For most of my life, I did not live — I existed.
I survived.

The tides were always against me. If life were a card game, I was dealt a two of spades at birth and told to play anyway. Being born without a father figure is an uphill swim from the start. You fight strong currents, hoping to stay afloat, and there are moments when you come terrifyingly close to drowning.

My mother did not help. In many ways, she needed me to fail — because my success would mean her abandonment. And she knew it was coming. My brother faced many of the same perils, yet he was the clear favourite. He saw himself as the priest of the house — a man who did not need to work because God would provide.

At one point, I moved back into my mother’s home, renting a small room while my brother squatted there with his family. I couldn’t bear to see his wife or children starve. Together, he and my mother drove that family toward ruin. That story is for another time.

I know how this sounds. I know readers may be wondering where this is going. What I’m trying to say is this: I believed these sacrifices were my calling. I thought this was my purpose — my contribution to family, to community, to something greater than myself.

It was a vulnerable time. I could not have children of my own, and I convinced myself I could nurture someone else’s. I had endured rejection for years — pushed aside for not being able to give a woman a child. Much later, I realised something else: I carried guilt for introducing my brother to his wife during a period of my life I would rather forget.

But the truth ran deeper.

I was drifting.
I had no purpose of my own.

Giving meaning to others gave me a false sense of purpose, and I mistook it for virtue.

This pattern repeated itself throughout my life — before these events and long after. I was on a slow path of self-destruction and didn’t know it. I had no relationship with myself. My actions felt divinely ordained, but I was blind to the self-inflicted wounds, the self-imposed exile.

It was like navigating dense fog. The landmarks of my own identity were gone. I needed a mirror, but all I found were fractured reflections — distorted by the expectations and failures of others. My search for belonging became a desperate grasp for anything that resembled home.

I used to mock the phrase finding yourself. I laughed when I heard it in movies or songs. I despised it because my mother used it endlessly. She was forever finding herself — reinventing yet another version.

The phrase appeared everywhere: magazines, billboards, beer labels. Marketing had turned it into a slogan. Coaches used it to motivate the weak links on their teams.

And yet… beneath my cynicism, something stirred.

The idea held a quiet intrigue. Perhaps there was truth buried beneath the cliché. The notion of a hidden self waiting to be uncovered began to whisper. I noticed small things: sunlight on water, the texture of old brick, wind in the trees. They all seemed to speak the same secret — one I had never dared to hear.

Then one day, I quite literally fell off my chair.

Like many writers, I was scrolling through Facebook, filtering out spam and scams. A name caught my eye — achingly familiar. I opened the message and froze.

It was an old friend I could never forget. Years ago, she had dated my brother at school. Her nickname was Soekie — which translates to Seeker. Irony, it turns out, has a wicked sense of humor.

Not long before, my wife and I had visited a coastal town where I had last seen Soekie. My wife and I even walked into the same shop, unaware it would be our final crossing of paths.

Until that day.

She had been quietly watching my work. She saw the changes, but I didn't even notice. Soekie signed off her message with a single line:

“I am so happy you have found yourself.”

I stared at the screen, tears rising. Fireworks would be an understatement. If there was ever proof of divine intervention, this was it.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still missing.

That night, lying awake, my thoughts spiraled until the truth hit me like a speeding bus.

“Holy shite!”

The missing piece wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t a memory or a lost opportunity.

It was me.

The quiet whispers, the subtle shifts — all of it pointed toward a transformation I had resisted. Her words were not casual kindness. They were confirmation. Validation.

This wasn’t a journey of self-discovery.

It was a journey of self-acceptance.

Why this happened, and how I arrived here, is a story for another time. For now, this moment is triumph enough.

If you have a story about how you found yourself — or how you’re still searching — I would love to hear it. With your permission, I may share it on my blog. And who knows? I might even slip a free book your way as thanks.

Don’t stop searching.

You are out there, waiting to be discovered.