Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Often, we forge friendships and relationships as a remedy for our unfulfilled emotions. We seek out others to soothe the ache of loneliness, hoping that someone, somewhere, will reach into the void we can’t seem to fill on our own. But some of us grow fond of solitude—not because we truly enjoy it, but because we’ve tried to blend into the world, only to find that people continue to disappoint us.

There is an exhaustion that comes not from the body but from the soul—a heaviness that settles in the chest, making every breath feel like a burden. Sometimes, I am completely run down and overwhelmed by my emotions. It’s like a sharp, lingering pain, an unbearable craving for human connection. And yet, I hesitate. I want everything for myself, greedily seeking someone who understands me, who sees me—not the version I present, but the person I truly am, beneath all the layers.

I still struggle with emotions—theirs, mine, and the space in between. The need to understand what people are feeling, or claim to be feeling, pushes me to the edge of madness. How do they know what they feel is real? How do I?

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend. I asked him what kind of person he thought I was, how he saw me. He didn’t hesitate. “Smart, doesn’t like physical contact, and lonely.” A bit amusing, really. It was the kind of answer that makes you laugh but also leaves an ache behind. I always imagined myself living recklessly, doing everything without regret, yet somehow, it all feels hollow. I smile—constantly, habitually—but I can no longer tell if it’s genuine. Somewhere along the way, my isolation became unintentional, then permanent.

Ironically, I am a lonely creature who cannot even stand my own family. Not because they are cruel—no, they are not monsters. Maybe I am.

I wonder sometimes if I am unworthy of love, or if I simply do not understand it. She said she loved me, and I found myself wondering—what version of me did she see? What illusion did she fall for? Was it the one I carefully crafted, the one that mimicked warmth and stability? Or did she see something deeper, something even I have lost sight of? Perhaps she wasn’t in love with me, but with the comfort I unknowingly provided. A familiar kind of emptiness, mistaken for home.

When I look at her, I catch glimpses of something familiar—an echo of the same madness, the same desperate longing for attachment. Was I ever like that? Once upon a time, did I reach out with the same reckless hope?

To survive, I have worn too many masks, each blending into the next until I can no longer remember the real me. If I stripped them all away, would there be anything left beneath?

Fate is a cruel trickster, dressing misfortune as a bed of glittering flowers. Sometimes, luck and disaster wear the same face, and I am still trying to tell them apart.