During the festive season, supermarkets are alive with motion—shoppers rushing, baskets full, lines stretching long. On the surface, it’s chaos. But I noticed something deeper. People often treat holidays like Christmas or New Year as the only “approved” time to care for themselves. The mindset seems to be: “I deserve something nice—today, because it’s the season.”

But why wait? Why allow joy, care, or indulgence to be dictated by dates on a calendar? Treating yourself isn’t a holiday ritual—it’s a way of life.

I experienced this firsthand on December 28th or 29th, 2025. Our liquid dishwashing soap had run out. I went to the nearest supermarket to buy just that—nothing else. And yet, I noticed the stares: “She came for dish soap?” Some might find it humorous, others judgmental. But I saw it as an illustration of a bigger truth: life is not about public perception. Treating yourself is about giving yourself moments of joy, care, and attention, regardless of what others think or what the season dictates.

Treating yourself can be simple:

• Buy a snack that makes your heart happy.

• Enjoy a quiet coffee or read a book you love.

• Take time for music, writing, or reflection.

Holidays can be special, yes—but they shouldn’t be the only times we acknowledge our worth. Life moves daily, and small acts of care and joy can—and should—happen every day. Treat yourself. Celebrate yourself. Invest in your happiness. And let your joy be consistent, not conditional on the calendar.

A few Sundays ago, my big sister reached out to me. She’s far older than me, married for ten years, and a mother of three. Sometimes, I miss my big sister — not just in distance, but in the way her voice carries wisdom, experiences, and lessons I’ve never fully heard… until that day.

She said she wanted to share her story, hoping young women could learn from her experiences — lessons about love, sacrifice, self-worth, and survival. As she spoke, I realized just how much pain, strength, and resilience her journey carried.

Her story began with her struggles in relationships. She told me she didn’t feel she ever got “good men.” She kept attracting men who didn’t value her. One man she attended to fully, giving him care and attention, turned out to be seeing someone else. Another woman had to confirm what she suspected: he would never marry her. That heartbreak left deep scars, and she began to doubt if she could ever find a faithful, loving partner.

Then she met a man who seemed different — kind, attentive, and someone she thought met her expectations. She believed he could be “the one.” But she discovered he wasn’t educated, something that mattered deeply to her. While she was in her final year at Lagos State University, she used her resources to help him get enrolled in Lagos State Polytechnic.

When her final year came with financial pressures — tuition, fees, and living expenses — she asked him for support. He told her to “let go” of her hard work. She couldn’t continue and became a dropout, while he completed his OND.

Despite this, she remained resilient. She found work, pursued her business ventures, and continued building her life. Eventually, they married — a ceremony at Ikoyi Registry, a reception, and a new home. They relocated from Lagos to Ogun State. She hoped marriage would bring partnership, respect, and love.

But reality was harsh. She supported him spiritually, emotionally, financially, and domestically. She prayed for him, cooked for him, and maintained their home, yet he barely acknowledged her. On their 10-year anniversary, he refused to celebrate. He called her a “lavish spender” and “wasteful.” Family and friends often advised her to “face the music,” leaving her feeling unseen and unheard.

She told me she had stopped sharing the details of her marriage with her family because they would mock her indirectly or suggest she just “face the music,” saying things like, “You saw him before you married, so you must stay for your children.” She felt isolated in her pain.

One thing that pained her deeply was how he never acknowledged her beauty or complimented her, even though he would notice and comment on other women. She felt invisible, unappreciated, and emotionally neglected in ways that cut deep.

Her struggles extended to her business. She needed a deep freezer for her work and turned to him for support — he refused. She turned to her aunt, who provided the money. Later, when she needed to sell the freezer to fund other things, he blocked her. She silently endured this, prioritizing a “peaceful” marriage over her own needs and dignity.

There were also moments when she looked visibly stressed, like at the airport, and she said it wasn’t work stress — it was marriage stress. She felt the weight of being emotionally unsupported, unappreciated, and constantly dismissed.

Even spiritually, things changed. After he got a job — following her months of fervent service and staying at home — he stopped attending church. She worried about his new boss, a rich and flirtatious man, and how his influence might affect him. He provided for the children but acted as if she didn’t exist.

Through all this, she admitted something important: she wanted to be happy. She even considered leaving or separating, unsure of what the right choice was. I asked if he had ever physically abused her. She said, “He dares not; he never has.” I encouraged her to focus on herself: her business, her growth, her appearance, and her skills. I suggested movies, books, and self-development to help her reclaim confidence.

Even after ten years, she noticed small signs of curiosity and attention from him, like asking about her whereabouts — reminders that something remained. By focusing on herself, she could reclaim respect, autonomy, and happiness.

Her journey is painful, yes, but it’s also a story of resilience, survival, and strength. She wants young women to see that marriage should never erase your identity.

Lessons from Her Story

1. Get rid of limiting mindsets about love. Don’t believe “I’m unlucky” or “Only married men will notice me.”

2. Know your worth before committing. Never compromise your standards.

3. Support yourself first. Build your independence, education, and career.

4. Don’t let others define you. Only you — and God — determine your identity.

5. Recognize emotional abuse. Neglect, control, or belittling is harmful.

6. Self-care is vital. Prioritize your growth and happiness.

7. Sacrifice is noble but don’t lose yourself. Protect your dignity.

8. Marriage shouldn’t erase your identity. Keep your voice and goals intact.

9. Notice patterns in behavior. Repeated disrespect is a warning.

10. Focus on yourself to reclaim power. Growth changes dynamics.

11. Prayer and action go together. Faith guides, but action changes your life.

This story isn’t just about one woman’s struggle — it’s a reminder to every young woman out there: your happiness, dignity, and growth matter. Life may test your patience, relationships may challenge your strength, but your identity and self-worth are non-negotiable.

Let this be a call to trust yourself, invest in yourself, and never settle for less than you deserve. Surround yourself with people who lift you, protect your heart, and celebrate your growth.

And remember: it’s never too late to reclaim your joy, rebuild your confidence, and shine in your own light. Your story, like hers, can inspire others — and sometimes, the most powerful change begins with simply choosing yourself.

She liked him.

She laughed with him. She shared moments she thought were private. She shared herself.

She was wrong.

I once knew a young woman whose life was changed forever by digital violence. We lived in the same compound. She was dating a young man — naive, hopeful, caught in the thrill of new love. They weren’t married. They weren’t even officially “a couple” in the full sense. But in the excitement of dating, they crossed boundaries — shared intimate photos, videos, moments meant for just the two of them. Moments she thought would stay private.

At first, it was lighthearted. It was love. It was fun. She believed in the trust she had placed in him. She thought nothing could ever go wrong.

Then everything fell apart.

One day, he changed. The warmth disappeared. Threats replaced laughter. Blackmail replaced affection. And when she refused to obey his demands, he did the unthinkable: he shared her intimate photos and videos online.

Her privacy, her dignity, her body — exposed for anyone to see.

Her life collapsed.

The whispers started first. Quiet murmurs in the streets. Then the stares. Then the outright mockery. Friends who once stood by her distanced themselves. People she barely knew passed judgment as though she alone had committed a crime. Her confidence evaporated. Her freedom — simple things like walking down the street, going to the store, living without fear — vanished. Every corner of her life became a reminder that something she thought was innocent, something she thought was shared in trust, had been weaponized against her.

Her mother cried herself to sleep. Broken, powerless, overwhelmed by shame and anger she could not fix.

And him? Nothing. No shame. No consequences. No accountability.

She carried the weight of a mistake they both made. But here’s the truth: silence gives power to abusers. Every quiet moment, every unspoken word, every attempt to endure the shame only strengthens them. Abusers feed on silence. They control the narrative. They control lives.

But she didn’t let it win.

She moved out. She sought help. She reached out to trusted friends, family, and organizations equipped to guide and protect survivors of abuse. She sought counseling, healing, and support. Piece by piece, she rebuilt her life, reclaiming the confidence, joy, and freedom that had been stolen from her.

Years later, she married happily. She started a new chapter. She laughed again. She lived again.

She survived what was meant to destroy her.

This is what digital violence looks like. This is what image-based abuse does. This is the reality too many young women face silently, every single day.

And here is the lesson: You are not powerless. You are not alone. You do not have to suffer in silence. Speak to trusted people — friends, family, mentors, or organizations dedicated to supporting survivors. There are people and systems ready to help you reclaim your life.

Your dignity, your power, your body — they are yours alone. Do not hand them to someone who could betray you. Do not let shame define your story. And do not let fear keep you quiet.

Stories like hers happen every day. But survivors exist. And their stories are proof that recovery, resilience, and joy are possible.

Your life is not over. Your story is not finished. You can rise again.

She scrolled through her feed again.

Another friend launched a business.

Someone else got engaged.

Another just bought a car.

Her old classmate posted a certificate from a new tech course.

And yet another is celebrating a promotion.

Everywhere she looked, people seemed to be moving — growing, achieving, building.

But she felt… still.

Not stuck.

Not lazy.

Just out of sync with the world around her.

While everyone around her learned catering, makeup, decorations, event planning, fashion design, tech skills, or other “practical” paths… her own interests didn’t seem to fit society’s expectations.

She loved soft skills — communication, writing, music, storytelling, emotional intelligence, healing work, advocacy.

Things that weren’t loud.

Things that weren’t easily monetized.

Things people didn’t instantly label as “useful.”

To many, it seemed like she wasn’t serious with her life.

But deep down, she knew there was something in her — something forming, something slowly awakening.

She just couldn’t explain it.

Real Stories That Remind Us: Growth Isn’t Always Loud

Think of Priscilla Shirer.

While many expected her to follow a traditional ministry path, she leaned fully into her calling as a teacher, speaker, and storyteller. People didn’t understand it at first — but today, her voice equips millions of women.

Think of Sinach.

For years she served quietly as a background worship leader. Everyone around her was chasing fame, but she stayed with her gift. Today, her song has circled the globe.

Think of Nicole C. Mullen.

She didn’t follow the mainstream music route. Her strength was in storytelling — raw, emotional storytelling through song. And that difference became her global identity.

Women who were once “odd,” “unserious,” or “unpredictable” became pillars, simply because they stayed faithful to their unique rhythm.

The Weight of Feeling Behind

She felt overwhelmed — not because she was idle, but because her path didn’t match the pace of others.

She wasn’t interested in the skills everyone else was picking up.

She didn’t feel called to what society said women “should” learn.

People questioned her, laughed at her, doubted her seriousness.

She wondered:

“Why is everyone moving except me?”

“Why does my life feel slow?”

“Why am I not excited about the things everyone else likes?”

But herein lies the truth…

Not all growth looks the same.

Not all women bloom loudly.

Some bloom quietly — beautifully — in their own time.

Dear woman, this part is for you.

You are not behind.

You are not wasting time.

You are not strange.

You are not late.

You are simply becoming — at your own pace.

Your interests are not random.

Your passions are not pointless.

Your slowness is not failure.

But remember:

Becoming requires movement.

Not pressure.

Not comparison.

Just consistent, intentional steps in the direction of your calling.

So don’t stay still.

Don’t bury your desire because others don’t understand it.

Don’t shrink because your journey isn’t loud.

Start — small, steady, sincere.

Your rhythm may be different,

but it is divine.

A Gentle Call to You

Take one small step this week — just one — toward the woman God is shaping within you.

A class.

A notebook.

A prayer.

A commitment.

A start.

You are not out of step.

You are simply walking a road uniquely yours.

About the Author

Abiola Ifeoluwa Olusanya is the writer and women’s advocate behind The Voice of the Wombman — a storytelling and faith-based movement dedicated to helping women rediscover identity, purpose, and spiritual clarity. She writes for women who feel unseen, unheard, or “out of step,” reminding them that their timing is divine and their voice matters.

During a recent Bible character study, one woman unexpectedly stood out to me — Delilah. Not for the drama surrounding her name, not for Samson’s downfall, but for something far deeper: her awareness of the power she carried.

Delilah knew her presence.

She knew her voice.

She knew her influence.

And she used it consciously.

Pause for a moment and reflect: how often do we, as women, recognize the influence we carry? How often do we pause to acknowledge that the choices we make, the words we speak, and even the energy we radiate can shift the course of situations around us?

Many portray Delilah as simply a manipulator — the woman who brought down Samson. But what fascinates me is not her action, but her consciousness. She understood herself and the power she held. That awareness is something we can learn from.

Imagine applying that same level of intentionality in your own life:

Your words shaping conversations, not just filling silence.

Your presence commanding respect, not just attention.

Your kindness influencing outcomes, not just gestures.

Your intelligence and intuition guiding decisions that elevate not just yourself, but everyone around you.

Think of a moment when you felt unstoppable — like standing on a cliff, wind in your hair, holding your influence like a glowing orb. That’s the kind of awareness Delilah had. And it’s the kind of power we can step into today.

The lesson is clear: awareness is power. Not manipulation. Not control. But conscious recognition of what you carry and using it intentionally.

You are powerful.

Own it.

Step into your inner Delilah — not her choices, but her confidence. Not her manipulation, but her mindset. Not her downfall, but her awareness.

Reflection Questions:

When was the last time you felt the power of your own influence?

In what areas of your life are you underestimating your impact?

How can you use your awareness intentionally today to create something meaningful?

She first noticed a tiny blood clot. At first, she thought it was nothing. But a few weeks later, the hospital confirmed it—she was pregnant. A tiny heartbeat, a new life. Excitement swelled in her chest, but fear came right alongside it. She wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted to do everything right.

She followed every instruction: eating seven to eight times a day, sleeping on her left side, taking injections, going for scans and tests. Her body ached, her bum hurt from the injections, and she felt every discomfort. Yet she persisted. Every precaution, every effort, was her way of showing love to a life she had just discovered. She was careful. She was cautious. She hoped.

Then the day came. The blood flow and clots intensified. Panicked, she rushed to the hospital. The doctors gave her injections. She clung to hope. But when she got home, it happened—she lost the baby. Just over five weeks, and her tiny life was gone.

She was wild with grief. She wailed like a child, her pain raw and unfiltered. She shut out every word of encouragement. She refused food for days. She blamed herself. She thought she had done something wrong, as if she had caused her baby to die, though she had done everything the doctors told her.

Motherhood is often painted as joy. Baby bumps, showers, first smiles, tiny clothes folded perfectly in pastel drawers. Social media celebrates it all. But there is another side. A side of motherhood that rarely gets spoken of. The heartbreak that comes before a baby can be held. The silent tears, the overwhelming guilt, the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if life will ever feel normal again.

She is not alone. There is a woman online who lost two babies in the space of one year, both through C-section. Two lives she longed for, nurtured in her heart, gone in quick succession. Can you imagine the heartbreak? The hope that turns into grief again and again? And then there is my friend’s aunt, who lost twin girls at birth. Two lives, two dreams, two futures, gone in the blink of an eye. These stories are rarely told, yet they are countless, and they carry a weight that cannot be measured.

Motherhood is not only joy. It is also heartbreak. It is sorrow that sits quietly in the corner of the room, waiting for no one to notice. It is learning to live with grief while the world keeps moving. It is standing, even when your heart feels shattered. It is courage, resilience, and quiet strength that social media cannot capture.

For the woman who lost her baby at five weeks, it took days of sorrow before she could eat, before she could speak without breaking down. She remembered the Word of God she had once shared as a sermon. That Word reminded her that life could still hold meaning beyond her pain. Slowly, she rose. Slowly, she stood back up, trembling but determined. She learned that motherhood is not measured only in milestones, but also in the courage to keep loving and hoping after heartbreak.

Motherhood is sometimes waking up in the middle of the night, tears wet on your pillow, heart aching from loss, and still having the courage to face the day. It is feeding your body when all you feel is emptiness. It is showing up for loved ones while carrying grief inside you. It is continuing to hope when hope feels impossible.

And yet, despite all the pain, there is love. There is strength. There is resilience. These mothers—whether they have lost a baby at five weeks, two babies in a year, or twin girls at birth—carry a type of motherhood that the world does not see. Their journeys are quiet, their strength invisible, yet they are real. Their love is real. Their courage is real.

Motherhood is not just baby showers, tiny clothes, or first smiles. Sometimes it is heartbreak, silence, and finding hope when life feels unbearable. It is loving when your heart feels empty. It is caring when your soul is tired. And it is standing, still, when no one sees your struggle.

To the mothers we don’t see, the mothers whose stories go untold, whose journeys are quiet but brave: your motherhood is real. Your grief is real. Your love is real. Your courage, even when broken, is worth honoring.

Because the truth is, motherhood is not always celebrated. But it is always profound. Sometimes, it is in the quiet pain, the hidden tears, and the courage to hope again that the true strength of a mother is revealed. And sometimes, the world does not see it—but that does not make it any less remarkable.

It starts small. You don’t normally like a certain type of music—but because he loves it, you start listening. You never cared much about a hobby, but now you follow it because he’s passionate about it. Someone he doesn’t feel comfortable around? Before you know it, you distance yourself too.

Sometimes, you even adjust your dressing, your social circle, your routines—not because you’re forced, but because love makes you consider him. And truly, there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, love is about understanding, adjusting, and meeting each other halfway.

The issue is not the adjustment.

The issue is when you adjust so much that you disappear.

Because some women don’t just adapt—they dissolve. They forget their voice, their identity, their calling. Their dreams start taking the back seat while his dreams stay in the front.

But here’s the twist:

Some men actually don’t want that. Some men genuinely want you to be you.

Take me for example. Singing is my heart. My man knows this. He went all out—microphones, lights, professional equipment—to support me. He wants me to shine. He wants me to walk in my gift. He wants me to be me.

Yet sometimes, I noticed I was still revolving too much around his world. Not because he asked me to, but because somewhere inside, I thought that was how to love.

And that’s where many women get it wrong.

Love is not becoming invisible.

Love is not throwing your purpose aside.

Love is not shrinking while someone else grows.

Alignment is good.

Support is beautiful.

Obedience, respect, understanding—these are part of a healthy relationship.

But in the midst of loving him, you must not forget to love yourself.

Your goals, your voice, your passion, your calling—they matter.

So ask yourself:

Are you being you, or only who you think he wants?

Are your dreams alive, or are they waiting “for later” while you focus on his?

Are you walking in your identity, or are you slowly becoming a reflection of someone else?

Your identity is from God.

Your calling is from God.

Your passion is from God.

Love him.

Walk with him.

Grow with him.

Align where needed.

But do not disappear in the name of love.

Because a love that requires you to lose yourself is not love.

And a love that encourages you to be yourself is a gift—so honor it by showing up

I remember being about 12 years old, standing in the middle of a church hall during a send-forth service for a man of God I deeply admired. The atmosphere was thick with worship. I wasn’t leading; I wasn’t even singing loudly. I was just there — heart open, eyes closed, hands trembling slightly. And right there, something settled into me:

Worship is not performance. Worship is presence.

Years later, in my room during my university days (2019–2023), I would have encounters that reminded me of that moment. No microphones. No audience. No choir harmonies. Just me, my Bible, my tears, and God. Sometimes I didn’t even sing — I breathed worship. I remembered worship. I became worship.

Because:

> “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple.” — Psalm 27:4

Music, to me, has never just been melody. It has been the doorway. A meeting point between a longing soul and a loving God.

I have served as a worship/choral minister for years, yes. But the real ministry happened when no one could see me.

When my voice cracked. When my heart was heavy. When all I could say was, “Lord, I’m here.”

Worship taught me that:

God is not impressed by the song if He cannot find the heart.

An audience of one is still an audience.

Ministry begins at the altar of your own heart before it reaches any platform.

This season, I am returning — intentionally — to the simplicity of that girl at 12. The one who simply wanted to behold His beauty.

Not for applause. Not for recognition. Not for stage lights.

Just Him.

Because if He is there, nothing is missing. And if He is not, nothing else matters.

As the Voice of the Wombman, I share this not only as my story but as an invitation to every woman reading this: find your own sacred space. Your own altar. Your own encounter. Let your voice rise not for the crowd, but for the heart that sees you fully — God’s heart.

— Abiola Ifeoluwa Zhang

She’s barely 18.

Her dreams are still tender, her voice still searching for direction.

But in a world that should have protected her, she was told to provide for it.

You see, I’ve come to realize that sometimes, the first heartbreak a girl ever experiences doesn’t come from a man — it comes from her home.

A home where a mother compares her daughter’s survival to her peers’.

Where “responsibility” becomes a synonym for “fend for yourself.”

Where “helping the family” becomes an excuse to strip a young girl of her innocence.

I once knew a young woman — let’s call her Arewa.

She was pushed out too early, not into purpose, but into pressure.

Her mother, weighed down by life’s struggles, told her to “find something doing,” to “make something happen.”

So she left home — carrying only her mother’s words and a desperate need to survive.

And survival found her in the wrong places.

The streets took her in, taught her how to smile while bleeding inside, and gave her a false sense of control.

She got pregnant for a boy who soon vanished, leaving her with a baby in her arms and pain in her soul — still walking the same road that took her childhood.

And yet, society will say she “chose this life.”

But what choice does a girl really have when her mother hands her to the world unprepared?

We live in a time where many parents, out of frustration and poverty, have mistaken burden for responsibility.

They push their teenage daughters to hustle, to “bring something home,” to “meet someone who can help.”

And slowly, innocence becomes a currency.

But God never designed it that way.

Children were not created to carry the weight of their parents’ unmet dreams.

The Word says,

> “Train up a child in the way they should go…” — Proverbs 22:6

not “send them out in the way the world should use them.”

Hannah dedicated Samuel to God, not to survival.

Mary protected Jesus until His time came.

Even the prodigal son had a father waiting with open arms — not one who pushed him out to “make ends meet.”

If a womb can carry life, it must also learn to cover it.

It is not enough to birth a daughter — you must guide her.

You must speak life, not anxiety.

You must model grace, not greed.

Because what a mother says in frustration can shape what a daughter believes for a lifetime.

When you tell a young girl to “go and think for herself” before she knows who she is,

you’re not raising strength — you’re raising scars.

And those scars don’t fade easily.

To every parent, guardian, and society that has pushed its girls out too soon — may we repent, not in shame, but in awakening.

May we teach our daughters that their value is not in what they can bring home, but in who they’re becoming.

And may we remind our sons that manhood is not built on how many women they use, but how many they honor.

Let us rebuild the homes that pressure has broken.

Let us raise daughters who know love before labor, purpose before pressure, and God before gold.

Because when we silence a girl’s innocence in the name of survival,

we wound the voice that was meant to heal the world.

Photo Generated by AI Nano Banana .

Written by Abiola Ifeoluwa Zhang

Founder, Voice of the Wombman — blending faith, truth, and advocacy for women and the girl child.

Credit image- Scene from “ Love in Every Word (Part 2)".’ used for commentary purposes only. All rights belong to the filmmakers.

While everyone talked about the movie, I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment everyone ignored — the moment a woman used her voice, not to fight another woman, but to defend her.

Everyone is talking about Loving Every Word (Part 2) — the twists, the disappointments, the parts that didn’t live up to the hype. But while the internet argued about what went wrong, something sacred happened in one quiet restaurant scene.

Chioma, the Achalugo herself, sat at a table when her former boss — Miss Juliet — was being humiliated publicly by her own boyfriend, Seun. A man who not only worked for Juliet but was also dating her, using that closeness to strip her of respect in front of others.

This was the same Miss Juliet who had once mistreated Chioma — the boss she had every reason to resent. Yet in that moment, Chioma stood.

Not because Juliet deserved it, but because no woman deserves to be spoken to like that.

She rose from her seat and, with her voice steady, confronted Seun’s arrogance. She reminded him — and everyone watching — that a woman’s dignity is not up for negotiation. Her words weren’t rehearsed; they came from a place of knowing. Knowing what it feels like to be disrespected, to be silenced, and to decide you’ll never let it happen again — not to you, and not to another woman.

When the Voice Becomes a Shield

In that moment, Chioma became more than a character — she became a mirror.

A reflection of every woman who has ever been hurt, overlooked, or underestimated, yet still finds the strength to protect another.

What made that scene powerful wasn’t her volume or her anger; it was her clarity. She knew what was right, and she refused to be silent.

We live in a world that often teaches women to compete, to guard their grace, to measure their kindness. But Chioma’s response showed something different — that real power isn’t found in rivalry; it’s found in redemption.

It takes more courage to defend another woman than to destroy her.

It takes healing to stand for someone who once broke you.

That is the voice I recognize. The voice that doesn’t just speak — it shields. It confronts wrong without losing tenderness. It forgives without forgetting. It knows that defending another woman doesn’t weaken your story; it strengthens the collective one.

Forgiveness That Speaks

When Juliet asked, “Why? I thought you hated me,” Chioma replied, “I had to forgive you a long time ago so that I don’t become you.”

That line — quiet but thunderous — is the heartbeat of womanhood.

Forgiveness doesn’t silence your pain; it transforms it.

It doesn’t mean you condone what was done; it means you choose to heal so deeply that you no longer echo what hurt you.

Chioma didn’t just forgive Juliet — she redeemed the space between them. She broke the pattern. And in doing so, she showed that the true Voice of the Woman is not just one that speaks, but one that restores.

The Real Story We Missed

Everyone may leave Love in Every Word (Part 2) arguing about the storyline, the acting, or the expectations unmet. But I’ll leave holding on to this: a woman defended another woman — even one who once wounded her — and in doing so, she redefined strength.

That’s the story worth telling.

That’s the moment worth remembering.

Because the world may ignore it — but women who are awake will not.

---

#TheVoiceOfTheWombman Speaks

To every woman reading this: your voice is not too much.

It’s the sound of boundaries, healing, and solidarity.

And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do with it — is to use it for another woman.

Written by Abiola Ifeoluwa Zhang — founder of “The Voice of the Wombman.” Exploring the power, healing and beauty of womanhood in everyday life.

Failure doesn’t always come from not knowing — sometimes it comes from knowing and refusing to act.

Failure wears many faces. Sometimes it’s ignorance — you didn’t know better. Sometimes it’s not ignorance at all — you knew exactly what to do, but still held back. And then there’s the most painful kind: failing at the obvious. The pain of watching yourself ignore what is clear, what is right in front of you, and realizing you can’t blame anyone but yourself.

That’s what happened to me.

I had just employed someone to help me in my store. The main reason was clear: to clean, tidy up, and attend to customers. Yet, on her second day, I told her not to bother cleaning daily. In trying to sound considerate, I was undermining the very reason I brought her in.

My mom walked in and immediately noticed. She asked me, “If she’s not here to clean, then why is she here?”

Her words stung, not because they were harsh, but because they were true. I wasn’t standing as a boss. I was avoiding the obvious.

The truth became even clearer when I gave instructions later. I told her where she could sit and where she couldn’t. I told her not to use my office restroom, but the staff restroom behind the building. I pointed out what she could touch and what she shouldn’t. These weren’t difficult decisions; they were obvious boundaries that should have been set from day one.

But I delayed. I failed at the obvious.

The result? She never returned after her second day. Maybe she sensed the lack of structure. Maybe she felt my hesitation. Either way, it was my wake-up call.

Here’s what I’ve learned: life doesn’t always punish ignorance; it punishes neglect. The obvious is where most of us stumble — in leadership, in family, in personal growth. And when we don’t take charge, someone else will. In my case, it was my mom stepping in to do what I should have done.

Growth begins when you refuse to repeat the same mistake. When you choose courage over hesitation. When you face the obvious and act on it.

Because the real failure isn’t in not knowing. It’s in knowing and refusing to act.

• I write about human experiences and bold opinions, exploring family, relationships, faith, and lessons from daily life. Follow me on Medium for more reflections.

This story was originally published on Medium. I’m sharing it here to reach more readers, and you can find more of my stories on https://abiolaolusanya23.medium.com