Yesterday, on a Zoom call with a friend helping me on a project, I cried. I had been fine before it happened. Then she asked one simple question, and it unraveled me. There are questions that ask, and there are questions that find you. Hers found me.

I did not want to cry in front of her. Even with a screen between us, a digital shield of sorts, I knew that by crying she would see me. Not my presentation. What lies underneath. And what lies underneath is what I have spent my life keeping out of view.

So why is this such an uncomfortable thought for someone who cries at least once a day? Because I cry in secret. In my hiding place. I cry to God. I bring him my burdens. And even when I am not, even when I am only singing a simple praise song, I find myself weeping. Open. Completely. No shield. Just me, and the baby I actually am.

In that place, I am not a woman of thirty eight with a list of accomplishments. I am a sheep. Often lost. Grateful when the shepherd comes to find me again, brings me back to the fold, nurses me back to health, sets me in the direction he intended. Before God, I am not a person with a resume. I am a creature with a need.

I wonder what would happen if I came into the world like that sheep instead of presenting like something bigger. Perhaps the life I am chasing is the one I am hiding from.

I am a work in progress, as we all are. And I wonder if that shield, the one I wear into rooms and onto Zoom calls, is the same shield that keeps creativity from reaching me. We cannot create from behind armor. We harden. We replace wonder with process. We turn the playground into a project. And we lose the essence.

On the call, my friend pulled up slides on how she would guide me through this season. The first slide showed a coach and a basketball player. The coach was shouting, probably telling the player what to do, how to play, how not to lose. The second slide was a life coach. Simply listening. A very different approach. She told me she would be the second. Even if what I thought I needed was the first.

It is funny how we forget what we preach. How we become what we hate without realizing it. We hand the whip to the hand that should be holding our own. Because I wanted an outcome, a result, a product, evidence of my creativity in my hands, I had forgotten the spiritual part. The practice. The wonder. The fun. The play. The light. I wanted her to be the basketball coach, shouting at me until I got it done. But how harmful that would have been. I would have resented the process. Resented her. Lost the essence of why.

Is the why the outcome? Or is the why obedience?

When the why is the outcome, every obstacle is a failure. When the why is obedience, every obstacle is the road.

I am in a season of significant change. From the outside, it looks the same. But nothing is. Friendships have shifted. My relationship with God has deepened. I have leaned into community more than I ever have. A few days ago, I woke up and felt the Holy Spirit say something so clear, in direct opposition to the negative thoughts I had been carrying about my future. I knew he had more space to speak to me now. Now that I was not as distracted. Now that I was starting to be in real relationship. God is not quiet. We are loud.

Then things began to fall into place. Helpers sprang up. Time opened. Distractions slipped away. I knew I needed to take the moment and move with momentum. But I am also tired. The tiredness of waiting. Of not seeing. So I am holding on to that whisper. To hope. And I am making an active effort to show that I believe, because belief is not what you say. Belief is what gets you out of bed. It recognizes the tiredness but knows that rest is not surrender. Rest is the other half of motion. When you are recharged, you go again. And when you arrive, the suffering, the obstacles, the everything will be proof of His glory.

It is impossible for me to separate the presence of God from the practice of creativity.

Impossible, because I realize now that all I have is because of him. The question my friend asked that unraveled me was simple. Why will you finish this time? And I said, because of God’s grace. I could not tell her I would finish because I was more disciplined. I could not tell her I would finish because of all this creativity. I told her I would finish because God was going to help me. Because I am not my own.

And so I cried. I let her see my cracks. Not the finished, polished version of me. Just me. A girl, her realisation and her freedom.

xoxo,

N.

The story was inspired by two friends of mine who had unexpectedly lost their husbands. No one expects to become a widow in their thirties. And when it happens, the condolence messages arrive in waves. People search for something comforting to say, something that might soften the unbearable.

One phrase appears again and again.

God knows best.

Watching my friends navigate their grief, I found myself sitting with that sentence. Turning it over in my mind. Questioning it. Wondering what it actually means to say something like that in the face of devastating loss.

Eventually, I wrote the film.

Part question.
Part surrender.

The film stars Wini Efon, a dear friend and a brilliant actress who had just begun her career. Her first film, the acclaimed My Father’s Shadow, had been selected for Cannes. While she was preparing for that moment, it felt right to privately screen God Knows Best alongside it.

We had the highest hopes. And rightly so. We were proud of what we had made.

We shared it online. Did a few press rounds. Messages of congratulations poured in — from people who had seen the film and from people who had simply seen the announcement.

I felt humbled and exhilarated.

Finally, I had stepped into something new.

Director.

Watch out, world.

I submitted the film to the major festivals. And a few smaller ones.

Then the emails began arriving.

Not acceptances.

Rejections.

One by one. As each notification date came and went, the pile grew.

In response, I adopted what I now recognize as a very enthusiastic — some might say slightly toxic — positivity. I began celebrating the rejections.

Because God knows best, I would say cheerfully to Wini and my producer. If this door has closed, it must mean the one God is preparing for us is even bigger.

In my spirit, there was one particular festival I believed we were meant to wait for. Their notification date was in December.

Months passed.

Finally, the day arrived.

December 5.

I logged into the portal and opened my dashboard.

There it was.

Not Selected.

My heart dropped.

I had been certain this was the one.

But alas — another closed door.

So I did what many creatives do when disappointment arrives. I parked the film somewhere in the back of my mind and turned my attention to everything else in front of me.

Life moved on.

Then sometime in January, I attended my friend Taiwo’s event — a gathering of creatives he had put together. I was actually traveling that night, but I wanted to show my support. So I took a gamble with Lagos traffic.

Suitcase packed.
Airport after.

I arrived early — very early by Lagos standards — and began chatting with some of the people who were already there.

One of them was a cinematographer whose work I deeply admire.

He asked about my film.

I shrugged.

“I guess no one wants it,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“They keep rejecting it,” I replied. “Maybe it isn’t for them. It’s a foreign language film. Maybe it isn’t topical. Maybe it isn’t what they’re looking for.”

He listened quietly, almost like a sensei.

Then he asked a simple question.

“Are you proud of the work?”

“Yes,” I said. “I really am.”

He nodded.

“Then that’s it,” he said. “You made something. You created something. Whether it’s accepted or not doesn’t change that.”

I felt tears rush to my eyes and quickly swallowed them back down.

Not today.
Not here.

He offered to watch the film and mentioned something others had already told me — the running time. The film was forty minutes long. A very long short. Most festivals prefer under twenty minutes. The strongest ones are often under fifteen.

By then the host had arrived. I said hello. Then goodbye.

And somehow, miraculously, I still made my flight.

A week or two later another friend — also a filmmaker — called me out of the blue.

“How’s it going with God Knows Best?” he asked.

The answer came easily.

“Nothing.”

“You need a new editor,” he said immediately. “I know someone.”

He recommended an editor whose work I deeply respect and suggested I give the film to someone with fresh eyes.

Now, I am someone who pays attention to coincidences. Or rather, I have learned how to follow the small threads of serendipity — which, if I’m honest, are often just another word for grace.

So I called the editor.

His name, fittingly, is Bishop.

It felt strangely appropriate that a man named Bishop should be editing a film called God Knows Best.

He watched the film and called me back.

“I know exactly what to do,” he said.

But he would need time. He asked for everything — the script, the rushes, all the material. His plan was to give me a completely new edit.

I sent everything.

And once again, I removed the film from my mind.

I’m quite good at not obsessing over things outside my control.

Except for one day when I sent him a voice note.

There was something important I needed him to understand before he began.

The why.

He could cut anything else. But the why — the emotional seed that birthed the story — could not be removed. Cutting that would be like cutting the root of the entire film.

He said he understood.

Weeks passed.

Then one day he sent the new cut.

“Keep an open mind,” he warned.

I pressed play.

Eighteen minutes later, the film ended.

At every moment I could see what had been removed, repositioned, reshaped. Scenes I loved had disappeared.

When the film ended, I pressed play again.

This time I watched it knowing some of my favorite moments would not return.

There is a phrase in writing: kill your darlings.

It means being willing to remove the things you love for the sake of the work. Nothing is too precious to go, as long as the heart of the story remains intact.

Bishop had cut one of my favorite scenes — a moment where the character gets into a fight, ends up with a black eye, and sits surrounded by judgmental aunties doing what aunties do best: judging.

“That’s not what the story is about,” he said gently.

“This is a story about a woman who loses her husband and must take on his job to support her family while navigating grief.”

Everything else, he explained, was extra.

I knew he was right.

I was fighting for my darlings.

But they had to go.

They had to go so the real story could breathe.

Letting go is one of the hardest disciplines in creative work.

Not just letting go of scenes.

Letting go of the idea you had in your head.
Letting go of the version of the work you first fell in love with.
Letting go of the belief that more automatically means better.

Editing, in its purest form, is not subtraction.

It is revelation.

It is the slow process of uncovering the thing the work was trying to become all along.

The film was inspired by two friends who lost their husbands in devastating and unexpected ways. One of them, in particular, stood up with remarkable resilience. She became both mother and father to two young boys. She defied every stereotype I had ever seen about widowhood.

That was the story.

Not funny aunties.
Not random fights.

Those moments were not wrong. But they were not the heart.

And creative maturity often arrives the moment you realize that protecting the heart of the work sometimes requires sacrificing the things you love most about it.

It would be wonderful if this letter ended by saying the film has now been selected by a major festival.

But it hasn’t.

We are still editing. Next comes re-scoring, sound design, and color.

And yet the process has already taught me something important about creativity.

Good creative work is editing.

Not just in film.
In writing.
In painting.
In life.

Editing is the discipline of asking:
What actually matters here?

Rejection can do the same thing.

It forces you to look again.
To refine.
To sharpen your instincts.

Sometimes rejection is simply the world telling you the work is not ready yet.

Sometimes it means the world is not ready yet.

And sometimes — the possibility we rarely consider — rejection is quietly guiding the work toward what it was meant to become.

Looking back, I can see that this process has been an invitation.

An invitation to loosen my grip.
To listen more carefully.
To trust the unfolding.

Perhaps that is what God knows best really means.

Not that every outcome will make sense immediately.

But that the story is still being edited.

Because sometimes rejection is not the end of the story.

Sometimes it’s simply the first cut.

What I’m Reading

I am still reading this book, but this time it feels different. It is as though God has taken the scales off my eyes — and my heart — allowing me to truly see the stories and lessons within it, and to receive the beautiful hardship that comes with this journey of life.

It has kept me in a certain posture, one that understands what it takes to reach those high places. And it reminds me that if I have not arrived there yet, it is not because the path is closed, but because God is still developing my feet.

Sending you lots of love.

Xo,

Nicole

My nails are weak from years of gel polish and acrylics. I stopped fixing them for a few months to give them space to breathe, but even after all that time they are still fragile. “It will take time,” my nail tech told me, the way professionals say things they’ve said a thousand times before. This morning she added something that genuinely surprised me. She mentioned that my toenails were weak too and that I needed to take a break from gel.

I hadn’t even considered that possibility. Toenails feel sturdier somehow, harder, less delicate, but of course they are not immune. I’ve been doing my nails consistently for at least fifteen years. The wear and tear was inevitable; I just never paused long enough to think about it. And suddenly the math became embarrassingly obvious. Six months cannot repair fifteen years of damage. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. Come on, girl. Be serious.

As I sat there, my mind drifted, as it often does, beyond the moment. I began to wonder what else in my life might be experiencing the same kind of slow, accumulated strain. Not dramatic damage, not collapse, just quiet weakening over time. My creativity came to mind almost immediately. The tiredness I sometimes feel. The subtle resistance. The fear that procrastination is no longer just a habit I struggle with but a pattern that is shaping me.

From the outside, I know it looks like I create a lot. There are projects, ideas, work constantly in motion. But if I am deeply honest, I know God has given me more than I consistently use. There are talents I lean into and others I keep postponing. Not because I lack ability, but because discipline is a daily practice, and some days I simply do not practice it well.

That thought stayed with me: practice.

We often talk about creativity as inspiration, as flow, as magic, but rarely as maintenance. Rarely as something that can weaken from neglect, from overextension, from years of choosing what is urgent, distracting, or immediately gratifying over what is meaningful and demanding. Creativity, like anything alive, responds to how it is treated repeatedly.

So what is the solution?

I am not convinced there is a perfect formula, but I do believe in personal audits. Not the harsh, guilt-ridden kind, but the honest kind. The kind where you gently ask yourself: What am I doing consistently? What is it doing to me? What is it costing me?

Because scrolling a little longer instead of finishing a chapter is never just about time. It is about reinforcement. It is about what we are training ourselves to prioritize. These decisions feel harmless in isolation, almost invisible, until one day their cumulative effect becomes undeniable.

We understand this logic easily when it comes to health. A daily sugar craving does not feel like a crisis until it becomes a diagnosis. A lack of rest does not feel dangerous until burnout arrives. Yet when it comes to creativity, discipline, and the inner life, we often pretend the same rules do not apply.

And here is the part that struck me most.

Even after acknowledging all of this, even after nodding thoughtfully at the wisdom of “you need a break,” I still told my nail tech to go ahead with one more gel polish. I am going on holiday, I said. I don’t want my nails to chip.

Aesthetics over health.

The decision was small, almost automatic, but it revealed something deeper and slightly uncomfortable. Sometimes we do not struggle because we lack awareness. Sometimes we struggle because awareness alone is not enough to change behaviour. We know better, yet we choose differently.

It made me reflect on how often we do this in creative work. We say we want to write, to build, to finish, to honour our gifts, yet we repeatedly choose comfort, distraction, perfectionism, or delay. Not loudly. Quietly. Daily.

We are all works in progress, yes. That part is true and necessary and kind. But progress requires movement. It requires participation. Without that, we risk becoming people with extraordinary ideas and insufficient follow-through, people who admire the vision but resist the practice required to bring it fully to life.

“Tufiakwa,” my mother would say. God forbid.

But beyond the humour of that expression is something more sobering. Certain outcomes do not simply happen to us. They are shaped gradually by patterns, by habits, by the accumulation of seemingly insignificant choices. Which also means they can be reshaped the same way.

Perhaps practicing creativity is less about waiting for better moods, clearer schedules, or perfect conditions, and more about the quiet, sometimes unglamorous decision to show up anyway. To protect the inner life the way we claim we want to protect the work. To value what is being built beneath the surface, even when no one else can see it yet.

Because restoration, whether of nails or creativity, rarely responds to urgency. It responds to consistency, patience, and care over time.

And unfortunately — or fortunately — there are no shortcuts around that.

On the last night of the year in my village, my family usually gathers at my late grandparents’ house. Cousins, aunties, neighbours who feel like cousins — people who don’t need invitations because they already belong. Music plays from someone’s phone. Food moves from hand to hand. One uncle retells a story we’ve all heard before, and somehow it’s still funny.

Outside, bangers go off to mark the passing of the year. There’s usually a little praise, a little worship, a prayer before midnight. And sometimes, the sharp sound of guns fired into the air — exciting from a distance, unnerving up close — mixed with the shouts of people relieved to see another year arrive.

It’s a loud, communal way to enter a new beginning.

This year, I didn’t go.

Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t want to be there. I do. But I needed something else from that moment. I needed quiet. I needed space. I needed to talk to God — not casually, not in passing, but properly.

There were things I wanted to clear before the year began. Patterns I didn’t want to carry forward. Ways I had been moving that no longer felt aligned. I didn’t want to enter another year hoping clarity would show up eventually. I wanted to begin in the right order.

So I stayed back.

I went to my room and closed the door. I prayed. I wrote. I tried to be still long enough to hear what had been competing for my attention all year. I wasn’t asking for a vision. I was asking for honesty. I wanted to start clean.

And when January came, I felt steady.

I had a vision day with my team that grounded me — the kind that reminds you why you do the work in the first place and reassures you that you’re moving in the right direction together. For a moment, it felt like the reset had worked.

And then I had to travel for work.

Different weather. Unfamiliar beds. Days filled with deliverables, one obligation flowing into the next. Reasonable things on their own, but collectively demanding. Somewhere in that movement, my attention began to slip.

My back started to protest. My prayer life shortened without me noticing. And I caught myself doing a familiar calculation — one I’ve made before: if I keep this pace, I’ll be burned out by April, quietly wishing the year would hurry up and end, already telling myself that maybe the next year would be my year.

That’s when I recognised the pattern.

Clarity doesn’t disappear dramatically. It erodes quietly. Good things multiply until they become too many things. Momentum turns into weariness. A worthy distraction enters, the path bends slightly, and suddenly life feels like something you’re managing instead of choosing.

Distraction never announces itself as danger. It wears the language of usefulness — productivity, opportunity, responsibility. The busyness doesn’t stop. The demands don’t slow down. If anything, they increase. And if you don’t choose alignment deliberately, something else will always choose for you.

I was in Switzerland for the World Economic Forum, a place defined by urgency. Meetings stacked on top of one another. Conversations bleeding into each other. A constant sense that everything mattered and nothing could wait.

One morning, before the day demanded anything of me, I stood by the window of our Airbnb. The view was vast in a way that stopped me mid-thought — not just beautiful, but commanding. Immense landscapes unfolded into one another, unmoved by human ambition or urgency. It wasn’t a view you admired quickly. It demanded stillness.

Standing there, I realised something plainly: I had been running on fumes.

All I wanted was to sit. To read. To journal. To talk to God — not with effort or structure, just honestly. I had already been reading a book that asks you to confront the beliefs that limit you, and for the first time, I felt ready to do the work it was asking of me.

I wrote down the things I had been avoiding and set them against the truth. I prayed. I released what I could. And clarity returned — quickly, almost easily.

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough. It isn’t always hard to come back to yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is one honest hour.

But I’ve learned this the hard way: clarity has always come easily for me.

I’ve had moments of deep certainty before. Seasons where everything felt aligned. Where I could see clearly, move decisively, and trust myself fully. I used to think those moments meant I was fixed — that I’d crossed some invisible threshold.

I hadn’t.

What usually followed was a slow drift. Not rebellion. Not collapse. Just accommodation. Saying yes a little too often. Letting urgency dictate my days. Telling myself I’d return to myself when things settled down.

They never did.

Over time, I began to recognise the pattern not just in my schedule, but in my body. The tightness. The fatigue. The way my prayer life thinned out — not intentionally, just quietly. I would keep going until something forced me to stop.

Burnout would arrive like a surprise, even though it wasn’t.

Each time, I would return — to God, to myself, to stillness — and clarity would meet me there. Faithful. Gentle. Available. And each time, I mistook that return for completion instead of what it really was: an invitation to change how I lived after the moment passed.

Clarity was never the problem.
What came after it was.

Staying requires a daily check-in — not just with your schedule, but with your body, your spirit, your attention. It means plugging in every day, before the world plugs into you. Before the meetings. Before the demands. Before the noise begins.

There’s a reason the instruction is to seek first. Not seek occasionally. Not seek when things fall apart. Seek first. Daily. Because the busyness will always come. The distractions will always arrive. And if you abandon yourself for urgency — even good urgency — the pattern of stopping and starting will repeat.

I’ve lived long stretches of sprinting and collapsing. Clarity followed by exhaustion. Recovery followed by overextension. Like a car that keeps jerking forward — never fully breaking down, but never quite settling into a smooth rhythm either.

The problem wasn’t capacity.
It was pace.

I was trying to run a marathon in sprints.

Staying the course doesn’t mean you won’t feel tired or stretched. It means the jerks don’t send you completely off-road. You notice sooner. You adjust earlier. You return before you disappear.

I travelled to London after the forum, and somewhere between flights and trains, my body gave way. The flu arrived like a warning. One quiet morning in Switzerland hadn’t been enough to refill what I’d already depleted.

Back in Lagos, I tried to return immediately to work, but my body refused. I spent a week moving between my bed and the couch, propped up by Night Nurse, pepper soup, and the low-grade guilt of feeling unproductive. And somewhere in that fog, I realised I hadn’t failed. I had simply mistaken clarity for completion.

It’s astonishing how quickly it happens. How easily you can find yourself off course — especially when you thought you were doing everything right.

But this, I think, is the truth of it.

We don’t usually lose our way because we don’t know better.
We lose our way because we stop tending to ourselves once things start to work.

I once watched an episode of My 600lb Life that stayed with me. A woman had been bedridden for years, her body having become both refuge and prison. When it was finally time for her to leave her house, the walls had to be broken to get her out.

She cried — not because of the damage — but because the neighbours she feared would mock her didn’t judge her. They stood outside and clapped.

Later, she asked the doctor how people lose weight and keep it off. His answer was almost painfully simple: the people who succeed are the ones who never stop trying.

That line stayed with me.

Because the real danger isn’t getting lost.
It’s assuming that once you’ve found clarity, you’re done.

I’m learning that clarity is not rare. Alignment is.

The work is not finding myself again and again. The work is checking in daily so I don’t keep leaving. Ordering my days properly. Seeking first. Moving at a pace I can sustain.

Life doesn’t slow down for this work. You have to choose it anyway.

And when you do, you don’t move faster.

You move steadier.

And steadiness, not speed, is what allows you to honour the path you’re on.

Recommended Reading

I’m back to reading this devotional. It was gifted to me by a friend in 2018 and I read it for two or three years and put it down. But now, it feels brand new again and what I need as I try and ground myself in daily self love practices. It’s bite-sized enough to return to each morning, and potent enough to hold my attention — getting me thinking, praying, and gently insisting that I start my day with intention.

Hope you have a grounded, productive week ahead.

xo,
Nicole

The conversation stayed with me. Not because of the situation itself, but because of what it revealed. Somewhere on the other side of 35, you begin to notice that life is not actually short. If anything, it is long. Long enough to wander for years. Long enough to realise you have been circling the same idea or the same habit or the same relationship. Long enough to waste time and still have time left. But also long enough to know you should not keep wasting it.

This realisation has been shaping how I think about my creative life. In my twenties I lived off adrenaline and instinct, trusting that enthusiasm alone would carry me. In my early thirties I tried to optimise everything, as if creativity could be engineered like a supply chain. Now I am beginning to learn about pacing. Pacing is less glamorous. It asks for stamina and patience and honesty. It asks you to keep showing up even when nothing interesting is happening. Nobody tells you that this is where the work accumulates. But direction is formed in the middle, not at the start or the end.

When I look at my own projects, I see the evidence of both adrenaline and avoidance. I see treatments that stop abruptly somewhere between confidence and uncertainty. I see documents abandoned after the early excitement wears off. I see projects I loved enough to begin, but not enough to finish. And it is not just the work itself, it is the logic around it: the way I call procrastination “needing more clarity,” or treat imposter syndrome as if it were humility, or rename fear as “waiting for the right time.” The human mind is incredibly good at justifying delay.

Lately I have been wondering if my creative frustrations are less about opportunity and more about obedience. I do not mean obedience in the institutional sense. I mean obedience to the thing God actually asked me to make. The assignment that will not stop tapping you on the shoulder even when you pretend not to hear it. The work that feels both terrifying and inevitable.

There is a Christian book I return to occasionally called Hinds’ Feet on High Places. My sister gave it to me a few years ago. I have not finished it, which feels symbolic. The story follows a fearful young woman who asks God to lead her to the high places He promised. She expects comfort. Instead, He assigns her two companions named Sorrow and Suffering. It is a disturbing joke if you have a dark sense of humour. But the promise in the book is not that God will remove difficulty. It is that He will strengthen your feet. He will make you able to climb.

When I apply that to my creative life, something becomes uncomfortably clear. Maybe the work has never been too demanding. Maybe I have been asking for the wrong thing from the beginning. I have been praying for ease when what I needed was stamina. I have been praying for clarity when what I needed was obedience. I have been interpreting discomfort as punishment when it might have been training. And maybe the wilderness isn’t a dead end after all, but a place without instructions. A place that requires you to stop wandering long enough to ask for directions.

What I am learning is that the true wound of the wilderness is not being lost. It is staying lost out of habit. It is imagining that because there is no clear path, there must not be one. Or worse, deciding to decorate the wilderness and call it home.

It is alarmingly easy to surround yourself with people who are lost in the same way. You hear the same frustrations, the same theories, the same almosts, and after a while you mistake empathy for progress. There is comfort in collective wandering, but comfort is not direction.

The consolation for me is that I do not believe we are directionless people. As a Christian, I believe the Holy Spirit offers guidance even when I am resistant to being guided. Which raises a more confronting question: what am I refusing to let go of that keeps me from following? Creativity has a way of exposing the idols we defend: distraction, applause, fear, comparison, self-preservation. You cannot keep all of these and also ask to be led.

When I think about my creative life, I see how easily I can get caught in loops. I circle the same ideas, the same fears, the same habits, the same justifications. It feels like progress because I am moving, but I am only moving around the same cluster of trees. After a while, it stops being romantic and starts feeling like disorientation. The wilderness is not always vast. Sometimes it is small, and the tragedy is that you stay there anyway.

What has become clear to me is that only the One who created the wilderness knows the way through it. God sees from the aerial view. He sees the exits, the openings, the shortcuts, the detours, the rivers, the cliffs, the parts I insist on learning the hard way. Yet we keep asking for directions from people who are wandering the same circles we are, instead of asking the One who sees the landscape from above.

There is a theme emerging for me this year: a desire to move differently. Less performing, more finishing. Less theatrics, more training. Less anxiety about being seen, more attention to being aligned. I want to go where I am actually being led, not where I am being applauded.

If you recognise yourself anywhere in this, consider it an invitation. Not to rush or to panic, but to turn around. To pick up the unfinished thing again. To build stamina. To ask for directions. To stop assuming that God has forgotten your assignment just because you abandoned it for a while.

You are not late. You are not beyond repair. You may simply be a little lost. And lost is not the enemy. Lost is just the middle of the story. The enemy is staying lost long after you’ve realised it.

Somewhere between lost and led is the threshold of a new life — a better life — a purpose-driven existence. I would like to cross it with my eyes open, no matter what happens along the way. Even if sorrow and suffering are my companions, I know that God will make my feet like hind’s feet, and if I can trust Him above all else, He will lead me to the high places.

What I’m reading:

The pages are covered in highlights. I keep pausing to meditate on her sentences the way you might meditate on a prayer. There is a prophetic quality to her writing — the sense that she surrendered first, was lost for a while, and was then led to high places. It was exactly what I needed in the quiet between the end of one year and the beginning of another. I imagine the audiobook would feel like prayer too. Highly recommend.

Looking forward to seeing us shine this year — to breaking the loop, following the map, and walking the path God intended for us.

Lots of love,
Nicole

There’s a sign in my gym — big black letters on a white wall — that says: Be Stronger Than Your Excuses.

The first time I saw it, I felt… nothing.

Beneath the words is an illustration of a woman with an athlete’s body, carved and powerful. I assume she became that way because she was, indeed, stronger than her excuses. But I couldn’t connect with her. I had just started working with a personal trainer, and all I could think about was surviving the pain — the ache in muscles I’d long neglected, the sharp reminders from my back that I’d once needed surgery.

Sometimes I’d catch sight of the sign between sets, but instead of feeling inspired, I’d look away.
Am I not here?
Have I not shown up?
Have I not already been stronger than my excuse, just by walking through the door?

Still, I didn’t feel strong.

“It’s supposed to hurt,” my trainer said one day.

I wanted to be annoyed by his bluntness, but something shifted. The pain wasn’t proof of weakness — it was proof of traction. Proof my muscles were being used. Proof something inside me was getting stronger.

It’s supposed to hurt.

Like most things worth building, my mind went straight to creativity. The procrastination. The long, sometimes excruciating process of birthing something new, or finally finishing something old. The tug-of-war of turning an idea — invisible, fragile — into something that exists in the world. I’ve birthed a lot of things. I’ve also let a lot of things die.

Then one day, four months in, I was on the treadmill. Sideways this time. The woman and the slogan in my direct view. I shifted on the belt, crouched in an awkward squat as I moved one leg after the other, swifter than I’d ever been. And it hit me: I was stronger than when I’d started. I was doing it. I was stronger than my excuses.

I wasn’t ripped and toned like she was, but I was a different version of myself than the woman who first walked in and felt nothing. Now, I looked at her and wondered how long it took her to get like that. I respected her. A silent nod — human to illustration: I see you. Whoever drew her must have known people wouldn’t just need motivation. They’d need a philosophy. Something to carry outside the gym.

Because working out isn’t just about losing weight. It’s about strength. Consistency. Discipline. And philosophies like that don’t stay in one corner of your life — they spill everywhere.

The excuses never go away. They’re always there. You can give a hundred in a day. But you can also give a hundred counters — and choose the counter.

I used to think excuses were harmless. Now I see them as betrayal. A betrayal to my own potential. And what do you do with betrayal? You reject it. You refuse it. You show up anyway.

You might never feel like working out — but you do it anyway.
You might never feel like writing — but you do it anyway.

I haven’t written a letter in a while because I’ve been busy birthing new creative projects. I launched a podcast called The Lone Wolf — also born out of a philosophy. That as a creative, you must go where your path demands, even when it’s hard, even when it’s lonely, even when there is no one to see you or clap for you.

I filmed thirteen episodes in a surge of being stronger than my excuses. But then came the part I hadn’t factored in — post-production, marketing, all the invisible work required to make a podcast live and breathe. And I caught myself wondering: Why did I start this when I already had so much on my plate?

But I realized that wasn’t the right question. The truth is, nothing is easy. Everything takes work. And the same principles that carry me through the gym — discipline, consistency, endurance — are the ones that carry me through creativity.

When the podcast launched, I got a voice note from a friend who listened to the first episode. She was crying.
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for encouraging me.

My mind went back to the illustration of that woman — determined, unflinching. And how I saw her too.

Because that’s what life really is — a mirror. When we are brave enough to show up, we discover that someone out there needed our strength, our push, our presence.

And that’s reason enough to keep going.

Watch Episode 1 here

What I’m Reading

I’ve had this book on my nightstand for years. For some reason, I picked it up a few days ago — and haven’t been able to put it down since. I’m highlighting passages, scribbling notes in the margins, inhaling every word.

There’s an Igbo saying I love: Mgbe onye ji tete bu ụtụtụ ya.
Translation: Whenever a man wakes up is his own morning.

In this context, whenever you finally decide to read a book is the right time to read it. The book finds you when you’re ready — when your heart and your life have made space for its message.

This one is about naming the things that scare you and hold you back — and learning how to give them to God. So you can be the person He made you to be, not the one the world has shaped you into.

As someone who is trying daily to be stronger than her excuses, I know many of mine are deep-rooted. They require me to trace them back, to see where they began, and to pull them out from the root — so that laziness and procrastination can no longer grow there.

I’ll try not to let too much time pass before the next letter.

xoxo,

Nicole

I noticed it somewhere over the Atlantic, on a plane, finally still. No calls, no meetings, no expectations. Just quiet. And in that quiet, I could feel myself again. Not just hear my thoughts—but actually feel myself. A glimmer of clarity surfaced. A sense of knowing. A whisper that said: You’re close. So close. Don’t stop now. Keep going.

That voice echoed something my trainer said to me not too long ago. I was in the middle of a workout that felt almost impossible—sweat pouring, body trembling—when he looked at me and said, “It’s supposed to hurt.” He said it like it was a rule of nature. And in that moment, it unlocked something. The pain wasn’t punishment. It was proof. Proof that I was working through something. Building something. Becoming.

The pain for me has been real. Physical. Chronic. I’ve lived with it in my lower back and hips since undergoing back surgery—an ache that follows me everywhere. Some days it’s loud. Other days it hums quietly beneath the surface. But it’s always there. And for a long time, I tried to outpace it. To act like it wasn’t shaping me. But the truth is, it has. It’s taught me that growth doesn’t come from escape—it comes from endurance. From choosing to move through, even when you’d rather not feel anything at all.

A few months ago, someone I used to be know said something I haven’t been able to forget. She told me that watching me work had been her “proof of concept.” And on the surface, it sounded like praise. But in that moment, it didn’t feel good. It felt like something had been taken. This was someone I had once let into my space—someone who had seen the behind-the-scenes of my process, my vulnerability, my work-in-progress days. And so when she said that, it didn’t feel like admiration. It felt like plagiarism in the strangest emotional sense. As if she had watched, learned, taken what she needed—and then skipped off into the sunset while I stood there wondering what just happened.

It felt like being studied, extracted from, and then left behind.

With time, I’ve come to realize that the message wasn’t wrong. It was just coming from the wrong person. Because I can be proof. But the concept must still be yours. You can watch me. You can be inspired by me. But you can’t duplicate me. You have to walk your own path. The proof is in the doing. And doing means showing up—not just for the glory, but for the grit of it. The unsexy, unfiltered, unsure parts.

Being at Cannes this year made that truth even clearer. I held a private screening of my short film God Knows Best—my directorial debut. It wasn’t loud or public. It was intimate. Honest. And it meant everything. I had written the script in a single day. I didn’t wait for the perfect plan. I moved. I trusted the story and I let it carry me. And when it came time to direct, I showed up on set and said, “Yes.” I didn’t perform confidence. I practiced courage.

That moment, that quiet room in Cannes, reminded me of what this journey is really about. People are beginning to see me as proof—not because I’m perfect, but because I keep showing up. Because I move even when I’m unsure. Because I write through the fear. Direct through the doubt. Share through the ache.

And if I’m going to be seen as proof, then I owe you the truth.

The truth is: it’s hard. The blank page is terrifying. The pain is real. The fear still whispers. But I do it anyway. Because I believe in the work. Because I believe in what’s on the other side. Because I believe that doing the thing—even imperfectly—is always better than not doing it at all.

I think about Daniel Kaluuya accepting his Oscar. Celebrating with his man dem, speaking exactly the way we speak. That wasn’t just a win—it was a mirror. A reminder that it’s possible. And watching My Father’s Shadow receive the recognition it so deeply deserved this year, I felt that same jolt of truth: that when the work is honest, it finds its way.

We need to see each other doing the work—not just celebrating the outcome. Because sometimes, seeing is what unlocks belief.

I think of Peter stepping out of the boat to walk on water. He didn’t step because he believed in himself. He stepped because he saw Jesus do it. Seeing became his proof. Until he looked away. Until he doubted. And that’s when he began to sink.

That’s what fear does. It breaks our focus. It makes us forget what we’ve already seen, what we already know to be true. That we can walk. That it is possible.

So take the inspiration. Let it charge you. Let it remind you. But then, do your own work. Write your own lines. Carry your own concept. That’s where the real proof is—in the doing. In the day-by-day. In the decision to keep going even when no one is watching.

You’re closer than you think. The room is not as far as it feels. The door has your name on it. And the plan for your life is already in motion.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” God says. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.”

And to prosper doesn’t just mean to win. It means to grow. To thrive in hidden soil. To be shaped by the process. To become more fully yourself on the other side of pain, doubt, and waiting.

We weren’t made to be copies. We were made to be proof.
Not perfect—just present.
Not polished—just honest.
Not finished—just faithful.

So whatever you’re building, keep going.
Whatever you’re healing, keep trusting.
And whatever you’re dreaming, keep doing.

Because the proof was never in the praise.

The proof is in the doing.

Recommended Reading

P.S. I re-read this while on holiday and was reminded—deep in my spirit—of the power we hold as creatives, crafted by the ultimate Creator. Sometimes we forget, but the truth is, making is sacred. This journey is holy ground.

xoxo,

Nicole

I went to see a play I discovered through a sponsored Instagram ad that read; Diary of a Single Woman in Lagos. As a freshly single woman in Lagos myself, it caught my attention. Dear Kaffy, the website said, was a story about love and heartbreak. It was showing on a Sunday, so I impulsively booked two tickets—one for me, and one for… well, I’d figure that out later. I have a habit of securing tickets before I know who I’m taking with me. It’s instinctive, thoughtless in the moment, and then later, I ask myself—who would I actually want to go with?

This time, my cousin visiting from Houston came to mind immediately. We’ve both had our share of dating stories, the kind that could fill books, so she seemed like the perfect person to experience this with. I told her about it and promptly forgot all about the show.

The day before, it hit me—oh shit, it’s tomorrow. I reminded her, put it on my calendar, and suddenly, it felt like an inconvenience. An interruption. A wedge in the middle of my Sunday. Scanning my confirmation email for the first time, I saw the time: 3 PM. Why didn’t I pick the 7 PM slot? Two showings, and I had locked myself into the earlier one. Whatever, it’s fine.

It always amazes me how I can go from excitement to mild regret, questioning why I put myself in certain situations. I realize now that whenever something is good for me—an opportunity to connect, to experience something new, to lift myself out of a funk—there’s a force that tries to talk me out of it. Resistance. I’ll remember this next time when something that should bring me joy—like a morning walk—suddenly feels like a chore. I’ll fight back against the lie of "I’m just not in the mood." Get up, shower, put on something cute, and leave the house.

So, that’s exactly what I did.

The moment the play began, I knew I had made the right decision. The actors were fearless, the dialogue razor-sharp, the music intoxicating. And the story? Uncomfortably familiar. Kaffy, a Lagos girl, falls for Femi, a Lagos boy (we all knew how it would end). He cheats, gaslights, and emotionally drains her. She pieces herself back together, only to meet another man—different wardrobe, same demon. When he stands her up on the day he’s meant to meet her parents, she is crushed, broken. Her friends rally, but everyone knows—when your heart shatters, only you and God can gather the pieces.

The story ends unexpectedly. Kaffy meets a seemingly good man through her parents, but instead of a neat, romantic resolution, her past ghosts reappear, turning her life into a love triangle—or a square, more accurately. What struck me most wasn’t the crisp choreography or the Afrobeat lyrics that underscored every twist in the narrative—it was the audience.

Women in the crowd erupted—warning Kaffy not to trust him, gasping in recognition, sighing as if they had lived this story themselves. They laughed when she laughed, grieved when she grieved. I looked around in the dimly lit hall, faces illuminated by the stage, and saw women of all ages, locked in, relating. Relating. And in that, a shift, a realization—I am not special. A man disappointing me is not a personal curse, but a universal experience. A shared truth among women. In the gasps, the heckles, and the echoes of knowing laughter, I found a community of women I had never met but deeply understood.

There was a scene where Kaffy, after being stood up by a man she trusted, rationalizes his absence. Something must have happened, she tells herself. She rushes to find him, only to discover him at the gym, casually pumping iron. He was fine. I sat there, stunned. How stories have the power to mirror our lives. Did the writer know me? Had someone whispered my story to her?

It made me think—how often do we believe our struggles are uniquely ours? Our procrastination, our imposter syndrome, our self-doubt. How we let these things weigh us down, convincing ourselves that no one else feels this way. But I’m learning that not everyone has the courage to say their struggles out loud. Even I, as open as I seem, find it difficult to be this vulnerable in ‘real life’. But here, writing, alone in my space, I can be honest.

So I understand why people don’t always share. But when you come across someone brave enough to voice what you’ve been feeling, pay attention. Acknowledge them—not just for their sake, but for yours. So you remember: you are not alone. Other people have gone through it and survived. They are here—outside, dressed up, laughing, living.

The enemy doesn’t want you to hear stories of resilience. He wants you to believe you’re stuck and alone. He wants you to think the barking dog has teeth, that the woman whose heart shattered won’t heal, that the light won’t ever seep through the cracks. But it does. It will.

I promise that you’ll find people just like you—like the legion of women I never met but felt, on that Sunday afternoon.

xoxo,

Nicole

But did you die?

A valid question life will ask you time and time again. The thing you thought would break you rarely does. It is the people you least expect who disappoint you. The betrayals that blindside you. But disappointment does not kill. Neither does betrayal.

It will hurt. It will shake you. It may bring you to your knees. But if you are reading this, then that thing, that moment, that loss did not take you. You are still here. You are still you.

So, now what?

I used to think healing was something you arrived at. Like a final stop on the train. If I could just push through, just keep moving, I’d get to the other side where everything was light and easy again. But healing isn’t a destination. It’s a season. And seasons don’t work on your timeline.

I’ve stopped fighting this season of mine. Stopped pretending it isn’t here. I wake up, and there it is, sitting with me. So I let it stay. I let it unfold, let it teach me whatever it came to teach. I still don’t know what the lesson is. But I am certain that if I sit with it long enough, I will.

Grief doesn’t always look the way we expect. It’s not just tears on a pillow or staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. Sometimes, grief is a long walk, your eyes tracing the shape of tree branches, your feet pressing into the earth, trying to remember that you are still here and that beauty still exists. Sometimes, grief is noticing the way the sky changes colors at dusk and feeling, for just a second, like you belong to something bigger than the ache in your chest.

I used to think restoration meant going back to what was. That healing would return me to the person I used to be. But I’m realizing now that isn’t the point. The point is to be made new. To become something different, something stronger, something wiser than before.

My parents named me Nkiruka. It means what is ahead is greater. It is a prophecy, and one I have to hold on to, even when it feels like I am standing in the wreckage of what I thought my life would be. Some days, I catch myself looking back, replaying moments, conversations, wondering if I could have done something different. But then I stop. Remind myself to look ahead. The past is a closed door. What’s waiting for me is forward.

And maybe this is also true about creativity.

I am sitting in a season where I do not feel my best, where life has given me one of those blows that knocks the breath out of you. And yet, here I am, pouring. And I am surprised to find that the well is not empty. That inside the breaking, I am cracked open, and what spills out is something I didn’t even know was there.

Pain is not the enemy of creativity. It is the thing that sharpens it. There is something about suffering that strips away pretense, forces you to write the truth, to paint the truth, to create from the most honest, most stripped-down part of yourself. I used to think I had to be whole to create. Now I understand that some of the best work comes when you are at your most undone.

And I think of the ways we betray our own creativity. Not when life is hard—no, creativity does not abandon us when we are in pain. It is we who abandon it. When we procrastinate. When we let fear talk us out of starting. When we make excuses, when we look at the blank page and convince ourselves we have nothing to say, when we refuse to pick up the tools that are right in front of us. We are the ones who walk away. But creativity waits. It does not leave us. And when we return to it, it unfolds like a coiled spring, ready to be used.

Yesterday, I ran into a writer I have admired for years. She looked me in the eye and said, What is inside of me is too great to ever be broken.

I felt the weight of that sentence settle into my bones. There is a way a person walks when they know the magnitude of what they carry. A straightness in the spine, not arrogance but knowing. And I thought, this is how I must walk too.

When my heart feels weak, I want to remember that the sword of my creativity is ever sharp. That no matter what life throws at me, I will always have the gifts God placed inside me. That even pain and disappointment are not meant to destroy me but to refine me. To shape me into someone unstoppable. To strip away everything that does not serve me, to leave nothing but the truth of who I am and who I was made to be.

Because my name is Nkiruka. And no matter what happens, my eyes must keep looking forward.

So, the next time life, life’s you—because it will—ask yourself one question.

But did you die?

If the answer is no, keep going.

Because what is ahead is greater.

xoxo,

Nicole

The moment I arrived, something inside me shifted. I knew, without a doubt, that I had made the right choice.

Before me, the river stretched—calm and steady, its green waters reflecting the trees lining its banks. The air was warm and still, only occasionally interrupted by the rustling of leaves or the distant call of a bird. I stood there, letting the stillness wash over me—the peace, the quiet, the sense of being in a place that asked nothing from me but offered everything in return.

At first, I tried to hold it all together, to keep control. But as I stood there, I realised there was no need to.

So, I let go.

All the weight I had carried—the worries, the fears, the heaviness of months that had stretched too thin—fell away. I cried the kind of tears that come after a long-held breath finally escapes.

I had come to the Volta Region of Ghana, two hours outside of Accra, on a solo retreat to reflect and recharge. In its simple tranquility, this place had already started offering me exactly what I needed – space and solitude.

The next morning, as I wandered the property, my eyes landed on a hammock.

It hung between two wooden posts beneath a simple shelter. Nothing extravagant, but somehow it drew me in. I paused, and memories of the past began to resurface.

Hammocks and I don’t have the best history.

Years ago, I tried one in a friend’s garden. They insisted it was safe.

“Oh no,” I said, “I’m going to break it.”

“You can’t break it,” they assured me, “It’s strong. Just try.”

I wanted to trust them. But as soon as I climbed in, I heard it—the unmistakable crack that made my stomach drop. Mortified, I scrambled out before it could collapse completely.

“It’s fine, it’s not broken,” they said, trying to reassure me. But I knew what I had heard.

Since then, I’ve avoided hammocks. There was no need to risk repeating that kind of trauma again.

And now here I was, standing in front of my old nemesis.

“Get in,” the hammock seemed to whisper.

“No way,” I muttered, “I know how this ends.”

After knocking on the poles to make sure they were sturdy and deliberating back and forth with the hammock, I had a thought…. What if I just tried? I was alone, so if it broke, I could slip away and pretend it never happened. With an escape plan in mind, I slowly let go of my fear and settled in.

I braced myself for the collapse. But when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find the hammock hadn’t broken. Instead, it enveloped me, cradling my entire body with a softness I hadn’t expected. It rocked gently, but with a steady rhythm, as if it had been waiting to carry me all along. My body sank into its embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt held—completely supported by something other than myself.

At that moment, I realised I didn’t have to carry myself anymore. The hammock, with its gentle cocoon, took on the weight I had been holding for so long. Every part of me, every worry, every fear, was gently lifted and eased into a sense of security.

It felt like the world had paused, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe enough to let go.

In the safety of the hammock’s embrace, I began to reflect on how much fear holds us back.

How many times do we tell ourselves, “I can’t,” without even trying? How often do we decide, without testing it, that something isn’t for us? These beliefs build invisible walls, keeping us from what could change us.

But what if the very thing we fear is what we need to heal?

What if the thing we avoid is exactly what we need to face?

I realized that fear isn’t always a barrier. Sometimes, it’s a guide pointing us toward what we most need to confront.

In my last letter, I wrote about regret and how it reveals our true desires. Maybe fear works the same way. Maybe, like regret, it’s a guide.

It reminds me of The Wizard of Oz. The terrifying Wizard turned out to be just a man hiding behind a curtain. Fear is like that—loud, intimidating, but ultimately powerless. A barking dog with no teeth.

What if the thing we fear most is the very key to our freedom?

I once heard Sarah Jakes Roberts speak about devastation—not as something to avoid, but something to welcome, because often it’s in our hardest moments that we find God’s greatest blessings. “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

It’s a tough truth, but a liberating one: the things that hurt us can also be the things that heal us.

If we truly believe that everything works together for our good, then we must also trust that fear—yes, even fear—has a purpose.

Everything is working out for your good.

That hammock taught me this. If I had let fear control me, I would have walked right past it, convinced it wasn’t meant for me. But instead, I climbed in. And no, it didn’t break.

And even if it had, what then?

You cannot live your life assuming the worst. You cannot let fear write your story. Whatever happens—whether the hammock holds or breaks—is for your good. It’s all part of the journey.

So here I am, writing from that very hammock. It’s become my companion these past few days. I’ve sat in it, reflected, prayed, and now, written from it.

I am writing from the very place I once feared. And now, I’m telling you: as you face your fears this year—those things that scare you, that make you hesitate—know this: you are stepping into your blessing.

Trust it. Believe it. And let fear lead you toward your freedom.

Creative Practice

Write Through Your Fear

Find a quiet space, take a deep breath, and sit with your thoughts for a moment. Think about something in your writing journey that scares you—whether it’s starting a new project, sharing your work, or confronting a difficult topic. It could be anything that’s been holding you back.

Now, write from that place of fear. Let it be there, without trying to push it away. Write as if the fear is a part of the process, not something to avoid.

Write a letter to your fear. What is it trying to protect you from? What is it saying that feels loud, urgent, and maybe even true? Let yourself listen, but don't let it dictate your next step.

Then, write a response. Acknowledge the fear, but this time, speak from the part of you that’s ready to move forward. What does that voice say to the fear? What does it know, even when the fear feels heavy?

Let the practice be a reminder: You don’t need to have all the answers right now. You just need to write, even with the fear.

What I’m reading

My sister recommended Hinds' Feet on High Places, and it’s a powerful Christian allegory about a woman’s journey toward healing and spiritual growth. I’m not going to recommend it to just anyone because it’s one of those books you can only read when you’re ready to receive it. But if you are—my goodness. I’m only a few chapters in and already feel transformed.

Lots of love,

Nicole

We were talking about long-suffering—the kind that doesn’t seem to end. The kind the Bible speaks of, where years stretch into decades and endurance feels like the only option. The kind that makes life itself feel like a scam if you forget the promise etched into the heart of every story: In this life, you will meet trouble.

After we spoke, she sent me a book titled Have a Beautiful Terrible Day. When I opened the package, I stared at the title for what felt like forever. The words—“beautiful” and “terrible”—were tangled together, softened by the delicate font, yet weighty in meaning. For a moment, I just held the book in my hands, letting its truth wash over me. This is it, I thought. Someone understood. Life isn’t one thing or the other—it’s both.

Beautiful. Terrible.

December has been no different for me. A part of me wants to rearrange the sequence, to have the terrible come first, as if it might somehow make the beautiful more triumphant. But the truth is, the beauty doesn’t wait. It supersedes the terrible, weaving its way through even the darkest moments, refusing to let despair have the last word.

This duality—the ability to carry both the best and the worst at the same time—is what makes us human.

People often say creativity comes from darkness, and perhaps that’s true to some degree. Vulnerability does bring a certain rawness to our work. But I don’t believe you have to be sad or broken to create. What I’ve found is that when you’re most honest—when you show up, stripped of pretense—what you create has the power to resonate deeply.

And yet, as humans, we resist. We tell ourselves that this refining process—this endless shaping and molding—must surely have an end point. That one day we’ll arrive, perfected, and finally live the life we’ve imagined. But the truth is, the refining doesn’t stop. The shaping doesn’t stop. The beautiful terrible day isn’t a season. It’s the premise.

So how do we live with that? How do we wake up every morning knowing that the terrible will show up, sometimes uninvited and often unexpected?

Maybe the answer is to meet it with open hands. To say, Ah, Trouble. I knew you’d come. Sit down. You’re not alone. Joy is here, too. Creativity is here. Laughter is here. Misery doesn’t get to stay long—it’s restless, after all. It will eventually get bored and leave.

This year, I’ve been wrestling with creative regrets. The things I said I’d do but didn’t. The ideas I shelved. The dreams I let gather dust because fear told me they weren’t worth pursuing. Creativity, which should be our refuge, often becomes negotiable. And yet, it is the thing that sustains us.

Yesterday, I picked up a book and started reading. Not scrolling. Not skimming. Reading. And suddenly, I was a child again—immersed in a story, completely untouchable by the outside world. I remembered how limitless those moments felt, how they unlocked entire universes within me.

Somewhere along the way, that ability slipped through my fingers. Distractions crept in, screens took over, and my imagination dulled. But as I read yesterday, I realized something: I still love to read. I just haven’t made space for it.

So here’s my promise to myself for 2025: to make room. To create intentional space for the things that fuel my creativity, for the practices that make me feel most alive. Because creativity doesn’t thrive in chaos; it needs tenderness, patience, attention.

The terrible will still come—that’s inevitable. But when I’m anchored in the things that bring me joy, the terrible won’t have the power to knock me over. It can shake me, but it can’t break me.

I want the same for you. Whatever regrets you’re carrying—creative or otherwise—let them guide you, not weigh you down. Let them point you toward what truly matters, what still has time to be reclaimed.

Creativity is your lifeline. It’s your freedom, your silver lining. It doesn’t belong at the bottom of your to-do list. It’s the thread that ties the beauty and the terrible together.

So don’t abandon it. Don’t abandon yourself.

People will disappoint you—they’re wired to, in ways both small and profound. But don’t let that stop you from showing up for your dreams. Don’t let that stop you from choosing yourself.

As we step into 2025, I hope you’ll hold your creativity close. Protect it fiercely. Show up for it with the same urgency you’d bring to something fleeting and precious. Because that’s what it is.

Life will be beautiful. It will be terrible. Sometimes, it will be both at once. But that duality is what makes it whole, what makes it worth living.

Creative Practice:

1. List Your Regrets
   Write down 3-5 creative regrets—unfinished projects, unpursued ideas, forgotten dreams.

2. Pick One
   Choose the regret that tugs at you most. It’s not a failure—it’s a guide.

3. Take One Small Step
   Turn that regret into action.

4. Reflect Daily
   End your day with this question: How did taking this step make me feel?

5. Build Momentum
   Keep going. Small, consistent actions create big changes.

Regret isn’t the end—it’s your starting point.

Recommended Reading

Here’s to the beautiful, terrible days ahead. May they be filled with courage, joy, and the kind of creativity that lights you up from the inside out.

xoxo,

Nicole

It’s early morning now, and I’m writing from my hotel room in Riyadh, taking a moment to gather my thoughts before the day takes over. The days here stretch long, and these quiet moments give me a chance to center myself. Rather than journal this morning, I felt like reaching out to you—a message from the heart to a few hundred people I may not know personally but feel connected to in some way.

I’m here as a writer and producer for a fashion show, and the production side is new territory for me. In our first team briefing, I felt like an outsider, as though I was watching myself from a distance. An unfamiliar, imposter version of me showed up, whispering doubts like, “Do they know you don’t belong here? Do they know you have no idea what you’re doing?” Her voice was so loud, I almost believed everyone else could hear it too.

As the executive producers tossed around acronyms and industry jargon, I felt myself withdrawing, questioning my place here. And after a sleepless night of sickness and nerves, my confidence was thin. That day, Imposter Syndrome claimed victory: Imposter – 1, Nicole – 0.

But the next morning, as dawn broke, I turned on some gospel music. The words filled the room, echoing promises of God’s faithfulness, and slowly, the fog lifted. I remembered who I am and why I am here. I wasn’t brought here because I know every technical detail or can handle a walkie-talkie like a pro. I was brought here because I can write, because I see stories and bring them to life. My lack of production experience didn’t matter—God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips those He calls.

This is something I know well, but it’s funny how easy it is to forget in moments of doubt. Nothing centers me like reconnecting with that truth, remembering my purpose.

When I arrived at the site that day, I was ready to learn, to soak in everything around me. I asked questions: “What does DTW mean?” “How do I use this?” “What’s the red dot symbolize?” There were a few eye-rolls, but mostly, people were patient and happy to share their knowledge. By the end of the day, the score had shifted: Nicole – 1, Imposter – 0.

Imposter syndrome is just one of the many weapons fashioned against creativity. It’s subtle, yet relentless, working its way into your thoughts, convincing you that you don’t belong, that your presence is somehow a mistake. It drains energy you could spend creating, leaving you tangled in self-doubt instead.

Then there’s procrastination, perhaps the most familiar and dangerous weapon of all. It lulls you with the illusion of time, whispering that tomorrow will be the perfect day to start. It makes you believe you have “later,” that you can hold off. But procrastination doesn’t want you to create—it wants you to wait, to hesitate, until your best ideas slip through your fingers.

Fear is another weapon, one that holds you back before you even begin. It tells you that you can’t, that your work will never measure up. It stops you before you can even try, keeping you safe, but stuck.

Self-doubt is quieter but just as ruthless. It whispers, “Your ideas aren’t good enough.” It’s so familiar that you mistake it for your own voice. It keeps you in a loop of starting and stopping, afraid to reach the end and face judgment.

And then there’s ego—a more complex weapon, one that often sneaks in with success. It fills you with a need for recognition, for validation. Instead of creating for the love of it, you start creating for the applause. In the end, ego leaves you empty, always seeking the next wave of approval, forgetting why you started in the first place.

Thinking of these challenges as “weapons” shifts my perspective. They’re not quirks or personal flaws—they’re forces designed to stall us, to steal our potential. We’ve grown too comfortable with procrastination, fear, and ego, as if they’re inevitable. Maybe if we saw them as weapons intent on killing our creative spirit, we’d be quicker to reject them, to push back and protect the things we want to build.

The weapons will always be there, lurking in the shadows. But the promise stands: they will not prosper. We have the authority to stand up to them. When Imposter Syndrome shows up, you can look it in the eye and tell it to step aside. You belong in the room. Your voice matters. Your story deserves to be told, and that truth holds power.

So, show up as you are—whole, imperfect, worthy. Create like it’s your right, because it is. Refuse to be silenced, refuse to be diminished. Stand firm in the face of doubt, because in the end, the weapons may come, but they can never take away this simple, unshakable truth: you are here, and you are enough.

Creative Practice

Naming Your Weapons

Take a few quiet moments with a pen and paper. Write down everything that feels like it holds you back—self-doubt, procrastination, fear, imposter syndrome, whatever comes to mind. Don’t filter yourself; just let the words flow.

Once you have your list, look at each “weapon” you’ve named. Acknowledge it for what it is: a barrier to your creativity, not a part of you. By identifying these forces, you bring them into the light, where they lose some of their power.

Keep this list as a reminder that these weapons may appear, but they do not have to prosper.

Worry. It runs through us all, a subtle, unshakable current—the background hum of our lives. We’re worrying about what’s next, about whether we have time, if we’re doing enough, if we’ll ever become the people we sense we’re meant to be.

This morning when I read that Trump was elected president, and the first word that came to mind was, simply, “Fuck.” Right after, another expression echoed in my mind: “wahala be like bicycle”—trouble, always persistent and rolling forward. I talked with my sister recently about long-suffering. “But how long?” she asked but neither of us had an answer. The coversation stayed with me. “In this life, you will face many troubles,” the Bible promises, yet we’re still caught off guard every time suffering finds us, as though we thought, maybe this time, we’d be spared.

It made me wonder about this collective weariness we’re all feeling, this quiet heaviness. Have we been waiting for inspiration, expecting it to show up every morning as if on schedule? Maybe we’ve been waiting too long, hoping joy would just arrive rather than reaching out for it ourselves. I remember a sermon I once heard where the pastor questioned why the Bible spoke of giving man “strong arms” instead of “strong hands.” And then he realized: strength in our arms is a gift, but our hands represent choice—our freedom to reach, to take, to build. Perhaps we’re like restless horses, thirsty but blind to the well within us, impatient to sit and drink.

I’m thinking out loud here, speaking as much to myself as to you. I don’t have answers, and maybe I never will. But I know this: if we thought out loud more often, maybe we’d feel less alone, maybe the weight we carry wouldn’t feel so heavy. We’d see that we’re all a little tired, a little uncertain, a little lost—and there’s comfort in knowing we’re not alone. But this isn’t an invitation to wallow. No, it’s a call to lift our gaze, to step outside and let the world in. To accept that uncertainty may be the only certain thing, that perhaps inspiration will find us only when we stop expecting it to, and that we must search when we feel lost, rather than rooting ourselves in fear, waiting to be saved.

No one is coming to rescue us. No one is going to sit us down and make us do the work. Not even God Himself will force our hands. It’s on us—to choose, to reach, to rise. The rut we’re in will become our resting place if we don’t remind ourselves that each day brings the potential for change, that light is there if we seek it.

And let’s remember that life moves in seasons. This may be a time of stillness, a season of waiting, while others are reaping their harvest. We’re each on our own path, moving at our own pace. For some of us, it may feel like a drought right now, while others are feasting—but they, too, will face hardship someday. It’s simply the nature of things. We need roots deep enough to hold us steady when the winds shift, as they inevitably do.

Sometimes, my dreams feel like stars scattered across the night sky—too many, too far, impossible to reach. But then I remind myself to stop reaching for the stars, to be here, with what’s right in front of me. Today, it’s writing this letter. Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, it will be something else.

One day at a time is enough. I promise.

Creative Practice

Begin your day with morning pages. As soon as you wake up, brush your teeth, find a comfortable spot (I personally enjoy journaling in bed), and write whatever comes to mind. Don’t worry about the content—this practice is about clearing your mind and letting thoughts flow freely. Morning pages make space within, grounding you with a deep breath before the day unfolds, because one thing I know for sure is this: wahala be like bicycle.

Thanks for reading.

xo, Nicole

In many ways, the muscle memory tied to writing isn’t about the act of writing itself. It’s the dread—the fear that you can’t do it, the excuses that pile up, all the reasons why you shouldn’t even try. It’s that self-critical voice whispering that the words won’t be good enough. More often than not, the muscle memory linked to the creative process is really tied to past trauma.

Why is it that something given to us as a gift can feel like our greatest torture? It’s because we punish ourselves with inaction. In over 20 years of writing, I’ve never felt dread after finishing something. The dread is always in the lead-up, in the in-between moments—seeping through the cracks of my mind, stopping me from bringing ideas to life. If a woman were pregnant for more than nine months, wouldn’t that be its own kind of torture? Many of us carry ideas for years, sometimes decades, struggling to find the stillness and focus to breathe, to push, and to finally give birth to what’s inside us.

We’re far more familiar with what we haven’t accomplished than with what we have. They say the power of life and death is in the tongue—yet we use that power daily to curse our gifts. “I’m blocked. I can’t write. I’m too tired. I have nothing to say.” I’ve done it too, convincing myself there was nothing worth saying in this newsletter. And yet, here I am, writing. So, what changed? Was it a flash of inspiration, an aha moment? No, not at all. I simply sat down, stared at the blinking cursor, and my mind drifted to my boxing coach: muscle memory. As long as the cursor is blinking, something will eventually come.

I always hated how Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City typed her articles. She made it seem so breezy—like a clever thought would just land in her head, and she’d casually pour it out, smoking a cigarette, sipping a cocktail, and voilà!—an award-winning piece. It was all so fabulous, so easy, so fake. I wanted to see the messy parts—the pacing around the apartment, the scribbling on post-its, the existential crises between sentences. To me, that’s what writing is—the chaos, the frustration, the madness. Watching her chirpily click away felt wrong, like something was missing from the picture.

But why do we feel that writing or creativity has to be torturous? Isn’t that a lie we’ve been told—or worse, one we’ve told ourselves? The truth is, we’re not tortured because we create. We’re tortured because we don’t. If you spent just one hour a day writing, painting, or singing, your heart would swell when your head hits the pillow. Your spirit would fill up because you’d taken one more step, pushed yourself one bit closer to birthing the dream God gave you.

The only way to build muscle memory is through consistency. If you write daily, it becomes second nature. So when life inevitably gets in the way, and you return to it, the page will feel like home. Your subconscious will recognize the rhythm, and you’ll ease back in, as if you’d never stopped. Sometimes, you may even return stronger—because in the time away, you lived, you experienced, you hurt. And now, you have even more to give than before.

It never ceases to amaze me how similar we all are. We often feel like our struggles are unique—like we’re the only ones battling self-doubt, fear, procrastination, or perfectionism. But the truth is, legions of us are wrestling with the same self-limiting beliefs. Social media glosses over so much, and we do it without thinking, posting only the best bits. But it’s the hard conversations, the tough truths we face every day, that matter. If we don’t name the things holding us back and decide to stop being so friendly with them, then what?

I often think about the parable of the talents—the servant who buried his talent in fear instead of using it. How many talents have I buried? I once watched a video of a 97-year-old woman. When asked about her biggest regret, she said, “I wish I hadn’t reached the end of my life only to realize it wasn’t a rehearsal. Now, it’s time for the curtain call, and there’s no chance to do it again.”

We owe it to ourselves, and to our maker, to show up every day and leave the day emptier than we started. I began today with nothing to say, yet here I am—one thousand words later—feeling like I could keep going. The more creativity you pour out, the more it flows back to you.

Creative Practice

Muscle Memory Reflection Exercise

To strengthen your writing muscle memory, try this reflective exercise:

1. Journal 5 Thoughts: Write down five things that come to mind when you think about your writing process. Be honest—what fears, habits, or emotions surface? This is your current writing muscle memory.

2. Investigate the Why: For each thought, dig deeper. Why does this memory or belief exist? How far back does it go? Trace it to its source—whether it’s from your first writing experience or something more recent.

3. Reframe Your Memory: Now, decide what you want your new muscle memory to be. What would a positive, productive writing practice look like for you?

4. Set a New Goal: Create a writing system—something you can commit to daily, even if it’s just 15 minutes. This is how you’ll start building your new creative muscle memory. Over time, you’ll see that writing can flow naturally, just like everything else you’ve practiced.

Recommended Reading

An excerpt: “Act as if you're a writer. Sit down and begin. Act as if you might just create something beautiful, and by beautiful I mean something authentic and universal. Don't wait for anybody to tell you it's okay.”- Dani Shapiro

Happy Practicing!

xoxo,

Nicole

Preparing for a significant meeting with ambassadors and high-ranking officials, I glanced at my uninspiring slides on the value of storytelling and sensed I was about to waste a golden opportunity. Then, a spark of inspiration struck: what if we could actually show them what we do? Since sharing confidential information about other countries wasn’t an option, why not create a fictional country? When I proposed the idea, my usually quiet and pensive boss lit up. In that moment, I felt the energy shift—this could be genius.

After the presentation, an ambassador approached me with a grin and asked, “Are you giving out citizenship? I want to become a Shakararian.” It was one of those dry jokes you can’t help but laugh at. Yet, as he walked away, I realized the story of the Republic of Shakara would resonate far longer than any standard presentation on storytelling could.

This experience reminded me that creativity isn’t just about what you create; it’s about how you use it to solve problems. While critical thinking is highly valued, creative thinking often remains the unsung hero—it opens doors to unexpected opportunities and makes your presence in that room impossible to duplicate.

I’ve often shared how I’ve never formally applied for a job and actually landed it; every role or contract I’ve secured has come through recommendations or being headhunted. What I rarely discuss, however, are the countless presentations I’ve had to create to demonstrate my capabilities. The first was for the position of Editor in Chief for a lifestyle website. During the interview, the hiring manager seemed skeptical of my portfolio. “It’s all just food,” she remarked, unimpressed. “Where’s the fashion?”

Eager to convince her, I replied, “I can write about fashion, music—everything!” But she remained unconvinced. Then she asked for a pitch deck detailing my vision for the blog. After a moment of panic, I returned to my office, grabbed some paper, and began to sketch my ideas. A few hours later, I had mapped out the entire blog concept. I reached out to a friend who was an art director, and he transformed my scribbles into wireframes, complete with the content I had crafted. Two days after submitting the pitch, I received the job offer.

A similar experience unfolded during my final interview for my Dubai job. The company's Senior Vice President asked me what story of Nigeria I would tell for an exhibition experience. She mentioned I could take a few days to think it over and that a simple word document would suffice. “I just want to see how you think,” she said.

I called my friend Ayo and headed over to his house to brainstorm. I’ll never forget that day: he was pacing around shirtless, his dreads tucked into a Jamaican-flag-colored beanie. “Nigeria is a mad house,” he mused—where do you even start”? After hours of brainstorming, every idea felt either cliché or not quite right. As he paced, deep in thought, he suddenly exclaimed, “Do you know how big this place is? There are 180 million people in this country.”

Then, like a spark in the dark, it hit me. “180 million people, 180 million opportunities.” Ayo’s expression shifted, a light dawning in his eyes. We shared that unspoken agreement—this idea had potential. The story would celebrate the endless opportunities within Nigeria, and the design would take the form of a maze, with each zigzag representing a different sector.

I created a deck with bold and powerful visuals that brought my vision to life. On the submission date, I sent it in and got the offer the very next day. I’m not sure a simple word document could have truly captured the essence of my idea or showcased the depth of my creativity. Going the extra mile—brainstorming with a friend and presenting it compellingly—was crucial. I became the first hire of the department, and soon after, it became a requirement for every storyteller and designer to create a pitch deck as part of the interview process. Ayo was later invited to interview and craft a story for Somalia, and we brainstormed together again, knowing that one great idea could change everything for him. He ended up getting the job and still works there to this day.

I am a witness to the power of creativity. Like a river, it can carry you further than you ever imagined—all you have to do is tap into its current. While it’s challenging, you can’t focus on what others are doing or creating; their journeys have nothing to do with yours. Your focus must remain on what you carry inside and how you can harness that when faced with problems or opportunities. Often, opportunities come wrapped in challenges—so how can you ensure that your creativity becomes the solution?

Each time I face uncertainty—whether presenting to government officials or embarking on a new project—I feel that familiar rush of fear. But instead of letting it paralyze me, I embrace the moment, leaning into my creativity to uncover solutions in unexpected places. My creativity is like a trusted companion, always ready to step forward as long as I nurture it. It’s the spark that illuminates the path through chaos, transforming obstacles into opportunities. When I collaborate with others, like my friend Ayo, that shared spark ignites something even greater, reminding me that together, our creativity is a powerful force, capable of achieving the extraordinary.

So, as you navigate your journey, remember: the true magic lies not just in the act of creation but in trusting your creative instincts. Embrace the fear, lean into your challenges, and let your creativity guide you. It’s a formidable ally that can take you to places you never imagined possible.

Creative Practice

Affirmation Exercise:

Repeat these affirmations aloud each day:

I am a creative thinker, and my ideas matter

My creativity is limitless

Creative inspiration follows me wherever I go

Write them down: Jot these affirmations on a sticky note and place it where you can see it daily.

Feel the power: As you repeat them, allow yourself to truly believe in your creative potential.

Recommended Reading

“Living life as an artist is a practice.
You are either engaging in the practice
or you’re not.

It makes no sense to say you’re not good at it.
It’s like saying, “I’m not good at being a monk.”
You are either living as a monk or you’re not.

We tend to think of the artist’s work as the output.

The real work of the artist
is a way of being in the world.”
― Rick Rubin

Thank you for reading/listening.

Speak next week.

xoxo,

Nicole

Writing these letters every week doesn’t always feel like a walk in the park. Some weeks, the words pour out of me like water from a fountain, flowing freely. But other weeks, like this one, the water slows to a crawl—each drop deliberate, almost heavy, echoing in the quiet. Yet, when I push past the fear that inspiration may never visit again, the drip quickens. It doesn’t always gush like a torrent, but the flow always returns.

Still, I often approach these newsletters with a sense of scarcity. Days after publishing one, a quiet panic begins to build—What will you say next? the thoughts whisper. You’ve run out of ideas, they taunt. By Monday, the drip stops completely, and I find myself staring into a creative drought. I have nothing left to say, my mind insists, and sometimes, I find myself in agreement.

At a party recently, someone asked me why I write these letters. Her curiosity was genuine, her question simple: Why do you do it? My answer, however, was far from clear: Umm, just to, you know, keep writing, give people something to reflect on, maybe build a community? Even I wasn’t convinced. Her polite silence echoed my uncertainty, and soon we shifted to an easier topic—my skincare routine.

The funny thing is, when I started this, I knew exactly why I was doing it. The why was simple—why not? In a world full of voices and opinions, the one voice you must hear above all others is your own, especially that inner voice pulling you away from fear and back onto the path of purpose. But as we move along our creative paths, losing sight of that purpose is easy. What should have been a winding, intricate journey can suddenly feel like a maze of confusion, breeding panic and doubt. The creative road may never be straight, but practicing creativity should always lead to a deeper understanding of who you are and why what you create matters.

My faith has taught me to react differently to the narrative playing in my head. I’ve come to realize that the voice of panic isn’t my own. I know it’s not God’s voice either. It’s also not just some vague negativity—it’s the enemy’s voice. What makes it so deceptive is that it sounds exactly like mine. Sometimes, I wish the devil’s voice was coarse and raspy, as ugly as everything he represents. But in reality, his voice is smooth, familiar, slipping into my thoughts unnoticed. How many times have I mistaken his voice for my own? Every self-limiting belief, every word of doubt, every discouraging thought—it wasn’t me. It was him.

There’s a powerful sermon by T.D. Jakes called “Cover Your Head.” That sermon altered my thinking forever. In it, Jakes warns of a war, a war fought in our minds. “Cover your head,” he shouts, with the helmet of salvation, because the enemy’s battleground is our thoughts. He plants ideas meant to destroy us, distract us, and pull us away from God’s plan for our lives. I’ve shared that sermon with more people than I can count because it made me realize something crucial—it’s not just my battle. It’s everyone’s. We are all walking targets; none of us are immune. But if you’re wise enough to cover your head daily, you’ll live to fight another day.

I believe creativity should flow freely, like an endless fountain, but often, the war in our minds blocks that flow. It’s the mud of destructive thoughts, the confusion of which voice to trust. This battle keeps us from realizing the dreams waiting on the other side.

The first step in discerning whose voice you’re listening to is to start paying attention. On average, a person has around 6,200 thoughts a day—about 6.5 thoughts a minute. If that’s true, how many of those thoughts are good ones? And how often are we tracking where our minds wander?

The day after hearing that sermon, I made a conscious decision to start monitoring my thoughts. Later that day, standing in line at the grocery store, I watched two little girls playing with their dad as he paid for groceries. One of them was sitting in the trolley, and the other wanted to join her. The dad lifted her in, then added the groceries. It was a sweet moment, and everyone in the line, including me, smiled knowingly at how hard it must be to shop with two little girls.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice as clear as day said, You’re never going to have that. I winced, startled. What? As the family moved away, I realized I’d heard that voice before—many times—but had never challenged it. Later, I journaled and prayed, recognizing that my unlucky love life had fed that thought. But how long had the enemy planted that idea, and worse, how deeply had I believed it?

Now, I actively reject those thoughts and replace them with something stronger. I turn to scripture. When I hear You’ll never find love again or You’ll never have a family, I respond with Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

And just like that, the battle ends. God’s word always silences the enemy’s because His word is built on a foundation of truth, while the enemy, as we all know, is a complete and utter liar. How many lies have we allowed into our stories about who we are and what we can or cannot do? How many have kept us from starting, from continuing, from finishing? This is your sign—STOP LETTING THE ENEMY WIN. I’m shouting this at you and at myself. We all need to hear this message. It’s an open secret that we’re at war, but we drift through our days, wondering why we feel lost or low. It’s time to wake up to reality—you are under attack. This isn’t to scare you, but to shake you into awareness.

YOLO, they say, and it’s often tied to adventure and fun. But YOLO is also a warning cry—an undeniable truth for every single person. No matter where you’re from, how much money you have, or how healthy you are—you only live once. So, knowing this, how can we continue to act like we have unlimited time to chase our dreams? How long will you let the voice in your head—one that isn’t even yours—dictate how you spend your limited days on Earth?

We often underestimate the impact of what we create, thinking it’s just for us. But the truth is, what you create has the power to outlive you. It can inspire generations, spark new conversations, and reshape the way people think and live. The bigger picture is far beyond your imagination. So start something, and don’t let the enemy fool you into believing there’s a drought. The source to turn the water back on is within you. Be still enough to hear your inner voice, patient enough to wait for the drip, and trust enough to know that, in time, the flow will follow.

Creative Practice

The Drip-to-Flow Exercise

After reading the newsletter, try this simple practice to jump-start your creativity:

1. Set a Timer for 10 Minutes
   Sit in a quiet space with a blank page in front of you (digital or physical). Allow yourself to write without overthinking or judging your ideas. If nothing comes immediately, simply write whatever thoughts pass through your mind—even if it’s just, I don’t know what to write. This is your "drip."

2. Spot the Flow
   After the timer goes off, review what you’ve written. You might notice a small idea or phrase that stands out—something with potential. This is your "trickle."

3. Build on It
   Spend another 10 minutes expanding on that single idea. Let your mind wander and see where it takes you, without worrying about perfection. Watch as the "flow" begins to take shape.

4. Celebrate the Process
   The goal is not to finish something perfect but to recognize that creativity often starts as a drip and turns into a flow when you trust the process.

Recommended Reading

An excerpt - “Resistance’s goal is not to wound or disable. Resistance aims to kill. Its target is the epicenter of our being: our genius, our soul, the unique and priceless gift we were put on earth to give and that no one else has but us. Resistance means business. When we fight it, we are in a war to the death”.

Drops mic.

See you next week!

xoxo,

Nicole

There’s a scene—one of the most powerful I’ve ever witnessed—from the show Maid. The protagonist, weighed down by deep depression, spends her days lying on the couch, time blurring as days and nights dissolve into one. Then one day, as she sinks deeper into the cushions, something unexpected happens: she slips into the sofa and falls into an endless black hole. I remember watching in disbelief, wondering how this could happen in a drama so raw and real, not some fantastical sci-fi world. The scene was jarring, but at the same time, it was painfully accurate in its portrayal of depression.

Have you ever been in a rut so far from who you are and where you want to be that finding your way back seems impossible? I’ve been there many times, sinking into that familiar space. Yet, each time, I find a glimmer of hope—a word from God, a light that somehow pulls me back from the edge. And when I can finally breathe again, I realise the one thing keeping me afloat is creativity. When I don’t honour my gifts, my soul feels heavy, and slowly, the couch and I become one again. The cycle repeats.

It may seem strange to link creativity with happiness, but for me, they are inseparable. We, as human beings, were made to create. And yet, we often confine creativity to narrow definitions. But it’s everywhere—in the way you dress, in the spaces you inhabit, in the books you read, in the friends you keep, in the actions you take.

A friend of mine, who had been struggling with depression, found solace in pottery. As a scientist, her world was rooted in the clinical and the practical. Pottery was a departure—at first, she felt lost, unsure of herself. But each time she worked with the clay, something shifted. She felt lighter, more connected, as though her hands were guiding her back to herself. She used to say she wasn’t creative, and I would laugh, knowing she embodied creativity in everything she did—from her stunning sister locs to her quirky style and love for designer shoes. We are all creatives, though some of us live in that truth while others choose to deny it.

Someone once introduced me to the word ennui. I hadn’t heard it before, but it struck me—listlessness, a dissatisfaction stemming from a lack of purpose or excitement. How perfectly this word captured a feeling I’d known all too well. Many of us experience this, though we struggle to articulate why. In my experience, it arises when we neglect the things that truly feed our soul.

For me, one of those places is the Jazzhole, a cozy little bookshop and record store in Ikoyi. Whenever I step inside, I feel alive. It’s not the most up-to-date selection of books or records that draws me in, but the energy. The owners, a husband and wife duo, have poured over four decades of passion into this space. It’s more than a store—it’s a legacy. And whenever I felt listless, I’d go there, sit, and listen as they bantered about life, politics, and everything in between. Within an hour, my creativity stirred, ready to be channeled into something—a new concept, a poem, a journal entry. Whatever felt right.

Creativity is a part of you, but it needs to be ignited. Like a fire, it doesn’t start on its own. No matter how much you think about it, wish for it, or pray for it, the spark remains dormant until you take action. I often wonder how much time I’ve spent in that limbo, thinking about creativity instead of practicing it.

Many of us find ourselves trapped in that space—our thoughts, fears, and doubts holding us back. We watch others practice their craft with what seems like ease and wonder why our own journey feels so different. This space drains our joy, leaving us with nothing to give.

One of my favourite quotes says, “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” You won’t feel creative or inspired until you get up, separate yourself from your thoughts, and begin. Every day, I am reminded that time waits for no one. It is fleeting, unapologetic, and sometimes harsh. We spend so much time thinking, but we need to spend more doing.

What’s the worst that could happen if you make time for your creativity? Have you ever stood in front of a piece of art and thought, Wow, that artist really shouldn’t have bothered? Of course not. Even if the piece doesn’t resonate with you, you still respect the artist’s act of creation. So why don’t we extend the same grace to ourselves? Why do we stop ourselves from creating, from seeing what might emerge?

Isn’t that what life is about? To try, fall, get up and try again?

So stop questioning the value of your creativity. Honour it. Let it flow without judgment or fear. The worst thing that can happen is that you create something that didn’t exist before.

Creative Practice

This week, challenge yourself to dedicate 60 minutes each day to a creative practice. Whether it’s something new each day or focusing on one project, make a commitment to yourself: set a time in your calendar and guard it fiercely. Let nothing come between you and that hour of creativity.

At the end of each session, check in with yourself. If you feel energized and want to keep going, let the momentum carry you. The goal is simple—honor your creativity by giving it the most valuable resource you have: time.

Recommended Reading

I recently read one of the articles called Reclaim Your Creative Confidence aloud to my friend Taiwo, and he felt both personally attacked and inspired. When a piece of writing can stir something so deeply within you, you know it’s something special.

Happy practicing.

xoxo,

Nicole

I’ve worn many hats in my decade as a creative professional. Some titles were given to me by jobs, while others I claimed for myself when the moment felt right—copywriter, creative director, creative strategist, stylist, creative producer, creative consultant, content manager, storyteller, and my personal favourite, narrative architect.

This might seem problematic to some, as there's often a desire to define oneself by just one or two roles. But the truth is, as a creative, it’s impossible to be confined to just one thing. Your primary income might come from a single source, but rest assured, your creativity can manifest in many forms. After all, the essence of creativity is its ability to be applied across various fields.

Recently, I updated my Instagram bio for the umpteenth time, declaring myself a Creative Powerhouse. Not long after, I was invited to speak on a panel by an organization, and to my surprise, I was introduced to the audience as exactly that—a Creative Powerhouse. Hearing someone else use the words I had chosen to describe myself made me realize the power in the names we give ourselves and the importance of embracing whatever it is we believe we are. If I were to meet you today and you introduced yourself as a creative techpreneur, I wouldn’t question the validity of your title. I’d accept it because that’s who you say you are.

Fear is a funny thing. It whispers secretly, telling you who you are not, but the outside world doesn't hear these inward conversations. They only see what you present to them. If that's the case, then surely, all we need to do is project who we know we are—or hope to be—and each day, strive to live up to the name we've claimed. It’s not about faking it until you make it; it’s about embodying your truth. The only thing that’s fake is fear itself. Where does it come from? Who says it’s true? Why do we keep giving it air time?

A friend recently visited my office to surprise me with her new book. She had quietly printed and self-published it and came to share a copy with me. I was so excited and in awe of her achievement, especially since she had kept it under wraps until now. As someone who overly documents my process of unfinished work, I found this incredibly inspiring. When I suggested she add the word "author" to her bio, she cringed. “I’m not a writer,” she said. “But you wrote a book,” I responded. Yet, this didn’t seem to resonate with her. She viewed the title of writer as something reserved for a select few—something she didn’t feel worthy of claiming, even after writing and publishing a book.

She also had no plans to sell the book, and I urged her to reconsider. There’s something about putting a price tag on your creativity that affirms its worth—you realize it’s not just something you do, but something valuable that should be paid for. A few days later, I saw that she had put the book up for sale. I smiled, knowing that this marked the beginning of her creative confidence and the silencing of the voice that told her she wasn’t a writer.

I wonder what would happen if, one day, we all collectively decided to ignore fear and do everything it told us we couldn’t. Would the earth keep rotating, or would it spin with newfound energy? Imagine all creatives fully owning their multi-powers, unleashing them with purpose, and using them for good. What kind of world would that be?

I like to think that’s how it was in the beginning—each day of creation, God showing up with unwavering intensity, painting the universe with bold strokes, coloring the skies with passion, drawing the contours of mountains with precision, and shading the hills with a delicate yet deliberate hand. There was no holding back, no hesitation, just pure, unrestrained creativity flowing from the source of all inspiration.

What if we tapped into that same fearless energy? It all comes down to ownership—you can either claim your gift with conviction or let it fade, encouraging others to overlook it too. If I appeared uncertain about my path, people might sense my doubt and suggest I explore something else. But when I speak confidently about what I do, it intrigues them, making them curious about my unique journey.

In truth, I didn’t carve this path alone; I followed the prompts along the way. Sometimes, these directions seemed so counterintuitive that I would argue with God—this can’t be right. Like the time I was told to move back to Nigeria. "This is where you’re meant to be right now," the voice inside me insisted. It made no sense, especially when I was thriving in Dubai. But there I was, on a walk, and the message was clearer than ever: The thing you’re looking for is here. Come home.

How many times have we betrayed that inner voice? How many times have we stubbornly forged ahead as if we were the ones who created the path, as if we knew what tomorrow held? The truth is, we don’t. But when we trust that inner prompting, that still, small voice guiding us—even when it defies logic—that’s when we truly own our gift. That’s when we step into the fullness of our creative power, not as mere followers of a predetermined path, but as co-creators of something much greater.

Yesterday morning, I received the news that my aunt had passed away. Out of all my father’s siblings, she was the last one I would have expected to go first. For years, my father’s illness has drawn the spotlight—there was even a time when we thought we were losing him because all the signs seemed to point that way. After hearing the news, I called him. His voice was slow and measured, “It is God’s plan,” he said quietly, repeating the words as if to reassure both of us.

I sat with his words, letting them sink in—a needed reminder that we do not hold the blueprint for this life. Who are we to meticulously plan our steps and paths when we don’t even know when our last day will come? It dawned on me that I am sometimes guilty of worshipping creativity, of idolizing the future rewards and recognition it might bring, rather than relishing the daily gift of practice itself, regardless of the outcome.

If we find joy in the process instead of fixating on the outcome, it won’t matter when that time comes. We’ll know we didn’t waste our days waiting for the big break but found fulfillment in the present moment, creating for creation’s sake. Life is fleeting, and the true reward lies in practicing and embracing the now, not in what might come tomorrow.

Often, when we hesitate to embrace who we are or shy away from claiming the titles we’ve earned, it’s not just fear—it’s ego. We worry about how others will perceive us, fearing they’ll think we’re too full of ourselves. Ego disguises itself as humility, when really, it’s just another form of pride. We don’t want to risk being seen as arrogant. “Creative Powerhouse? Who do you think you are?” Fear sneers. But I don’t engage with that voice. Instead, I reclaim the narrative, writing it boldly in my bio, making it real, declaring it to the world without apology.

And tomorrow, if I feel it no longer captures all the layers of who I am, I’ll change it. Because each day, each project, adds a new dimension to my identity—something too expansive to be summed up in just one title.

The journey of self-definition is ongoing, and I’ll continue to embrace each chapter as it comes, unafraid to rewrite the script as I grow.

Creative Practice

Grab a pen and paper and write down all the ways you secretly want to describe yourself. Choose your favourite, and start introducing yourself this way whenever the opportunity arises. Then, craft a new bio for yourself using key words that truly encapsulate the work you do and the unique value you bring.

Recommended Reading

If anyone knows how to claim who she is, it’s Bozoma Saint John.

xo,

Nicole

I braced myself for his advice, as I knew I probably wouldn't like what he was about to say. "In order to be taken seriously, you must present yourself as a serious person," he advised. As he spoke, I couldn't help but wonder if he saw me as some sort of clown, complete with a bright red nose, overdrawn lips, and a wild orange afro. "This meeting is your first impression. Make sure it's a good one," he continued, while the clown in my head danced around the room.

I've always possessed this unique ability to detach during conversations—my body present but my mind wandering. Early on, I learned that words can cut deep, lingering and replaying in my mind long after they're spoken, embedding themselves into my thoughts and actions. So, perhaps as some kind of defence mechanism, I learned how to be there yet not fully —taking what I need and leaving the rest.

"Your aunty Peace from the village has a shop that sells beautiful workwear," he said, wrapping up our conversation. "Go there, pick some professional clothes and I'll pay for them," he finished, scribbling her address and phone number on a piece paper and handing it to me.

Aunty Peace's store was exactly as I had imagined—filled with oversized, unflattering skirt suits and dresses that made me want to both laugh and cry. I sifted through the clothes, certain I wouldn't be caught dead in any of them. Then, in the corner of the room, I spotted a brown leather bag adorned with beautiful cream tassels. "What's that?" I asked, my interest suddenly piqued. As God would have it, the price was right within the budget he had set for my "shopping spree." Aunty Peace and I quickly came to an understanding—what my dad didn't know couldn't hurt him. I walked out of her store with a stunning new handbag and our little secret.

At the time, my parents lived in Abuja while the agency was in Lagos, so thankfully, there was no way my dad could see what I chose to wear to the meeting. I can't recall the exact outfit I ended up wearing, but it was undoubtedly something colorful, easy, and free—just like my personality. What I distinctly remember is walking up the steps to the creative director's office while a Biggie song played loudly through the speakers of an open-plan office. As I followed the receptionist down the hallway, I noticed everyone at their desks—working, chilling, and nodding along to the rap music. The office was full of young people -  all dressed casually  - a sea of jeans and graphic T-shirts, braids and dreadlocks, basically, people who looked like me.  Right then, I knew I had found my tribe.

I'm certain that if I had worn one of Aunty Peace’s ill-fitted skirt suits, following my father’s advice, I wouldn’t have landed that job. And that is because being a creative requires you to show up as exactly who you are and no one else.

I also realised that my father had never experienced a work environment like the one I encountered that day. As an engineer, he was accustomed to a certain type of setting, so his advice was limited to his experiences. It wasn't bad advice; it just wasn't the right advice for me. This realization marked the beginning of seeing my parents in a more human light, recognizing that they couldn't provide me with everything. It underscored the importance of charting my own path, even if it meant looking like a clown while doing it.

Yesterday, I got pink ‘million braids’ installed. I had debated the color for a few weeks before finally settling on a blend of pink and silver. "Why that mix?" my friend curiously asked. "Because it goes better with my skin tone," I replied seriously. She burst into laughter, remarking that we must be from different planets and how, of course, I could pull off pink hair—a feat she'd never dare attempt. I relished that distinction. I enjoy knowing that there are things only a certain type of person, or just I, would do. To be honest, I don't know anyone in my age group who would wake up and decide on pink micro twists. I've danced to the beat of my own drum for so long, and it's evident in everything from the design of my apartment to the clothes I wear and the hairstyles I choose to adorn on any given day.

But beyond the physical aspects, which are relatively superficial, the true essence of this story lies in identity—the unique ones we each possess. My father’s identity is his own; he needed to wear a suit to embody the seriousness of his work, the integrity of his climb to the top, and his understandable desire to be respected. This attire represented his commitment and the values he upheld in his professional journey, and he hoped to pass that legacy down to me.

However, my identity is also distinctly my own, expressed through my freedom of being and my desire to dress as I feel in the moment without concern for others' approval, barely even noticing their judgments. This autonomy allows me to create authentically, without prejudice or fear of rejection—simply because I am being true to myself.

The most unfortunate thing we can do to ourselves as creatives is to try and be like someone else. While it's fine to admire someone’s journey, it’s crucial to recognize that theirs will always differ from yours. We all share similarities and can learn from others' successes and failures, but ultimately, your life is yours to navigate through both falls and recoveries. You are your own canvas, and you must paint the colors that feel true to you, no matter what. This authenticity and bravery to create exactly as you feel and desire is what will elevate you and distinguish you from the crowd. This approach ensures you thrive on your own terms, avoiding the pitfalls of becoming just another copycat or worse, someone your not.

All week, I pondered what to write about. As I admired my new braids in the mirror, my thoughts drifted back to that conversation with my dad from 13 years ago, when he advised me to start dressing like a ‘serious’ person. I knew at that moment that I had found the story for this week’s letter.

Before settling down to write, I face-timed my dad. His face filled the screen, his eyes widening in mild surprise. “Wow, your hair is pink!” he exclaimed, then laughed, shaking his head and smiling. Yes, it is,” I smiled back. And just like that, we drifted into other topics. The clown was nowhere to be found.

Over the years, by staying true to my unique expression, I've carved out my own path to success—different from his, but it has ultimately earned his respect. Along this journey, he has come to understand that our identities and paths are distinct. Although he may never fully grasp the rhythm of my drum, I know he is proud to see that I'm still happy, still dancing to my own beat.

Creative Practice

This week, pay close attention to how you show up in different rooms. Do you want to speak up but find yourself swallowing the words? Is there an outfit you really want to wear but instead choose something more acceptable or safe? Notice the people around you—are there those who bring out the real you and others who bring out a different version? Take time to journal your thoughts and reflections on these observations. Make a conscious decision to show up as your authentic self, no matter what. Embrace your true colors and let your unique light shine.

Recommended Reading

This came highly recommended by my friend, Maz. I’m only a chapter in but I can already tell it’s one of those books that will stay with me for a very long time.

Speak soon.

xoxo,

Nicole

I spent my lunch breaks at my new job crying silently in the bathroom. My puffy eyes were a giveaway, so I told some of my new colleagues that I had allergies. One morning, one of them dropped some allergy medication on my desk. “So you don’t keep suffering” she said. “Trust me, they work like magic” she promised, smiling.

"Thank you," I whispered, as hot tears nearly betrayed my act. I wished in that moment there was a magic pill I could take and be rid of the dread that filled me each morning. Even the over-the-counter antidepressants my sister bought me didn’t seem to have much of an effect. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep until the nightmare had ended and for my life to return back to normal.

My journal entries during that time were filled with cries to God asking him questions, accusing him of abandoning me and begging him to save me. I awaited the kind of grand gesture seen in movies—my ex appearing at my doorstep or my job, begging my friends to help him reach out, anything that might persuade me to reconsider. But none of that happened. I readied my heart to forgive him, yet there were no frantic knocks, no missed calls, no heartfelt letters—nothing.

The last time I saw him, I went to go get my things from the apartment we barely got to share and he could barely look at me. The air was thick with the stench of his shame. As I sensed this would be our final goodbye, I asked for one last hug. He complied, and in my arms, he began to weep. Holding him as he cried, I found myself consoling him. "It's okay," I whispered. "You'll be okay." I reassured him.

The days stretched into weeks, and the reassurance I had offered to him seemed distant and unreachable. Nothing felt okay, and everything had changed. I remember confiding in my god-sister, who assured me, "In a year, you'll feel much better. Just give it time." A year? I was alarmed. The thought of enduring this pain for another year shook me to my core; I didn't know if I had the strength. In truth, it took longer than a year—maybe two, perhaps even three, if I’m being completely honest. Even now, recalling that pain momentarily takes my breath away. I stopped writing this many times, wondering if I was re-opening a long healed wound or oversharing. Does the internet really need to know all of these details? I still don’t know that the answer is yes but there was a nudge for me to continue, to be open, to let the light in, reminding me that it isn’t a secret but rather part of my life story and mine to share if I want to.

Three months into my new job, an announcement came that all government workers would receive a bonus in honor of the late Sheikh Zayed's 100th year. I wondered if I, still on probation, would be eligible. A few days later, I received a credit alert equivalent to $5000—the most money I had ever received at once, and entirely unexpected. It was hard to grasp the concept of a country rewarding its citizens and residents for their late leader's birthday. In thirty years as a Nigerian, I had never received a damn thing from my government. Suddenly, I understood why people adorned their screensavers with the Sheikh's face—not for the money, but for the genuine care and meaning being a citizen held. I gained a newfound respect for the country that would be my home for the next five years.

Later that day, after my usual weeping session, the desire to leave Dubai overwhelmed me. The city had become a symbol of my pain, and I craved the freedom to breathe, think, and even scream, far from everything that reminded me of my sorrow. At my laptop, I searched for "best writing retreats in the world" and browsed the top results, including a list of 20 luxury retreats from a travel website. None grabbed my attention until I stumbled upon 'Wide Open Writing'. The site greeted me with a stunning image of the Tuscan hills, the most beautiful I had ever seen. A testimonial caught my eye, promising, "If you can get here, it will change your life."

Desperate for my life to change, I clicked through the pages, each photo affirming this would be the start of my healing journey. Reaching the payment section, the tears came back, ten fold. The cost was just under $5,000. At that moment, I knew it was no coincidence, and I would use my bonus to travel to distant Italy to pursue the only thing I loved more than my ex-boyfriend — writing.

On the first day of the retreat, we sat in a circle overlooking the Tuscan hills, a cauldron positioned intriguingly in the center. The writing coach asked us to jot down things we'd like others to know about us. After sharing these snippets, she took the exercise deeper: write what you don't want anyone to know. Laughter mixed with nervousness as pens slowed down. One by one, we then shared these hidden truths. The first woman revealed how she cries every night for her late husband while her new husband sleeps; another confessed her struggle with alcoholism. Amidst shared tears, it became clear—we were all broken in one way or the other, hoping that we would find healing by writing.

Inspired by Robert Frost’s words, "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader," I realized our pain made us better writers. The session ended with us writing down what we wanted to let go. The coach lit the cauldron, and we burned the things holding us hostage and then danced freely around the fire. Throwing my pain into the flames, I danced for the first time, without care of how I looked or who was watching. At that moment, 30 years old and newly single, far from home, friends, and family – I finally met myself.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if my ex had shown up at my doorstep and begged for my forgiveness. How much my light would have dimmed knowing I would have to live in the shadows of the trust he had broken. I know for a fact that I would never have booked that writer’s retreat. Instead, I would have used the money for a couple's vacation—something to do with us—and never once considered putting myself first.

Now, when disappointments come my way, I don't dwell in sorrow for too long. I know that God is a master chess player, and what may seem unfavorable at the moment is often a strategic move for my ultimate good.

I am embracing life's dual nature—the intertwining of joy with grief, contentment with loneliness, pain with love. I imagine life is like an ocean. Through each wave, I hope that our creativity remains the steadfast thread, always drawing us back to shore.

Creative Practice

Write down what you don’t want anyone to know about you. Be as honest as possible. Now, spend some time asking yourself why you don’t want anyone to know these things and what would happen if people do. You may find that you’re holding on to things that you don’t need to.

Call someone you trust and share something that scares you. In practicing vulnerability, you are practicing creative courage.

Spend time journalling how this exercise made you feel.

Play one of your favourite songs as loud as you can and dance like no one is watching.

Recommended Reading

A gem of a book. There’s also Big Magic podcast that is worth listening to.

Xo,

Nicole