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...
“Alinitoa kwa shimo.” “Without her, I’d still be unemployed.” “He gave me a chance when no one else would.” These are the silent contracts many Kenyan employees sign — not with ink, but with emotion. Loyalty. Guilt. A debt of gratitude that never expires. It starts innocently. You join a small business or NGO. Maybe the pay is modest, but the opportunity feels heaven-sent. The founder seems visionary, kind even. They say, “We’re like family here.” And you believe them. You stay late. You sacrifice weekends. You take on roles that aren’t yours — because how can you not help? After all, they gave you a chance . You want to be part of the story. The vision. The mission. So you give your time. Your peace. Your boundaries. But slowly, something shifts. You notice raises are rare. Promotions are vague. Financial discussions are avoided or deflected. You realize that while you’ve tied your loyalty to the person who “gave you a chance,” they’ve tied their loyalty to the profit ma...