These past months of moving through grief have led me through paths I didn’t envisage. It has reminded me that navigating grief is never a neat or linear experience. It’s been one of fighting to stay whole, seeking meaning, and being saved by community, only to almost lose myself and break my pact to grieve in a ‘healthy’ way.
I have experienced subtle shifts carrying my pain while juggling many aspects of myself: family obligations, work, maintaining friendships scattered around the globe, hobbies crying for my attention, and the need for personal space to process my thoughts. Beneath it all was a deep, constant fatigue and a desire to escape my very being. I can see now that, despite being worn out from these moving parts, they somehow kept me going. In the chaos, they anchored and distracted me from the grief that lurked around waiting to consume me.
I found purpose in taking on family responsibilities, including planning the funeral activities. This stretched me so much that I got to a point where I started avoiding calls from family members. Still, it was welcome – the sense of purpose and the distraction it afforded me. These kept me going, even though I was drowning mentally. I do not regret doing this. For one, it felt great to have the privilege of handling key planning aspects of the funeral, a final opportunity to honour my dad and show my gratitude for his love. I fought to ensure things were done properly, not out of haste or superstition, but out of love and intention. It was important that every detail reflected his values and honoured his legacy, even if it meant arguing endlessly with the family elders and shooting down every attempt of theirs to dictate how we were to honour and bury our own father.
Thankfully, I did not bend. If I had followed their suggestions, we would have been caught in a web. This was a major learning curve: the need to always trust one’s instincts and go with one’s gut. In African culture, there are traditions, and our elders are always revered as the wisest and most knowledgeable. However, I kept reminding my siblings throughout the planning phase that our father made the sacrifice to send us to good schools so we could be educated and make sound, rational decisions. Why should we then set aside our carefully calculated and rational plans for advice from elders who did not have any formal education?
I may be an emotional and empathetic person, but I always know when to rely on my analytical side. That period was not the time for emotions, especially when it came to executing the budget and managing finances. My dad would have been so embarrassed and probably would have asked me what my over 9 years of career experience in finance was for. Respect your elders but hold your ground when you know their decisions are subpar and are made simply to satisfy their egos. People will lie and paint pictures just to manipulate you into doing their bidding, and African elders are the kings at this game.
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I have not been able to watch the funeral videos or even look through the pictures. When memories of my dad come to mind or I catch myself lost in thought processing this great loss, I pause and distract myself. The way my heart tends to rip apart…I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to face this pain. If it’s possible, this is one pain I want to keep running from, even if it means never comprehending the weight of it all. There’s no moving on from this, no healing or meaning to the loss of my dearest father.
I want the doors to this dark room in my heart shut. I want to forge on with my life with the doors locked, not forgetting it exists, but leaving it sealed. There’s no denying the room exists; memories of my dad will forever be with me. But for now, if that door ever gets flung open, I fear it will overwhelm and crumble me. This pain is real, and I feel it even as I write these words…
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After the conclusion of the funeral rites, the only place left for me to go was back to myself. Standing in that place felt strange, almost unfamiliar, as if I had been gone for a long time. I returned to the unfinished conversation between my heart and my pain.
The only way I knew how to begin was by writing. I had so much to release, but I was too fatigued for a full blog post, so I turned to long Instagram captions to clear my head. My first post was about my graduation, a milestone I had finally achieved but had not truly celebrated.
June began as the hollow quietness that follows the passing of a storm. The energy of a new month brought possibilities, a signal that life goes on, but I was unsure of what steps to take. There was a quietness that came with no longer having to constantly communicate with family back home or deal with vendors. June brought relief, but it also brought emptiness.
June had me seeking ways to cure the numbness that had engulfed me. I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel like life was moving again. I needed some significant life changes to help me feel alive and bring excitement back into my life. I was still weighed down as I tried to forge ahead with life.
I quit one of my jobs almost on a whim, having given it considerable thought for a while. One night in June, without much deliberation, I submitted my resignation. I randomly got a new place after almost a year of contemplating whether I wanted to deal with the hassles of moving out or continue to manage the drama in my old apartment. Moving houses helped, a much needed escape from the space that held so much grief and memories of phone calls with my dad while he was in the hospital.
I had a mini project of decorating the new place, which got me busy. The change of environment and learning new routes also had a positive impact on my mood. It felt like a new beginning, a sort of restart for my life in some ways. When this project was done, I fell right back to feeling unexcited about my existence. The next quick fix was to get new clothes.
I spent even more money on clothes than I did right after my dad passed. This time, I completely changed my style. My friends and online acquaintances noticed immediately. It was funny watching them hype up the new look, not realising it was an attempt to bring excitement back into my life. A trauma response dressed up as fashion.
I found excitement in new clothes and in setting up my new apartment. With time, I realised how my quality of life improved. My new place is about six minutes from work and conveniently located near the city, as well as the places I visit frequently. My fuel costs dropped, and everything suddenly felt easier and more balanced.
At the end of June, after settling into my new place and completing all the life changes, I realised I needed something else to stay busy with, something that would give me a sense of purpose. Staying busy had become my anchor. It was the way I escaped feeling my grief in its full weight. I started the groundwork for the probate process for my dad’s estate. Finding a lawyer and making that first contact was the first real step. Damilare helped me a great deal with this, and I am truly grateful.
June also brought a reconnection with an old acquaintance I had withdrawn from when life became overwhelming. Manny reached out, and I told him I had lost my dad. We did not reconnect fully right away because I was still trying to stabilise, but we had a night out shortly after. I enjoyed it more than I expected. It felt good to breathe again, even if only for a moment.
July had me delving back into my duty to my family. I fully immersed myself in working on the probate process for my dad’s estate. This pulled me into another haze, because once again, I had to rely on people who do not share my sense of urgency. The whole process tested me so much.I had to relearn patience for what felt like the umpteenth time. It also taught me one of my biggest lessons of 2025: understand how people show up in life, manage your expectations of them, and find a way to work around their limitations.
I had planned to take the probate process slowly, but it took on a life of its own and almost began to stretch me the same way the burial arrangements did. As the family’s financial professional, I was by default responsible for handling the entire process for my dad’s estate. It reminded me how much easier life would be if more Africans wrote wills. It saves a great deal of stress and money. Imagine paying ten per cent tax on my dad’s assets to a government that does not care about its citizens.
Losing my dad made me re-evaluate life. It reminded me that nothing is permanent and that we must enjoy life while we can. His death was a wake-up call. We all rethink our lives when we hear about someone’s passing, but losing a parent takes that reflection to another level. I realised that my dad was gone and nothing I did would ever bring him back. All I could do was live my life fully and carry his memory with me. By the end of July, I was learning to balance grief and happiness, carrying both at the same time.
August was my saving grace. I found community, and it saved me.
Spending more time with Manny was a lifeline. Through him, I connected with people who have made this journey easier. August gave me the gift of Nora and Mercy. They helped me understand that grief and joy can coexist. Nora especially, has been a light. August became the happiest month I’d had in a long time because I found people who held me with kindness.
August also led me back to Munashe after our tumultuous, short-lived attempt at friendship last December. The timing feels divine. Right when I need him most, he’s here, filling spaces I didn’t think anyone could in this foreign land. A friend closer than a brother.
August was me intentionally choosing to be carefree, happy, and to show up more socially. It felt like a return to joy, to laughter without guilt.
August reminded me that joy does not just appear, It has to be created. If I did not intentionally make space for it, grief would never allow both to exist together.
September was a ‘drug’. What began as saying yes to life turned into avoidance.
September had me losing myself in the euphoria of being out every weekend. The month drifted past me like smoke. I was always out having fun, but no substance. I got so caught up in the moment that I barely stopped to notice how my days were spent. I was at my maximum social state. It felt like I was constantly on a high, out almost every weekend, fuelled by laughter, alcohol, and the fleeting comfort of validation.
I was alive on the surface, but underneath, I was spiralling. Having fun was my new way of escaping grief. This was me breaking my pact of not using alcohol or someone to cope with grief, only just in a different form. When I made that pact, I pictured it as myself sitting in the dark, drowning in alcohol or getting romantically entangled. But grief has many shapes, and this time, I had found a new way to hide from it – hiding not in silence, but in the chaos.
Don’t get me wrong, I was having maximum fun finding joy within my circle of new friends. But as always, everything needs to be done in moderation. I was on a roll and lost track of my messages and important conversations with friends. I was getting very intoxicated during nights out, downing large quantities of alcohol while using friends as a shield against confronting myself.
This was escapism. It distracted me from the challenge of starting the second phase of the probate process, but I was losing myself in it. I was spiralling and only got a wake-up call when I drank so much one night that I could not go to work the next morning.
At first, I was hard on myself, thinking this was a new low. Later, I took it as a sign to pause. That quiet day at home proved to be healing. I leaned into being home, tending not only to my exhausted body but also to my overstimulated mind which had left me barely present. I was reminded of Adekunle Gold’s newsletter, where he wrote about how losing his father shaped him in ways he had not noticed at the time.
This was a wake-up call for me, a chance to reflect and take stock. Being home that day made me realize how much I had missed stillness, the quiet moments alone, and the conversations with myself that bring clarity. I had been running from myself without noticing. I could still enjoy nights out and be present.
The next time I went out, I did not drink any alcohol and made sure I returned home at a reasonable hour. When I stepped into work the following morning, I felt alive and clear-headed.
September taught me that even joy can become another form of escape.
October had me slowing down, although it was a struggle to get back to stillness.
After weeks of constant overstimulation, adjusting to a slower pace felt like a cleansing process, almost like a personal detox for both body and mind. It made me realise that I had forgotten why I truly enjoy going out at night on my extro days. Back in Nigeria, going out was about unwinding — good wine, good company, and, most of all, good music. Clubs were never really about people or escaping reality; they were about the freedom I felt on the dance floor.
October also brought a new challenge when I caught myself silently repeating, “I am not a fuck boy.” I was out having a good time. I sensed the attention on me, and suddenly I felt like I could have anyone I wanted in that room. It felt good, almost powerful. A validation that I hadn’t lost my charm.
Throughout September, I had a good number of “interesting” experiences at clubs. Strangers would hit on me or give that lingering stare across the dance floor. It felt good to be wanted, especially after the culture shock I experienced when I moved here in 2022
Growing up, getting attention was the norm for me. In Nigeria, it happened almost every day – someone would give the familiar stare, or someone would say something bold. There was hardly any day I didn’t get complimented, both online and in person. It became so routine that it lost its meaning. However, settling in a new country, I felt like I had become invisible. In public, those looks and gestures were rare. Over time, I have realised that people here are generally not as forward as they are back home. Well, they become bold and alive at night after a couple of drinks.
At clubs, I had interesting encounters that began to get into my head. I noticed that I had started going out less for the joy of dancing and more for the validation and attention. I knew I needed to cut back on going out until I was certain my reasons were right. When I did go out, I limited myself to a glass or two of well-diluted alcohol. I needed to ensure that my nights out were about letting go, not about feeling desired. That is not what I build my confidence or personality, vain stuff that can be lost in an accident, illness, or the natural process of aging.
Hitting pause in October saved me from losing myself. Fun became deliberate and guarded. I am glad I expanded my social activities beyond just restaurants and clubs, something I hope to continue intentionally. There are so many other ways to make life fuller and unwind beyond alcohol and nightlife.
I attended a games night, went to Burna Boy’s concert, had lunch with a friend and attended a dance show. The two times I went out clubbing, I went home sober. It’s become much easier to be present in my daily life these days and mostly keep track of my messages to maintain relationships (which is very key), because friends saved me this year.
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November is almost ending, and I feel overwhelmed by all I have had to handle this year. The past couple of days have been quite heavy with family obligations and work drama. I have had to recuse myself again, ignoring my messages and stepping back from social media just to save my energy and centre myself. I have cancelled all social engagements for the month that I had previously committed to. Lately, I have been feeling very introverted, craving silence so I can process my thoughts and clear out the mental clutter.
As the year draws to a close, I hope to finally sort through the many open tabs in my life and ease into a quiet and happy December. I am not entirely sure about the “happy” part, because the festive season is always tied to family, and this will be our first Christmas without my dad. I need the pause so I can close this chapter and step into 2026 with clarity. Grief has truly led me through many twists and turns this year. It is time to tend to myself, heal, and recover from all I have survived.
I hope that by December, we will have attained a good level of stability regarding unresolved family matters. Since the burial, it’s been one thing after another. I have been telling myself that someday all this will come to an end. These days, seeing a call or text from my mum makes my heart skip a beat. I am learning to choose my battles carefully, to focus on what is most urgent, and to allow the less pressing matters to be for now. Carpe diem!
When all feels truly stable and I have fewer family responsibilities, I hope to wholly embrace the free time and immerse myself in stillness. I know I do not thrive in idleness, but I hope that my next search for purpose does not lead me into something that consumes me the way family responsibilities have this year. I have my own life to live and build. Dedicating this year to family after losing Dad was necessary and right, but now I hope to slowly find my way back to my own dreams.
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As I welcome these quiet shifts in my dance with grief, I am staying conscious of how it is shaping me. I want to remain present in my growth and attentive to where life is leading me, ensuring I stay on the right path toward becoming the man I aspire to be. Someone who lives by his core values and, now more than ever, someone my dad would always be proud of.
I initially titled this post “The Path Back to Self,” but after everything I have experienced in the past few months, it feels more like I am re-finding myself while embracing the new person emerging from this grief. This is not just a return to myself, but also a return to friendships and the people I love, to the hobbies that keep me centred, and to an openness in experiencing life and its joys, even amid pain. Most importantly, it is about doing all of this with moderation, so I can stay fully in tune with myself and present in every stage of my growth.