When I was a little girl, I had these hand-me-down shoes that I loved. I wore them everywhere. Anywhere, really. I don't think I cared whether they were appropriate for where I was going. If those were the shoes I wanted to wear, then those were the shoes I was wearing. And when they became too small, I still didn't want to let them go. I would squeeze my feet into them and somehow convince myself that they still fit. I imagine an adult looking at me and thinking, Child, these shoes are clearly too small. Please take them off. But I loved them. And I think about those shoes sometimes when I hear us talk about things like seasons, letting go, releasing, creating room, moving on. Usually, when we talk about letting go, there is something wrong with the thing we're letting go of. It has become toxic. It doesn't serve us anymore. It is holding us back. We have outgrown it. We need to make room for something better. And yes, sometimes that is exactly what letting go looks li...
In many Kenyan homes, love is rarely spoken. It is implied, assumed, or buried under layers of duty, discipline, sacrifice, or silence. Parents love their children, partners love each other, friends care deeply — but few say it, fewer show it boldly, and even fewer know how to receive it. Love, in this context, often feels like a secret: important but unspoken, present but repressed. It comes with caveats — be obedient, be strong, be quiet. For many, this upbringing makes the language of love feel foreign, even embarrassing. But what happens to a people who are never taught to name, receive, or offer love freely? And more importantly — how do we begin to change that? 1. The Emotional Landscape We Inherited Our cultural and generational inheritance around love is complicated. Colonial violence, economic hardship, patriarchal norms, and religious rigidity shaped how love was expressed — or not. Many parents focused on survival, not softness. Love was food on the table, school fees paid, ...