The PenPalace, Apete, Ibadan (2025)

28/09/2025

Comfort feels safe, doesn’t it? That warm space where you don’t have to try too hard, where the world doesn’t demand more from you, where you can convince yourself that what you have is “enough.” But let’s call it what it really is, death in disguise.

You think comfort is peace, but it’s a slow burial. Every time you choose it over risk, you trade a piece of your future for a fleeting sense of ease. And one day, you’ll wake up realizing you didn’t just avoid discomfort, you avoided your own life.

Comfort kills purpose. You had dreams once, remember? Big ones. The kind that made your chest burn and your hands itch to move. But somewhere along the line, you chose the easy job, the predictable routine, the quiet approval of others. And now those dreams sit in the graveyard of “almost,” rotting while you defend your safe little world. Comfort doesn’t protect your purpose, it murders it slowly, while you watch.

Comfort kills ambition. You tell yourself you’re “doing okay.” You pay the bills. You have your small wins. But deep down you know, you’re coasting. You’ve settled for crumbs when you were meant to own the table. Comfort tricks you into calling mediocrity success, into mistaking motion for progress. You’re not climbing, you’re pacing in circles, trapped in the prison of what’s easy.

And comfort? It eats at your soul. It strips you of hunger, of fight, of resilience. The moment life shakes you; and it will, you’ll realize your muscles for endurance are weak because you never trained them. You’ve been sitting, waiting, soothing yourself with distractions, and now when storms come, you’ll break.

You’re not tired because life is hard. You’re tired because comfort has made you hollow. You’re restless, scrolling, consuming, envying, because you’ve numbed the part of you that was meant to live. Comfort is the drug, and you’re addicted.

And here’s the rawest truth: comfort costs more than failure. Failure teaches you, grows you, humbles you, makes you. Comfort just wastes you. People don’t regret failing as much as they regret never trying. One day, when time has chewed through your excuses, you’ll look back and see the real thief wasn’t hardship, it was comfort.

You tell yourself, “I’ll push later. I’ll start when things settle. I’ll chase that dream when I’m ready.” Lies. Tomorrow is comfort’s biggest scam. Comfort will lull you into thinking you have time, but time is the one thing you don’t own. It’s bleeding out while you sit, and comfort is smiling, patting your back, telling you to relax.

Look in the mirror. Are you proud of what you see, or are you just… surviving? If you’re honest, you already know the answer. That ache in your chest, that quiet shame, that whisper that says you’re meant for more, it’s proof you’ve been playing small. Comfort hasn’t saved you; it’s caged you.

Step out. Risk the ridicule. Risk the failure. Risk the pain. Because the only thing worse than discomfort is living a whole life embalmed in safety, only to die never having lived.

So hear this and don’t forget it: Comfort will never love you. It will only use you, drain you, and discard you. And if you keep bowing to it, your life won’t end with a bang or even a scream, it will end with a sigh.

And that’s the most tragic death of all.....

© The PenPalace

25/09/2025

There is a sickness no doctor can diagnose, no scan can detect, no prescription can cure. It lives under painted smiles, inside polished appearances, beneath curated feeds and the loud “I’m fine”s that never tell the truth. It is the sickness of pretending. And if we’re honest, most of us are dying from it.

We wake up every morning, not as ourselves, but as a character in a script we’ve been rehearsing for years. We put on clothes that don’t feel like ours, voices that don’t sound like ours, dreams that don’t even belong to us. And we walk into the world carrying an identity stitched together with lies, desperate to convince everyone else that we’ve got it all figured out.

But pretending has a cost. A hidden tax. One that slowly robs you of peace, of sleep, of authenticity. You lose your own voice in the process of mimicking everyone else’s. You forget your own reflection because you’ve spent too long building masks. You become so fluent in lies that truth feels foreign on your tongue.

And here’s the bitter truth nobody likes to say out loud: the people you’re pretending for don’t actually care. The friends you’re trying to impress are too busy battling their own insecurities. The strangers whose approval you’re chasing on social media won’t even remember your name next week. The family members you’re trying not to disappoint may never see you beyond the version of yourself they already invented in their heads.

So who are you really doing it for?
You. Only you. You’re the jailer and the prisoner at the same time.

And pretending is exhausting because it never ends. You have to keep upgrading the lie, refining the mask, managing the act. One slip, one crack, one moment of unfiltered truth, and it all comes crashing down. That’s why you feel tired all the time. Not just tired in your body. Tired in your soul. Because you’re carrying the unbearable weight of being someone you’re not.

You laugh at jokes that don’t amuse you. You nod to ideas you don’t believe in. You say yes when your whole chest is screaming no. You keep conversations alive that bore you to death. You put on ambition when what you really want is rest. You wear confidence when what you really feel is shame. It’s a theatre, and you’re the lead actor. But the stage lights don’t dim, and the show never ends.

What makes it worse is how we’ve normalized it. Society rewards masks. Employers applaud polished resumes full of inflated half-truths. Friends love the version of you that entertains, not the one that breaks down. Lovers often fall in love with the curated highlight reel, not the messy, unfiltered human. So you keep the act going because honesty feels like su***de.

But here’s the problem with pretending: it starves the real you.
The version of you that longs for raw laughter, deep silence, unpolished conversations, uncurated joy. The version of you that wants to admit weakness, cry in public, admit “I don’t know,” confess “I’m scared,” say “I feel lost.” That you never gets oxygen because the mask is too tight.

And maybe the ugliest truth is this: nobody can love the real you if you never let them meet it.
The applause you’re getting now? It isn’t for you. It’s for the role you’re playing. Which means even in your most celebrated moments, you’ll feel unseen. That’s why the success tastes bitter. That’s why the relationships feel shallow. That’s why you’re lonely even in a crowd. Because deep down, you know they’re clapping for the costume, not the soul inside it.

So what happens if you stop pretending?
You lose some people. That’s the blunt answer. People addicted to your mask won’t recognize you without it. They’ll distance themselves, maybe even despise you. Some relationships will break. Some opportunities will vanish. That’s the cost of truth. And it stings.

But the trade-off? Peace. Real peace. The kind that doesn’t come from applause or validation but from alignment. From waking up and knowing that the face in the mirror finally matches the one you take into the world. From knowing that the “yes” you gave wasn’t forced, that the “no” you said didn’t drown you in guilt. From realizing that your life, though smaller, quieter, maybe even lonelier; finally belongs to you.

Pretending will always look easier in the short term. But long term, it eats you alive. It turns life into a lie so well rehearsed that you forget it was ever a lie. It gives you followers, maybe even fans, but robs you of intimacy. It gives you reputation but steals your rest. It gives you applause but leaves you hollow.

So ask yourself today, bluntly: Who am I performing for? And what would actually happen if I stopped? Would the world collapse— or would I finally breathe?

Because here’s the rawest truth of them all: you’re not tired because life is hard. You’re tired because life is fake.

And nothing drains the soul faster than pretending to be alive when you’re actually suffocating inside.

© The PenPalace

24/09/2025

There are prisons without bars, and one of the deadliest is the hunger for validation. You know it well, you scroll endlessly, waiting for likes to confirm you’re beautiful. You craft posts, not because they matter to you, but because you crave the applause of strangers who will forget you in five seconds. You wear clothes you hate, laugh at jokes that insult you, buy things you can’t afford, and enter relationships that drain your soul, all to be seen as worthy in the eyes of others.

But here’s the bitter truth: validation is a drug, and you are the addict. And like every drug, it gives a high that fades, forcing you to chase more. More likes. More praise. More attention. You live with an empty chest, waiting for someone else’s words to fill the void you refuse to face. And worst of all, you know it.

People don’t tell you this, but I will: the world doesn’t care about you as much as you think it does. Everyone is busy nursing their own wounds, fighting their own silent wars, hiding their own scars. Yet, here you are, tearing yourself apart, desperate for their nod of approval. They clap today, they forget tomorrow. They cheer now, they mock later. And still, you bend your back, break your bones, and twist your soul into shapes they may never even notice.

Validation is expensive. It will cost you your peace. It will cost you your freedom. It will cost you your identity. You become a puppet in a circus, dancing on strings someone else pulls. When people stop clapping, you collapse. When no one praises you, you crumble. Your worth has never belonged to you, it has always belonged to the crowd, and the crowd is fickle.

And you wonder why you’re tired. You wonder why nothing satisfies. It’s because you are feeding on crumbs when you could be baking bread. You measure your life with someone else’s ruler, and the measurements will always declare you “not enough.” The bitter truth: no matter how hard you try, you will never win in the game of validation. The finish line keeps shifting, the applause fades, and the hunger grows louder.

Look around, how many people have destroyed themselves trying to keep the crowd happy? Talented ones who never lived fully because they feared ridicule. Beautiful souls who mutilated their bodies to fit into boxes. Dreamers who killed their dreams because others didn’t clap loud enough. And maybe that’s you too, living half a life, choking on silence when no one notices you, stabbing yourself with comparison when others shine brighter.

But here’s the cruelty of validation: even when you get it, it doesn’t heal you. Ten compliments can’t erase the wound of one insult. A thousand likes can’t silence the voice in your head that whispers “you’re still not enough.” Validation feeds the hunger but never satisfies it. You keep running, but the finish line does not exist.

So what happens if you stop? If you stop waiting for the nod, the like, the approval? You might feel naked at first. Exposed. Terrified. Because validation has been your oxygen. But slowly, painfully, you will learn to breathe on your own. You will learn to sit with yourself, unliking, unseen, uncelebrated, and still be enough. You will learn that peace is louder than applause. That your worth is not measured in claps but in the quiet dignity of living true to yourself.

The raw truth: chasing validation will kill you long before death does. It will rot your soul, keep you on a leash, and bury you in shallow graves dug by other people’s opinions. If you want to live; really live, you have to stop running after claps and start living for the stillness that comes when you finally own your truth.

Stop bending for people who won’t even remember your name in a year. Stop measuring your beauty with someone else’s mirror. Stop silencing your voice to fit into rooms that were never meant for you. If they clap, good. If they don’t, so what? You are not here to be their entertainment. You are here to live.

And maybe, just maybe, the freedom you’ve been craving is not in their hands. It’s been sitting with you all along, waiting for the day you’d stop begging for crumbs and start building your own table.

The applause is nice, but peace is better. And until you choose peace, you will forever be a slave to noise.

© The PenPalace

23/09/2025

We live inside prisons built with our own words. Not words spoken out loud, but the quiet whispers we feed ourselves at night, when nobody else is listening. We say things that soothe us, things that give us just enough excuse to stay small, to stay safe. And then we wonder why life feels like it’s passing us by.

The truth is, most of us are not destroyed by outside enemies. We are destroyed by the lies we tell ourselves. Lies that feel comfortable. Lies that feel believable. Lies that sound reasonable but are actually poison.

The first lie: “I’m not ready.”
This one sounds noble, even wise. But let’s rip it open — nobody is ever fully ready. Readiness is not some holy ground you arrive at one day. It’s built in the fire, in the act of doing the thing scared, unprepared, unsure. People hide behind “I’m not ready” because it lets them off the hook. It keeps them safe from embarrassment, failure, responsibility. But it also keeps them safe from growth, from success, from the raw satisfaction of stretching past their limits.

The second lie: “I’ll do it later.”
This is the most seductive lie of all because it feels harmless. Later becomes tomorrow, tomorrow becomes next week, and next week becomes never. You think you’re preserving your energy. What you’re really preserving is your regret. Time doesn’t wait for you to be in the mood. It doesn’t stretch for your convenience. Later is where your dreams go to die quietly.

The third lie: “It’s just not meant for me.”
This one is cloaked in humility, but it’s cowardice wearing a robe. You decide you’re “not the type,” or “not destined,” because you failed once or because it feels hard. You call it fate when really it’s fear. And the worst part? You let yourself believe it’s noble to surrender. That’s not noble. That’s giving up your seat at the table before you even walk into the room.

The fourth lie: “I’ll be happy when…”
Happiness on layaway. You dangle it on conditions — when I get the job, when I find the person, when I move to that city. You tell yourself you’re being practical, but you’re robbing yourself blind. Because when you arrive at the “when,” the feeling doesn’t stay. The finish line moves. You’re stuck in a chase where happiness is always one step ahead, and you never catch it.

But here’s the most dangerous lie of all: “I can’t change.”
That’s the one that kills slowly. The day you tell yourself change is impossible is the day you hand your life over to autopilot. And autopilot doesn’t lead anywhere meaningful; it just circles the same skies until you land in the graveyard of potential. You weren’t born to recycle excuses. You were born to break them.

The lies we tell ourselves are not innocent. They cost us years. They cost us love, opportunities, joy, money, peace. Every time you repeat one of these lies, you trade a piece of your life for comfort. You trade truth for anesthesia. And like anesthesia, it numbs you — until one day you wake up and realize decades are gone, and all you have left are stories of what could have been.

Here’s the rawest truth: the only thing between you and the life you claim you want is the story you tell yourself about why you can’t have it.

If you’re brave enough to rip that story apart, you’ll discover something terrifying: there is no real barrier. No destiny working against you. No secret conspiracy blocking your path. Just you. Just your voice, whispering lies you’ve mistaken for truth.

And if that realization makes you angry, good. Anger means you’re still alive enough to do something.

So the question now is this: are you willing to tell yourself the truth, even if it hurts more than the lie?

Because the truth is the only thing that sets you free. The lie just keeps you comfortably chained.

© The PenPalace

21/09/2025

There’s a certain kind of pain that never really leaves you. It’s the pain of almost. Not complete failure. Not absolute loss. But the haunting, unfinished ache of being close enough to touch it, yet too far to ever claim it.

Almost is brutal. It doesn’t console. It doesn’t hug you with the warmth of “at least you tried.” Almost mocks you. It whispers in your ear at 2 in the morning, and plays re-runs of what could have been. Almost keeps you awake, not because you were incapable, but because you were capable… and still didn’t cross the line.

Almost means you got into the room but never sat at the table. Almost means you loved someone, but your silence cost you their heart. Almost means you had the chance to change your life, but fear, doubt, or laziness kept you comfortable in mediocrity. Almost is worse than never starting, because it feeds you with a taste of possibility, then snatches the plate before you can eat.

The cruelest part about almost is how it clings to your identity. People forget those who never try, but they remember those who came close. “He almost made it.” “She almost got that job.” “They almost built something remarkable.” Almost becomes your label, your story, your epitaph.

The cost of almost is not measured in what you did, but in what you never finished. It’s in the songs unwritten, the businesses never launched, the marriages that crumbled just before healing, the courage that showed up too late. Almost doesn’t just waste opportunities — it erodes self-trust. You stop believing yourself when you say “next time.” You know deep down there might not be a next time.

And here’s the knife that twists — almost is usually a choice. Not always, but most times. You could have tried harder, spoken sooner, studied longer, risked more. You could have leaned in when you leaned back. You could have finished. But you didn’t. And no amount of excuses makes that sting any less.

We don’t like to admit it, but the truth is brutal: most people live their entire lives in the land of almost. Almost wealthy. Almost happy. Almost fulfilled. They drown in distractions, numbed by entertainment, scrolling through the lives of those who crossed the line, consoling themselves with “I almost could have done that.”

Almost costs you peace. Because deep down, you know you betrayed yourself. You know you had the shot and let it rot. Almost costs you respect, because people eventually stop taking your dreams seriously when all you carry are unfinished projects. Almost costs you time, and time is the only thing you can never get back.

Think about this: nobody writes books about the “almost greats.” Nobody names streets after the people who almost built something. The world only remembers those who crossed the finish line, no matter how battered, how late, how imperfect. The ones who finished, even if they crawled, get written into history.

Almost is a graveyard. It’s filled with stories that could have been legends. It’s filled with lovers who should have been lifetimes but never confessed. It’s filled with inventions that could have changed the world but stayed locked in journals. Almost is where dreams rot while their owners smile politely at funerals and weddings, pretending life is fine.

The cost of almost is regret. Not the soft regret of wishing you had tried a new dish or worn a different shirt. The bone-deep regret that hollows you out when you realize you wasted your one shot at something that mattered. The kind of regret that grows heavier with age, pressing into your chest when you realize you’ll never get those years back.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you already know the weight of almost. Maybe you’re carrying unfinished chapters, unspoken words, unopened doors. Maybe you’re living small, telling yourself you’ll start tomorrow, next year, when the kids are older, when you save enough, when you feel ready. But here’s the raw truth: tomorrow is a lie. Readiness is a myth. Almost thrives on delay.

The only antidote to almost is action. Imperfect, messy, terrifying action. Say it now. Build it now. Quit it now. Try it now. Because once you move, even if you stumble, even if you fail, you have crossed out almost. And failure, real failure, at least teaches you. Almost teaches nothing but torment.

You think you have time. You think life is generous with second chances. Sometimes it is. Most times, it isn’t. The door that is open today can be bolted shut tomorrow. The person who loves you today may be gone next year. The energy you waste today may never return. Almost banks on your assumption that you have time. And time will laugh in your face.

So I’ll leave you with this: Almost is the most expensive thing you will ever own. It robs you of the life you could have lived. It makes you a ghost in your own story. If you’re not careful, almost will bury you alive, with your potential, your love, your purpose, and the world will move on without ever knowing who you could have been.

Finish. Don’t almost.

20/09/2025

Comparison is a slow poison. It does not choke you suddenly. It seeps in quietly, like water dripping from a leaking roof, soaking through the walls of your mind until you can’t remember what life felt like before the rot began. You tell yourself you are fine, that you’re just scrolling through Instagram or attending a friend’s wedding, but your chest tightens when you see them holding what you once prayed for. Their success becomes your mirror, reflecting back everything you don’t have.

The cruel thing about comparison is that it doesn’t stop at the obvious. It doesn’t just remind you that your friend bought a car while you still beg Uber drivers to reduce their fares, or when you are hu***ng from one bike to the other. No, it goes deeper. It whispers that your entire life is behind schedule, that your worth is shrinking every time someone else shines. You don’t just envy the car; you envy their laughter, their confidence, the ease with which they seem to move through the world.

And this is where the pain sharpens: when you begin to measure your own joy against someone else’s highlight reel. Their filtered photos make you question your unfiltered existence. Their curated testimonies make your private struggles feel like curses. You start to shrink in rooms where you once stood tall. Even your victories feel small because they do not glitter loud enough to silence the gnawing voice in your head saying, you are late, you are less, you are lacking.

Nobody wants to admit this. We bury it under congratulations and emojis. We smile at their promotions and weddings, but at night, we replay our own failures with bitterness. We are jealous in silence, clapping publicly but bleeding privately. We’ve all been there, whether we admit it or not. And if you think you’ve never felt it, you’ve probably just buried the memory too deep to remember.

The weight of comparisons is not just emotional, it is practical. It drives people into marriages they weren’t ready for, simply because all their mates were posting pre-wedding shoots. It pushes people into debt, buying cars or hosting lavish birthdays they cannot afford. It silences dreams, making someone abandon their own path because another person’s path seemed faster or shinier. How many destinies have been distorted because someone was trying to keep up with another person’s timeline?

And let’s be brutally honest: comparison makes you cruel. You may not spit venom out loud, but it festers inside. You start looking for cracks in their glass, waiting for their shine to dim so you can finally feel better about your own darkness. You secretly hope their marriage fails, that their business collapses, that their joy doesn’t last. You don’t want to admit it, but sometimes your comfort depends on their downfall. That’s how toxic comparison is, it robs you of love, of empathy, of the ability to celebrate without resentment.

But here is the ugliest truth: comparison is not about them. It’s about you. It exposes your insecurity, your impatience, your unwillingness to accept that your journey has a different pace. The person you’re envying has their own scars, their own failures they may never show you. Yet you let their edited life define your entire worth. That is self-sabotage dressed as admiration.

And the weight of comparisons is heavier than you think. It steals peace in small doses. You wake up restless, already calculating how behind you are. You can’t enjoy the fruit of your labor because you’re always reaching for someone else’s harvest. You keep sprinting, yet the finish line moves further away because it was never yours to begin with.

Here is the harshest part: if you keep living like this, you will waste your life. You will never fully taste your own wins, never fully live in your own skin. Your twenties, thirties, forties will pass, and you’ll look back realizing you spent more time peeking into other people’s gardens than tending to your own. And no, the world will not pause for you. It will move on. The ones you envied will keep moving, and you will remain chained to your own dissatisfaction.

People love to end essays like this with hope, with soothing words. But maybe hope is the problem, you’ve heard enough soft words to dull the sting, and yet here you are, still drowning under the weight of comparisons. So here’s the rawest truth: you will not heal until you admit that you are envious, insecure, and restless. You will not be free until you confront the darkness you feel when others shine. Stop lying to yourself. Stop hiding behind fake smiles. If you don’t name the demon, you can’t cast it out.

And if you’re reading this and it stings, good. It should sting. Because that pain is proof that you’ve been carrying this weight for too long. And until you put it down, until you learn to live without peeking at someone else’s plate, you will always be starving—no matter how much life gives you.

17/09/2025

: Seasons of Waiting

Waiting is not gentle. It is not the pretty picture people paint when they tell you “just be patient, your time will come.” Sometimes your time doesn’t come. Sometimes the thing you’re waiting for dies before it reaches you, and you are left holding nothing but the ashes of expectation.

Waiting is a long corridor with too many closed doors. It’s watching other people walk past with keys in their hands while you keep rattling the one that refuses to turn. It is the silence after countless prayers, the stillness after effort, the unanswered emails, the jobs that never call back, the womb that never carries, the love that never arrives. Waiting is not a pause button; it is an ache stretched across days, weeks, years.

The hard truth is, not every seed planted in waiting grows. Some rot in the soil. Some are stolen by birds. And yet we are told to keep smiling, keep believing, keep waiting, as though hope alone is oxygen. But what they don’t tell you is that waiting sometimes kills hope, drains belief, and leaves you bitter. You can wake up one day and realize that what you were waiting for has already passed you by. The opportunity expired. The season shifted. And you’re still there, holding on.

People rarely talk about this. Because to admit it feels like betrayal—of faith, of optimism, of the narrative that everything eventually works out. But honesty matters: sometimes, waiting ends in disappointment. And in that disappointment, you begin to wrestle with yourself. Was it foolishness to wait this long? Did I miss the signs? Did I mishear God, miscalculate life, misplace my trust? Those questions dig deeper than the waiting itself, because they attack your sense of self.

And then there’s the isolation of waiting. You scroll your feeds and watch peers who once stood beside you now sprinting miles ahead. Weddings, promotions, babies, achievements—they’re all there in living color. Meanwhile, your life feels muted, paused. You start dodging conversations, tired of the same questions: “So, any news yet?” or “Still waiting?” You smile, you shrug, you deflect. But inside, you’re drowning in the silence no one else can hear.

Here’s the thing about waiting that people don’t like to admit: it reveals who you are without the noise. Stripped of progress and applause, you’re left with yourself. And that confrontation can be terrifying. Do you even know who you are without the thing you’re waiting for? Have you tied your identity so tightly to the outcome that you no longer exist apart from it? Waiting forces that question on you, whether you’re ready or not.

Yet in that same harshness, something sharp and necessary is forged. Not a sweet hope, but a brutal clarity. You realize not everything you want is meant to be yours. You see that some dreams are seasonal; they were only meant to carry you partway. And you learn that resilience isn’t about pretending it doesn’t hurt—it’s about letting the hurt do its work without letting it consume you.

Does this mean you should stop waiting altogether? No. Life still asks us to wait, often in ways we cannot control. But maybe waiting isn’t just about what comes at the end; maybe it’s about who you become in the middle. Not every waiting ends in joy, but every waiting changes you—whether it breaks you, remakes you, or both.

So if you are in a season of waiting, don’t rush to romanticize it. Sit with it. Acknowledge the ache. Admit the loss. And then, when the silence has said all it can, ask yourself: Who am I becoming here? Because the season may not give you what you hoped for, but it will leave you with something. And what that “something” is—that’s where your choice still matters.

Waiting is not always beautiful. But it is always revealing....

The PenPalace

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