Why Don’t We Let Ourselves Enjoy What We’ve Worked For?

If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...

Why Don’t We Let Ourselves Enjoy What We’ve Worked For?

When the dream finally comes true, but you don’t feel happy.

A few days ago, I got braces.

Not the kind where you just wake up and decide to get them—but the kind I’ve wanted since I was young. My mum, doing the best she could, got me braces for my upper jaw. We couldn't afford the full treatment then. But that desire to complete what was started? It never left me.

So I saved. For months. Quietly, diligently. And when the day finally came, I got them. Full braces. A dream finally realized.

But almost immediately, I noticed something strange. I wasn’t excited. I wasn’t proud. I wasn’t even relieved. I just felt… tired. Drained. From day one, I started wondering why I wasn’t happy. Why couldn’t I enjoy the moment? I had worked for this. I had saved for this. I had made peace with the cost. So why couldn’t I smile—beyond the metal wires?

Instead, I found myself worrying. “Will I ever get to enjoy my tiny home someday—or will I just feel like this again?”
You see, that tiny home is my other dream. Another constant. And now, for the first time, I’m scared that when it comes, I’ll be too worn out to feel anything about it too.

The Quiet Sadness of Achieving a Dream

Sometimes we think that finally ticking off a long-term goal will make us feel ecstatic. We imagine a deep exhale, the kind that brings peace and pride.

But more often than we admit, it feels like a flat note. It lands—then vanishes. No confetti. No grand joy. Just… the next worry.

And maybe that’s part of adult life we don’t talk about enough.

In Kenya, everything costs more than money. Dreams carry weight. That boda rider who finally buys his dream bike is already stressed about repayments and petrol.
That woman who builds her mabati home is already worrying about a potential land dispute.
The guy who travels to Mombasa after ten years of saving is thinking about the rent due when he gets back.
Even kids going to school—parents beam with pride, but beneath the smiles is the question: what if I can’t sustain this next term?

We plan, save, sacrifice—and when we finally “arrive,” it’s like we’re too tired to feel joy.

Loss Comes with Gain

The other part no one prepares you for is the grief that can come with good things.

Braces came with a price tag, yes—but also new discomfort. My mouth hurts. I miss food I love. I didn’t know how much I relied on my tongue, teeth, and jaw just to enjoy life’s small joys. Now, I can’t eat like I used to—and I probably won’t for a while. I didn’t expect to feel sad about that. But I do.

And isn’t that true for many other gains in life?

You get the promotion, but you lose free time.
You buy land, but you give up your weekend getaways.
You start a business, but you lose sleep.
You finally move to a new house, but you miss the chaos of your noisy neighborhood.

There’s always something we quietly lay down to make space for the new. And if we don’t name that grief, it lingers as confusion or disappointment.

Why Gratitude Feels So Far Away

It’s not that we’re ungrateful. It’s that we’re scared to relax.
Especially in a country where nothing feels certain.
We’re always on to the next problem, the next payment, the next “what if.”

You can build your dream and still feel fear.
You can buy your plot and still feel unsure.
You can complete a lifelong goal and still not feel as full as you thought you would.

It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re human—and maybe deeply Kenyan.

So What Can We Do?

Here are a few gentle practices to ground yourself in the good:

Pause for longer than feels natural.

Take time to acknowledge what you’ve done—even if no one else does.

Name what you gave up.

It’s okay to grieve a lost routine, comfort, or ability. That’s part of healing.

Resist the urge to chase the next thing too quickly.

Sit in the now. It might not feel exciting, but it’s still sacred.

Talk to someone who gets it.

Sometimes joy comes when it's shared—or when someone mirrors it back to you.

**Remind yourself: You’re allowed to feel joy and discomfort at the same time.**

A Few Questions Worth Asking:

Is the discomfort I’m feeling part of growth—or a sign I need to slow down?
What small moment of joy can I make space for today—even in the middle of this process?
Am I allowed to celebrate progress, even when the journey isn’t perfect?
What will it take for me to believe I deserve rest, peace, and enjoyment—now?

Final Thoughts

Maybe the home will come, and I’ll still worry. Maybe the braces will ache for a while.
But just maybe—I can learn to hold both joy and sadness in the same breath.
To say: This hurts… but I’m proud of myself.
To say: This is not easy… but it matters.

Because the truth is—dreams don’t always feel magical in the moment.
Sometimes they’re uncomfortable, awkward, and overwhelming.
But they’re still ours.
And maybe that’s enough.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

Know Thyself: The Quiet Power of Naming Your Nature

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” — Carl Jung We live in a culture that equates good intentions with goodness, and ambition with ability. But very few people in Kenya—or anywhere—truly know what they are made of. We can name our qualifications and our dreams. But ask someone their vices or virtues, and they hesitate. Worse, they lie. The Danger of Self-Unawareness In Kenya today, many of us are wandering through life making choices—big, small, and irreversible—without truly understanding who we are. We end up in jobs we despise, relationships we shouldn’t be in, or positions of influence we aren’t emotionally or ethically equipped for. And at the root of this dysfunction is a simple truth: we don’t know ourselves. This is not a spiritual or abstract dilemma. It’s a deeply practical one. To know oneself is to understand your vices, your virtues, your weaknesses, and your strengths—not in a vague sense, but in detail. Let’s ge...

The Great Kenyan Home Ownership Madness: Dreams vs. Reality

Owning a home is a big dream for many Kenyans, but somewhere along the way, practicality has been thrown out the window. Too many people, driven by childhood aspirations or societal expectations, are constructing massive houses only to end up living like misers within them. Let’s break down why this trend makes little sense and what smarter, more sustainable homeownership looks like. The Harsh Reality of Owning a Big House in Kenya Many Kenyans, especially those who grew up in humble backgrounds, grew up being told to “dream big.” Unfortunately, this has translated into building unnecessarily large houses, often with rooms that remain unused, multiple verandahs gathering dust, and massive balconies that no one actually sits on. These houses cost millions to build, yet within a few years, the owners are struggling to maintain them, regretting their choices as they pour more money into renovations. If you need proof, just look at how many old houses in Nairobi remain unsold. No one wants...

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