Clueless Twenties

  A cultural diagnosis of burnout in the age of hustle and wellness There’s a fatigue in the air, low-grade but constant. Not the kind a nap or a long weekend can fix. It’s in our DMs, our delayed replies, our group chats that slowly die off, and our eyes as we zone out mid-Zoom. Everyone is tired. But no one’s really saying why. We joke about it: “Adulting is a scam.” “Capitalism is ghetto," and “Rest is resistance.” But beneath the memes is a deep, gnawing emotional exhaustion. And it’s not just physical burnout. It’s soul-tired. It's waking up and feeling like you're already behind. It’s smiling on cue while feeling like you're running on fumes. In the Kenyan context, hustle is holy. We are bred on stories of people who made it by sheer will. No handouts. Just grit. “Lazy youth” rhetoric is national policy. And so we internalize the grind. Sleep becomes optional. Productivity becomes identity. Globally, the hustle gospel isn’t much different. And now we are mirrorin...

  Dear Readers, There’s a thin line between being understanding and overextending. Sometimes you don’t notice when you’ve crossed it, only that you’ve started shrinking. Staying up late for someone who’s drifting off mid-sentence. Giving energy to conversations that don’t hold the same weight when the roles are reversed. It’s not always heartbreak. Sometimes it’s something quieter. A slow forgetting of yourself. But here’s what becomes clear with time: love is a beautiful thing, but when it turns one-sided, it stops being connection and starts becoming a compromise of your peace. We’re raised on love stories where women “hold it down". Where love looks like endurance. And before long, many of us are carrying the emotional weight of two people while convincing ourselves we’re just being patient. But emotional labour isn’t just about kindness. It’s: Being the one who remembers and initiates. Keeping the connection alive through messages, check-ins, and thoughtful gestures. Softening...

  To the women I come from, This isn’t just for Mom. It’s for the ones who held her when she cried. for the ones who taught her how to braid, to cook, to love, and to keep going even when everything said stop. It’s for the women I never met. but whose tired eyes I see in mine. the ones who raised children, and crops, and hell. who lost and gave and broke and mended. who didn’t always get it right but kept showing up anyway. It’s for the mothers, yes— but also the sisters who stepped in, the aunties who stayed, the grandmothers who prayed, and the great-grandmothers whose names we forgot but whose sacrifices we wear like skin. You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to survive. And you did. So I could. To Mum, or rather mums, for the mum who stayed. Who picked up where the world dropped me. Who taught me how to live with both grief and joy. Who showed me what love looks like when it chooses you, day after day. Not because it had to, but because it wanted to.  And it’s for t...

  Hey Girlies, If you’ve ever stared out of a moving matatu window, earbuds in, gospel or RnB, or whatever you listen to on blast, wondering what you’re doing with your life, you’re not alone. Maybe you’re working a job you’re not sure you love. Maybe you’re chasing a dream that feels like it’s moving maddd slow. Maybe your auntie just asked you when you’re bringing someone home (again), and you laughed it off while secretly dodging your own feelings about love. Here’s the thing: the story of Esther? It’s not just Bible content, it’s our story too. And it’s here to remind us that nothing about where you are is random. Even the confusion, the pressure, and the unexpected detours. Esther was an orphaned Jewish girl, raised by her cousin Mordecai, living in exile. Not exactly your typical queen material, right? Yet, when Queen Vashti was booted from the palace for refusing to be objectified ( honestly, we love her boundaries ), a kingdom-wide search for a new queen began. Esther was...

  Some things hit you slowly. Guilt, gratitude, the quiet weight of growing up— they don’t come crashing in. They show up in the silence. This is one of those moments. Dear Mom and Dad, I don’t really know how to start this without sounding like a walking cliché—but here it goes: I’m sorry. Not for one specific thing, but for the slow, drawn-out collection of little things. The eye rolls. The slammed doors. The silences at dinner. The snide remarks about how "out of touch" you were. I thought I was right about everything. I thought you were just being dramatic or annoying or unnecessarily strict. But now, standing awkwardly in the middle of my twenties, I get it—at least a little more than I did back then. I get what exhaustion looks like after a long day, only to come home to a moody teenager who thinks the world is against her. I get what it feels like to stretch a budget, to carry responsibilities no one else sees, and to be scared of making mistakes that ripple into someo...

  My Dearest Reader, Hi, love. It’s been a while. I don’t know how else to begin other than thank you. For reading. For staying. For returning to my words even when I wasn’t always sure I still had them in me. Every click, every message, every email that quietly said, “I’m still here”, I felt it. And it meant more than I could possibly say. I’ve been fairing well, quietly moving through the days and letting life hold me in the ways it could. I truly hope you’ve been doing okay too, or at the very least, that you’ve had gentle moments to breathe in between whatever chaos life has thrown your way. It’s been a long time since I last sat down and really, fully wrote. The kind of writing that comes from that raw, open space in my chest. For a while, I lost my voice. Not literally, but in that slow ache kind of way, where the thoughts are there, loud and begging, but the words just… won’t form. And so I found myself sitting with that silence. Wallowing a bit, honestly, in the heavy quiet...