The silence in Ntalami’s bedroom stretched into the late afternoon, heavy and suffocating. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the finished crochet bag at her side, bright against the muted sheets. It should have brought her joy; the pink and yellow petals glowed like captured sunlight. But her chest felt hollow, her spirit bruised.She had spent the morning crocheting to numb the ache of memory, but the stillness afterward left her exposed again. She clutched her pillow to her chest, rocking slightly, a child’s instinctive attempt to comfort herself.It wasn’t just Duke’s betrayal that wounded her. Not just the cruel words, the raised hands, or the sharp sting of jealousy that poisoned their nights. It was something deeper_something that had been planted long before she met him.She closed her eyes, and as if summoned by pain, her past unfurled.She was six again, standing in the hallway of her childhood home. The night was thick with shouting. Her father’s voice roared like a storm, he

The days that followed were both heavy and liberating for Ntalami. Some mornings she woke up with tears staining her pillow, her chest aching for Duke’s presence. Other mornings she woke with lightness, as though her lungs had found a new way to breathe.Grief and relief mingled in her body like oil and water, never fully blending, but teaching her that healing was not a straight road. It was a labyrinth. And that it required alot of patience and self compassion.One Saturday, she found herself sitting in the waiting room of a therapist’s office. The beige walls, the faint smell of lavender oil diffused in the air, the soft hum of an air conditioner; it was all unfamiliar yet oddly comforting.Dr. Achieng’, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a firm presence, welcomed her into the small office lined with bookshelves.And framed quotes for aesthetics decoration.Ntalami’s voice shook as she began. “I don’t know why I keep…why I keep on choosing pain. I know he was hurting me. I kn

The morning air smelled of rain and earth, the streets of Nairobi glistening with puddles that reflected the sky. Ntalami walked briskly toward her small studio, a light backpack slung over one shoulder, the scent of jasmine in her hair. For the first time in months, she moved through the city feeling a quiet strength radiating from her chest rather than the constant weight of longing for someone else’s attention.The studio, a bright space on the second floor of a renovated building, was already buzzing with life. Two assistants arranged displays of her latest crochet creations while a small camera crew prepared to film her process for a local feature on emerging African artists. Ntalami took a deep breath, letting the hum of activity fill her senses.She had come a long way. Her therapy sessions had helped her untangle years of self-doubt. Her reflections on her parents’ love; or the lack thereof, had given her insight into why she had repeatedly returned to Duke’s toxicity. And now

The morning sunlight poured into Ntalami’s apartment, painting the walls with a warm golden hue. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with jasmine from the small planter on her balcony. She stretched, feeling the familiar ache of muscles from yesterday’s long walk through the city streets, a walk she had taken to clear her mind and celebrate small victories.It had been months since she had let go of Duke, months since she had begun to recognize the patterns that had held her captive. Each day had been a lesson in self-love, self-respect, and conscious choice. She smiled as she recalled the first workshop she had hosted, how nervous she had been, how she had feared judgment, but how alive she had felt witnessing women finding joy in creating their own pieces.Today was special. Ntalami was traveling outside the city for the first time since launching her crochet brand. She had been invited to a regional artisan market in Mombasa to showcase her creations and meet other emerging

1. The Father wound The “father wound” often comes from absence, neglect, criticism, or conditional love. It can create patterns of: >Seeking validation through achievement or approval. >Struggling with self-worth or confidence. >Difficulty trusting men (for women) or difficulty embodying healthy masculinity (for men).Reflection questions: > How did your father (or father figure) show love when you were growing up? > Did you feel safe, protected, and seen by him? >In what ways do you still seek approval or validation today? > How do you react to authority or men in your life now?Take a few moments to journal your answers honestly, without judgment.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------