I’m not a doctor; I’m not a therapist. I’m an investigative journalist, an ordinary citizen who wakes up to the same world as everyone else: one filled with pressure, expectation, small victories, and sometimes quiet heartbreak.
But I’m also a reflective observer; I like to think, to listen, to pause before the noise swallows meaning. My work has taken me to places where people whisper pain into microphones, where truth bleeds through reports, and where healing often hides behind laughter.
After long conversations with doctors, psychologists, and weary strangers who somehow keep going, I’ve come to believe that life depends on three invisible threads: the health of your body, the peace of your conscience, and the light of your soul.
Take care of your health; the body keeps the memory
A physician once told me, “The body is like a diary; it records everything you refuse to feel.” I laughed at the time, but later, I learned she was right.
There was a period when I lived on caffeine, deadlines, and adrenaline, believing that exhaustion was proof of importance. I would brag about sleeping three hours a night, as if self-neglect was a badge of honor.
Then one morning, my body decided it had had enough. I woke up feeling like an old phone battery, permanently on two percent. The doctor didn’t prescribe medicine; she looked at me and said gently, “You’re not sick; you’re tired of being superhuman.”
That sentence hit harder than any diagnosis. I realized that in chasing everything, I was losing myself. Now I eat better, sleep more, and stretch my spine like it’s part of a peace treaty.
I eat well because my stomach is not a dustbin. I love a plate full of fruits or a simple boiled chicken soup with vegetables. No oil.
Because health is not a luxury; it’s the engine of every dream. You can’t pour from an empty cup, especially if the cup is leaking from neglect.
Sometimes I wonder why we take better care of our phones than our bodies. We charge them before they die, but wait until we collapse before resting. Maybe that’s why people say common sense is not that common — especially when it comes to ourselves.
Take care of your conscience; the quiet physician within
I once interviewed a priest who told me, “A guilty heart doesn’t need a jail; it builds one inside.”
He was right. Some of the most exhausted people I’ve met were not those who worked hardest, but those who carried unresolved truths. Guilt, resentment, unspoken anger; they clog the arteries of peace.
There’s an old Rwandan saying: “Ukuri kuraryana, ariko kurakiza,” meaning “Truth stings, but it heals.” I’ve found that to be more accurate than any proverb about love or luck.
So I started being honest with myself; brutally honest. About who I am, what I want, and where I’ve been wrong. It’s not easy; the truth often walks in uninvited, demanding you clean your own mess. But it’s worth it.
Peace of conscience is like sleeping with your windows open; the air feels fresher when nothing inside smells of guilt.
Sometimes I ask myself: why do we spend so much energy pretending to be fine when we could just admit we’re struggling? Why do we perform strength for strangers yet hide weakness from friends? Maybe because pretending feels safer than healing.
But pretending has an expiry date. Eventually, the mask grows heavier than the face.
The awakening; my contract with life
Those I’ve shared a drink or coffee with know I often say, “I have no contract with bad life.”
It sounds like a joke, but it’s really a declaration of independence. It came after years of walking through the wilderness of anxiety and disappointment, of wondering whether misery was a mandatory subscription.
One night, sitting alone, I asked myself, “Do I really have to live like this; stuck in a bad deal with life?” The answer was clear; no.
That’s when I began to speak truth to myself, and it changed everything. I realized that truth, fact, and reality are three different beasts. Truth is how it feels; fact is what it is; reality is how you live with it. Navigating all three without losing your balance, that’s where wisdom lives.
I forgave myself for chasing too much. Because the more you chase, the more you gather, and yet the more the hole in the soul widens. Someone shared a video of small balls racing down different tracks; the last one to start finished first. It reminded me that life isn’t a fair race; it’s an uneven pilgrimage.
Some people cross deserts barefoot; others glide in air-conditioned Bentleys. But we all arrive where we’re meant to, carrying different scars and souvenirs.
Along the way, I’ve met all kinds of travelers; the ruthless, the greedy, the ungrateful, and those who live permanently unbothered. But also, the kind, the generous, the curious, and the quietly brave.
Both sides matter; the wrong side teaches you limits, the right side teaches you light.
And speaking of sides, I’ve also learned this: sometimes bad decisions wear beautiful clothes. They come disguised as quick relief — another drink, another reckless night, another impulse buy that fills no void. I’ve seen people drown in alcohol trying to forget what only forgiveness could heal.
We often laugh at our mistakes, saying “I was just stressed,” but stress is not a license to self-destruct. Peace is cheaper than the therapy we keep avoiding.
Take care of your soul; the fire that refuses to die
If the conscience is the quiet doctor, the soul is the eternal child; always curious, always hopeful, but easily wounded.
There are evenings I drive to the lake with my friend Aimable a call Ablos, just to listen to silence. The world is loud, full of opinions, outrage, and hurried living. Yet, when the noise fades, I hear my soul breathing again.
That’s when I realize that healing doesn’t come from escape; it comes from presence. From watching rain without scrolling my phone, from saying thank you without waiting for applause.
My mother used to say, “A heart at peace can turn a mat into a palace.” I didn’t understand it then; now I do.
Because the soul doesn’t need much; just attention, compassion, and the occasional reminder that life is still beautiful.
And I sometimes wonder; when did we stop visiting friends? When did we start treating family like optional extras? We buy expensive gifts for strangers at weddings, yet ignore the cousin who can’t afford rent. We host parties for people we barely know, then ghost the ones who stood by us when we had nothing.
Maybe that’s what modern loneliness looks like; surrounded by people, but starving for connection. Life needs an audit. So once in a while one should audit their life.
Be compassionate; the heart’s exercise
Being kind is not weakness; it’s wisdom in action.
Those who’ve tried it know that extending a helping hand can heal a portion of your own fatigue. Listening to someone’s story over a cup of tea can feel like therapy; cheaper and more effective than most.
This isn’t a contradiction to my earlier remarks on forgetting close friends and family.
Compassion is like stretching your heart; it hurts a little, but it keeps you human.
And yes, hard work pays. But so does rest. The trick is regulation. Release yourself once in a while; laugh until your ribs hurt, switch off your phone, or take that trip you keep postponing.
It’s also good to stand up against wrongdoing, exploitation, abuse, and deceit; the world needs such courage. But here’s the paradox; fighting injustice can drain you too. The fire for justice burns bright, but if you don’t step back to breathe, it will consume your peace.
So I’ve learned to balance; to raise my voice when necessary, but to protect my silence when needed. You can’t fight every battle; some storms are best observed through a window with a cup of tea.
There’s an old saying; “You don’t wrestle with a pig, you both get dirty, and the pig enjoys it.”
Sometimes, walking away is not cowardice; it’s self-preservation.
The covenant of wholeness
So this is what I now believe:
Take care of your health, your conscience, your soul, and don’t forget your compassion. Then you will be okay. No adversary shall prosper against you; no disease, no pressure, no fear. Because when these four stand in harmony, life begins to make sense again.
I may not wear a stethoscope or carry a Bible, but I’ve seen enough to know that healing begins not in clinics or churches, but the moment you decide to be kind to yourself, and mean it.
Because sometimes, the medicine you need is a good laugh, a clear conscience, and a heart that still believes tomorrow will be gentle.
And if all else fails, remember; you don’t need to have everything figured out to deserve peace. You just need to stop treating yourself like a problem to solve, and start living like a story still being written.
