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...
We like to imagine that truth is buried deep, hidden away like a secret treasure waiting for the chosen few to uncover it. We search in books, in mysteries, in whispers of what might be. Yet often, the truth is not hidden at all — it comes from visible sources. It is there, plain as daylight, though our eyes and hearts may not always want to recognize it.
Think about the people around us. How many times has someone’s behavior told us exactly who they are, but we chose to ignore it? The friend who only calls when they need something. The leader who speaks of service but lives in luxury at the people’s expense. The partner whose actions never match their words. We see these truths in plain sight, but we excuse them, cover them, or tell ourselves a different story. Later, when disappointment comes, we act surprised — yet the truth was always visible.
Why then do we miss it? Part of it is human nature. We crave mystery. We want the comfort of believing that the truth is hidden somewhere out there, rather than sitting uncomfortably in front of us. To accept the obvious often feels too ordinary, too unromantic. Sometimes it even feels too painful. Because once we acknowledge what we see, we are faced with the responsibility of responding to it.
On a personal level, this plays out in relationships, work, and choices. On a societal level, it is even clearer. The visible signs of corruption, inequality, or environmental decline stare us in the face daily. Yet how often do we dismiss them as exaggerations, or tell ourselves “it’s not so bad”? In Kenya, for instance, we repeat the phrase “hii maisha ni ngumu” (life is hard), but in the same breath ignore the visible systems and decisions that keep many trapped. The truth is not buried — it is openly displayed in how resources are allocated, how leaders act, and how society normalizes struggle.
The unseen, in many ways, is easier to live with than the visible truth. The unseen allows us to hope blindly. The visible truth asks us to face discomfort. And so we turn our heads, scroll past, or cover our ears.
But what would change if we began to believe the visible? If we took people’s actions at face value instead of hoping for hidden depths that contradict them? If we stopped dismissing the obvious realities in front of us and instead allowed them to guide our choices?
Perhaps we would stop being surprised when people show us who they are. Perhaps we would stop expecting systems to change when they are designed not to. Perhaps we would live with less illusion and more clarity, even if that clarity comes with pain.
The truth comes from visible sources. Not from the stories we invent to soften reality, not from the promises we cling to, not from the hidden depths we hope exist. The truth is already here, in what we see, hear, and experience every day. The question is not whether truth is visible, but whether we are ready to accept it.
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