Not the quiet, dignified kind of crying. I mean the kind that rises from somewhere deep. The kind that surprises you with its force.

It happened after I saw yet another post on Instagram about the children and teachers kidnapped in Ogbomosho. I’ve been following the story for weeks. Of course, it breaks me every time. But yesterday, I think I had just had it. I reached my limit.

The post that triggered it wasn’t even something I looked at for long. I saw a picture, allegedly one of the children that had died. I didn’t even look properly. I couldn’t. I just scrolled past quickly.

I saw enough to know it was a child, possibly naked, possibly lifeless.

I scrolled away, fast.

But then I made the mistake of reading the comments.

And that was it.

I looked over at my daughter, sitting right there beside me, and my heart just… collapsed. I could not imagine her, my baby, in a bush somewhere, surrounded by strangers capable of unthinkable harm. I could not imagine her fear, her confusion, her pain.

My mind refused to go there, but my heart went anyway.

And I wept.

As the tears were coming, there was this reflex to stop them. You know how you just want to wipe it away quickly and move on.

But something inside whispered, Titi, you’re not a piece of metal. Feel this.

Because that’s what happens when you live long enough with Nigeria’s bad news. You grow a thick skin. You start to normalize the abnormal. You start to shrug at tragedy.

But I don’t want that.

I don’t want to get used to this.

I don’t want to get used to the shedding of innocent blood. I don’t want to get used to children being taken, to families being broken, to pain becoming part of the daily narrative.

So I let the tears flow.

I let them remind me that I am human.

It ruined my night.

But it didn’t end there.

Today is the next day, and I am still not 100%.

What I’m feeling has gone beyond my mind. It’s in my body now. I have headaches. My body aches. This is physical.

And in my spirit, I am vexed.

I have tried to pray, but I haven’t been able to pray my personal prayers. I just… I don’t want to go deeper into imagining what those children are going through. I don’t want to picture it.

But at the same time, I don’t want to forget.

So I’m stuck somewhere in the middle.

I’ve tried distracting myself, watching TV, scrolling, doing little things to take my mind off it. It’s not working.

So I needed to say this out loud, and writing this tonight helps me in a way.

Because this is not something you just move on from.

It’s been about 16 days now. Those children are still there. And now we’re hearing that some of them are starting to die.

How do you process that?

On one hand, I find some comfort in my faith.

Those children… God does not love them less. He created them. If the wickedness of humans has sent some of them back to Him earlier than their appointed time, then I know He has received them with open arms.

They are in a place far better than this earth. A place where they are safe, valued, covered.

And that thought brings me some comfort.

But on the other hand…

I cannot imagine what their parents are going through.

I don’t think you ever recover from something like that. I cannot imagine the trauma. I don’t think they will ever fully recover.

So I pray.

For comfort.

For strength.

For healing that only the Holy Spirit can give.

And I pray, deeply, that the wickedness of the wicked will come to an end in Nigeria. That light will break through. That justice will rise.

This is where I’m at.

Because no matter how far away I am, Nigeria is still mine. It is still a part of me.

And this pain… it reaches me.

I don’t have a neat ending for this.

I’m just here, feeling it.

And I don’t want to lose that.

This is the night I grieved for my country.

It happens little by little. Day by day. Week by week. Before you know it, your routine has changed, your priorities have shifted, and you are living an entirely new life. Sometimes you even find yourself trying to remember what life looked like before you had a baby.

Now I find myself prioritising things like filling the milk bottle so that when my baby wakes up in the middle of the night, everything is ready. I prepare the hot water bottle. I make sure the nappies are nearby. I set up everything she might need before I even think about returning a friend’s call or checking my emails.

Because the truth is, once she wakes up, my time belongs to her again.

It is funny in a way. As her mother, she is in control of my time, but I am not in control of hers. I may put her down to sleep thinking I will have a moment to myself, but she might wake up five minutes later. If I have not already done what I needed to do, that opportunity disappears.

Motherhood can also feel isolating at times. If you once had a vibrant social life, you may suddenly find yourself distant from it simply because the baby’s needs come first. At least in what I would call an ideal motherhood setting, that is often the reality.

And it is bittersweet.

There are moments when I look at my daughter, maybe she is babbling in a language only she understands, or kicking her little legs while she plays, and my heart just fills with joy. Watching her makes me smile in ways I cannot fully explain.

But there are also moments when I feel deeply tired and exhausted. Days where I realise I have not really done anything for myself because she needed me all day long.

And sometimes I wonder what the balance is.

I am not sure I have figured that part out yet.

But what I do know is this: it is important not to feel guilty about the season you are in. Motherhood is a phase, a season of life, and like every season, it will evolve. The child you are nurturing will grow. As they grow, the level of dependency will change.

You will still always be their mother, of course. But the demands of today will not always be the same.

So for now, I remind myself to just be present.

Even when I am tired. Even when it feels overwhelming. Even when it feels like life has slowed down or paused.

Because it has not.

This too is a meaningful season.

Perhaps that is what motherhood really is. Not just raising a child, but slowly becoming someone new.

When it came out, the comments were filled with shock and regret. People who knew him kept asking themselves how they didn’t notice anything. How someone who smiled so brightly could have been going through so much darkness. And it made me think.

Life is hard. Truly hard. And anyone who believes they can navigate it alone is carrying a kind of ignorance that can cost them dearly. Not because they are foolish, but because they are trying to do something they were never designed to do.

The One who created life never intended for us to walk through it by ourselves. God did not design us to carry the weight of life on our own shoulders. He made a way for us to be in constant communion with Him because He knows the path of our lives from beginning to end. He sees every challenge, every heartbreak, every hidden struggle. And He is always ready to help us through it.

But if we do not turn to Him, if we do not accept His help, life becomes heavier than it was ever meant to be. It becomes almost impossible to carry.

When people hear about suicide or depression, many respond with judgment. They say things like, “Why would you take your own life?” or “You should have been stronger.” But motivational words cannot sustain a life. Optimism alone cannot sustain a life. Human strength cannot sustain a life.

Only a life upheld by God can truly stand.

Even we who are in Christ know how difficult life can be. Even with the Holy Spirit, even with Scripture, even with community, we still face moments that shake us. We still walk through valleys. We still feel overwhelmed sometimes.

So imagine those who have no relationship with God. No anchor. No comforter. No strength beyond themselves. It is no surprise that life becomes unbearable.

Instead of judging or criticizing, our first response should be compassion. And prayer. Pray for their souls to encounter God. Pray for the missing link in their lives to be restored. Pray for the One who holds all things together to hold them too.

Because even you, the one who thinks you are standing, if you look closely, you will see that it is God holding you up. He is your anchor. He is your stability. He is your strength.

If you are in Christ, I want you to know that life will not overcome you. You are already an overcomer because you are in Him. You have found the foundation that holds.

But if you are not in Christ, I am pleading with you. Do not try to do life alone. You cannot. No one can. Life without God becomes a cycle of heaviness you were never meant to carry.

Let Him in. Let Him help you. Let Him walk with you. Choose Him. Give Him a chance.

Selah.

I almost went back to watch old videos of myself. Church clips. Random moments. Not necessarily to figure out who I was, but to remind myself of the kind of life I was living in that season. The version of me that was navigating life with the understanding I had at the time.

And I caught myself wondering, did I really know what I was doing in that season? Did I treat people well? Did I show up right? Was I actually a good person?

It’s interesting how the things you know now can make you question who you used to be.

After sitting with it for a while, I came to this: in those seasons, I truly did the best I knew how to do with the understanding I had at the time. That does not mean I got everything right. It simply means I was living from the level of awareness I had then.

But the thought only settled when I asked myself a deeper question.

Who am I at my core?

And as I reflected, I reminded myself that I am a child of God. His Spirit is within me, helping me to will and to do according to His good pleasure. So even as I evolve and take form, His Spirit is producing godly fruit in me.

That reflection grounded me.

It reminded me that while I am still learning, I am not rooted in evil. I am becoming. And that gave me peace about who I was in those earlier years.

For me, saying “I did the best I knew how” was not about dismissing areas where I need to grow. It was about giving myself enough grace to grow honestly.

Because when certain parts of my life are highlighted as needing improvement, I want to be open to the learning that comes with that. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just willing.

And maybe that’s the balance.

Being gentle with who we were, while still remaining open to becoming better.

No one gets everything right. We are all evolving in real time.

So if you ever find yourself looking back and questioning your past, I hope you give yourself room to breathe. Reflect honestly. Grow intentionally. But do it without condemnation.

We are allowed to give ourselves grace as we grow.

If this reflection helped you breathe a little easier about your past, then I’m glad I shared it.