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...
What happens when the people who once held our hands let go—not because we no longer need love or guidance, but because we’ve been labeled “grown”?
In Kenya, like in many places, turning 18 often marks an emotional cutoff. Parents, weary from years of sacrifice, begin to emotionally and practically withdraw. Culturally, there is a sense that once you hit adulthood, you must figure things out on your own. The phrase "Umeshafika miaka kumi na nane, sasa ujipange" (you’re 18 now, figure it out) is spoken half-jokingly but reflects a serious truth.
But what if the work of growing up isn’t about becoming completely independent, but about learning to become your own parent?
The Great Withdrawal
For many Kenyan adults, parental support is replaced with silence, judgement, or pressure to "perform adulthood" successfully. Struggling? You must be lazy. Confused? You must have taken the wrong course. Depressed? You must be ungrateful.
Many parents are tired. Emotionally, financially, even spiritually, they have given all they could. And many children—now adults—are left holding pieces of a self that still needs nurturing, guidance, and presence. But there is no one left to give it.
What Mothering and Fathering Once Meant
Think of what many mothers and fathers do:
Nurture: comfort us when we are hurt, encourage us when we feel small
Protect: stand in the gap, shield us from harm
Structure: offer discipline, routine, values
Invest: pay for our hobbies, talents, dreams
Show up: attend our school events, sit by us in hospital wards, hold our hands
These roles don’t stop being important because we are 25 or 40. They just stop being offered. And in many cases, we stop even expecting them. But the need remains.
Now That We’re "Grown"
As adults, we are still the same children, only taller. We still long to be seen, encouraged, protected, and believed in. But society tells us to toughen up. This leads to:
Burnout from working with no rest or play
Shame for needing therapy or help
A fear of asking for support
Loneliness masked as independence
We confuse adulthood with abandonment. And many of us parent our own children from an empty cup.
Becoming Our Own Parents (A Practical Guide)
Becoming your own mother and father doesn’t have to be abstract. It can be practical, joyful, and deeply healing. Start by asking:
What small things did your mum or dad do that made you feel seen, loved, or safe?
Did your mum make pancakes every Saturday morning? Start making pancakes for yourself—or whatever you love now—and make it part of your weekend ritual. Play your favorite music, serve them in that cute cup, and eat from your favorite plate.
Did your dad always cover your books at the beginning of the term? Create a Sunday routine where you prepare for the week ahead—maybe ironing your clothes, setting goals, or journaling. Make it sacred.
Did your mum braid your hair on Saturday evenings and chat with you as she did it? Book regular self-care time: braid your own hair or get it done, light a candle, catch up with someone you love.
Did your father walk you to school? Take yourself for an early morning walk now, or listen to a podcast as you walk to work—and imagine him walking beside you.
Did your mum pack your favorite snack or leave you a note in your lunchbox? Leave yourself kind reminders—sticky notes on your mirror, affirmations in your phone.
These are not childish acts. They are sacred. They remind us that love can continue even when its original givers step back.
Why This Matters
Reparenting yourself fills the emotional gaps left behind. It:
Builds self-trust and confidence
Heals childhood wounds
Helps break cycles of resentment or dependency
Reconnects you with joy and play
Allows you to love others from a place of fullness
Start Here
Make a list of 3 things you associate with your mother’s love and 3 things you associate with your father’s care. Choose one from each and begin doing it for yourself regularly.
This is not indulgence. This is medicine.
And what would it look like to do this for others? To attend your friend’s small play like your parent once came to yours. To ask your sibling about their dreams and offer to help. To believe in someone who’s forgotten how to believe in themselves.
A Collective Healing
We need to broaden the meaning of family. Many of us are walking around hungry for a hug, for a safe place to land, for someone to say, "I'm proud of you." We can become that for ourselves and each other.
In a country where so many parents are tired, and so many adults are hurting silently, reparenting ourselves could be a revolution. It could make us more whole, more grounded, more human.
Mantra: "I mother myself with kindness. I father myself with courage. I parent my life into healing."
Reflection: Who is one person you could show up for this week—the way you wish someone had shown up for you?
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