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Category: For Grown-Ups

  • The Lizard on My Wall – A Man’s Quiet Encounter That Changed His Mindset

    The Lizard on My Wall – A Man’s Quiet Encounter That Changed His Mindset

    It appeared during a restless evening. I was pacing between the kitchen and my bedroom, carrying the weight of a thousand unfinished tasks and a to-do list I hadn’t touched. The hum of city noise filtered through the window, and the glow from my laptop cast a restless light.

    Then I saw it. A small, pale lizard was clinging to the cupboard of my bedroom. Perfectly still. Not hiding, not hurrying. Just there.

    A Silent Disruption

    At first, I ignored it. I had emails to check, groceries to put away, and deadlines nagging at the edges of my mind. But somehow, my eyes kept drifting back.

    The lizard didn’t flinch or move. Its tail curled slightly, and its delicate feet gripped the wall like it had found the one spot in the world where it belonged.

    There was something oddly powerful about its stillness. In the middle of my scattered, over, stimulated evening, it was a living punctuation mark, a full stop.

    The Difference Between Motion and Meaning

    We often assume movement equals purpose. That if we’re busy, we’re progressing. I believed it too, until I found myself watching this tiny, unmoving creature teach me otherwise.

    It didn’t need to perform to exist. It didn’t rush or overreact. Its value wasn’t tied to doing something impressive. And yet, its presence changed the energy of the room.

    I realized I hadn’t taken a full breath in hours. I sat down. And I let the silence stretch longer than I usually allow.

    A Mirror I Didn’t Expect

    What startled me most wasn’t the lizard; it was how uncomfortable I felt just being.

    No scrolling. No background music. No multitasking. Just me, a quiet room, and a lizard that seemed to understand something I had forgotten: that peace isn’t found in the next task, it’s found in the pause.

    In that stillness, I noticed the warmth of the mug in my hands, the distant sound of rain starting against the windows, and the fact that I was, strangely, okay.

    Gone, But Not Forgotten

    The lizard was gone the next day. No sign of where it had come from, or where it had gone. Just an empty wall, and a lingering sense of calm.

    It didn’t leave behind answers or profound transformation. Just a subtle shift. A reminder that perspective can come from the quietest corners. That life doesn’t always require fixing; sometimes, it asks only to be noticed.

    And now, every so often, when the world feels too loud, I think of that lizard. And I pause.

    Because sometimes, stillness is the most powerful thing in the room.

  • The Fish in the Puddle – A Gentle Story About Finding Meaning in Unexpected Places

    The Fish in the Puddle – A Gentle Story About Finding Meaning in Unexpected Places

    I almost stepped on it. A shallow puddle by the curb, leftover from last night’s storm, shimmered in the morning light. And there, flickering just beneath the surface, was a fish. A real one. Small, silver, and terribly out of place.

    At first, I thought my tired eyes were playing tricks. But no, it darted, spun, and paused again, its tail stirring the muddy water like it belonged.

    The Last Place You’d Expect

    It didn’t make sense. There was no pond nearby. Just concrete, cracked sidewalks, and litter from the weekend’s rain. I crouched down, coffee in hand, suddenly wide awake.

    How did it get here?

    A child’s pet dumped? A survivor from an overflowing storm drain? No way to know. But there it was, alive, moving, insisting on being noticed.

    People passed without seeing. Dogs pulled on leashes. Cars splashed past, and still the fish swam, or tried to. It looked absurd. And yet, something about it stopped me cold.

    Staying Still, Seeing More

    I stood there for almost ten minutes, watching that fish in its inch-deep universe. And the longer I looked, the more I saw.

    There was beauty in its persistence. In the glimmer of light on its back. In how it navigated that tiny world with instinct, not panic.

    I thought of all the places I’d dismissed old jobs, small towns, awkward phases of life, as meaningless or unremarkable.

    But that fish, absurd as it was, reminded me that sometimes life shows up where you least expect it. That growth, survival, even beauty, can exist in the cracks. In forgotten corners. In puddles.

    Helping It Move On

    Eventually, I couldn’t just walk away.

    I grabbed an empty takeout container from a nearby trash can, rinsed it in a spout of clean water from the park fountain, and gently scooped the fish inside. I carried it a few blocks to the small drainage pond behind the library, the only proper body of water I knew nearby.

    When I let it go, it disappeared almost instantly, swallowed up by reeds and light. But I didn’t feel sad. I felt strangely hopeful.

    Sometimes, the smallest encounters can shift something deep inside you.

  • The Owl on the Rooftop – A Man’s Quiet Journey Through Insomnia and Presence

    The Owl on the Rooftop – A Man’s Quiet Journey Through Insomnia and Presence

    For weeks, sleep and I were strangers. Nights stretched long and hollow. I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling while the world outside faded into quiet. It wasn’t stress, exactly, more like a persistent hum of restlessness I couldn’t shake.

    One night, seeking distraction, I stepped onto the balcony with a blanket and a cup of chamomile tea. That’s when I first heard her, the soft, deliberate hoot drifting down from the rooftop.

    She didn’t call often, just enough to make me stop and listen.

    A Visitor in the Dark

    The owl returned the next night, and the one after. Always around the same time between 2 and 3 a.m., like she kept her own secret schedule.

    She never flew close. I couldn’t even see her at first, just heard the low, echoing sound. But her presence felt oddly comforting, like I wasn’t the only one awake. Like maybe the night had its own quiet watchers.

    Eventually, I spotted her, perched at the corner of the roof, still as stone, eyes like twin moons. She didn’t move when I looked at her. She simply existed, unbothered, as if to say, you don’t need to fill every silence.

    I started to look forward to those hours. The stillness. The way the wind whispered through the trees. The owl’s soft rhythm breaks the dark.

    Silence as a Mirror

    In her silence, I started to examine my own.

    I realised I wasn’t just losing sleep, I was avoiding quiet. I had been filling every moment with noise: podcasts while I cooked, background music while I worked, endless scrolling before bed.

    The owl didn’t need noise to feel grounded. She watched. She waited. She trusted the dark.

    And sitting there, wrapped in a blanket with nothing but night air and distant feathers for company, I began to breathe deeper. Thoughts slowed. My mind stopped racing. I wasn’t fixed. But I was still.

    And sometimes, that’s the first step back to balance.

    Lessons from the Rooftop

    One night, the owl didn’t come. I waited longer than usual, even checked the rooftop in the morning light. Empty.

    But I wasn’t disappointed. I just smiled. Like all the best teachers, she had come for a season, left a lesson, and moved on.

    She taught me that presence doesn’t always look like productivity. That being awake doesn’t have to mean being busy. And that sometimes, the most powerful conversations happen in silence.

    Now, even when sleep finds me, I still leave a little space in my evenings. I turn off the noise. Step outside. Listen.

    Because somewhere out there, on another rooftop, in another silence, an owl waits for someone to pay attention.

  • The Fox That Didn’t Run – A Quiet Encounter That Changed Everything

    The Fox That Didn’t Run – A Quiet Encounter That Changed Everything

    I wasn’t looking for anything that morning, just space. I’d come to spend a few days alone at an old family cottage tucked along the edge of the Aberdare forest. No Wi-Fi. No schedule. Just long walks and the hope that nature might loosen the knots in my mind.

    It was early, the light still gold and slanting through the trees, when I took a narrow path behind the cabin. The ground was soft with dew. The world was hushed. And that’s when I saw her.

    Eyes Like Amber

    She stood halfway across the trail, half hidden by the brush. A fox, lean, rust-coloured, with a white, tipped tail and ears like sharp leaves.

    She didn’t startle. Didn’t flee. She just looked at me.

    For a moment, neither of us moved. My breath slowed. Something about the gaze, steady, measuring, made me feel like the guest, not the observer. I took one step forward. She tilted her head, curious but calm. Another step, and she turned, not to run, but to walk silently back into the bush, vanishing like smoke.

    A Moment That Recalibrated Me

    That encounter couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it shifted something. The rest of my walk felt different, more alert, more present.

    I started noticing things I would’ve missed: the pale green moss on tree bark, the pattern of birdcalls, the quiet architecture of spider webs between branches. I wasn’t just in nature, I was part of it, aware that I was walking through someone else’s world. That fox reminded me that the wild doesn’t perform for us. It just is. And if we’re lucky, it lets us glimpse it.

    What the Fox Left Behind

    Back at the cottage, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not because she was rare, but because she didn’t run. Most of us are used to life moving fast, hiding behind noise and speed. But the fox faced me with stillness. That kind of presence is rare in animals and in people.

    Now, whenever life feels too loud, I think of that moment in the forest. I remember to be quiet, to pay attention, to meet the world with alert curiosity instead of control.

    The fox left nothing behind, no trace, no sound. But she gave me exactly what I needed: a reminder that not all encounters are meant to last. Some are just meant to wake us up.

  • The Squirrel Who Changed My Mornings – A Gentle Story About Presence, Routine, and Small Wonders

    The Squirrel Who Changed My Mornings – A Gentle Story About Presence, Routine, and Small Wonders

    It started with rustling. Every morning, around 6:45, I’d sit on my back porch with a mug of tea, watching the sun struggle through the fog. It was my quiet time, before the emails, the traffic, the noise. But that particular morning, something shifted.

    A small grey squirrel darted across the fence, paused on the branch of the jacaranda tree, and stared at me like, was the odd one.

    He didn’t run off. He just sat there, tail twitching, eyes sharp, watching. Judging, maybe. Then he disappeared into the branches.

    Our Unspoken Agreement

    The next morning, he came again. Same time. Same spot. I didn’t speak to him, wasn’t sure if that would be odd or endearing, but I acknowledged him with a nod. He blinked. Scratched his side. Carried on.

    Day after day, we fell into a rhythm. I sipped tea. He foraged, leapt, and occasionally dropped half-eaten seed pods onto my lawn. I named him Kamau, for no reason other than it suited him. Over time, I noticed something: I stopped checking my phone during those mornings. Stopped rushing. I became more aware of the breeze, the bird calls, and the slow stretch of morning light.

    The World in Small Movements

    Kamau didn’t do anything extraordinary. He didn’t perform tricks or take food from my hand. But in watching him, I noticed how thoroughly he did everything. He explored every branch like it was brand new. He sniffed each nut with total concentration. When he cleaned his tiny face, it was as serious as a ritual. There was no “multitasking” in his world, only attention.

    That hit me harder than I expected. I had been moving through life like a blur, half-listening, half-working, half-living. But this squirrel? He was all in, all the time. And somehow, his presence invited me to do the same.

    What He Taught Me

    One rainy morning, Kamau didn’t show up. I waited longer than usual, scanning the branches. Maybe he’d found a better tree. Or maybe, like all teachers, he knew when to leave. But the lesson stayed: pay attention.

    Not just to squirrels or sunrises, but to everything. The way steam curls from a mug. The texture of leaves underfoot. The people who speak to you in passing.

    Kamau reminded me that life isn’t found in the big, dramatic moments. It’s in the small ones. The ones we often miss, unless we slow down enough to notice.

  • The Tortoise Who Slowed Me Down – A Grown Up Story About Patience, Presence, and Peace

    The Tortoise Who Slowed Me Down – A Grown Up Story About Patience, Presence, and Peace

    I used to think being busy meant being successful. As a 42-year old architect in Nairobi, my days were packed with deadlines, site visits, and endless notifications. I didn’t remember the last time I sat down without a device in my hand. Slowing down wasn’t an option, until my uncle passed away and left me his pet tortoise, Mzee.

    I didn’t want him at first. What do you even do with a tortoise? But the will was clear: “Give Mzee to Daniel. He needs him more than he knows.”

    A Masterclass in Patience

    Mzee was 36 years old and had the face of someone who’d seen things. At first, he was just… there. He moved slowly, ate slowly, and blinked like it took effort. Watching him was like watching a rock breathe.

    But as the days passed, I found myself sitting on the porch just to watch him explore the garden. He’d take twenty minutes to get from one corner to the other and he looked entirely unbothered. No stress. No multitasking. Just movement, presence, and purpose.

    Without realising it, I began to match his rhythm.

    Redefining Productivity

    I started leaving my phone inside when I was with Mzee. The garden became a place of peace instead of another Wi-Fi zone. I’d sip my morning tea while he grazed. Sometimes, we just sat in silence. And slowly, I noticed something strange: I was sleeping better. My headaches stopped. My days felt longer, but in a good way.

    It hit me that my life had been full, but not fulfilling. Mzee reminded me that movement didn’t need to be fast to be meaningful.

    Slower, But Stronger

    Six months later, I’m still an architect. Still busy. But now, I take breaks. I breathe. I walk slowly. And every morning, Mzee is there, reminding me that there’s strength in slowness.

    He doesn’t ask for much. Just some lettuce and a little time. But what he’s given me is priceless: a new way of seeing the world. One step at a time.

  • The Horse Who Waited for My Trust – A Man’s Journey Through Healing, Presence, and Patience

    The Horse Who Waited for My Trust – A Man’s Journey Through Healing, Presence, and Patience

    I met Kito on a cloudy afternoon at a rural rescue center outside of Naivasha. He was a dark bay stallion with eyes that watched everyone but let no one close. “He doesn’t let men near him,” the caretaker warned. “We think he was mistreated.”

    I wasn’t looking for a horse, I was just visiting a friend. But something about Kito held my attention. His fear mirrored something I hadn’t admitted to myself: I didn’t trust people much either.

    A Man Learning to Be Still

    After my divorce, I stopped showing up to friendships, to family, to life. I was polite, but distant. I told myself I was fine, just busy. But standing outside Kito’s pen, watching his ears flick and his body flinch at every movement, I saw my own armor in his.

    So I started visiting. Not to ride. Not to tame. Just to sit. I’d bring a folding chair and sit outside his paddock, reading or saying nothing at all. It took weeks before he came close enough to sniff my hand. Months before he let me brush him.

    Kito didn’t need pressure. He needed presence. So did I.

    Quiet Moments, Big Changes

    With Kito, progress came slowly but meaningfully. He started walking beside me in the field. Eventually, I saddled him, with permission in his body language, not force. Every step was a conversation in trust. Oddly, the more patient I became with him, the more patient I became with myself. I stopped trying to “fix” everything overnight. I let things take the time they needed. That included healing.

    What Kito Gave Me

    Now, Kito lets me ride him, calm, steady, proud. But the gift he gave me is much bigger than that. He taught me that trust isn’t earned through grand gestures, it’s built in the quiet, in the showing up, in the stillness.

    And in learning to earn his trust, I finally learned to trust myself again.

  • The Parrot Who Taught Me to Speak Kindly – A Gentle Story About Self-Talk, Echoes, and Emotional Growth

    The Parrot Who Taught Me to Speak Kindly – A Gentle Story About Self-Talk, Echoes, and Emotional Growth

    When I inherited Max, my grandfather’s African Grey parrot, I expected a quirky housemate with a talent for mimicry. What I didn’t expect was that this bird would hold up a mirror to the way I spoke, not just to others, but to myself. Max didn’t just repeat random words. He picked up on the things I said the most: rushed phone calls, muttered frustrations, and self-deprecating remarks I hadn’t realised I made so often. One afternoon, after I spilled coffee on my laptop, I heard Max clearly mimic my voice: “Ugh, I’m so stupid.”It stopped me cold. Because hearing it from someone or something else made it sound so much harsher than it had in my head.

    Words That Stick Max

    repeated those same few phrases over and over: “You’re such a mess,” “What’s wrong with you?” and “Come on, get it together.” All things I had said to myself a hundred times without thinking twice. But now, coming from his beak, they sounded cruel. And I couldn’t ignore them. I realised that if I didn’t say these things to someone I loved, why was I saying them to myself? Worse, why was I unintentionally teaching an innocent creature to echo them? Words, even when spoken casually, stick. They shape our inner dialogue. And Max, unknowingly, had become a reflection of my harshest thoughts.

    Rewriting the Script

    I began to change the way I spoke out loud and in my mind. I started with small shifts: “I’m trying” instead of “I’m failing.” “It’s okay” instead of “What’s wrong with me?” “Take a breath” instead of “Get it together.” It felt strange at first. Forced, even. But slowly, Max started repeating new phrases: “It’s okay,” he’d chirp from across the room. “You’re doing great.” And hearing those words even from a bird felt like a balm. Max became a cheerleader instead of a critic. But it wasn’t just him that changed, it was me. I had started speaking to myself with more kindness, patience, and care. And I was better for it.

    Kindness Has an Echo

    Now, when people visit, they laugh at Max’s cheerful affirmations. But to me, they mean so much more. They’re daily reminders of how powerful words can be, and how necessary it is to choose them wisely. Max didn’t just mimic my voice. He helped me find a kinder one. Thank you, Max, for reminding me that the way we speak matters, especially when we’re talking to ourselves.

  • How a Stray Dog Helped Me Heal After Loss – A Gentle Story of Grief, Companionship, and Quiet Recovery

    How a Stray Dog Helped Me Heal After Loss – A Gentle Story of Grief, Companionship, and Quiet Recovery

    Grief has a way of turning the world silent. After my mother passed away, the house felt unbearably still. Every sound echoed louder, every moment alone stretched longer. I moved through the days in a fog, doing what needed to be done, but feeling hollow inside.

    It was during one of those heavy afternoons that I met Charlie. He wasn’t supposed to be part of my life. He wasn’t planned or bought, or adopted. He was simply there, matted, limping slightly, and looking more lost than I felt.

    An Unexpected Visitor

    I found him curled under the tree in my front yard, wary but too tired to run. He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He just looked up at me with eyes that seemed to say, “Me too.” Something about that moment felt sacred. I brought him a bowl of water, and he drank like he hadn’t had a sip in days. I laid an old blanket out on the porch, and he accepted it without protest.

    I didn’t name him right away. I didn’t even plan to keep him. But somehow, Charlie, as I’d eventually call him, stayed.

    Healing, One Step at a Time

    Charlie wasn’t perfect. He was cautious, skittish, and deeply afraid of loud noises. I didn’t know what he had been through, but I recognised the way pain makes you flinch from kindness. I understood his hesitancy. It mirrored my own.

    Every morning, we’d walk the neighbourhood together, quiet steps side by side. I’d talk. He’d listen. I cried more than once on those walks, and not once did he turn away. There were no grand gestures. No dramatic breakthroughs. Just companionship. Steady, simple, and real.

    What Charlie Taught Me About Grief

    Grief doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t have a clear finish line. But it becomes lighter when you don’t carry it alone. Charlie never asked me to move on. He didn’t expect smiles or strength. He just showed up, tail wagging, eyes soft, and gave me something to wake up for.

    There’s something deeply healing about being needed, even in your own brokenness. Charlie didn’t care that I was grieving. He just needed love. And in loving him, I slowly started to come back to life.

    A Companion, Not a Cure

    People talk about emotional support animals like they’re some magical fix. But Charlie wasn’t a cure; he was a companion.

    He walked with me through grief, not around it. He sat beside me when I couldn’t speak. He nudged me gently when I hadn’t moved from the couch all day.

    In his quiet, gentle way, he reminded me that life still existed outside my sorrow. That there was still warmth, still connection, still small reasons to smile.

    Moving Forward, Together

    Eventually, I took Charlie to the vet, got him cleaned up, vaccinated, and officially adopted. He’s healthier now, his coat shinier, his eyes brighter.

    And I suppose, in some way, I am too. We still walk every morning. And though the sadness lingers at times, it no longer weighs me down.

    Because Charlie didn’t just show up during my pain, he walked me through it.

    Thank you, Charlie, for finding me when I was lost. For giving me your trust, your loyalty, and the kind of healing only a dog can offer.

  • What My Cat Taught Me About Boundaries – A Quiet Lesson in Love, Space, and Self-Respect

    What My Cat Taught Me About Boundaries – A Quiet Lesson in Love, Space, and Self-Respect

    There’s something quietly powerful about a cat’s presence. They don’t demand your attention, yet their absence is unmistakable. They choose when to be close and when to walk away. And somehow, that choice never feels personal.

    When I adopted Luna, a gray rescue cat with a cautious spirit and knowing eyes, I thought I was the one doing the saving. What I didn’t expect was how much she would teach me about one of the most important and difficult aspects of life: boundaries.

    Learning the Hard Way

    In the beginning, I wanted to shower Luna with affection. I reached out every chance I could, trying to pet her, snuggle her, coax her into closeness.

    She wasn’t having it. She would stiffen under my touch, retreat to a quiet corner, or simply walk away. At first, I was hurt. Wasn’t I being kind? Didn’t she know I just wanted to love her?

    But Luna wasn’t rejecting me. She was teaching me. Teaching me that love isn’t always about closeness. That sometimes, respecting space is the most loving thing you can do.

    The Gift of Silent Wisdom

    Over time, Luna warmed up to me, but always on her terms. She’d sit by my side as I read a book, just far enough away to feel safe. Occasionally, she’d curl in my lap, but if I moved too much, she was gone. I began to understand her rhythms, her signals, her “no” and her “not now.”

    And strangely, as I learned to read and respect her cues, I began to reflect on my own. How often had I said yes when I meant no? How often had I let others cross my boundaries just to avoid discomfort or guilt? Luna didn’t feel guilty about walking away. She wasn’t rude, she was clear. And in her quiet clarity, I found something I had long been missing: self-respect.

    Boundaries as a Form of Love

    What I once saw as coldness, I now see as strength. Luna reminded me that boundaries are not walls; they’re doors we choose to open or close depending on what we need. They protect our peace. They clarify our relationships.

    She didn’t need to explain herself. She just modelled what it looked like to honour your own energy and space. In doing so, she invited me to do the same.

    A Lesson I Use Every Day

    Now, whether it’s in friendships, work relationships, or even my own inner dialogue, I ask myself: Am I respecting my own space the way Luna does?
    Am I recognizing when someone else needs theirs? Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is simply say, “Not now,” and trust that it’s not rejection, it’s self-preservation.

    Grace in the Silence

    Luna still isn’t a cuddly cat. She’s selective, discerning, and deeply independent. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Every time she chooses to sit beside me, I know it’s real. Not out of obligation, not out of guilt, just a genuine moment of connection.

    And when she walks away, I don’t chase her anymore. Because she taught me that love doesn’t always cling. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s still. And sometimes, the greatest kindness we can offer is the freedom to be.

    Thank you, Luna, for reminding me that boundaries aren’t barriers, they’re bridges to healthier, more authentic relationships.