Is This It? On the Quiet Disappointment of Arrival

The other evening, I went for an after-work coffee with two colleagues. Another day, I had dinner by myself — twice — in a nice restaurant. The kind of place that appears often in movies, books, and vlogs: soft lighting, carefully plated food, the suggestion of a life unfolding well.

I remember sitting there and thinking: is this it?

In stories, this is meant to feel like success. An evening out after work. A quiet dinner in a good restaurant. The kind of adult life that is supposed to arrive once you’ve done the right things. It’s framed as enviable, aspirational — a marker that you’ve made it into a certain version of adulthood.

But nothing landed.

The conversations were pleasant. The food was good. There was nothing wrong with the experience. And yet, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be in bed.

There was no spark. No sense of arrival. Just a subdued awareness of time passing.

I’ve been noticing this more often lately — not just with social rituals, but with milestones.

When I got adult braces.
When I bought land using my own savings.

These were things I had once imagined as pivotal moments. Signs of discipline, maturity, progress. Achievements that were supposed to feel weighty and satisfying. Instead, they passed quietly, almost awkwardly, as though life itself had nodded politely and moved on.

I did not feel transformed. I felt… normal.

And now I find myself wondering — a little nervously — whether the same might be true when I finally build the tiny house I’ve dreamed of for years. Whether even that long-held vision will arrive without fanfare, settle into routine, and reveal itself as simply another place to sleep.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes with these moments. Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind that has no villain. Nothing went wrong. Nothing failed. And yet something deflated.

Maybe the problem is not the moments themselves, but the way we’ve been taught to anticipate them.

So much of what adulthood promises us — in media, in lifestyle narratives, in aspiration culture — is built on scenes. Selected highlights edited for mood and meaning. A coffee date. A dinner alone with a book. Signing papers. Achieving independence.

But scenes are not lives.

They don’t carry the weight of repetition, fatigue, or nervous systems stretched thin. They skip the hours between. They ignore the fact that by the time many of us reach these milestones, we are already tired — not of life, exactly, but of striving toward symbols.

Perhaps the exhaustion isn’t physical. Perhaps it’s emotional. Or imaginative.

We work so hard toward certain ideas of “having arrived” that by the time we get there, the energy to feel is gone. Or perhaps we discover that arrival was never supposed to feel like fireworks — that it was always going to feel like quiet continuation, just with different furniture.

There is also something sobering about realizing that milestones do not rescue us from ourselves. They don’t inject meaning on command. They don’t guarantee excitement or fulfillment. They just show us more clearly where we are — and who we’ve become while getting there.

Maybe part of growing older is unlearning the belief that life peaks in curated moments. That satisfaction is not encoded into settings or achievements, but into alignment — which is harder to script and harder to see.

I don’t know yet what to do with this awareness. I just know that the question keeps appearing, softly, without drama:

Is this it?

Not in despair.
Not in bitterness.

Just in quiet honesty.

And maybe that question isn’t a failure of gratitude or ambition. Maybe it’s an invitation to re-examine what we expect life to give us — and what we’re hoping certain milestones will finally explain.

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 ...

Not All Disabilities Are Visible

Some pain does not leave a mark. Some exhaustion does not show in the face. Some people are carrying weights that have no name, no diagnosis, and no outward sign. We are used to recognizing suffering only when it can be pointed to — a bandage, a crutch, a cast, a wound. Something we can see. But the human interior is its own world, and often, the heaviest struggles live there. The Quiet Work of Holding Yourself Together There are those who walk into a room smiling, contributing, present — and yet they are holding themselves together one breath at a time. Not because they are pretending, but because they have learned to live with what would overwhelm another person. Some battles are fought inside the mind: The slow grey of depression The relentless hum of anxiety The sudden, unbidden memory that takes the body back to a place it never wants to return The deep fatigue that sleep does not cure And yet, life continues. The world moves. The dishes still need to be wa...

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...

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