And the award for Big Dreams and even Bigger Fears goes to...

I have always had big dreams. Big enough to make people smile when I speak about them, and big enough to scare me when I am alone with my thoughts. Somewhere deep inside me has always lived this quiet fear that I will never amount to anything.

I do not know exactly where it started. Maybe it was that moment in secondary school when my English teacher mocked me, said I would never pass because I was more interested in talking to my classmates than listening to her teach. Maybe it was the subtle jabs that came after I lost my mother, reminders that life had already marked me early. Whatever it was, it stayed. It follows me into new places and new chapters of my life. It whispers: People want you to fail. One day, they will be right.

And yet, I dream. People who know me well will tell you that. I imagine futures not yet existing. For a long time, I told myself I was afraid of my dreams because they were too big. Lately, I am realizing what truly scares me is not their size, but the weight they place on my life.

Some weeks ago, I went through one of the darkest seasons I have experienced in a while. It did not announce itself but crept in silently.

Feedback started coming from friends, and it hit harder than I expected. My attitude had become terrible, they said. My conversations, especially on WhatsApp, were harsh. Some of the things I posted on my status were insensitive. They told me, gently but firmly, that I needed to do better.

I accepted it. Truly, I did. But after the conversations ended, my mind refused to rest.

The image I had of myself, kind, sincere, patient, was shattered right in front of me. I had always been so sure of who I was. But maybe I was wrong. Very wrong. Whatever preconceived notion you have, I have, could be incomplete. Beliefs. Assumptions. Faith. Deductions. There is always a good chance we have missed something.

At the time, I was leading three major student organizations on campus: NFCS, SPE, Space Clubs. On the outside, it looked impressive. On the inside, I was dying gradually.

The work was crazy. Meetings stretched past midnight sometimes. Renovation projects with technicians who didn't answer calls for days. Team members who needed constant follow-up. Events that demanded perfection on shoestring resources. I became someone I did not recognize. I was snapping at people in group chats, dismissing concerns with insensitive replies, shutting down conversations before they could even begin.

I convinced myself that pressure required a strong hand. That firmness was necessary. And that everybody understood. They did not. And maybe I did not understand them either.

One comment broke me more than I expected: “Lẹnu ẹ.”

From your mouth? Bruh! A whole me!!! Apparently, I commented on something somewhere, and that was the remark. That one pain me like mad. I never even heard it directly, but it stayed with me, guyyy! I had become a…hypocrite!

I understood then that I was wrong. Wrong for assuming everyone wanted me to fail. Wrong to think people were lazy when they were simply tired like me. Wrong for believing that the vision I had justified my hardness and harshness. And maybe they were wrong too, for not speaking earlier, for not considering what I was carrying. Maybe we both got the equation wrong by not accounting for all the variables

I remember one evening vividly. I was walking back to the hostel after supervising renovations and rehearsals for Christmas Carols at the chapel. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong: delayed materials, sound system failures, and team members who did not show up. My body was tired, but my mind was worse.

When I got to my room, I dropped on the bed like a sack of potatoes, close to tears.

I had just been probed again for the same conduct issues. I had not eaten all day. My laptop refused to come on. Assignments and deadlines waited patiently in the corner of my mind. I remember thinking, 'They just don't get it.'

That night, I did not eat. I slept angry and empty. I told myself clearly: I no do again.

By 3 a.m., my alarm rang. And almost automatically, I was at my desk planning my day.

That was when it hit me: This is me. And there is nothing I can do about it.

That morning, I made quiet resolutions.

To do better. To show more grace. To take things more gently. To judge less. To detach my emotions from outcomes. To remember that as long as life remains life, the sun will rise again—until it does not. And until that day comes, I need to understand something fundamental about myself.

I have been sent.

I get really tired. I have not cried in a while, but I have come close many times. Plans have failed. I have felt kicked in the gut, punched in the liver. Energy has been drained in ways I did not even know were possible.

Some people do not see the vision but want to hang around long enough to drain what is left. Like…Oga, you dey go nau!

But beneath all of this, there is purpose. A crazy, stubborn sense of calling that refuses to leave.

I once told a friend that I do not think I will die yet until I fulfill what I have been sent to do. Sometimes it feels like that purpose is don dey complete, small small. But I know there is more ahead of me, harder things, and greater demands.

I have carried a clear vision for as long as I can remember. The same comments from teachers, peers, colleagues, and friends keep repeating themselves in different forms.

Right from primary school till this very day, the pattern has been undeniable. And now, finally, I understand.

I may be tired, but I have been sent.

Bruised in ways that still ache when I move. But sent.

Exhausted, running on my stubborn will. But sent.

Frustrated by people who do not see what I see. But sent.

Timid, doubting myself in crucial moments. But sent.

Empty, drained, weak in ways I cannot always name.

But sent.

Broken.

But sent.

A growing man

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