End-of-year reflections aren’t new. We’ve always done them, some of us in journals, some of us at “crossover nights on New Year’s Eve, most of us around an impending birthday… when the year is slipping away, or you’re becoming older, you suddenly feel an itch to reflect. I think it’s a sign of us being intelligent beings. “I think, therefore I am”, or whatever Descartes said. But these days? Reflection has become… loud.In the last few years, with the advent of things like Spotify Wrapped and other recap features, our end-of-year reflective practices have morphed from introspective moments into a public sport. Our apps now tally up what we listened to, where we spent money, what we read, and who we followed, then turn it into colourful graphics for us to share. It’s everywhere. It’s visible. And as a result, it’s competitive. You might have heard the Instagram reel sound used to capture a full year in pictures: January, February, March, etc. (I have wanted to use that reel sound so badly!) Or you may have seen people recapping all the places they went to over the course of the year and wished that it were you. The truth is, we all know comparison is a thief of joy, but it’s hard not to compare when you have this onslaught of everyone else’s highlights in your face each time you open social media, and you’re all too familiar with your own failings. So what do we do? How do we check out of this competition none of us signed up for? I haven’t come to tell you to ‘just don’t compare’. Rather, I’m here to share a lesson the Holy Spirit taught me in 2023 when I was feeling particularly disappointed in myself for not having achieved as much as a colleague in the Cameroonian CSO space. They had been racking in the awards, and I was about to take a gap year because I was burned out, but I had achieved way less than they had. Then the Holy Spirit convicted me: Were those awards my goals? Were they my “Key Performance Indicators” (KPIs as we say in corporate, lol)? If so, what does that say of me, and if not, why do I think my failure is defined by not having had them? That reflection, prompted by the Holy Spirit, led me to have two conversations with friends Juisi and Valerie Viban. I must say, I didn’t feel like a ‘success’ after that; the reflection forced me to clearly define what being successful in youth work meant to me. And even by my own self-defined KPIs, I knew I could have done better. BUT now, I wasn’t feeling unsuccessful for the wrong reasons. That experience has come to mind several times since then. It keeps envy and discontent at bay often, because when you know what you really want, when you have interrogated your why, and defined for yourself what happiness or success is. What is meaningful to you and not because you think you should have it or because it is expected of you… When you have those personalised definitions, contextualised for your phase of life? It’s all easier to take in. In an older blog post I wrote entitled “Want to have a successful year? How are you defining success?”, I reflect on one of my favourite poems (or is it merely a quote?) that I recently learned is wrongly attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson but is really the work of Bessie Anderson Stanley. See the image below of it: I love that piece dearly for the simple way it highlights what truly matters. Notice it doesn’t say achieve everything on your five-year plan. It doesn’t say win prizes or go viral. Because if you were to die next week, wouldn’t it matter more that you contributed something meaningful to society, made those who look up to you (children) smile, and created a handful of happy moments? It doesn’t even say be impressive.It just says: contribute, be affirmed by people of substance (not everyone), bring joy where you can. That is enough. Often, when we look back and write off a year as bad, or when setting goals for the next year. I feel the difficulty itself is realising that we don’t even know what we mean when we say we want a “successful” year. And truth be told, most of us don’t stop to ask that question.We inherit definitions from society, from childhood, from social media… and we start running with them. But it is necessary, imperative, to define success for yourself and to interrogate why you’ve defined it that way. If you don’t, you end up chasing a finish line that isn’t even yours. Or chasing a goal post that keeps moving every time you near it. So, as you look at recaps and evaluate how this year went, think of the poem “What Is Success” and remember that the little things matter: Did you laugh? (Even if it was at TikToks and memes.) Did you bring a bit of joy to someone, anyone at all, a child, a friend, a stranger? Then they have lived easier because you were alive in 2025. Did you appreciate nature, beauty, or a moment of peace? Did you leave even one corner of the world better than you found it? According to that poem, many of us have succeeded without knowing it because these are not things that get awards. Nobody gives you a fellowship for surviving a hard year. There is no prize for emotional labour or resilience. No app will tally how many burdens you quietly carried or how many small kindnesses you offered. And yet, that is success.Maybe you didn’t win anything this year, but you made someone feel safe.Maybe you didn’t hit your goals, but you grew.Maybe the year stretched you, but you didn’t break your principles…Maybe you laughed more than last year.Maybe you left somebody better. If that isn’t success, then
Somewhere between Belief & Understanding: Lessons from wrestling with God at 36
I recently completed my 36th turn around the sun and I would like to share what has been the lesson of this age for me. Before I begin though, I must preface this by saying that I believe in God. Belief aside, even my logic affirms that there is a God. Still, I acknowledge that the questions that follow; Who’s God? How good is God? etc. are valid, but the existence of a supreme being has never been in doubt for me. I’ve had personal encounters, a life filled with testimonies, and the reasoning that there is simply too much intricacy and beauty in creation for there not to be a divine being. I not only believe in God, I am a Christian. Some might argue that’s because I was born into a Christian family, and perhaps they’re partly right; maybe if I were born elsewhere, I’d have clung to another faith. But it isn’t my family that made me Christian. They set the stage, but it was my own encounter with God that sealed it. I gave my life to Christ after a suicide attempt, so my journey is deeply personal (read conversion story here). This year, however, has been one of the most trying for my faith. It has pushed me to wrestle with belief and logic in ways I hadn’t before. In earlier years, I’ve had doubts, yes, but they were mostly tied to depression, suicidal ideation, or difficult circumstances, not solely intellectual questioning. The last time I questioned God this deeply was in 2021, when suicidal thoughts resurfaced after years of dormancy. It was painful to want to die while watching others who wanted to live lose their lives. In 2022, things began to shift. Therapy and a strong Christian sisterhood helped me heal. That season led me to reaffirm my vows to Christ through baptism in August 2022. I wrote about here it at the time. My promise then was simple: Lord, I won’t attempt to take my life again. I’m surrendering the life to you who obviously wants to keep me here. Help me appreciate that, see value in being here and to live for You. Since then, my faith hasn’t been perfect, but it’s been steady, until recently. Between late 2024 and now, I’ve been shaken by what I’ve witnessed in the global Christian community, particularly the rise of American Christian nationalism. Because American culture dominates global media, its distorted theology spreads everywhere. Seeing Christians justify injustice, inequality, and blind leadership in God’s name has been heartbreaking. I found myself asking: Am I worshipping a God of injustice? In those moments, I’ve had to remind myself of who God truly is- based on my own encounters, not others’ interpretations. I’ve had to pray: God, please defend Your name, because what I see doesn’t make sense. Thankfully, God is not threatened by my questions. He welcomes them. And I’ve been blessed with a church home (linked here) and a pastor who encourages honest questioning, and a small circle of Christian sisters who help me stay grounded. Without them, I might have lost my sanity amidst all the twisted rhetoric. Still, I often find myself overwhelmed, looking at the state of the world and thinking, Lord, just blow the trumpet, send another flood and start over (or perhaps not at all), because this seems beyond saving. Recently, I was reminded of a lesson from someone I dearly respect, though I’ve since been disappointed by their alignment with the kind of toxic Christian rhetoric I now resist. A few years ago, we did a peer-review exercise naming each other’s strengths and weaknesses. She told me I had a tendency to question authority too much. At the time, I thought she was using the exercise to criticize me (that was ego), but even then I couldn’t deny she was right. She explained that I often refuse advice from people who haven’t been through what I’m facing, and that I believe I know what’s best for myself. Looking back, I see truth in that. I do question authority. I need people to prove they’re qualified to lead or advise me. That trait has followed me since childhood, my mother used to say I was too strong-willed, too stubborn, that we couldn’t both lead the household. Through therapy, I’ve come to understand where that comes from. It’s a response to being failed by authority figures; parents, elders, people who should have known better but didn’t. When authority fails you repeatedly, you learn to save yourself. You start thinking, If not for God and me, I wouldn’t still be here. That breeds self-reliance and skepticism of leadership. But in African society, that attitude is unsettling. Age, titles, and seniority often demand obedience. People expect you to follow simply because they hold a position. But for me, it doesn’t work that way. I’ve been my own father and mother for so long that I can’t just hand over that trust blindly. Still, I’m learning that this trait, that is- questioning authority, is both a gift and a trauma response. It protects me from blind submission, but it can also hinder faith and trust. God is teaching me balance: to discern when questioning is wisdom and when obedience is necessary. I recently watched a short clip that illustrated this perfectly. A father tells his child to move away from a package on their doorstep without explanation. The child obeys immediately, they soon find out that the box contains explosives. At the time, even the father didn’t know. He just suspected and at his command the child respected. Someone commented, “This is why learning obedience matters. You can question later, but sometimes, questioning too soon can cost your life.” That struck me. I’ve always been the child who asks why before acting. But that story reminded me that there’s a time for questioning and a time for trust. Sometimes, I just need to obey first and seek understanding afterward. That’s what God
What is Life Teaching You Now?
Here is another vlog where I discuss what I’m learning in this season of life; about taking the everyday mundane as what we’re living for, planning for death in addition to living like it is you’re last week, and realizing that your best version of yourself may not be who you were meant to be. Watch and let me know your thoughts, I would also love to hear from you. What is life teaching you now?
Nov 2023: Looking Back at the Year of Self-Love
At the start of this year, I vowed to make this my year of self-love. I have struggled with self-esteem issues all my life and this year I got sick of it. For context, I was coming out of a long bout of clinical depression where I had regained a great deal of weight I lost and through therapy was finding that there were layers to the depressive feelings. The process of healing is often rough and hard and lonely- we don’t talk enough about that. I decided that something had to give this year. In this month’s vlog, I talk through the efforts made towards self-love and where I think I am now- in sum, still trying.
Sept 2023: Healing My Writing Soul
A recently unlocked memory is of the day my O’ Level GCE results were read. The year was 2006, I had convinced my mom to let me go visit a friend who lived in Baffoussam. It was my first real trip away from home initiated by me. It helped that the said friend was our Senior prefect in school and hence they assumed she was a responsible friend LOL! Anyway, when my results were made known to my family, a plethora of congratulatory calls came in. In the course of one such call, my aunty asked me the age-old question “So what do you want to be when you grow up?” Monique opened her mouth and said ” I want to be a writer” LOL! Did I know what I was saying? I didn’t (ugh! I miss that hopeful naive me), I did however know that books were saving my sanity at that time. Books were giving me solace and places to escape and teaching me better about the world and other humans than my teachers… and so I wanted to be a writer, to create that escape for someone else. I have written about the development of myself as a writer elsewhere (see here) but that was before experiencing the Anglophone Crisis that helped me narrow down my writing voice and writing soul so-to-speak. That was also way before multiple experiences made my writing voice, soul and dreams shrivel up to near death. Like most things, gifts don’t die suddenly nor all at once; they weather away. In 2020, I wrote a poem about no longer being able to write- it sounds ironical I know- but it was me perceiving and reporting the weathering. The loss that was already happening. I wrote the above poems 3+ years into the Anglophone Crisis and 2+ years into a horrible ‘situationship’. Both experiences made me lose my faith in the power of words, my writing and writing in general. So many of my articles were on the Crisis and those who read them were not those who needed to, those who needed to read and be moved do not read. Similarly, so many of my poems were love poems for someone who read them but would still not be moved/understand enough to reciprocate, to love me back. So I stopped writing. After all, I thought, what good was bleeding in words when the people just watched you bleed like it was a sport you enjoyed playing? And was I even writing ‘right’ if it didn’t move people to action if it didn’t reach the right ears/eyes, win the heart I yearned for? No, I thought. And so I stopped. Several years later, I recognize that reaction as a trauma response and regret giving up my gift. Stopping had its consequences. That kind of thinking- that other people’s actions or inaction depended on how well I wrote or did not write- fed my already bad case of perfectionism. And so here I am with a book deal unable to write. Struggling to believe in the power of words again. Forcing myself to write blog posts even if they’re months late. I’m praying for the gift to return, hoping its like riding a bicycle or swimming- a skill your body remembers. This time, when I say “I want to be a writer”, I know what I’m talking about. I have a better ‘why’, so I pray the gift returns.
A conversation with Fungai Machirori
Last year I shared a great deal about my mental health struggles openly via my blog and this caught the interest of a ‘Digital Native’ and #Afrifem sister Fungai Machirori. She invited me on her podcast for a conversation on what it takes to engage publicly about struggling with mental health issues as an African woman. See our conversation here: https://www.podbean.com/ew/pb-3ck7b-14a022a
Musings on Motherhood, Or rather Opting out of it…
Have you ever considered that the reason one may want to have kids is unhealthy? This month’s musings are on my own coming to terms with unhealthy motivations for motherhood and why I take my current position on it. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. So drop a comment after watching the vlog!
How do you Identify?
A vlog inspired by a self-reflection exercise… Join me?
Lessons on Leadership…
In January 2013 I filed the application for the establishment of Better Breed Cameroon. I was a young woman with big dreams and a lot of hope, I miss that version of me for all the hope and zeal she had. Ten years later we’re celebrating a decade of youth development work and contribution to nation-building through Better Breed Cameroon. Our current community manager- Mrs. Ayuk Renette asked me to share lessons on leadership or what I would pass on to aspiring leaders. I made these very brief points because I know she was looking for social media content 🙂 I look forward to learning many more lessons in future. What leadership lessons have you learned? Let me know in the comments!
Thriving as a Cameroonian Child almost always requires rebelling… Let’s talk about why & how
One would likely get dismissed for suggesting that African parents ‘spoil their kids’ as much if not more than their Western counterparts. I’ve said as much on occasion and gotten reactions like: “How can you even think that? No, we are very strict; our kids don’t talk back and won’t engage is bold displays of PDA etc. Of course we don’t spoil kids”. To us, what make kids spoiled is their “laziness”. As an uncle tried to illustrate how spoiled American kids are he said “they’ve never had to carry water on their heads nor do they know how to cook… only take out here and there… those ones don’t even know how to wash their clothes? They’re spoiled”.That’s how I grew up understanding what being spoiled is. Basically someone who had every basic need supplied and someone who can’t handle/won’t do menial work.I would like to note that this definition of spoiled is straight out of “suffer mentality”. A by-product of colonialism and unhealed trauma. Because why else would we herald the doing of menial workthe as epitome of being hardworking when the reason we do those things on our own is born more out of lack than choice? But we’ll discuss that on a different day. Let’s stick to how African parents are spoiling their own kids, because there’s more than one way to spoil a child. If you know me, you know youth work is my heart-work. I work with young people regularly and regard youth development- the changing of young minds and investing in their capacities as the most sustainable form of development. My experience as a youth-worker and teacher have inspired me to write time and time again about how the way we are raising and educating young Cameroonians is at the root of many of our problems. But it’s worth repeating in a different manner, so in this piece, I want to argue that the way we are raising children sets them up for failure and that the only way to survive and thrive in the same society requires rebelling at some point of your life. To support this argument, I’m using examples from my work with young people and my own life. Recently, in a group, I’m a part of, the discussion turned to the laziness of young Cameroonians. This person who used ‘laziness’ in the way my uncle had once used ‘laziness’ to refer to American kids said of our own: “They can’t do google searches, they want to be spoon-fed all info, why would a university graduate not be able to put a CV together. Why don’t they know how to use their email? They are lazy…”I contradicted them in the group. I said not quite. Young Cameroonians aren’t lazy. They are often hardworking at what you valued while raising them; such as whether or not they know how to cook Koki well and how they serve as their parents’ assistants with most of them babysitting their younger siblings since the age of seven (7). They bend down, unlike the Aje-butta children. So, I insisted, they are hardworking- hard being the operative word. And I continued; acknowledging that what the complainer is criticizing is how our youth lack intuitive soft skills, why they lack individuality, creativity and the capacity to think out of the box. Well, I said, that is because you raised them to fit into the box, to aspire after the belonging in the box and remote possibility of at some point being at the top but in the box. We were raised not to question; it was rude to ask why I was to call someone I am not related to “uncle” or “aunty”. For young women, it was unladylike to fraternize with men and we came to associate being outgoing with being “cheap”. We were to be home immediately after school, no extracurricular activities- except the extracurricular activities were picking stones from rice to be cooked in the evening or learning how to bake and braid hair like a good girl; the boys maybe got to play football. We were raised in houses that have ‘adult parlours’ and children parlours’ – a generational gap obvious within our own homes; yet, now as a graduate networking skills are valued and the majority of those raised as such can barely engage in constructive conversations with senior colleagues and partners in professional spaces. We can bemoan the fact that our young people are not enterprising and proactive enough, that they require direction for everything and have gone through school just memorizing without applying what they learned; but in doing so we likewise must acknowledge the role of how we raised them- with a lack of freedom of expression, restriction on their authentic being and more which led to this dependency. We must acknowledge how our thinking kids should listen but not be heard contributes to their current inability to self-lead… We must ask ourselves: how many kids know the details of their parents’ jobs, how often did kids see their parents read or hear them talk about their work to understand what they do?” And what did we really expect when kids go on school holidays only to be shuffled to ‘holiday classes’ to prepare for the next academic year? No extracurricular even on vacation, just preparing them to be better conformists. An example… In 2021 I led the organizing of a workshop for adolescent activists (though their ages ranged from 16-22) in Yaoundé. Participants were to come from all over the country and have their parents sign consent forms. Several couldn’t make it to the fully-funded opportunity because how dare I think of having a 16-year-old take the bus from Bamenda to come lodge at a Catholic rest house in Yaoundé for 3 days and it would mean missing a day of school. Those who could make it are those who could already advocate for themselves or those who had no strict parents or those who lied/omitted the