It’s Okay If No One Reads This

on finding the courage to speak even when no one asks

Photo by Abigail on Unsplash

I haven’t written in a long time. For many reasons, but primarily because I just kept telling myself there was nothing new to say. That everything worth saying had already been said. And not just said, but said more beautifully, more intelligently, more convincingly by people who were older, more certain, more important. People who had already become someone.

So I stopped. I stopped writing. I had what you might call a writer’s paralysis. This feeling that anything I say would sound like a watered-down version of someone else’s certainty. And if I couldn’t say it better, then maybe I shouldn’t say it at all.

But that logic doesn’t hold up. I know that now. Because even if we say the same thing, we never say it in the same way. My version is different. My accent, my upbringing, my fears, my particular contradictions, they filter the words in a way no one else can replicate. A sentence filtered through my eyes, my twenty plus years of living in this body, in this country, in this world, can never be the same as someone else’s version of that sentence. That makes it worth something. Even if it isn’t liked or shared or saved to anyone’s folder.

It’s like this: imagine you’re wearing glasses with a black stain on one lens. You walk around every day looking at the world, thinking that every landscape, every face, every sky comes with this small dark spot. You don’t realise the stain is on your lens. That it’s not the world that’s darkened. It’s your vision. That’s what a worldview is. That’s what belief is. A flaw in the glass you forget is even there. And yet, it changes everything you see.

That’s how I’ve come to understand it. Everyone is seeing the same world, but through entirely different lenses. And those lenses are shaped by where you grew up, what you lost, what you feared, what you hoped for, what hurt you. That means there’s no such thing as a story that’s already been told. Not really. There are just different lenses. Different stains on the glass.

So it’s not that I don’t have anything to say. It’s that I often don’t feel allowed to say it. There’s this voice in my head that asks, who are you? You’re not Chimamanda. You’re not Wole Soyinka. Your accent isn’t clean. You don’t even have a job. Your salary is small. You’re not verified. So why should anyone listen? Why should anyone care?

This world makes you feel like you have to be certified before you can speak. You have to have something: a following, a fellowship, a publication history, to earn the right to have thoughts. You write an essay and someone will ask, who gave you permission to talk about this? Who do you think you are?

And honestly, I don’t always know how to answer that.

I don’t tweet much. When I do, the tweets feel small. Basic. They don’t carry the weight I wish they did because I’m afraid of being seen trying. I’m afraid of writing something serious and no one will respond . I’m afraid of opening myself up only to be ignored.

And yet, I know that thinking is hard. Talking (writing) is how we try to think. You talk to understand. You ramble your way into coherence. You say the wrong thing seven times before something honest slips out. Writing is like that too. It’s a form of movement. A long, messy conversation with yourself.

Storytelling is not just about entertainment. It’s a way of staying alive. It’s how we gather our thoughts, how we name our values, how we figure out what we’re even trying to believe. You don’t find your truth by declaring it. You find it by circling around it. You say things. You contradict yourself. You start again. Eventually, something lands.

It’s hard though. Because the world doesn’t always reward thoughtfulness. The world rewards performance. Confidence. Certainty. The people who sound like they know what they’re doing. And I don’t always sound like that. I’m not always sure. Sometimes I need to talk in spirals before I get to anything real.

And then there’s AI. That creeping sense that even if I spend five hours writing a paragraph, someone else could type a prompt and get a better version of my voice in thirty seconds. A cleaner, smarter version. Sometimes I see pieces of writing that are so good I want to cry. Not out of envy. Out of this quiet ache that I might never get there. That I might never be good enough to matter in the way I hoped to, and even those pieces get ignored.

Then I see people dancing on TikTok. Filters and music and one-liners. A million likes. And I think, maybe that’s what matters now. Maybe I should do that. Maybe I’m wasting my energy clinging to something that doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe writing doesn’t mean what it used to.

But even if I go for months/years, I find that the blank page calls me. It feels like the only place where I can be honest without apologising. The only place I can sit with myself without trying to be impressive.

And I’ve realised something else. Without writing, I forget who I am. I lose track of the parts of me that aren’t curated or useful or impressive. I become whatever the day needs me to be. I answer emails. I perform politeness. I talk about practical things. But I stop being real. I stop thinking. I stop feeling.

Reading has changed for me too. I used to be a deeply theoretical person. I could sit with ideas for days. Now I feel choked by practicalities. Emails. Timelines. Money. Choked like someone who is trying to hold on to air with both hands. I’m not being seduced by practical things. I’m being strangled by them.

And I wonder if I’m alone in this. I wonder how many people feel the same quiet grief. This sense that the part of you that used to love slowly is being swallowed by the pace of surviving.

I’ve also come to understand that life is not always about good versus evil. Sometimes, it’s just two greats. That’s where the real struggle is. Not in deciding between right and wrong, but between staying and leaving. Between building something or starting over. Between being a teacher or being a volunteer in a desert village. These are not moral decisions. They are value decisions. They are about who you want to become.

And how do you choose, if you don’t write? If you don’t speak? How do you know what you care about unless you circle it with your words?

Maybe writing won’t save me. Maybe no one will read it. Maybe the world will keep turning whether I write or not. But I need it. Does this mean I will write more now? Not necessarily. Knowing something doesn’t always equal doing it. But at least through this essay, I understand writing reminds me that I am still here.