Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Some events in life humble you in ways you never saw coming. They knock the wind out of you, pull you down a peg, and force you to sit with your own vulnerability. Suddenly, you’re not praying for success or happiness—you’re praying for strength, for grace, for the eventual chance to get back up once you’ve been brought low.

But that climb back up? It’s never easy. Sometimes, it means losing friends. Sometimes, it means letting go of loved ones. And other times, it means surrendering parts of yourself—pieces you thought you’d carry forever. There’s grief in that. A quiet kind that lingers long after the goodbyes.

What no one tells you is that beginnings are the hardest. They’re messy and uncomfortable, full of questions and doubt. You want to have control—over your path, your emotions, your healing—but control is the one thing that feels furthest away. You’re left trying to evolve with circumstances that keep shifting beneath your feet, clinging to the hope of becoming something stronger. The famous phoenix rising from the ashes sounds poetic, but living through that fire? It’s a battle no one applauds until you’re on the other side.

You break down on the days you thought you’d have it all together. And those “good” days? They come around less and less. Meanwhile, everyone else’s life seems to move forward—birthdays, engagements, promotions—while yours feels suspended, frozen in a loop you can’t quite escape. You watch from the sidelines, cheering them on, trying not to feel like you’re falling behind.

And then there’s the ache of old connections. The people who once knew your laugh, your stories, your deepest thoughts—they now scroll past your updates like strangers. One mistake, one moment of weakness, and they let go. Just like that. As if everything you once shared never mattered. You try to convince yourself it’s not personal, but the silence speaks louder than any goodbye ever could.

Still, somehow, something within you refuses to give up. A small, stubborn flicker of hope. It’s not loud. It doesn’t demand attention. But it stays. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing begins—not in huge leaps, but in quiet decisions: to show up again, to try again, to keep believing there’s something beautiful waiting beyond this chapter.

Starting over isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of growth. It’s proof that you had the courage to face the fire—and now, you’re learning how to rise from it.

Note to my readers:

If you’ve ever found yourself in a season of stillness, heartbreak, or uncomfortable new beginnings—I see you. I wrote this not from a place of having it all figured out, but from the middle of the mess, where growth and grief often coexist. Life doesn’t always move at the pace we hope for, and healing rarely follows a straight path. But if you’re reading this, you’re already choosing to keep going, and that’s something to be proud of.

Thank you for being here, for allowing me to share pieces of my journey with you. If this spoke to something in your heart, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments or messages. We rise better when we rise together.

With love,
Moonlight 🌸