Sharon Mutanu
I have never seen snow with my very naked eyes, and moreso, never touched it with my bare hands. But I think I have felt what it's like to be in a freaking cold place. That place was this past Monday. Most Mondays really are blue, but this one? It was ice blue! I think I just underwent cryotherapy on that day.
It felt like we were being punished for something. Maybe insulting our president? Okay, no, I doubt that. Even God understands. Anyway, when some of you were succumbing to the cold by calling your exes or sneaky links, I survived and lived to see another day. A brighter day like today when I raise the curtains for a star to shine. She has been my friend for some time now, long enough to know that she writes on cloud nine as well as she writes on paper.
I didn't have to beg her, like some of you do in girls' inboxes, what a shame! Like a soldier in Call of Duty, she rose to the occasion, throwing a salute like the mind-blowing grenade she's about to throw in here. I would catch a grenade for her but, 'This life I can't kill maself oh!' Jokes. I'd catch it and do a 'Back to sender!'
I am not sure for how long we will be on the adulting series, but I will ride on that wave until there's no more sea to cover, or we sail into some pirates - saying we either stop or part with an eye. Arrr! Besides, I'm not the only one experiencing adulting, so it is only fun to bring my only fans—other writers who have their own tales to tell. (If you didn't see what I did there, you're going to heaven, straight past St. Peter.) And I am sure you'll be saying exactly what I have been saying all through her piece, "Aki I relate!"
So before the star burns me for standing for too long in its way, I shall now take my bow. And small disclaimer, Coca-Cola company did not pay for the Minute Maid adverts that will be repeatedly used as props in this piece. This is my way of saying, they should. Heh.
And I was not going to forget to address those who seek warmth in each other's arms this winter season. I have a methali for you:
Mwenda telezi na omo, marejeo ni...
*****
Adulthood, they said, would be a journey. What they didn’t say is that the journey would be on foot. In heels. During El Niño. With a bag full of bad decisions, unpaid bills, and soggy dreams.
I thought I was ready. Really, I did. I imagined myself living alone in a cute little apartment, probably with a small herb garden, a Pinterest-worthy kitchen, and a candle collection that smells like “calm” and “tax bracket upgrade.” The reality? I had no fridge, a tiny gas cooker that looked like it needed counseling, and a countertop that judged me every time I unwrapped yet another chocolate bar instead of chopping onions.
I lived on snacks. Biscuits, crisps, and Minute Maid. Bottled Minute Maid, like some bougie hydration queen who couldn’t commit to real juice because real juice goes bad. Unlike me, who stayed fresh and single. I went out by myself to fancy restaurants, sitting at corner tables like the mysterious heroine in a French film, sipping tea and pretending not to notice couples while secretly side-eyeing their body language for signs of mutual resentment. Those solo dates taught me to romanticize my own life. To be my own plus-one. To order the dessert and take my time with it, because healing, like tiramisu, should never be rushed.
But healing was hard when work felt like spiritual warfare. I worked at CCI, the land of artificial lighting and customer rage, from 4PM to 2AM. Five days a week. Sundays were sacred, until they threw in a surprise Tuesday off like it was a bonus and not a logistical nightmare. Night shifts are where your soul goes to file complaints. Your body adjusts, your spirit does not. I’d walk home as the city slept, like a shadow of my former self with potato chips in my bag and existential dread in my chest.
I quit eventually, convinced I was reclaiming my peace, only to spiral into the kind of regret that makes you question your entire bloodline. Was this adulting? A circus where you’re both the clown and the act? I called it growth. The kind that hurts, but makes your laugh deeper, your back straighter, your prayers more specific.
Then came another job, where I had to multitask like a caffeinated octopus. Suddenly, I was the corporate secretary, unofficial tea dispenser, social media whisperer, and hallway therapist. A one-woman show juggling emails, meetings, and the haunting sound of my ringtone. But eventually, even a caffeine-fueled octopus reaches her limit.
It didn’t end with a fight. No chairs were thrown. But let’s just say me and my boss didn’t see eye to eye. And no babe, it wasn’t a height issue. It was principle. It was value. It was me remembering I am not meant to be stressed over a job that pays just enough to cover transport and emotional damage cream. So I walked out, head high, strut on point, like a final scene in a feel-good movie. You know that scene where the heroine walks out the door and the background music swells? Yeah. That was me. Only my soundtrack was probably the sound of my phone vibrating with, “Where did you go?” messages I never answered.
Then came the moving house episode. My things weren’t a lot, but my emotions? Heavy. I packed my life into boxes that looked like they were holding dreams, disappointments, and that one sufuria I swear I didn’t buy. I negotiated with a boda guy to help me carry a mattress that wanted to catch the wind and fly away with my dignity. We looked like a mobile sitcom. If someone had filmed that moment, I’d have titled it “A Woman and Her Mattress: A Tragedy in Three Acts.”
Growing up, I thought being an adult just meant freedom. You get to eat cake for breakfast, sleep whenever you want, and own things, like a couch and bills. But now I know the truth. Childhood is when you cry because your toy broke. Adulthood is when you cry because everything broke: your blender, your shoe, your heart, your budget, and you’re still expected to show up at work like nothing’s leaking.
Speaking of work, let me tell you about payday. That one day where you feel like a whole CEO. You walk with a bounce in your step. You even greet strangers. You go to the supermarket and ignore price tags like you’re in a music video. By the end of the week, you’re googling, “Is sleep a meal?” and surviving on pocket change and sheer audacity.
Then there’s the version of me I try to be every January 1st. She wakes up at 5:00 AM, journals, stretches, drinks warm lemon water, and plans her day like she owns a planner empire. But by 10:17 AM, she’s doomscrolling, half-dressed, and wondering how people afford therapy, protein powder, AND rent. Adulting is one long trial version of your ideal self, with no refund policy.
And don’t let me forget the matatus. Those little metal boxes of miracles and mayhem. I’ve been in ones that played gospel music and ones that played club bangers at 7AM. I’ve sat next to strangers who fell asleep on my shoulder and conductors who tried to convince me they didn’t owe me my ten bob change. I’ve stood in the rain bargaining fare like my life depended on it, and sometimes, it really felt like it did.
And then there was the laundry situation. You think you know laundry, until adulthood hits and you realize your laundry knows you better. There were days I’d sniff a shirt and pray my nose was broken. Washing took planning. Timing. Negotiation with the weather. A dance between sunlight and cloud cover. My clothesline once betrayed me mid-rainstorm, and I stood at my window, watching all my dignity drip one droplet at a time.
Don’t even get me started on dishes. The number of motivational speeches I gave myself before facing that sink could fuel a TED Talk. Dishes would sit in there like uninvited guests, staring at me with judgment. And somehow, every time I finished washing them, I’d immediately dirty another spoon, like some karmic prank.
Friendships in adulthood deserve their own chapter. There’s no syllabus, no lunchtime table where you bond over stolen fries. It’s weird now. People get jobs, get married, move cities, change timelines, literally and figuratively. I’ve had friendships fade out like radio stations in a tunnel. One day we’re talking every day, the next it’s “Happy Birthday” messages sent at 11:59PM with a sad emoji.
But the ones that stayed? Oh, they’re magic. They’re the “I was just thinking about you” messages that come when you’re crying in the dark. The spontaneous calls that turn into therapy sessions. The friend who sends you screenshots of tweets that remind them of you. They may be rare, but they remind me that love isn’t always romantic. Sometimes, it’s just someone holding space for your chaos without asking you to clean it up first.
There was this one day, the Day Everything Went Wrong. I woke up late, stepped in water from a leaking jug, broke my eyeliner pencil, missed my matatu, and then my blouse betrayed me by popping open mid-meeting. I came home, collapsed on my bed, and ate stale mandazi like they were gourmet muffins. That day taught me resilience. Or insanity. Honestly, I’m not sure which.
There were moments, especially at night, where I’d cry in the shower. The warm water disguising the tears, the tiles bearing witness. Because even in clean spaces, grief still lingers. Not just grief for people, but grief for the person I used to be, for the dreams that changed, for the softness I had to set down just to survive.
Self-care isn’t always soft and aesthetic. Sometimes it’s canceling plans because you’re emotionally unwell. Sometimes it’s buying that one overpriced doughnut just because your inner child said “please.” And sometimes it’s sitting in silence, feeling everything, and not apologizing for it.
And then there’s the art of emotional shopping. I once bought a candle called “Peaceful Lavender Escape” and lit it after a bad day. The candle burned out before my problems did. But I kept buying them, because sometimes, faith smells like lavender.
But what really surprised me is that self-love didn’t look like daily affirmations or expensive skincare. It looked like setting boundaries even when my voice shook. Like choosing not to reply to messages that made me shrink. Like letting myself rest, not just sleep, but rest. I learned that self-love is not a mood, it’s a muscle. And baby, mine had been in a coma.
It’s also in the little things. Cleaning your space not because you have guests, but because you deserve to live in beauty. Cooking a real meal because your body deserves nourishment, not punishment. Talking to yourself kindly in the mirror, even if your hair is misbehaving. Being proud of the version of you that survived things no one clapped for.
Self-love is boring sometimes. It’s going to therapy. It’s drinking water. It’s forgiving yourself for that one time you stayed too long, tried too hard, gave too much. It’s the unglamorous work of choosing yourself every day, even when no one else does.
Here are some things I’ve learned: Nobody really knows what they’re doing, some are just better at faking it. Your friends don’t hate you, they’re just tired. The dishes will never truly be done. Accept it. Peace is more important than being liked. You can miss someone and still choose yourself. It’s okay to outgrow people, places, and even your old self.
It’s learning to be alone without being lonely. It’s mastering the art of sitting in a restaurant with no shame, eating like royalty, and leaving with a full belly and even fuller sense of self-worth. It’s writing your own story without waiting for someone else to bring the pen.
But somewhere in all this, I began to understand that before love, there must be self-love. The love that doesn’t demand but flows freely, no strings attached. The love that says, “I am enough, even when the world keeps giving me its leftovers.” Self-love isn’t about perfection, it’s about showing up for yourself every single day, even when you’re half-done. Even when you haven’t found the right words, or the right person, or the right job. It’s the quiet acceptance that you, just as you are, are a masterpiece in progress.
I’ve had to learn that self-love is the foundation of it all. Without it, you’ll constantly be building castles in the sand, waiting for a tide that might never come. But when you stand on a foundation of self-love, it doesn’t matter if the tide comes or goes, because you’ll know you’re whole, no matter what.
Sometimes, love is realizing that being alone doesn’t mean being unloved. That you can be whole by yourself and still make room for someone else. That healing is not a destination but a companion on the road. And that Minute Maid at midnight, shared in silence, can be more intimate than candlelight and roses.
So here I am now. Grown. Snack-powered. Gospel-playing. Still figuring it out. But wiser. Softer. Funnier. Less interested in chasing fireworks and more in someone who brings me a samosa just because I had a long day. Someone who knows I can survive alone, but still chooses to show up anyway.
And if there’s one lesson I’ve learned in all this chaos, it’s that we have to be our own biggest love affair first. Love yourself, flaws and all, and everything else will either fall into place, or you’ll learn how to love the puzzle in a way you never thought possible.
Because if we’re going to survive this life, this glorious chaos, we might as well sip Minute Maid together, laugh till we forget the deadlines, and toast to all the lessons heartbreak, adulthood, and a broken mop taught us before brunch.
And if all else fails? Minute Maid, a good cry, a playlist from 2016, and knowing I still chose me. Every single time.
