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...
Today I went thrift shopping.
Anyone who thrifts knows the small, private ritual of it: racks too full, mirrors too honest, time moving differently. As I tried on different outfits, something familiar struck me — not for the first time, but with unusual clarity. How important it is to know what you like. And, equally, how important it is to know what does not work for you.
There are colours I reach for instinctively, silhouettes I trust. There are fabrics I already know will irritate me, cuts that have betrayed me before. Knowing these things saves time. It spares frustration. It narrows the field in a place designed to overwhelm.
And yet.
Every so often, something unexpected catches my eye. Something I would never normally pick. Different colour. Different shape. Slightly uncomfortable, conceptually. I try it on anyway — not because I expect it to work, but because curiosity feels safer than certainty in that moment.
Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes it’s quietly perfect.
That small tension — between knowing and experimenting — felt suddenly important. Not just in thrift shops, but everywhere else.
In life, we are often encouraged to “know ourselves” as though self-knowledge is a finishing point. As though once we define our preferences, our boundaries, our rhythms, the task is done. Anything outside that becomes noise, distraction, risk.
But knowing what works for you is not the same thing as closing yourself off to surprise.
If anything, self-knowledge should create space — not shrink it.
When you know what fits, you stop forcing what doesn’t. You stop spending attention on mismatches. You stop explaining discomfort away. That certainty is not rigidity; it is grounding. It allows you to move through choices efficiently, calmly, without needing to prove anything.
But if you cling to it too tightly, it hardens.
You stop trying unfamiliar things because they don’t align with the identity you’ve already settled into. You dismiss people because they don’t match your “type.” You avoid experiences because they don’t resemble past successes. Eventually, everything begins to look and feel the same.
Predictable. Safe. A little dull.
The balance is subtle: knowing yourself well enough to avoid what repeatedly hurts or diminishes you — while staying open enough to let something new interrupt you.
This applies to people too.
There are personalities we instinctively understand, energies we know how to be around. And there are others we dismiss quickly because they don’t feel immediately familiar. But sometimes, the people who change us most are the ones we initially misread — the ones we wouldn’t have “picked” if life worked like a shopping rack.
Of course, not everything deserves prolonged consideration. Some things don’t fit, no matter how long you stare at them. Growth is not about forcing yourself into every difference. It’s about discernment: knowing when to walk away and when to lean in.
The thrift shop mirrors this perfectly. You don’t try on everything. You also don’t refuse to look beyond your usual section. You move with both intention and curiosity.
Perhaps this is what maturity actually looks like: not endless experimentation, and not rigid certainty — but an ease with both. A comfort with preference, and a willingness to be gently surprised.
Knowing what you like saves you time.
Letting yourself try what you don’t expect keeps you alive.
And maybe the point isn’t to reinvent yourself — just to leave a little space on the hanger for something you didn’t know you’d love.
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