How to change your Mindset-You Are Enough

May 2, 2025

Introduction
Changing your mindset — especially when you come from a background where you constantly feel like you don’t fit, don’t sound right, or don’t belong.
For Black ethnic minorities who didn’t grow up in the UK or outside their country, this can be even harder. There’s pressure to adapt, conform, and shrink yourself. But let’s get one thing clear: you are enough as you are.

Part 1: The Mindset Trap

Let’s start with what mindset actually means.
It’s how you see yourself, your worth, your place in the world.
But too often, we inherit a mindset that tells us:

You’re not good enough.
You don’t sound “right”.
You should tone it down.

That mindset doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s shaped by:

Accents that get mocked or misunderstood.
Names that people can’t be bothered to learn.
Cultural references no one gets.
Being “othered” in classrooms, offices, or social settings.

And slowly, if you’re not careful, you start believing the lie:
“Maybe I’m not enough.”
“Maybe I should change to fit in.”

Part 2: How This Mindset Shows Up

Let’s be honest — this mindset shows up in real, painful ways:

Feeling inferior next to colleagues who seem more “polished”.
Second-guessing your accent, your hair, your clothes.
Keeping quiet in meetings, even when you know the answer.
Feeling like you’re constantly competing, never belonging.

It eats away at confidence and creates a silent pressure to perform, to be someone else.
That’s not self-love. That’s survival. And it’s exhausting.

Part 3: The Shift – From Insecure to Empowered

So, how do we flip the script?
How do we go from insecurity to self-belief?

Here’s the truth: it starts from within.
You don’t wait for the world to validate you. You claim your space. You own your story.

Here’s how:

Catch the Narrative
Pay attention to your self-talk. Is it kind or critical? Are you repeating what others once said about you? Challenge those thoughts.
Say it out loud: “That’s not my voice. That’s conditioning.”
Speak in Your Voice, Accent and All
Your accent tells a story of where you’re from, what you’ve overcome. It’s not a flaw — it’s a flex. Stop shrinking it to make others comfortable.
Stop Comparing, Start Honouring
You’re not supposed to be like them. Your path is yours. Focus on growing, not copying.
Connect with Your Culture
What grounds you? Music, food, language, prayer? Tap into it. When you stay rooted, you stand taller.
Say This Often: “I Am Enough.”
Say it again: “I am enough.”
Not when you get the promotion. Not when you perfect the accent. Not when you’re accepted.
Right now. As you are.

Part 4: Practical Ways to Reinforce the Shift

Affirm daily: Write 3 things you like about yourself every morning.
Limit spaces that drain you: If a space constantly makes you feel “less than”, it’s not your home.
Find your people: Seek out community that sees you and reminds you who you are.
Therapy or mentoring: Talk it out with someone who understands the cultural layers.
Stop code-switching 24/7: You’re allowed to just be.

Closing Message: Be You. Be Proud.

To anyone who’s ever felt the pressure to change who they are just to be accepted — you don’t need to do that anymore.
You are not here to fit into a box that wasn’t built for you. You’re here to break it, reshape it, and make space for others, too.

This is your reminder:

Your voice is valid.
Your presence is powerful.
You are enough.
Be you. Be proud.

Let the world adjust to you — not the other way around. Please leave your comments below, it helps us improve and provide the content you need. Thank you

If you would like to talk about this or have questions please send an email to info@shereallyheals.com

Entry 35

May 2, 2025

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ABBY:
You know that point where going back seems like the best option, but pride won’t let you? That was me. I was stubborn, young, foolish, and convinced the world revolved around me. Deep down, I knew returning to Chief and his wife would have been wise, but I refused. I tried calling some of the people who used to call me “princess” back when I was living the high life, but suddenly they were all busy.

“Sorry, dear. We’re travelling tomorrow.” “The guest room is full.” “I’ll call you back.”

They never did.

I was devastated. Alone. Still too proud to go back. That’s when I met Deolu.

I was sitting at a fast-food joint with a single meat pie, eating it slowly to stretch the time. I had nowhere to go, and not a kobo to my name. I even considered going back to the village, but didn’t have the fare.

Then Deolu walked up.

“Hi beautiful, you look upset. What’s the matter?” he asked.

I ignored him at first, but he was persistent.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked, then sat before I could answer.

He just stared and smiled. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I snapped, “What do you want?”

His reply? “You.”

That made me laugh.

We talked. He told me Chief never intended to cut me off entirely; he just wanted me to return. I said I knew. That’s exactly why I wouldn’t go back.

“So, do you like this new life you’re living?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then let me be your other option,” he said.

CHRIS:
After settling down to eat and rest, the guide returned with more news.

“Another truck ride is ahead. Bring all the dollars you have.”

I hesitated. I told him I had half of what I originally did. He took it without question. A girl and another guy from our group had nothing left.

The guide looked at them bluntly. “You paid us to get you this far, not through the challenges along the way. You’ll have to wait until another truck offers you a free lift.”

I couldn’t bear it. I gave up a bit more of what I had and told the guide it was for Thomas and me. Thomas was still sleeping off his fever.

At 3am, they woke us.

“The truck is ready. No talking, no movement, no sound when we arrive at the border,” the guide said.

We all climbed in. One spot remained. A man and woman from another group pleaded to join us. The truck driver asked, “Who has money?” Neither did. Then he pulled the woman aside, whispered something, and they disappeared behind some bushes. Minutes later, she reappeared and was placed on the truck.

We didn’t need to ask what happened. The man was left behind.

As we drove into the night, the truck suddenly lurched.

A loud bang. A tyre had burst.

The driver swore in Arabic. The guide explained, “He bribed the night guards not to check the back. If we’re late and the shift changes, we’re in trouble. He doesn’t have more money.”

The tyre was changed, but by the time we reached the checkpoint, dawn was breaking. The queue was long.

When our turn finally came, the driver stepped out.

Voices were raised.

“Stay still,” the guide hissed. “They’re going to search the truck.”

Oh, dear Lord… hmmm. Please leave your comments below. Thank you.

ENTRY 34

May 1, 2025

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ABBY:
When they say pride comes before a fall, they are not joking.

At Funmi’s, it was all fun and games at first. She welcomed me with open arms, played the perfect host, and we partied for days.

But after a week, things started to change.

First, she started making sly comments about “contributing something” to the bills.
Then, she began disappearing for hours, leaving me alone, stranded in her flat without any food.

The day everything crumbled, I overheard her talking on the phone—
“She’s still here oh, no plan, no money. I’m just waiting for her to get the hint.”

That was my wake-up call.
I had overstayed my welcome.

But where would I go?
I had burned my bridges with Chief and his wife.
I hadn’t spoken to my parents since that ugly confrontation.
And the few friends I thought I had were Funmi’s circle—not really mine.

That night, lying on the borrowed mattress in the corner of Funmi’s living room, reality hit me like a truck.
I was officially homeless.
And I had no plan.

Pride—crippling, foolish pride—had landed me here.

The next morning, Funmi didn’t even need to ask.
I packed my small bag quietly.
I thanked her, forced a smile, and walked out of her flat with nowhere to go.

On the streets of Lagos, trying to figure out my next move, I whispered:
“Dear God, I don’t even know if you’re still listening to me… but please, help me.”

Little did I know, help was about to come—but not in the way I expected.
Hmmm…

CHRIS:

Oh my gosh, the guide.
I didn’t know whether to run towards him or scream his name.
In the end, I chose the latter.

He turned just as I reached him, and for the first time, he looked genuinely excited.
“Oh my gosh, thank God you’re alive! We thought you and the other guy had met your end! How did you get here? Where have you been?”
He bombarded me with questions, giving me no chance to respond.

But one thing caught my attention—he said “we“.
That meant he wasn’t alone.

So I asked, “We? Are you here with the others?”
“Yes!” he replied eagerly, his face lighting up.
“And you? Did your friend make it too?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling despite the exhaustion, “Thomas is recovering from a fever.”

He clapped his hands in relief and said,
“Brilliant! We all made it, except one. One girl and five guys are here with me. Come, come see them!”

I followed him across the camp to a large tent, and as we approached, I heard familiar voices.
When I stepped inside, there they were—our group.

As soon as they saw me, they jumped up and rushed towards me, pulling me into hugs, examining me, laughing and crying at the same time, asking,
“How? Where? What happened?”

I smiled and said,
“Give me a minute, I need to fetch Thomas.”

I rushed back, helped Thomas to his feet, and together we returned to the tent.
The reunion was emotional.
We all sat down and took turns telling our stories—how they made it to this camp, and how Thomas and I survived.

The second guide wasn’t with them, but they explained he’d gone off to arrange the next part of our journey.

Sitting there, I realised something profound:
We had changed.
All of us.

The desert stripped us of everything superficial.
What was left was pure—a bond deeper than friendship.
In that moment, we were family.

Because out here, in a place where your real family had no idea if you were dead or alive, the people around you became all you had.

Hmmm…

Heal, Don’t Haunt: How to Stop Bringing Yesterday Into Today’s Love

May 1, 2025

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You’re sitting across from someone who sees you.
They ask how your day was. They hold your hand without needing a reason. They’re present. But you? You’re somewhere else. Replaying a conversation from two years ago. Flinching at the memory of betrayal. Quietly bracing for this one to let you down—because the last one did.

This is what happens when the past shows up uninvited in your relationship. It dresses up as protection but acts like sabotage. And if you’re not careful, you’ll mistake fear for instinct—and ruin something real.

The Haunting: What the Past Brings With It

People say “time heals”, but that’s only half true. Time dulls pain. It doesn’t erase it. If you’ve buried your hurt instead of processing it, you’re not healed—you’re just emotionally limping.

That ex who made you feel not enough? That betrayal you never really unpacked? It lives on. It shows up in the way you check their phone, doubt compliments, or expect silence to mean rejection.

Example:
You’re dating someone who works late. They’re consistent, communicative, but unavailable some evenings. Your ex used “working late” as a cover for cheating. So now, even when your partner texts, “Be home by 10,” your body tenses. You snap. Not because they’re lying—but because someone else did.

The Fallout: How the Past Messes Up the Present

When you’re stuck in the past, you don’t give the present a fair shot.

You punish your current partner for wounds they didn’t cause. You flinch at love even when it’s safe. You push people away—not because they’ve failed you, but because someone else did.

What it looks like:

Trust is conditional – You ration it out based on fear, not facts.
You test them – Setting them up to fail, to prove you right.
You self-sabotage – Ending things early to avoid getting hurt later.

You turn relationships into emotional escape rooms—full of puzzles, tests, and traps. Exhausting for both of you.

The Shift: How to Stop the Past from Running the Show

You don’t need to be perfectly healed to love again. But you do need to be aware of what you’re bringing in.

Healing is about recognising when the threat is gone—and choosing not to react like it’s still here.

1. Notice the Pattern

If every relationship feels like déjà vu, there’s a reason. Get curious. Not judgmental.

Try this:
Journal what you’re really afraid of.

“I’m scared they’ll leave.”
“I don’t trust love to last.”
“I feel safer alone.”

Writing it down makes it real—and easier to work through.

2. Separate Then from Now

When you feel triggered, pause and ask:

“Is this about them… or someone else?”

Most of the time, it’s an echo. Not a warning.

Example:
They don’t text for a few hours. Instead of spiralling into “They’re pulling away,” remind yourself: “Have they given me a reason to doubt them?” If not—breathe. Stay present.

3. Speak It, Don’t Project It

Your partner isn’t your therapist. But they can be your safe space—if you let them in.

Say this instead of snapping:

“Sometimes I get anxious when you’re quiet. It’s something I’m working on—it’s not your fault. I just want to be honest.”

Vulnerability builds closeness. Blame builds walls.

4. Do the Inner Work

Healing takes effort. Whether it’s therapy, shadow work, or just learning how to sit with discomfort—you have to be willing to do the work.

No one can do it for you. But they can walk beside you while you do it.

The Truth: Love in the Present Is a Choice

Being hurt isn’t your fault. Staying in hurt? That’s a choice.

You deserve love without fear. You deserve to be trusted, supported, seen. But if you keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you’ll miss the person standing right in front of you—trying to love you well.

So when the past knocks, open the door. Feel what you need to feel. Then close it. You’ve got better places to be.

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Please leave your comment below. Thank you.

ENTRY 33

April 28, 2025

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ABBY:
It’s interesting how, standing there, in front of Aunty, her arms around me while I felt completely betrayed, would spark a chain of events that would send my life spiralling.

Let’s pause for a minute.

After that encounter, I spent years of my life angry, wallowing in self-pity, and doing more harm to myself than good.
How? you ask.
Well, let me break it down.

I made a decision—by myself, on my own—to cut off Chief and his wife completely.

I snuck back into their house, packed my things, and moved into a guest house. I still had the credit card Chief had given me—angry but not stupid, or so I thought.

I ignored every plea, every call from my mum, from Chief, and even from Aunty. But I held onto that card like a lifeline. And to be fair, Chief kept sending me money every month, which I never acknowledged.

By now I was spiralling—festering in anger, running down this crazy path of “they betrayed me, and I’m not ready to listen to an explanation.”

In all that time, I didn’t work.
My plans to do a Master’s degree, as Chief had wanted, derailed.
He had wanted me to come work in one of his companies—God forbid, I said.
“I’ll find my own way.”

And oh, how I found it.

One day, there was a knock at my guest house door.

The manager handed me a rude shock.
“Madam, sorry, your card has been declined. You have an outstanding balance to clear. If not, we won’t be able to offer you accommodation any longer.”

Panic. Real, blinding panic.

“Try it again,” I said, trying to sound confident.
He replied, “Madam, we’ve tried it four times.”

He dropped the card on the table and walked off, saying,
“Please be aware, check-out is 12 noon.”

Oh my dear Lord, I began to sweat—in an air-conditioned room.

Immediately, I called Funmi—one of the friends I’d made during this crazy phase. I composed myself and lied, saying I was bored with the hotel and asked if I could stay at hers for a few days.

“Sis, of course! Let’s party!” she said, excitedly.

Packing up my things, I thought to myself: Okay, Funmi will take care of things now. After all, I’d been the generous one for the past two years.

But oh, how wrong I was.
Hmmm…

CHRIS:
Lying under cattle, occasionally standing for air, I watched Thomas wriggling on the floor beside me.

I stared at the cows chewing lazily and thought:
Why does finding my destiny have to be so hard?

Edward had applied for a job, gotten it, and his life had begun.
Me? I had been threatened by desert guides, swallowed by sandstorms, watched people die in front of me, scorched by the merciless sun, and chased by bloodthirsty pirates—
And now, here I was, making cosy with cattle.

What next?

Well, I didn’t have to wait long.

As night fell, I realised we had been in that truck for nearly 24 hours, barely eating because of the stench. I managed to sip a little water, trying not to gag.

Then suddenly, the truck slowed down and came to a halt.

I stood carefully, stiff and aching. In the distance, I saw tiny specks of light—a camp!

Elated, I shook Thomas gently.
“Bro, camp. Let’s go.”

Waiting until the driver and his companion were gone, I helped Thomas climb out. I held him close as we walked, the lights growing bigger and brighter.

Finally, we arrived.

Bustling with people, music, the smell of food—and, most importantly, a well!

We stumbled towards the water, plunged our heads in, and drank greedily.

As we stood there recovering, a man approached. He spoke in a language we didn’t understand, then waved another man over—this one with curly hair and broken English.

“Hi friends. You hungry?” he asked.

Music to our ears. We nodded eagerly.

I said, “Friend sick.”

The man waved for us to follow. He took us to a tent that looked like a makeshift clinic—camp beds, drip stands, the works.

Thomas lay down. The woman there tested him and said to the translator, “He has fever. You got money?”

Thank God I had a few dollars left, like the company had told us to carry. I handed her $10, and she gave Thomas an injection and hooked up a drip.

The other man returned with bread and a steaming bowl of stew.

I didn’t even ask what it was. I thanked them, sat on a mat next to Thomas, and ate. Then I fed him too.

Before long, we were fast asleep.

When we woke up, Thomas had sweat buckets—his temperature was down and he felt stronger. I was so relieved.

I stretched and went outside, breathing in the cool desert air.

And just as I looked around—my heart stopped.

There, walking across from the well, was one of our original guides.

Hmmm… Please add your comments below. Thank you

How to find Your True Passion

April 27, 2025

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Lesson 1:

The first step is simple but powerful: get clear on what lights you up.

You can’t build wealth around something you “sort of” enjoy. It has to be something you feel connected to, something you could talk about for hours or lose yourself in doing.

Here’s how to find it:

Think about what you love doing in your free time.
Notice what people come to you for advice about.
Remember what made you feel alive as a child.

Activity:
Write down 10 things you love doing, no matter how silly or small they seem.

You might already see a theme emerging.

Lesson 2: Next week. Please leave comments below.

ENTRY 30

April 24, 2025

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ABBY:
“Mum, who is my real father?” I asked again, this time firmer.

She looked at me, stunned, eyes wide like I had just slapped her.

“What kind of question is that, Abby?” she said, almost stuttering. “What’s come over you?”

“Please don’t do this,” I replied calmly. “I came all this way for the truth. Don’t deny me.”

She stood up, wiped her hands on her wrapper, and turned away. “This is nonsense. I don’t know what lies they’ve been feeding you in Lagos.”

“Does Daddy know?” I asked.

That stopped her cold. She didn’t turn around, but I could see her shoulders tense, her back stiffen.

I repeated the question, more softly this time. “Does Daddy know I’m not his?”

She slowly sat down again, not facing me. A long silence followed. Then she began, her voice low and cracked.

“I was four weeks pregnant when I ran from Lagos.”

My heart thudded.

“I had no job, no money, and nowhere to go. I couldn’t tell my parents… It would’ve been a disgrace. I would’ve been cast out, labelled, shamed. They would’ve disowned me.”

She paused, tears now falling freely. “Then… he came. Your ‘father’. He had just returned from the city, looking to marry. He approached me within a week. I was desperate. I knew if I told him the truth, he’d walk away. So… I made love to him.”

I closed my eyes in horror.

“I made sure he would think the child was his. I had no choice, Abby. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You had a choice,” I said bitterly. “You always had a choice. You chose to lie—for a lifetime.”

“I did it to protect you!” she snapped, suddenly turning on me. “To give you a name, a home, a family! You would’ve been a bastard in this village, and you know how they treat girls like that!”

Her voice cracked. “You think it was easy for me?”

She stood up, wiping her face angrily. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman in a place like this!”

And with that, she stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Just then, my father—no, the man I called father—returned from the farm, his hands dusty, a cutlass slung across his shoulder.

He stopped when he saw me. “Abby? What’s going on? Why is your mother crying?”

I looked at him, heart breaking into a thousand shards.

“Ask your dutiful wife,” I said coldly, brushing past him.

I got into the car and told the driver, “Take me back to Lagos.”

The ride back was a blur.

My phone lit up with calls. Chief. Over and over again.

But I ignored them all.

I wasn’t ready to face him. Or anyone.

Hmmm…

CHRIS:
When we finally reached the Bedouin camp, I collapsed.

Not just from exhaustion—but from everything. The fear. The hunger. The heat. The silence.

The camp looked like something out of a war documentary. Tattered tents, scattered fires, makeshift shelters. Dozens of people—dust-covered, hollow-eyed, some bandaged, some too weak to speak.

But the most beautiful sight of all? Water.

Cold, real water. Buckets of it. We ran. We drank. We cried.

Some of the locals passed around simple food—flatbread, boiled eggs, dates. We were grateful for every bite.

For a moment, it felt like we’d made it.

But then reality struck again.

That evening, one of our guides gathered us. “There’s a lorry coming tonight. It will take some of you to the next checkpoint. But space is limited—first come, first serve. The drivers want bribes. If you want a spot, pay up.”

Murmurs broke out. A few shouted. Some cried.

I turned to Thomas. “Do you still have any cash?”

He shook his head. “Just a bit. Not enough.”

We both stared at the fire in silence, knowing we might not make it on that truck.

Then night fell.

That was when the real nightmare began.

Shouting. Screaming.

The sound of horses galloping.

Men in turbans, faces covered, waving machetes and rifles charged into the camp—desert pirates.

They slashed tents open, looted bags, beat people to the ground. Women were dragged by the hair. Men were cut down mid-run.

It was chaos.

Thomas grabbed my hand. “Run!”

We darted into the dark, slipping through makeshift shelters, dodging bodies and flames.

I turned back just once—and I’ll never forget what I saw.

One of the girls from our group—she couldn’t have been more than 19—was screaming as a man on horseback dragged her away.

I still hear that scream.

When it was finally quiet, Thomas and I emerged from hiding.

The camp was in ruins. Tents torn. Fires smouldering.

People—dead, scattered.

Our group? Gone.

We couldn’t find any of them.

We were alone.

In the middle of nowhere.

And we had no idea what to do next.

Hmmm

JUST BE…

April 21, 2025

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Dearie,

Once upon a time, I let other people determine my happiness. I did all I could to make sure no one was upset with me. I bent over backwards to make people love me. I was the quiet one, the one who hardly ever got upset, the one who was always there for everyone.

I was the one who would volunteer to help, run errands. I was the one who would give all I had, even if it meant going hungry. I was the one who would give a friend my best dress and wear anything, just to make them like me. I was the one who would step aside for a guy I liked, just because my friend said she liked him too – even though I saw him first.

I always put myself in compromising positions, thinking of others before myself, putting their welfare, needs, and wants above mine.
I was the first to apologise, even when someone else hurt me. I was the one who got left behind, the one who would get down from a car and walk, just to make room for someone else.
I did all this just to make people grow fond of me.

But you know what? I learnt the hard way.

No matter how much you do – and trust me, I did everything short of killing myself –
somebody, somewhere, will still not like you.
They will hate you, speak badly about you behind your back, pretend, mock, and humiliate you over and over again.

So, the sooner you get on with your life, the better.
Live life for you, not for others.
Don’t let them take advantage of you. Do what you can and leave the rest.
Create boundaries for yourself.
Ask God for wisdom, and then sit back and see how He will turn your life around.

Relationships should not be one-sided.
It takes two to tango.
Give and take, they say.

Make a choice today: become the person God created you to be –
not the person others want you to be.

God bless you as you make this decision.

Welcome to the best days of the rest of your life.

JUST BE.

Love,
She Heals

Please comment below. Thank you.

TRAUMA MADE ME THIS WAY…

April 20, 2025

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…….AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW

We don’t always know where it started. We just are the way we are.
Quiet. People-pleasing. Always on edge. A perfectionist. Detached. Or loud, confrontational, always “in control.”

You think, “That’s just my personality.” But what if it’s not?

What if it’s trauma?

What if the things you do every day—the way you love, fear, react, trust, isolate, over-function—aren’t just quirks of who you are, but protective layers built around wounds you never truly addressed?

When Trauma Dresses Like Personality

Let’s say a little girl grows up in a house where her mum is unpredictable—one minute sweet, the next minute yelling, maybe even hitting. No explanation. No comfort.
That child learns to read the room fast. She becomes hyper-aware. She tiptoes. She tries to be “good,” always. She doesn’t speak up. She says sorry even when it’s not her fault.

She grows up and calls herself “easygoing,” “low maintenance,” or “shy.” But what she really became was hypervigilant—wired for safety, not for freedom.

Another child grows up in a home where his father is absent, and his mother is emotionally unavailable, perhaps depressed. No one affirms him. No one tells him he matters.
So he becomes the helper. Always there for others. Always needed. He finds validation in being the one people rely on, because no one was ever really there for him.
He calls it “being dependable,” but truthfully—he’s afraid that without that role, he has no value.

Trauma has a quiet way of weaving itself into our identity until we think it’s just who we are.

Could This Be You?

If you’ve ever said:
– “I don’t like conflict.”
– “I have trust issues.”
– “I hate depending on people.”
– “I always need to be in control.”
– “I never cry.”
– “I always put others first.”

Ask yourself—why?

Who taught you that the only safe place was invisibility?
Who showed you that love must be earned by performance, silence, or sacrifice?

It may not have been one big traumatic event—it could’ve been a thousand little unmet needs.
A thousand small silences.
A thousand moments you were left to figure things out on your own.

And that silent survival mode becomes your identity.

How to Begin to Heal

Healing starts with honesty. It’s not about blaming your parents, your past, or your culture. It’s about telling the truth to yourself.

Name It
Begin to observe patterns. Where did this behaviour start? Who were you trying to protect, impress, or please?
Feel It
Let yourself feel what you never could back then—anger, sadness, grief, confusion. Those feelings are not weakness; they’re information.
Speak to Your Inner Child
That scared, lonely, hyper-responsible, overlooked child still lives in you. She doesn’t need fixing—she needs love. Reassure her. Tell her the things you needed to hear:
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You didn’t have to earn love.”
“You are safe now.”
Seek Help
Therapy, counselling, spiritual mentorship—it’s okay to ask for help. There is strength in surrender. There is power in unpacking the past with someone trained to walk you through it.
Create New Narratives
You are allowed to stop overgiving. You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to trust again. You are allowed to heal and still be tender.

Remember This

You are not “too much.”
You are not “cold.”
You are not “weak.”
You are not “difficult.”
You are human.

You are a soul that adapted to survive. But now that you’re safe, you can learn to live—not just survive.

Healing doesn’t mean your past disappears.
It means it no longer controls your present.

Let’s begin again. Gently. Boldly. Together.
Because you deserve to be whole.

Love,
She Heals

Please comment below. Thank you.

ENTRY 27

April 20, 2025

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ABBY:
Before I go on, let me say this—looking back over the years, I still don’t fully understand what I was thinking at the time. But the choices I made back then led me to where I am today.

Anyway, back to that day.

Pleasantly surprised and a bit confused to see Chief in the flat, I quickly reminded myself—it was his apartment after all. Of course, he had a key. And with four bedrooms, there was more than enough space for him to stay the night.

Smiling respectfully, I greeted him. “Chief! You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

He smiled faintly and replied, “Abby, my daughter. I’m sorry I didn’t. But there’s something important I need to tell you. And it can’t wait any longer.”

His face had changed—serious, almost solemn.

My heart skipped. I sat down quickly, worried something had happened to his wife… or maybe he was sick?

He got up, poured himself a drink, then one for me, and said, “Let’s sit more comfortably, because what I’m about to tell you is unbelievable… but it’s the truth.”

Now, before I tell you what he said—what changed my life forever—I need to take you back.

Back to the village. Back to when I was a child.

I was an only child—at least, that’s what I believed. My parents never had more children, but they raised two boys—my cousins. My dad’s younger brother and his wife had died in a bus accident, and so my father took in their sons.

The three of us grew up together, and I always thought they loved me as much as they could.

In hindsight, maybe there were signs something wasn’t right.

My dad always praised me, almost like he was trying to prove something. My mum was incredibly overprotective—but I assumed that was just because I was a girl and the boys weren’t. Girls are more delicate, right?

But sitting across from Chief that day… watching him sip his drink, about to reveal something that would change everything…

I couldn’t help but wonder…

Hmmm…

CHRIS:
With the group now down to 11 instead of 12, and the harsh reality of this godforsaken journey weighing on us, I found myself praying—out loud, under my breath, inside my head—any way I could.

“Dear God, I know you can see me. You said my destiny was across waters. So how have I ended up crossing sand? Did the prophet see sand and mistake it for water?”

I know it might sound strange, but that’s how I talk to God—raw and honest.

Still no answer.

So I held tightly onto the rope, followed the others, and we kept walking.

Speechless. Exhausted. Scared.

About an hour into the trek, suddenly—screaming.

One of the guys collapsed to the ground, convulsing violently.

One of the guides dashed forward, detaching from the rope. From the corner of my eye, I saw it—slithering quickly into the sand—a black snake.

The black mamba.

I only recognised it because a roommate of mine back in Ibadan had snake posters on his wall. The black mamba was one of them.

I shouted to the guide what I saw, and panic broke out.

We scrambled to run, but being tied together meant no one could go far in any direction. We all tumbled into the sand, arms and legs entangled.

The guide checked the man’s pulse, shook his head. Another one gone.

Here’s the strange thing—though I felt like crying, no tears came.

It was as if the sun had dried up every drop of water in our bodies… even in our eyes.

No one cried. No one screamed. Just silence.

We dug another shallow grave. No prayers. No words. Just sand over flesh.

As I stood there staring at the mound, I held my head and thought,

Is this how we all go?

No one will ever know what happened.

No trace. No goodbye.

“Dear Lord,” I whispered, “please rescue me.”

Hmmm…