes, disbelief. When the truth doesn’t match the version others have already decided on, it can be quietly dismissed. It’s hard to explain a struggle when your voice doe

There are struggles that don’t announce themselves. They don’t interrupt conversations or demand attention. They simply sit beneath the surface, quietly shaping how a person moves through the day. From the outside, everything can look fine. Responsibilities are met. Smiles appear when needed. Life continues in ways that don’t raise concern. But inside, there is effort — more than anyone realizes — just to keep going as usual. This kind of strength is rarely recognized because

I made a bold decision to share my story — one I wasn’t sure I should share at all. But I quickly realized that many people were struggling too, fighting hard battles while quietly carrying them alone. There are many reasons someone might choose silence. Perhaps it’s fear. Perhaps they were cautioned to keep quiet. Perhaps they didn’t know who to trust. Perhaps they didn’t want pity. Whatever the reason, they remained silent for far too long. I know that place well. I have be