What is failure? Have you ever failed? Have you tasted that bitter, metallic sting on the tongue —like rusted iron held too long in the mouth? Have you felt the floor give way, the way cliffs crumble under angry waves?

****

We are all failures in a way. We all sort of failed. Are you a failure? You look kind of a failure.

****

Let me wake you up. Yes, you. You who think you know what falling feels like.

I am the winner. At least, that’s the script I recited like a national anthem. I won in life. Or so, I believed. I have a family — yes, a great family. Branches on my tree stretching wide, proud, and alive. Loved and highly held. I know how to love, or I thought I did. So, like it was said uko kwa murima, ‘mimi ni fire si fire?’.

Since my being, I have lived on the mountain peak. Top of my class.
A child-wonder, a new coin in the sun. The teachers admired me.
My parents prophetic my victory. Girls whispered my name. Kitur! Like a hymn.
Challenges tried knocking —but they entered softly; guests with no authority. Because the one constant was that I remained bright. So bright. A walking sun.

They say things happen for a reason. A wise saying, yet sometimes it feels like a lie wrapped in comfort. Because now, today, you are telling me I have failed. Failed? Me? I won't tell people that: ‘Wahenga hawaamini......’

‘A mother at barely 20. Broke at 20. No car keys jangling in my purse. No high-end address with manicured lawns and humming security gates. No office job. Really? You are a mama without funds! Who dares call you a winner’.

Do you know who I am? I am the winner. A born winner. My heart rejects the label like oil rejects water. My mind laughs, a shaky laugh, cracked like glass under pressure — because the word “failure” feels foreign, imported, misplaced.

What am I supposed to feel? Tell me. What should I do now that you have named me by a name I don’t recognize?

Two weeks ago, my world flipped. I discovered emotions I never knew lived inside me. Dark ones. Heavy ones. Words that cut like thorns: pain, regret, blame, chaos, mistrust, misfortune. All are angry bees buzzing around me.

People only care when you’re winning. Yes, that’s the truth they hide under motivational posters. Today all I hear is: SASA UTADU? UTAKUWA SAWA. IT HAPPENS. Empty phrases. Hollow comfort is offering smoke to a starving man. How am I supposed to be okay when no one is helping me breathe?

Now my mind runs wild. Running. Racing. A rumbling thunder in a locked room. I lie deep in my bed, buried under blankets and pillows. Looks like my only space, yes, safe space. Thinking. Thinking too much. My life — what a sudden twist. A plot twist Shakespeare would envy. I feel unfit for this script. I feel unready. I feel undone. I am suicidal.

Who should I talk to? Who will listen without widening their eyes in judgment? What will they think of me if they realize their “golden girl” is crumbling. Friends? Hah. Fake friends. Masks with teeth. They vanished like smoke when the fire rose. I feel betrayed — stabbed not with knives but with abandonment.

I want companionship.
A hug.
A safe corner.
A room where my heart can unclench.
A space to breathe again.
A space to restart.
A space to remember who I was before the ‘fall’.

Will I heal? Will I ever return to the throne I once sat on so confidently? I feel left behind; an old woman in a young body. My chest tightens in crowds. Yes, anxiety. Social anxiety.
I fear people.
I fear their eyes.
I fear their opinions.
I avoid friends like shadows avoid sunlight.

I smile outside — a painted smile, a carnival mask, but inside I am a dark soul roaming a burning cave. A hole in my heart. A fire in my ribs. Rage begging to escape. I want a sack of sand to punch until my knuckles peel off.

Hope. Oh! Hope. A dangerous drug. Sometimes’ sweet. Sometimes poisonous. A soft light that promises escape but sometimes delays progress. Sometimes’ kills joy, slowly, drop by drop.

I am learning. Unlearning. Relearning. Standing barefoot on the shards of who I used to be. And so — with nowhere left to turn — I turn my face upward. To the last resort, God. He listens. Truly listens. Without prejudice. Without bias. Without flinching at my mess. He doesn’t call me a ‘failure’. He calls me His.

We speak.
Morning and evening.
Day and night.
No shouting.
No long prayers.
Just whispers of the soul.
Silent conversations, louder than storms. From “Oh my God” to “Thank you, God.”

Over and over. A rhythm. A home. And maybe — just maybe — in His arms, I will rise again. Not as the girl who always won. But as the woman who survived losing.

Comments (8)

• Twesigye Tumwine

  December 17, 2025

  This is such a lovely piece. It is such a deep pit, to go thru, but to keep going ,thats the real strength. So, here's to you🥂

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• Zeus

  December 16, 2025

  Reads like Sylvia Plath(The Bell Jar),well written

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• Manucho Coachez

  December 16, 2025

  Kalii 🔥

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• CJ

  December 16, 2025

  Lovely piece ✨

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• M.K

  December 13, 2025

  Lovely piece, didn't know this side of you 😂

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• Celli ml

  December 13, 2025

  Are you a failure? Definately, I am. We all sort of failed.

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• Amtavi

  December 13, 2025

  Iko wagwan

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• Author

  December 12, 2025

  Comment, and read more🙏

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