There are two archetypes that often surface when discussing womanhood: the virtuous woman and the woman of substance. These figures stand at opposite ends of a delicate spectrum, one clothed in quiet perfection, the other shaped by fire and persistence. But between them lies the heartbeat of countless women who live in that fragile space where expectation and reality collide.

The virtuous woman is revered across cultures, often immortalized in sacred texts and passed down in stories told by grandmothers and mothers. She is gentle, patient, kind. Her hands never tire, her words are always soft, her spirit never breaks. She wakes before the world, carries its burdens in silence, and lays down only when the work is done. Her life is a canvas painted with grace and humility.

But beneath this ideal lies an unsettling silence. The kind of silence that comes from being watched, measured, and judged. Her joy is expected, not explored. Her pain is denied, not seen. She is not allowed to fall apart. There is no space for her anger, no permission for her exhaustion. The world clings to her perfection, even as she quietly unravels under the weight of its gaze. She is told that her value is in what she gives, not who she is. Her worth becomes a reflection of how well she disappears into the roles assigned to her: daughter, wife, mother, servant.

Then there is the woman of substance, not pristine, but powerful. Not untouched, but unbroken. She does not walk through life with soft footsteps; she marches. Her hands are calloused from holding together what others tried to tear apart. She knows loss, betrayal, hunger for love, for justice, for breath. She has screamed into pillows and stared at ceilings too many nights, begging for answers that never came. And still, she rose.

This woman does not wear her pain like shame. She wears it like armor. Her scars do not whisper weakness; they sing of survival. She has been told she is too much: too loud, too emotional, too difficult, but she has learned that “too much” often means “more than they could handle.” She walks into rooms like she belongs, even if her knees shake. She says no without guilt. She loves fiercely but no longer sacrifices herself in the process.

Still, the tension between these identities remains. Society often demands the quiet obedience of the virtuous woman while secretly admiring the resilience of the woman of substance. Women are asked to be both, but only in parts. Be gentle but not weak. Be strong but not intimidating. Be modest but not invisible. Be beautiful but not vain. The contradictions create a prison with invisible bars. No matter how a woman moves, she risks being wrong.

Many women, especially daughters, feel these opposing expectations tighten around their necks like a collar. The pressure to be good—good daughter, good student, good girl—becomes unbearable. And when their goodness fails to shield them from harm, from shame, from unwanted attention, it turns inward and curdles into guilt. They wonder what they did wrong, why they were not enough, why being “good” did not protect them.

Some learn early that modesty is not a shield. That no fabric, no behavior, no silence will save them from the eyes that search for weakness. They shrink themselves, hoping to avoid harm. They hide in oversized clothes, in obedience, in invisibility. And still, the world finds ways to wound them. At some point, they stop believing that purity equals safety. They stop trying to earn love by disappearing.

Instead, they begin the painful, glorious work of reclaiming themselves.

They no longer chase the title of “good girl.” It has betrayed them too many times. They want to be more than good—they want to be whole. They want to be real. They want to be seen not as an idea, but as a person. Someone who can make mistakes, ask for help, show anger, feel desire, grieve loudly, and love herself through it all.

They begin to believe that being virtuous does not mean being voiceless. That being a woman of substance does not mean abandoning softness. They see that the strongest women are not those who never fall but those who rise again and again and again, with trembling hands and tear-streaked faces.

To be a woman in this world is to walk with your heart in your hands and your back against the wind. It is to be told that your emotions are too loud, your voice too sharp, your boundaries too rigid. But still you walk. Still you love. Still you live.

And that, in itself, is enough.

The virtuous woman and the woman of substance are not enemies. They are not choices. They are echoes within the same soul. One offers faith, the other offers fight. One teaches you to give, the other teaches you to guard. Together, they form something far more human: balance.

In the end, the truest kind of woman is not the one who fits a mold. It is the one who finds herself, piece by piece, in the wreckage of expectation. Who chooses to be whole even when it means being misunderstood. Who refuses to live quietly just to make others comfortable.

She is not just a woman. She is a story. A force. A storm. A sanctuary.

And she does not need permission to exist.💜

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Hi,

I’m not sure if this is a cry for help or if I’m just overwhelmed by my own emotions right now. I know I once said I don’t hear voices but I think I misunderstood what I was experiencing. I thought they were just intrusive thoughts. But after hitting my head against the wall voluntarily I realized they weren’t just thoughts.

I don’t want to die. But I also don’t want to keep living like this. This version of life, this tired, hopeless, empty version, I can’t do it anymore. I’ve been weighed down with sadness all weekend. I have no energy, no drive, no motivation. Just breathing. That’s all I can manage.

I know I feel this way because I relapsed. I know that. But right now I feel like a complete failure. Like I had one job: to survive and be happy. Okay, maybe two jobs. But either way, I couldn’t do it.

People keep offering advice, “stay positive,” “try to find joy,” “do something you love,” and I know they mean well but those things are easier said than done. I can’t help but wonder if even they believe what they’re saying. Maybe they’re not happy either. But what else can you really say to someone who’s depressed and suicidal?

Sometimes I feel ungrateful. Because, objectively, my life isn’t awful. I have a family people envy, supportive parents, cool brothers, a roof over my head. I know I have it better than many. But what people don’t see is the weight of expectations. They don’t know that the “good upbringing” I received, the morals, the discipline, the etiquette, were often just tools to shape me into someone else. A good obedient and submissive wife. Or a self sacrificing single mother who knows how to do everything perfectly, alone.

I am grateful to my parents. I love them. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I’d developed my own voice, my own sense of self, much earlier. I wish I had more self esteem. More confidence. Something, anything, that helped me believe I had worth on my own terms.

I’ve shapeshifted so many times to please people. I’ve agreed to things I now regret, things I’m still processing. And here’s what I’ve learned about myself after 21 years:

1. I’m uncomfortable in my own skin

2. I’m a people pleaser, grade A

3. I’m depressed

4. I’m suicidal

5. I’ve never felt mentally or emotionally stable

6. I’ve spent most of my life feeling trapped

7. I hate my body

8. Nothing I do ever feels like enough

9. Almost everyone I called a friend (except a rare few) either used me, mocked me, competed with me, or only wanted me for a night

10. My metabolism is much slower than my brothers’ and it’s made me feel broken

11. I feel fat

12. I feel sad, every day, all day

13. And this one hurts the most: I’ve lost my imagination. That world in my head, the place I used to escape to, it’s gone. I don’t know how to live without it. I don’t want to live without it. Being stuck in reality every day terrifies me. Without the world I spent years building in my mind, all I see are the broken pieces of myself. Pieces I’m scared I’ll never recover.

Still, despite everything, I’m really glad I met you.💜

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Love is pain. Show her a love that didn’t leave her wishing she couldn’t feel anything at all. Every time she fell, it was pain that met her at the bottom. Did that mean she liked pain? Maybe. Some days, it felt like the only thing keeping her alive. But this pain was different. This wasn’t self-inflicted; it was chosen, consented to. She had opened herself to it, let it in willingly.

Now, she sat in the aftermath, feeling the sting of unshed tears behind her eyes, whispering to herself that it wasn’t a big deal. She was just overthinking, overwhelmed from another sleepless night. It was the insomnia, wasn’t it? Or the depression. The anxiety. Or maybe all three conspiring to drag her through this relentless emotional roller coaster again.

The urge to release the pain was a steady ache, a craving to watch it flow out of her. Her thoughts wrestled with her resolve, a mental tug-of-war to stay away from the razor. She felt a fleeting relief knowing she didn’t have enough pills to overdose, a dark comfort she hated herself for even considering. Too much? Maybe. Too intense? She didn’t know how to feel less. Her psychiatrist would be furious. She was furious. But in the end, it was all just pain, a constant companion disguised as love.

Because love wasn’t only pain. It was also life. It made her feel alive, even if it was fleeting. It made her want to live more, talk more, smile more. It painted her world in vivid colors she hadn’t noticed before, each shade vibrant and meaningful. That’s why they called it the honeymoon phase. And when it ended, as it always did, she realized she had lost pieces of herself along the way.

She was sleeping less now. Eating less. Living less. She had become less. But the pain? That was more. It bled out of her, seeped into every corner of her being, leaving her raw and aching. This feeling wasn’t new; it was agonizingly familiar. She recognized its shadow, the way it settled over her like an old enemy she had once foolishly thought she’d defeated.

And she blamed herself. It was her fault. She had lived for the calls, the texts, the fleeting affirmations that had felt like lifelines. She had let herself believe this time would be different, even when she knew better. She’d hoped it might last forever, even as the pessimistic voice in the back of her mind whispered that it wouldn’t. And when it all began to unravel, she was left wondering why she hadn’t prepared for the fall.

Taylor was right when she sang, “Don’t blame me, love made me crazy, if it doesn’t, you ain’t doin’ it right.” And Finneas must have been drowning in heartbreak when he wrote, “Go ahead and break my heart again, leave me wondering why the hell I ever let you in.” The words echoed her own turmoil, a soundtrack to her pain.

She was too tired now. Too tired to fight, too tired to sleep, too tired to pretend she was okay. Her mind raced, replaying memories that had been forged in less than two months. Two months. How had they packed so much into such a short time? And how had it unraveled so quickly?

When would she learn? She didn’t want to feel like this anymore. She didn’t want to fight battles she knew she’d lose. She wasn’t lazy, just desperate for an easier way. For peace. For an escape from the endless cycle of loving, breaking, and hurting. She knew it wasn’t worth it. It never was. And yet, she kept falling, kept breaking, kept hoping.

And guess what she did next? She fucking called. Because big girls don’t cry.

Bustalime💜

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Tonight, I realized I don’t need a man. Sure, I might want one for companionship, but necessity? Absolutely not. And what brought about this moment of clarity? A clogged drain.

Now, let me set the scene: I was in the middle of my everything bath (if you know, you know) when the water suddenly stopped draining. A very serious situation, considering that when I first moved in, I was explicitly warned that if this drain ever got clogged, a plumber would have to be called, and it would turn into a full-blown project, one that could take at least two weeks to fix. And let’s not forget, this isn’t just any drain, it’s an 80s-built-in tub drain, the kind designed to make your life miserable when things go wrong.

So, what did I do? First, I panicked. For a solid minute, I convinced myself that the drain was working fine, that maybe the water was just draining really slowly. Delusional, I know. But reality hit hard when I realized the water wasn’t going anywhere.

That’s when I snapped out of it. I put on my metaphorical big girl pants and hyped myself up with “Anything a man can do, a woman can do better” and “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Then, I got to work.

I tried a broom. Nothing. A brush? Still nothing. I searched for a plunger, nowhere to be found. So, in a moment of sheer desperation, I grabbed a metal clothes hanger and started fiddling with that drain like my life depended on it. And let me tell you, never in my wildest dreams did I picture myself doing this. Normally, anything remotely gross makes me queasy. But not tonight.

After a few minutes of determined maneuvering, I finally hit the jackpot. I pulled out clumps of whatever monstrosity was clogging that drain, and when I turned the water back on and watched it flow freely… Oh, the relief! The joy I felt in that moment could only be compared to seeing a passing grade in a course you knew you were about to fail.

And then? I finished my everything bath, scrubbing every inch of my skin clean, just like when Jesus washes sins away.

Now, with an exam at 9 AM tomorrow, my brain is as clear as that drain, fully ready to absorb everything I need to cram between now and sunrise.

Moral of the story? With the right amount of urgency and determination, you can do anything.

Bustalime (Queen of all trades 💅🏽)

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My next-door neighbor is a pig. Fifteen weeks ago, he appeared out of nowhere and moved into the room directly across from mine. To set the scene: I live in a building next to his, with my window facing his, separated by a fence. We don’t have a clear view into each other’s rooms, well, at least I don’t. Now that we’ve got the layout clear, let’s dive back into my rant.

About twelve weeks ago, this delightful neighbor caught a cold. How do I know? Because I could hear every sneeze and the endless blowing of his nose. Gross, right? But that’s not even the worst part. For the last 12 weeks, whenever he coughs up phlegm, he graciously opens his window and spits it directly into my building’s compound. Yes, you read that right. This man has turned my living situation into a horror show, making me witness his nasty phlegm being projectile-launched from his mouth. I was also kind of amazed at how far he could launch it.

At first, I tolerated it, thinking I’m a reasonable person, but eight weeks in, I was silently cussing him out in my head. This isn’t an occasional slip-up either; it’s constant. No time is off-limits for him, 1 a.m., 7:30 p.m. during dinner, it doesn’t matter. I hear that disgusting “hawk tuah” at all hours.

I’m torn on how to handle this, but honestly, shouldn’t Mr. Pig know by now that what he’s doing is revolting? It’s baffling to me that his friends, relatives, or even partners don’t realize how much effort he’s putting into launching phlegm across the fence. Given where we live, you wouldn’t expect this kind of behavior, but I guess the saying is true: “You can take the pig out of the mud, but you can’t take the mud out of the pig.” No matter how you dress them up, they’ll always return to their filthy habits.

Thank you for allowing me to vent about my current nightmare. Please feel free to advise me on how to deal with Mr. Pig without starting a conflict. And again, I’m sorry if I ruined your breakfast, brunch, lunch, lunner, dinner/supper, or midnight snack.

With a frown and a glare,

Bustalime💜

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I remember the first time I heard that line. I was 22 years and 5 months old. The moment the words hit me, my mind flashed back to senior secondary school. Back to him. Back to what he did. The same fear gripped me again, just like it did back then. I felt the pain all over again, the weakness, the smallness. It was almost unbearable to remember that someone I trusted had done this to me. I never imagined seeing that side of him. Never thought my cries for help would fall on deaf ears. I never could have imagined my body would be treated like that.

I should’ve screamed for help. I could’ve fought harder. Maybe then, I would still have it, my girlhood. I hadn’t thought to call it that before, not until I heard it in that song. The worst part is, that wasn’t the first time my girlhood had been threatened. But it was the first time I knew something had been taken from me, something I couldn’t get back unless by some miracle. I bled for three days, and still, I stayed silent.

Why did I stay quiet? Why didn’t she speak up, you ask? Because she never had a voice. She only found her voice less than a year ago. And now, she’s finally learning how to use it. Why did it take her so long? She doesn’t fully know… or maybe she does, but that’s a story for another time. What matters is, she’s never letting herself be silenced again. She is me.

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People love to say women are the queens of gossip. Like we invented the art of not minding our business. But if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know men are often worse.

You can be out in the world, going about your day, when a man suddenly feels entitled to your face. “Why aren’t you smiling?” he asks, as though your neutral expression is an invitation for commentary. Sometimes, it is not even a question. It is a directive. “You should smile.”

Smile for what exactly?

Imagine it is Monday morning. You are tired, running late, barely alive. And here comes someone’s grown son with the confidence of a motivational speaker, telling you to smile. Because apparently, your face has become public property. Because looking like you have emotions—real, human ones—is now considered a problem.

Then it gets worse. “You look better when you smile,” he says. As though your existence should be curated for his comfort. As though you were placed on this earth to be pleasant and easy on the eyes. At 8 a.m. On a Monday. While you are on your way to sit through a lecture that may or may not make sense.

Nobody walks up to men at the bus stop and says, “Hey, turn that frown upside down.” But if you’re a woman, your silence, your mood, your face—it all becomes open for commentary.

And it doesn’t stop in public. Go home for the holidays, and it continues. You walk into the compound and barely put your bags down before someone says, “You’ve added weight.” Just like that. No hello. No how are you. Just a body scan and a verdict.

Imagine responding with the truth. “And you still live in that same one-bedroom apartment with broken ceiling fans. But here we are.” But of course, you don’t say that. Because you’re polite. Because you were raised well. Because you’re tired.

The truth is, most women are constantly filtering their reactions. We measure our responses carefully because if we said what we were really thinking, the tears would be male and the streets would be flooded.

Imagine if women returned the energy. A man is walking under the sun, sweating like a boiled yam, and a woman says, “Wow, you’re sweating a lot. Maybe get a car.” Or she sees a guy in a wrinkled shirt and mismatched socks and says, “Sir, please. Try harder.”

Men would not survive it. But women are expected to smile through it all. To take it in stride. To never be rude. To always be soft.

But sometimes, softness is simply choosing silence. And even that, apparently, is too much for some people to handle.

Author’s Note

Hey you,

If you’re reading this, congratulations—you’ve just survived the first episode of Thinking Out Loud. This newsletter is basically a brain dump in cute fonts. There’s no schedule, no structure, and definitely no consistency. I write when life drags me by the wig and demands a response. So if you’re expecting order, darling, you’re in the wrong inbox. Stick around though. Chaos looks good on you.

Until next time whenever that is stay messy stay loud and do not let the world gaslight you into smiling for no reason

With a smirk and a side of side eye,

Bustalime💜

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I do not usually speak publicly about the state of the nation, but lately, I have found myself thinking deeply. I am in my mid-twenties, and I have watched the situation in this country decline at an alarming pace. It feels like everything around us is falling apart faster than we can understand it. I could list the things that have gone wrong in my lifetime, but that feels unnecessary. We already know. We live it every day. The price of fuel, food, rent, and school fees are no longer things we simply complain about, they are now survival topics. Even owning a car, any car, feels like a luxury. People who once lived comfortably now struggle to afford their previous standard of living.

They say, “Cut your coat according to your cloth.” But have you seen the price of fabric these days? There was a time when sewing your clothes was cheaper than shopping in boutiques. Now, it costs just as much, if not more.

Children today are growing up without the experiences that were once normal to us. I remember when getting 100 naira from your parents for school was a regular thing. By secondary school, it went up to 200 naira, which was more than enough for lunch. If you got 1000 naira for the entire week, that was seen as a luxury. We saved money with ease. We could afford small treats without touching our savings.

We grew up believing that if we worked hard enough, we could afford what we had and maybe even more. Those from less privileged homes believed they had nowhere to go but up. Sadly, we were all wrong. We did not know poverty had a basement.

Our grandparents and parents often talk about how paying 20 naira for school fees used to be a challenge. I am not saying it was easy for them. But how did a generation that once found value in 50 naira allow 200,000 naira to become almost meaningless?

These days, it is nearly impossible to calculate a reasonable cost for childcare without reaching half a million. And that is just for the basics. Some children may never get to taste Capri Sun or Ribena because of how expensive they have become. I remember crying once because I could not take snacks to school—I had already taken the last one the day before.

Back then, our mothers would go to the market at the beginning of the month and buy biscuits in dozens. Staples like Coaster, Kemps Cream Crackers, and Belloxxi were regular picks. If they felt fancy, maybe Noreos. Yet these treats never threatened the food budget. Or maybe they did, and our parents simply made sure we never noticed.

Today, everyone is trying to earn more money just to stay afloat. But maybe we should also be asking how we can make our money hold more value. Why is the solution always to earn in foreign currency? Why is it normal for the naira to shrink while we stretch ourselves trying to keep up?

I will be honest, I love being Nigerian. I actually enjoy living here. No doubt, it is becoming more dangerous every day, but we still have those little things that bring us joy. I just do not want us to mistake those small joys for the kind of big moments that fill us with pride. I truly pray our nation finds its way and begins to live up to the hope and hype that we, its people, still speak of.

My generation deserves to witness a Nigeria that is worth fighting for and worth identifying with. I know the elders often say we are the leaders of tomorrow and that we must take charge for things to change. But although the beautiful ones have been born, the ugly ones refuse to die.

Yes, I speak from a more privileged place than many, and I know I will never fully understand the daily struggles many Nigerians face. But I see you. I see the life my parents worked hard to protect me from. And I am terrified of falling into it. I am even more terrified of raising children in that same system.

I understand that life is unpredictable. It humbles everyone eventually. But if I am being honest—truly honest—I am scared to be independent. That is the core of everything I am saying. I am afraid.

The gap between social classes is stretching wider by the day. Nigerians are praised for their resilience and ability to adapt, but when do we draw the line? When do we stop adjusting and start fighting for the lives we deserve?

Which other country runs on generators as a norm, even in government buildings? We have adapted so much that solar panels and inverters are now standard expenses in many homes. New tenants budget for solar before they even think of furniture. Where public water fails, we drill boreholes. Where public schools fail, private ones appear on every street corner.

We have normalized every failure.

And after saying all of this, I find myself back at the beginning: I am scared. I am scared that the future I am preparing for will not be enough. I am scared that our children may never experience the joy of growing up in a Nigeria that loves them back.

I am not talking about the protective bubbles we create for them. I am talking about being actual children of Nigeria, children who can be proud of where they come from.

That is what frightens me the most.

With a gleam of hope,

Bustalime 💜

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Thinking out loud, she was a hopeless romantic, fully embracing every beautiful and painful aspect of her nature, even when it hurt more than she dared to admit. Her journey through life had been filled with countless encounters, too many at times, she had thought. But then he appeared, and suddenly, all those fleeting moments transformed into stepping stones leading her to him, the missing piece of her heart.

For so long, she had wandered, longing to be seen, heard, loved, wanted, needed, and fiercely protected. She yearned for someone to show her off and cherish her like a precious gem. It felt like an impossible dream, perhaps too much to ask for. But was it really? She had devoured countless stories where the heroine received that kind of love, the very love she had spent her life searching for. Just when she had resigned herself to the belief that such love might never exist, he stepped into her world like a breath of fresh air, like the sweet gasp of relief one takes after escaping a fire or emerging from the depths of drowning. He swept her off her feet, leaving her utterly enchanted and craving more and more of him with each passing moment.

His voice was a melody that caressed her soul, filling her with warmth and light, awakening empty places she never knew were longing to be filled. He was as tall as every male lead she had ever read about, with a body that embodied every love interest’s ideal, strong and commanding, yet tender. Through his eyes, she discovered a reflection of herself she had always wished to see, someone strong and beautiful, someone finally becoming real. For the first time, she felt like somebody, a person worthy of love and attention. And now, she finally felt like someone to lose.

Countless nights had found her on her knees, praying for a miracle, for someone to change her fate and rewrite her story. She didn’t dream of riches; all she wanted was someone who craved her company, someone who would treasure every moment with her. She had begged the stars to let it be her, whispering her wishes into the cosmos and wondering whom she needed to plead with to rewrite her destiny. His voice enchanted her, becoming the sweetest addiction she never wanted to shake. She had faced the demons of addiction before, but for him, she would willingly overdose every single day, because when it came to him, there was no such thing as enough.

To be loved like the heroine in the most heartwarming slow burn felt like a fairytale, and yet he made it effortless, crafting a love that felt like magic. He spoke words that made her heart soar, words she had only ever blushed at in the pages of books, confessions that made her envious of the heroines who captured such fierce devotion. Deep down, she dreamed of being his endgame, of spending forever intertwined with him, their lives bound by the unbreakable thread of their fierce love. She relished being his new fantasy to explore, delighting in the fact that the books he read didn’t give much detail about the heart and soul of a person like her. He was in love with a girl who was only read by niche because the picture with them in it was never really perfect enough for every writer to consider or portray.

Now, he was in love with a girl who was often relegated to the margins of stories, a niche character who didn’t quite fit the conventional mold. But he saw her, really saw her, and that made her heart swell. Even if the universe had other plans, she would treasure every moment, knowing that there had been a time when she was loved so profoundly that she could almost believe he had stepped straight out of a lonely prince novel, a character who had endured trials and tribulations, a dark lord ready to conquer the world for her smile, willing to relive every ounce of pain in his past just for the chance to have her by his side.

It was utterly unbelievable to her that he was hers, and she reveled in the wondrous reality of it, reassured by his whispered promises that she wasn’t merely imagining it. He had said those tender things that made her heart race, those beautiful words that had always made her envy the female leads. She had longed for someone who could love her so fiercely, so quietly yet so loudly, wrapping her in a warmth that made her feel cherished in both the softest and grandest ways.

Immense gratitude swelled in her heart for him, he made her feel like them, effortlessly erasing the weight of self-doubt that had once clung to her soul. No longer did she have to wonder how to make him match her obsession or the depth of her desire for him.

So, with every fiber of her being, she thanked him, a fiercely independent woman who would marry him in an instant, using nothing but paper rings, knowing that their love was richer and more precious than any jewel in existence. Just like Rhysand loved Feyre, he loved her, thorns and all, and that love made her feel like the most cherished treasure in the universe, someone truly special and irreplaceable.

Author’s Note

I realize this isn’t my usual newsletter format, but it could develop into something truly special, depending on your feedback (or not), of course! I hope you enjoy reading it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments. Happy reading!

With a wink and smile,

Bustalime💜