You don't always get a sign. Sometimes, you just send the email and keep breathing. That night, after peeling off my borrowed dignity and soaking my hands in warm water, I sat with my notebook. I wasn't inspired. There was no revelation. No divine whisper. No beam of light from the ceiling. Just me.
Me and my stubby pen. Me and the ceiling fan slicing the silence. Me and a bowl of garri soaking beside my laptop. I opened the document I'd been working on for days.
A short piece. Honest. Sharp. Ugly.
Titled: "Things I Know About Failure."
It wasn't poetic. It didn't end in hope. It was just the truth—mine.
I hovered over the send button on my Gmail draft. The blog I was submitting to was small. Barely 800 followers on Instagram. No pay. No exposure. Just a quiet platform that sometimes posted real stories from real people. I wasn't expecting anything. I just needed the act—the motion—the proof that I was still trying. I clicked Send. And that was it. No thunder. No confetti. Just the inbox returning to stillness, like nothing had happened. But something had, because for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like a fraud. I didn't feel brilliant either, but I felt present. Like I existed. I sipped my garri. It was warm, watery, and slightly too sweet. I didn't care. It tasted like effort, and I thought, maybe this is what living is now. Not miracles. Not breakthroughs. Just small acts of rebellion against despair. Sending a story.
Replying a text. Washing your underwear.
Getting out of bed. Breathing and meaning it.
The next morning, I'd wake up to a rejection. Or silence. Or maybe, maybe, a quiet "We'd love to publish your piece." But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, the miracle was done. I had written. I had sent, and I was still here.