Yes. Everyone loves the hero/martyr. Except the person wearing the cape or being nailed at the cross. We put on the cape and we hammer the nails in, first our feet, then the one hand, and then we hang, awkwardly, one arm swinging free.
You are enough. Your body is enough. Your mind, too. And your spirit. You have nothing to prove. Success, or lack thereof, is neither moral nor immoral.
Take that free hand and start pulling out the nails. Then untie that cape.
Let life unfold, and stop saving your delights, your joys.
This genuinely is the answer re: what resonated!!!!
(IVE COPY AND PASTED MOST OF UR POST!!!! And made spaces but yeah genuinely couldn’t begin fk express and also didn’t want to avoid expressing in this very …. Well it doesn’t feel very insightful fo copy and paste ur whole post to be like “This resonates!!!! “ - except …. THIS IS LITERALLY THE TRUTH so yes. Thank u so very much for writing this. I’m hoping the fact that I can’t get it out of my head help me with my CPTSD ocd time based terror (baseline for me lol) this evening - thank u so much much much xxxxx
💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨****** ALL OF THIS BELOW. I resonated thank u for ur writing!!!***** ✨✨✨💖💖💖💖💖
“This is who I am. Who would I be if I wasn't the hero? If I wasn't the eldest daughter of Nigerian immigrants? I cannot even imagine that person. I have succeeded in transforming into the overgiver I was raised to become.
I am the answer to that immigrant question. Why would two young adults leave their home, their family, and everything that they knew for an intangible, uncertain outcome? “For my future”, I whisper to myself. A phrase that has been repeatedly echoed throughout my life.
There is a legacy of self-sacrifice that runs through my veins in my body; it is an exhausting debt that I feel compelled to repay. The debt is unspoken, but it is loud, ever-present and binding. It has already broken me and I am in a state of repair.
It is my daily work to fight against this urge that sits within my bones- to continually pour from emptiness. If I’m lucky, I might not just repair myself; maybe I can be reborn.
Grandma Alice gave it to her daughter, Abosede. Abosede gave it to her daughter, Omolara. However, Omolara will not give it to Idara. All of us eldest daughters. It will end here.
I refuse to break my daughter in the name of tradition.
Sometimes, my mind wanders from the “do” list to the “dream” list. These momentary, fleeting thoughts forcefully push their way into my psyche. They are flashes—still pictures—of what life would look like if I stopped doing so much. Honestly, I get annoyed by these delusions of peace because they slow me down.
I have children to over-parent, parents to over-protect, a business to overwork, a body to over-exercise and then forget to nurture, and a soul to under-love. Sometimes, I linger there, recognizing everything I need to change.
I use the work to distract from those moments of self-advocacy. If not, I would have to grieve, and then I would have to change.
That won’t happen, though. There's always one more errand to run, one more meal to cook, one more question to answer, one more call to make, one more friend to comfort and one more meeting to plan.
But there isn't one more of this life to live.
“There's only this one”, I remind myself.
And despite everything, I must find myself.
I see her. She's there treading water. At times, she goes under the waves and I worry if she will rise up for air.
She keeps looking around, waiting for someone to save her. Then she looks down, realizing that her feet can reach the floor.
She realizes there is no one else necessary. She actually can stand, if she can just take a few moments to focus on herself. There is no lifeguard necessary, just courage to live her life
The one she was called to live, not the one she was coerced to live.
She screams at the top of her lungs in silence.
“Slowly, she rises to her feet, realizing the waves are man-made.
She doesn't have to succumb.” (this in particular felt fucking revelatory as an isolated image I’d love to keep in my brain- like I RLY resonate with this as a stand-alone for many reasons I can’t articulate)
She only has to speak up…for herself, for her body, for her mind, and for her future.
A history of self-sacrifice replaced by a legacy of self-preservation.
She smiles and lies back down.
She will not be attacked but highly praised by her descendants for this action. It was their gift.””
Your story and what you are living through is so powerful. I am so happy that my words resonated with you and allow you to continue pushing through- which actually may look lie rest sometimes. Sending you so much love.
Thank you for your internal scope.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read it!
Yes. Everyone loves the hero/martyr. Except the person wearing the cape or being nailed at the cross. We put on the cape and we hammer the nails in, first our feet, then the one hand, and then we hang, awkwardly, one arm swinging free.
You are enough. Your body is enough. Your mind, too. And your spirit. You have nothing to prove. Success, or lack thereof, is neither moral nor immoral.
Take that free hand and start pulling out the nails. Then untie that cape.
Let life unfold, and stop saving your delights, your joys.
I love this so much. Slowly by surely taking off all the things that bind us. This is beautiful, Micaela.
This genuinely is the answer re: what resonated!!!!
(IVE COPY AND PASTED MOST OF UR POST!!!! And made spaces but yeah genuinely couldn’t begin fk express and also didn’t want to avoid expressing in this very …. Well it doesn’t feel very insightful fo copy and paste ur whole post to be like “This resonates!!!! “ - except …. THIS IS LITERALLY THE TRUTH so yes. Thank u so very much for writing this. I’m hoping the fact that I can’t get it out of my head help me with my CPTSD ocd time based terror (baseline for me lol) this evening - thank u so much much much xxxxx
💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨****** ALL OF THIS BELOW. I resonated thank u for ur writing!!!***** ✨✨✨💖💖💖💖💖
“This is who I am. Who would I be if I wasn't the hero? If I wasn't the eldest daughter of Nigerian immigrants? I cannot even imagine that person. I have succeeded in transforming into the overgiver I was raised to become.
I am the answer to that immigrant question. Why would two young adults leave their home, their family, and everything that they knew for an intangible, uncertain outcome? “For my future”, I whisper to myself. A phrase that has been repeatedly echoed throughout my life.
There is a legacy of self-sacrifice that runs through my veins in my body; it is an exhausting debt that I feel compelled to repay. The debt is unspoken, but it is loud, ever-present and binding. It has already broken me and I am in a state of repair.
It is my daily work to fight against this urge that sits within my bones- to continually pour from emptiness. If I’m lucky, I might not just repair myself; maybe I can be reborn.
Grandma Alice gave it to her daughter, Abosede. Abosede gave it to her daughter, Omolara. However, Omolara will not give it to Idara. All of us eldest daughters. It will end here.
I refuse to break my daughter in the name of tradition.
Sometimes, my mind wanders from the “do” list to the “dream” list. These momentary, fleeting thoughts forcefully push their way into my psyche. They are flashes—still pictures—of what life would look like if I stopped doing so much. Honestly, I get annoyed by these delusions of peace because they slow me down.
I have children to over-parent, parents to over-protect, a business to overwork, a body to over-exercise and then forget to nurture, and a soul to under-love. Sometimes, I linger there, recognizing everything I need to change.
I use the work to distract from those moments of self-advocacy. If not, I would have to grieve, and then I would have to change.
That won’t happen, though. There's always one more errand to run, one more meal to cook, one more question to answer, one more call to make, one more friend to comfort and one more meeting to plan.
But there isn't one more of this life to live.
“There's only this one”, I remind myself.
And despite everything, I must find myself.
I see her. She's there treading water. At times, she goes under the waves and I worry if she will rise up for air.
She keeps looking around, waiting for someone to save her. Then she looks down, realizing that her feet can reach the floor.
She realizes there is no one else necessary. She actually can stand, if she can just take a few moments to focus on herself. There is no lifeguard necessary, just courage to live her life
The one she was called to live, not the one she was coerced to live.
She screams at the top of her lungs in silence.
“Slowly, she rises to her feet, realizing the waves are man-made.
She doesn't have to succumb.” (this in particular felt fucking revelatory as an isolated image I’d love to keep in my brain- like I RLY resonate with this as a stand-alone for many reasons I can’t articulate)
She only has to speak up…for herself, for her body, for her mind, and for her future.
A history of self-sacrifice replaced by a legacy of self-preservation.
She smiles and lies back down.
She will not be attacked but highly praised by her descendants for this action. It was their gift.””
Your story and what you are living through is so powerful. I am so happy that my words resonated with you and allow you to continue pushing through- which actually may look lie rest sometimes. Sending you so much love.