What You Don’t Change, You Choose-The uncomfortable truth about our complicity in the lives we say we don’t want.

The Quiet Votes We Cast Each Day

You say you hate your job, but you never apply elsewhere.
You say you want a partner who respects you, but you keep going back to the one who breaks you.
You say the government is corrupt, but you don’t vote—and if you do, it’s for the familiar thief who gave you a branded leso.
You say you want change, but you’re still here, in this same place, in this same story, just older.

There’s a popular saying that goes, “What you allow, is what will continue.” But what if we pushed it further—what you don’t change, you choose. Not passively. Not accidentally. But willfully. Repeatedly.

In Kenya, we are a nation built on the art of waiting: waiting for government reforms, waiting for better leadership, waiting for our bodies to stop hurting, for relationships to fix themselves, for that magical promotion, for change to come and tap us gently on the shoulder. But the harsh truth is this: every time you choose to not change something, you have chosen what exists. And that choice carries weight—political, emotional, economic, even generational.

Let’s hold a mirror to ourselves. You might see more than you expect.

1. Health: The Dying Body You Keep Betraying

You’ve had ulcers for 5 years, migraines for 8. The doctor said you need rest. To eat earlier. To leave that stressful environment. But you say “sina otherwise.” So you keep popping painkillers like mints, drinking soda on an empty stomach, chasing deadlines that reward you with nothing but a heavier body and a thinning spirit.

You’re not lazy. You’re tired.
But that too—this constant neglect—is a choice.

“Ni baridi tu.”

You’ve been coughing for three months. It’s now normal to spit blood into the sink. But going to hospital? That’s for emergencies, you say. You’re too busy working to afford to be sick. Maybe next month. You swallow ginger and lemon and hope for the best.

In that moment, you didn’t avoid a decision—you made one. You chose to prioritize income over your lungs. You chose to gamble with your life because the cost of healthcare in Kenya is designed to feel like theft. And yet, as you wait for it to become “serious enough,” the choice has already been made.

Ask yourself:

• Whose definition of “strong” am I dying to meet?

• What kind of rest have I been calling laziness?

2. Love and Relationships: The Pain You Keep Defending

“He’s not perfect, but at least he comes home.”

You’ve stopped dreaming of love. Now you negotiate violence with silence. The man you once admired now cheats openly, dismisses your concerns, and mocks your ambitions. But you tell yourself: “I’m staying for the kids,” or, “Si all men are the same?”

You didn’t just fail to leave. You chose to stay. You chose to teach your children that this is what marriage looks like. You chose emotional starvation over uncertainty. No judgment—just recognition. The change you avoided was a decision. One with ripples that don’t end with you.

Ask yourself:

• What part of me do I betray to keep this relationship alive?

• If my child ends up in this same love, would I be proud?

3. Family Dynamics: The Rot We Normalize

“That’s just how Mum is.”

You’re the eldest. Your siblings call you ‘dad’ behind your back. Your parents took loans in your name. Your younger brother is drinking your salary every weekend. But you keep quiet. Because African families don’t air dirty laundry. Because therapy is for Wazungus.

Every time you go along, you reinforce the dysfunction. Refusing to name abuse, refusing to draw boundaries, refusing to ask for fairness—these are choices. Just because the cost of confronting it is high doesn’t mean the cost of silence is cheap.

Ask yourself:

• What am I calling ‘love’ that is actually just guilt?

• Am I upholding family—or a cycle that should have ended long ago?

4. Politics and Policy: The Monster We Feed Then Fear

Every five years, you get riled up. You post. You march. You talk big. Then you vote for the same name, the same clan, the same bribe-giver.

Then unga hits 300 bob. NHIF collapses. And we act shocked.

But when you didn’t show up to demand better—at work, at the ballot, in court—you chose this.

And when you stay silent at the office as the tenders are looted, you co-sign the rot.

“Wacha tuone vile itakuwa.”

Election season again. You hate every candidate. You know they’re thieves. But you don’t vote. Or worse—you vote tribally, again. Because “at least our thief brings development,” or “opposition has no chance anyway.”

When you refuse to interrogate your vote, you cast it blindly. When you say nothing about corruption, you say yes with your silence. You cannot despise the country’s rot and then choose the fertilizer. But we do, every five years.

Ask yourself:

• Am I oppressed—or just comfortable enough not to fight back?

• What version of corruption am I tolerating in my own life?

5. Work: The Loyalty That Keeps You Poor

Your employer gave you a branded t-shirt, a mug, maybe even a staff retreat. You’re earning 35K in Nairobi. Rent is 20K. Your boss tells you, “We’re a family.”

And so, you sacrifice your mental health, your lunch hour, your boundaries—because one day, the company might grow.

But here’s the truth: it might. And they’ll make millions.
And your salary will still be 38K.

Progress for them doesn’t mean progress for you. You can give your 100% and still remain exactly where you are.

“Better the devil you know.”

You’re paid KES 75,000 for a job that drains your soul and your weekends. Your boss yells. HR is complicit. But you fear that moving will be worse. So you stay. For stability. For security. For status.

You didn’t just choose the job—you chose the erosion. You chose to give your most alert years to a place that sees you as replaceable. And maybe the change is risky—but so is doing nothing. So is letting your dreams gather dust under someone else’s vision board.

Ask yourself:

• Am I loyal, or am I just afraid to dream beyond this?

• If I died today, what did I build for myself?

6.  The Middle Class Illusion 

“At least I’m not like them.”

You moved to a gated estate. You complain about traffic, not matatu fare. You shop at Carrefour, not muhindi mweusi. But you also haven’t saved in months. You’re one hospital bill away from ruin. 

Yet you stay at your own job with a toxic boss and no growth. You tell those who dare to question, those who dare to take the streets, “Just be grateful.” But you too are trapped—just in a better looking cage. You’re choosing a paycheck over peace. Lifestyle over life. And calling it ‘adulting’.

Ask yourself:

• Is my pride in not being "like them" blinding me to my own form of struggle?

• Am I performing success or actually building it?

6. Religious Guilt

“God will provide.”

Your pastor has three cars. You tithe faithfully even when rent is late. You volunteer every Sunday while struggling with depression. But to speak up? To ask for help? That would be doubting God.

And so you stay exhausted. You spiritualize burnout. You let your faith become a tool of self-neglect. You didn’t forget to rest—you chose sacrifice over sanity. But God doesn’t ask for that kind of offering.

Ask yourself:

• Is my church building me or draining me?

• What would Jesus say about how I’m being treated here?

• Would I treat someone I love the way I treat myself in the name of God?

Ask Yourself: What Are You Choosing By Not Changing?

Sometimes the clearest way to find your direction is by sitting with uncomfortable questions. They peel back illusions and expose quiet decisions made in fear, habit, or inherited logic. If any of these areas speak to you, pause and ask:

Under the Middle-Class Illusion:

"At least I’m not like them."

• What am I spending to maintain this lifestyle—beyond money?

• Is my job giving me dignity, or just stability?

• Do I silence others because I fear acknowledging my own stuckness?

• If I lost this job tomorrow, how long would I survive?

• Do I value comfort more than growth?

• Is my pride in not being "like them" blinding me to my own form of struggle?

• Am I performing success or actually building it?

Under Religious Guilt:

"God will provide."

• Am I confusing suffering with spiritual strength?

• Do I give out of faith—or fear of punishment or rejection?

• Who told me that rest is selfish? Who benefits when I burn out for God?

• Am I allowing faith to replace action and boundaries?

• Is my church building me or draining me?

• What would Jesus say about how I’m being treated here?

• Would I treat someone I love the way I treat myself in the name of God?

Under the Politics of Tribe and Familiarity:

"Better the devil we know."

• Who profits when I stay loyal to dysfunction?

• Am I loyal to a tribe—or to shared values?

• Would I accept this treatment from a stranger?

• What happens when we trade justice for belonging?

Under the Burden of the Firstborn:

"I have to hold this family together."

• Is this responsibility mine—or was it dumped on me?

• Do I know how to love my family without saving them?

• What would freedom look like if I weren’t carrying everyone?

• Have I mistaken sacrifice for love?

Under Romantic Hope That Hurts:

"They’ll change eventually."

• Am I waiting for a potential that’s never shown up?

• Would I tell my younger sibling or friend to stay in a situation like this?

• Is this love helping me grow—or shrink?

• If I had no fear, what decision would I make today?

Under Work Culture as Identity:

"I can’t afford to lose this job."

• If I wasn’t afraid, what would I be building instead?

• Am I working for a company—or hiding inside it?

• Do I believe I have other options—or have I stopped looking?

• Would the version of me from 10 years ago feel proud—or concerned?

SIGNS THAT YOU'RE CHOOSING DESTRUCTION

• You postpone decisions repeatedly.

• You tell yourself “at least it’s better than nothing.”

• You are constantly waiting for someone else to change first.

• You suppress your dreams in favor of comfort.

• You justify dysfunction as ‘normal.’

WHAT TO DO INSTEAD

Ask yourself:

• “Who benefits when I don’t change?”

• “Am I surviving or actually progressing?”

• “What future am I quietly building by maintaining this present?”

• “If I stay, what does five years from now look like?”

Progress requires discomfort. So does survival. The question is: which discomfort are you choosing?

So, What Now? Choosing Again

You may not be able to change your whole life today.
But you can name the story you no longer want to be part of.
You can leave, apply, speak, vote, say no, say yes.

You are not stuck. You are invested.
And every investment is a choice.

We’re not all in positions of power, but we are all in positions of choice. Even the smallest change—a question, a refusal, a decision to rest—can begin a shift. The hope is not to condemn, but to awaken. Because whether in love, health, work or politics: what you don’t change, you choose.