I built my world around you, every cup of tea a promise to honor your stubborn memory.
Though our time together was short as your temper, I couldn’t imagine being with anybody else after.
That’s the thing about love— it doesn’t just leave. It lingers, even when it hurts, like the smell of smoke knitted into your favorite sweater, or the hum of a song you can’t bear to remember.
This city isn’t the same since you left. The streets feel larger, as though they’ve significantly stretched to persuade me out of searching for you.
Your name sits in my throat, stubborn and soft, like honey: too thick to swallow, too sweet to forget.
There’s a kind of quiet that only comes with uncertainty—a strange, almost comforting fog that rolls in when you’re standing at a crossroad, feeling as though you could step in any direction—or choose to stay right where you are. Maybe I was waiting for something, hoping that if I held still long enough, the right answer would find me. But life doesn’t always present you with a clear path forward. It keeps you in that fog, where each step feels as unsure as the last, and each decision—big or small—takes you further from the safety of everything you know.
In a way, it’s like floating between worlds. When you don’t know what’s next, you’re both nowhere and everywhere. That space between here and there makes everything seem both possible and impossible at once. But then fear starts to linger—the fear that if you make the wrong move, you’ll be lost forever. That fear has kept me rooted, motionless, more times than I’d like to admit.
Sitting in the Fog of Doubt
The first thing uncertainty does to us is that it strips away everything familiar. It leaves us exposed, sitting there with nothing but the questions we’re too afraid to ask yourself. We feel the weight of all the choices you’ve made and the choices we haven’t made yet, and of the lives we could have led if we have chosen a different way. And there’s an undeniable fear—not the fear of failure, but the fear of making a decision we cannot undo, of stepping forward and realising that the ground beneath us isn’t solid.
“The first thing uncertainty does to us is that it strips away everything familiar. It leaves us exposed, sitting there with nothing but the questions we’re too afraid to ask yourself.”
Carl Jung (1968) proposes that this experience forces us to tap into the process of individuation, where we embark on a journey toward becoming a whole, perhaps a more authentic self. In moments of uncertainty, we are often confronted with the disintegration of the persona we wear at work, in social settings, and even around our families—forcing us to reckon with the parts of ourselves that we’ve buried. This confrontation with the unknown reflects the disorientation one feels in the fog of doubt, where there is an inner tension between holding onto familiar roles and embracing the unknown that comes with new choices.
We often choose to wait in the midst of chaos. We convince ourselves that staying still is the safest option, that we’re being cautious, responsible. But deep down, we know it’s just an excuse to avoid making a choice. The fog becomes comforting, a place where we can putter without having to answer for anything. Yet, the longer we stay there, the heavier it feels, like a weight pressing down, reminding us that waiting isn’t the same as moving forward. Sooner or later, we begin to challenge our decision to wait.
“In moments of uncertainty, we are often confronted with the disintegration of the persona we wear at work, in social settings, and even around our families—forcing us to reckon with the parts of ourselves that we’ve buried.”
The Illusion of Control
There’s a certain comfort in convincing ourselves that it’s the circumstances, not our choices, that are keeping us where we are, on a personal or collective consciousness level. We shrug and say “It wasn’t meant to happen,” or “It simply didn’t work out”, and for a moment it feels easier to let that uncertainty carry the weight of our lives. But by refusing to choose, we’re still making a choice. We’re choosing to forfeit control, to aimlessly move along and hope that life will somehow decide for us. That it’ll eventually pan out just the way it’s supposed to.
Erik Erikson (1959) states that the transition from adolescence to adulthood represents the critical stage of the development of identity. He explains that adolescence is marked by the desire to fit in, to be validated by others, and to find our place in the world. But as we transition from childhood into adulthood, the fundamental challenge becomes moving from external validation to internal agency. It’s about not only taking, but accepting responsibility for the roles we consciously choose to play and the decisions we make. By refusing to make decisions, we defer our personal power and stunt our own growth. We remain stagnant in the adolescence of our psyche, unable to transition into adulthood and claim our role as authors of our own stories.
“As we transition from childhood into adulthood, the fundamental challenge becomes moving from external validation to internal agency. It’s about not only taking, but accepting responsibility for the roles we consciously choose to play and the decisions we make.”
Taking responsibility for our choices is, in fact, a hallmark of maturity. It’s in adulthood that we learn that life is not about waiting for permission or the validation of others, but about stepping forward and taking action—even when the outcome is uncertain. The power to shape our lives rests within us, not in the structures we often seek to blame—be it the metaphorical “parent,” society, or government.
Taking Back the Power to Choose
Eventually, we reach a point where the fog becomes unbearable. We realise that the only way to find clarity is to create it yourself. I found that the act of choosing, of simply deciding to move, was a kind of revolt. It is about refusing to be defined by fear. And in that moment, I discovered that the power to shape my own life had been mine all along. It wasn’t about knowing the right answer—it was about being willing to step forward, even if I didn’t know where the path would lead.
Some psychological research (Frankl, 2006) shows that people who take responsibility for their lives and their decisions are more likely to experience a sense of agency, control, and well-being. This aligns with the idea that responsibility is not just about making choices, but actively creating meaning in our lives. According to Viktor Frankl, in his book Man’s Search for Meaning, it is the ability to choose our attitude toward any circumstance that provides us with the ultimate freedom and purpose. In other words, even in the most uncertain and painful of moments, we have the power to choose our response—and in doing so, we reclaim ownership of our lives, stories and narratives.
Beyond What We Know and Don’t Know
As I began to wander the unknown in my own life, I had a chance to redefine myself, to let go of the narratives I had built around who I was and what I thought I needed. The fog was no longer something to fear, but a space where I could rewrite my story. In that space I found parts of myself that I had buried beneath layers of expectation and doubt. I discovered that the person I wanted to be wasn’t someone who waited for answers, but someone who created them.
In today’s world, the journey toward taking responsibility is urgently needed. So many individuals, as evidenced in both personal and collective societal trends, have not successfully transitioned from adolescence to adulthood. They continue to rely on external validation, waiting for others to tell them what to do or what to believe. But in a rapidly changing world, the inability to take responsibility for one’s choices—whether in the products we consume, the political decisions we make, or the stories we choose to believe—will only lead to a disservice to ourselves and to the societies we inhabit. We must recognise that adulthood, true adulthood, requires the courage to take action, to own our decisions, and to shape our narratives.
It takes courage to step into the unknown—to choose to act and not wait on the sidelines even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s a reminder that life isn’t meant to be lived in the comfort or safety of what we know, especially when there is so much at stake. It’s meant to be thoughtfully explored instead. Perhaps that’s the true purpose of it all: in wandering, no matter where we end up, we understand that we are the authors of our own lives, capable of building something truly meaningful out of nothing at all.
By embracing the responsibility of choosing our path, both individually and collectively, we can shift from passive observers of our lives to active participants. The fog of uncertainty may never fully dissipate, but through our choices, we have the power to navigate it, turning it from a barrier into an opportunity for growth.
“It takes courage to step into the unknown—to choose to act and not wait on the sidelines even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s a reminder that life isn’t meant to be lived in the comfort or safety of what we know, especially when there is so much at stake. It’s meant to be thoughtfully explored instead.”
References:
Carl Jung – Individuation
Jung, C.G., 1968. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. 2nd ed. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Jung, C.G., 1959. Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self. 2nd ed. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Erik Erikson – Psychosocial Development Theory
Erikson, E.H., 1950. Childhood and Society. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.
Erikson, E.H., 1980. Identity and the Life Cycle. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.
I’ve been made redundant about a dozen times. I’ve walked out of offices disheartened and frustrated, with a mind packed with things left unsaid. Each time, I left behind something I’d built—a project I poured my efforts into, a relationship that once mattered, an experience that no longer had a place—and I stepped out a little lighter, a little emptier. I’ve been reduced to a footnote in more organizations than I care to remember.
Redundancy convinces you that you are disposable, that your presence was convenient but ultimately unnecessary. It isn’t just about the loss of a paycheck or a schedule shuffle—it peels back your sense of worth, leaving you questioning everything you once believed about your adequacy and capabilities.
After a while, though, I began to see redundancy differently. It became a strange invitation to look closer at what I was building, and at the stories I’d told myself about what really mattered in a career. When the decision to let me go was made, I had to ask: What was left of me after leaving this place?
Put simply, redundancy forced me to step into something far more important: my own story. It provided me with something I hadn’t expected—space. Space to pause, reflect, and really look at what I wanted: the career I had been too afraid to pursue and quietly forgotten while sitting behind a desk from the hours of nine to five, helping somebody else get to where they wanted to be.
The Space Between Jobs
Ironically, even as redundancy removes you from one life, it opens the door to another. Each time I found myself without a job, I navigated the quiet space between endings and beginnings. In those spaces, I saw things I’d ignored before. The years spent building other people’s dreams. The parts of myself I’d buried beneath my “professional” persona.
Redundancy taught me a lot about accepting change by forcing me to question the narratives I’d built around success, stability, and self-worth. I began to understand that my worth wasn’t defined by any title or company. My worth was something I could carry with me, something rooted in who I am, rather than where I worked or what I spent my time there doing.
In those spaces between, I learned to see redundancy not as an end but as an opportunity to realign with my values, to question what I genuinely wanted. I had to redefine success in a way that wasn’t tied to a title or an office but to the work I found meaningful, the relationships I valued, and the skills I wanted to nurture.
Most importantly, redundancy forced me to sit at a table where nobody else’s opinion mattered. The bottom line? I found that what I really, really wanted to do was write. So, now, that’s precisely what I do. Not because it’s safe and expected, but because it’s the one thing that feels true to who I am. It feels less like a choice and more like the only thing that was always meant to be.
There are some things women only learn in their kitchens / how to hold knives / how to slice with one, sharp cut / how to salt a dish playfully / and how to dance from the table to the fridge to the cutting board to the sink and dance right back just to rinse and repeat / pay more attention to your mother when she does it and you’ll learn things not even the greatest chefs can teach you / because its their secret
My mother taught me the art of making coffee / that you cannot rush the process / that you must pour water into a French press then wait some calculated seconds for it to bloom / then add more water and wait some more and it goes on and on and on…
My mother taught me home is the place you carry like perfume carries memory / it is where you learn your favorite recipes / where you walk the streets blindly without needing directions
My mother taught me diaspora is lonely / it is forgetting to pray like your father taught you / it is calling your landline back home at three in the morning just to hear a familiar voice / comforting you in a language foreign to everybody else around you / it is translating and translating and translating till your native tongue feels strange / it is befriending loss because tickets to weddings and funerals cost too much / it is grieving what you remember and grieving what you forget / it is pretending this place could be enough / pretending you don’t notice the question behind the question: but where are you really from?
My mother taught me home isn’t the place you come from or where you’re going / that it has been next to me from the very beginning / home is: everywhere she is and heaven is somewhere beneath her feet.
There will be days when I love you completely, when everything I say to you comes out sweet at honey, when I can’t stop telling you how much I hate being away, how much I’d rather be with you, have my arms around you while we cook together in your kitchen, or curl up in your bed on a cold, rainy afternoon, with a cup of tea, the cats nearby, and nothing else to do.
There will be days when my heart splits open, like a pomegranate in your palms, when my bones ache for you around, when I cannot carry on my afternoon without hearing your voice on the phone first.
There will be days when I fall for you repeatedly, minute after minute spent in your company, when I appear unannounced at your door, bearing a weight of love that exceeds all of your wildest expectations.
Dali 