We live in the age of highlights
Smiles are uploaded , struggles are archived
Strength is filtered , pain is cropped

But mental health does not live in captions
It lives in the quiet spaces , between
Expectations and exhaustion , faith and fear
Success and silence

I learned this the hard way
There was a time I thought strength meant endurance without confession
That resilience meant silence . That being okay was a responsibility not a reality
I could motivate others , show up for people , lead , build , create ,
Yet still go home internally empty . functioning but not fine

Mental health struggles rarely arrive with announcements

They arrive disguised as fatigue , irritability , loss of joy ,
Spiritual dryness , disconnection
A constant mental noise you cannot switch off

In many of our communities we are taught to pray but not always to process ,
To believe but not always to speak
To endure but not always to feel ,

Yet healing begins where honesty enters ,
Let us speak
Let us listen
Let us heal , out loud.

By MAKHOSINI S MPOFU

The post The Quiet Battles We Don’t Post About~ By MAKHOSINI S MPOFU appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Emotional being,

We are with our emotions
Emotions pokes the tip of my nail
Searching for peace, to find nothing relatable,
living within me, and then to find nothing at all.
The sun pumps my smile – a new plum of smoke
straight into the my awareness,
A loud guilt that pierced through and out.

My face spoke volume, my heart dancing,
eyes sweating out the mental lies, all in the name of fear.
The hardcore realization.
This feeling is loud, lines cemented a hard pillar,
Upon this cliff, ill push on.

Love supersedes every emotion,
Peace contains every mess.
A  dream of hope to find check with my emotions,
In the altar of honesty,
A reality of freedom.

My Emotional being

By: Nonny

The post Emotional check~ By Nonny appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

A soul so bright,
Torn apart by darkness and endless fight.
Bipolar disorder’s waves crash on her shore,
As schizophrenia’s whispers echo evermore.

Her loved ones, they couldn’t understand,
The turmoil raged like a stormy land.
They rejected her with words that cut deep,
Leaving her to face the demons, asleep.

Her thoughts, a jumbled mess, like a puzzle unsolved,
As paranoia’s grip tightens, her heart evolves.
The world, a distorted lens, through which she views,
A reality warped by the voices that accuse.

Oh, Shamyne, dear one, don’t lose your way,
Through the darkness that surrounds, there’s still a ray.
Of hope, of love, of light that shines so bright,
Guiding you through the blackest of nights.

You are strong, though your mind may stray,
You are brave, though the voices whisper, night and day.
You are loved, though rejected, by those who don’t see,
The beauty, the worth, that’s you, wild and free.

Shamyne, dear one, hold on to hope’s refrain,
For you are not alone in this struggle, this pain.
Some care, who understand, who see,
The beauty, the strength, that’s you, wild and free.

By :Shamyne Mwila
Facebook: Shamyne Mwila

(20+) Facebook

The post Dear Self~ By Shamyne Doreen Mwila appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

The Pain of Miscarrying the seed you looked forward to seeing
Miscarriage, you are a thief
Miscarriage, you are cruel
Miscarriage, you are a restless wanderer, searching for the warriors of this earth whom you can attack.
I am talking about our mothers, our women, our birthers
Miscarriage, you never consider, but do as you please
I am enough of you.

It is our young mothers who have a choice to terminate if they want to.
It is our young child carriers who decide if they will keep or destroy the innocent seed, but little do they know the pain of losing,
Only if they knew how it feels when you, I mean, you Miscarriage when you arrive and destroy.
The tears, the pain, the sorrow, the fights.
Miscarriage, you are cruel.
Miscarriage, you are a restless wanderer, searching for the warriors of this earth whom you can attack.

Blessed is the womb.
Blessed is the woman.
Blessed is the process of giving birth.
I am talking about our mothers, our women, our birthers
Miscarriage, you never consider, but do as you please
I am enough of you.

Miscarriage, please take a step back.
Let go and let nature take its course
Let loose and allow people to multiply in numbers
Let go and stop the pain and tears dripping from our sisters and mothers of this country.
Let you be and allow joy and fresh souls around.
The Pain of Miscarrying the seed you looked forward to seeing
Miscarriage, you are a thief
Miscarriage, you are cruel
Miscarriage, you are a restless wanderer, searching for the warriors of this earth whom you can attack.

May the spirit of Miscarriage fade off!!!

By: Nonny Vee

The post The Spirit of Miscarriage~ By Nonny Vee appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Charlotte Mugabe, and in 2023, I experienced one of the most challenging periods of my life. On the 3rd of June 2023, I was preparing to go out with my girlfriends to celebrate my birthday, little did I know that day was going to be the start of a fight for my life. I glammed up for the day, and I was looking good, and everything was good. My husband went to drop me off at the restaurant to meet up with my friends. My friends and I had dinner, enjoying good conversation, laughing, and doing all the fun and girly stuff. Behold, all of a sudden, I felt hot and I couldn’t breathe and my heart was beating out of my chest. Everyone started to panic; I panicked as well. I thought that was it, I was going to die. My girls began praying for me, and it got a bit better. I then later went to the clinic that night, and they just dismissed me, saying it could have been something I ate that made me feel that way. 2 days passed, I was better, then on the third day I started to feel weird, like every time I ate I would feel food coming back to my throat and be stuck there.

It was horrible; I went from doctor to doctor with them prescribing the same medicine that would not work, all of them telling me it was due to acid reflux. I did everything they asked me to do, but nothing worked. tried Chinese medicine, Indian medicine, our own traditional medicine, was ineffective. At that point, I had lost a lot of weight and was still not getting answers. We prayed, people prayed from my church, other churches as well, I even gave up on myself, that dying would have made it easier. I remember calling my mother and telling her that I was tired and I just wanted to die. The only time I would catch a break was when I would fall asleep at night. It went on from June to November, still with the same pain but no help. It got to a point whenever I would leave the house I would feel like I am dying (my heart beating fast and having difficulty breathing), even when people came to see me or call me I would get the same feeling, could this be witchcraft I would ask myself I mean I am African, or was I going crazy/mad. I recall a Pastor from my church visiting me with a group of friends.

He saw me, and he was terrified. He then went to tell one of the psychiatrists from church, who later saw me and was able to diagnose me differently from all the doctors I had seen. I was so happy to get a different diagnosis, like this could be it. He said Charlotte, you have an anxiety disorder and this was in December 2023, when I started getting sick in June. No one knew what was wrong with me, which could have prevented all of the drama I went through, as some people do not realise it when they have mental disorders. A lot of women go through this in silence because of so many stigmas attached to the ‘mental illnesses’. I started my healing journey right there after the diagnosis, and I am happy to say I am way better with the help of my family, psychiatrist, therapist and my church family. Also, I wouldn’t have done this without prayer. It has been a journey, I am only sharing a glimpse of what I went through, because Hell is the only word that comes to mind when I think of the journey.

To this day, I still wake up at night and cry my eyes out. I am still here by God’s grace!!!

By Charlotte Mugabe 

Social media handles:

Facebook: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

Instagram: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

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I vividly recall the awe-inspiring wonder of my early years, when becoming an adult felt like the ultimate goal. I used to watch my parents, aunts, and uncles, convinced they had everything figured out, and I admired them with a mixture of reverence and envy. Life, however, had other ideas.

As I grew older, the harsh realities of maturity began to sink in. Not everything in the world was kind or gentle. Love could be fleeting, and people could be cruel. I slowly realized that adulthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

I’ve had my share of grief and betrayal. The memories linger like open wounds that refuse to heal. There were moments when I felt like I was drowning in hopelessness, unsure how to stay afloat. Times when the pain seemed unbearable, when giving up felt like the only escape.

Yet even in the midst of suffering, I’ve learned to recognize the beauty of happiness. It is fragile and fleeting, but when it comes, it makes every hardship worthwhile. I’ve experienced pure joy, laughter, and love so profound that the struggles fade in comparison.

Now, as I approach my twentieth birthday, I’m filled with conflicting emotions. I’m thrilled to reach this milestone, yet I know there are still challenges ahead. I’m excited to celebrate this new chapter, but I’m also aware of the difficulties waiting for me.

Adulthood is difficult. It’s a constant juggling act of responsibilities, emotions, and expectations. Some days, I barely hold on, crushed under the weight of the world. Other days, I feel unstoppable, as if nothing can stand in my way.

Still, despite the highs and lows, I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. I’ve learned to find strength in vulnerability, to hold on to hope in despair, and to treasure the beautiful moments.

Adulthood isn’t a destination. It’s a journey, and it’s okay to take it one step at a time. Looking ahead, I know there will be more twists and turns, triumphs and setbacks. But I’m ready. Ready to face whatever life brings, to learn from my mistakes, and to grow into the best version of myself. So adulthood, bring it on. I’m prepared for you.

By: Grace Banda

The post The Bittersweet Taste of Adulthood~ By Grace Banda appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Postnatal care seems to go hand in hand with the familiar scent of Dettol, the warmth of pap, and the soft puff of dusting powder. But once a child is born, not every mother steps into celebration; some step into waiting rooms, where the air is heavy with exhaustion, debt, and quiet sacrifices. I saw a woman. She had just put to bed, I could tell. Her wrapper was a mess, tied halfway across her breasts like it had given up mid-twist. The wrapper was crooked too—one end stopped at her knees while the other trailed the floor behind her. She walked with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other like the pain hadn’t quite left her hips. Her face was stern. Flasks in one hand, a baby bag in the other. But there was no baby in sight. Just her, moving to and fro. Eventually, she sat across from me, untied her wrapper, and let her breasts hang loose, unbothered by who might be watching. From her bag, she brought out a small feeding bottle attached to a manual breast pump.

She clamped the device down hard onto her nipple. If she felt any pain or decided not to show it, I couldn’t even tell. She pressed and squeezed and pumped—each new clamp with a desperation stronger than the last. I saw it in how she constantly shifted on her seat, in how she took different positions—one time hunched over—and in how she flicked a trespassing braid off her chest. All I could do was will a spill of milk to gush into the bottle. Later, I prayed for just a trickle… just something.

It was hard not to look eager because I was unconsciously shifting towards the edge of my seat. I knew my brows were furrowed too. But nothing.

So I quickly ran the physiology of lactation in my head… I know all that is needed for the milk let-down reflex is touch reception; then afferents are passed to the higher centres, and subsequently, there’s a contraction of myoepithelial cells of the mammary alveoli, and milk flows in unforced rhythms.

But here, there’s more than touch reception—there’s pressure, cruel pressure, that I winced with each clamping. Still nothing. She then used both hands to press and knead the full mass of the breast like it owed her something. Still no milk, not even a drop. She switched to the other breast, but it was the same thing. I watched her body go from effort to resignation in minutes. Her face remained unreadable, but her hands told the story.

She tied her wrapper, this time properly, tightly above her breasts. Then she poured herself a cup of hot tea from her flask. I expected her to sip on it since I could see the steam rise furiously from the cup—but she didn’t. She gulped it all in one go. I don’t know what hit me more,
whether it was her silence or her desperation.

There was another woman. I first saw her while she was still pregnant, pacing up and down, hands pressed into the small of her back like she was trying to hold herself together. The next day, her stomach had deflated. I knew she had delivered.

I found her again, flanked by women in mismatched ìró and bùbá; and I caught my first glimpse of her baby—a girl, pink, wriggly cutie, perfect.

A little girl. So beautiful that she didn’t fit into the scenery the shrouding relatives painted. The baby was just in a class of her own, oblivious to the worry set deep in her mother’s eyes, to the endless stream of people passing by, to the mismatching of ìró and bùbá that all the women
donned like aso ebi, totally oblivious to the smell that is particular to the front of the maternity ward.

For the next two days, I saw the mother walk in and out of the maternity ward, baby in tow. But on the fourth day, something had changed. She was sitting on the bare floor near the neonatal unit, chatting with other women, her child at her breast. The baby’s pink had dulled. She still looked heavenly, but she was beginning to settle into the reality of her surroundings. Days passed. Then weeks. I watched them become permanent fixtures of the waiting room. It hit me then: hospital bills hadn’t been paid. She couldn’t remain in the ward anymore. Owó bed—bed fee—was piling.

She now slept on flattened biscuit cartons while the baby slept in a mosquito net cot. That initial worry on her face had hardened into despair. I watched her loneliness. I saw it in the way she walked—her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, footsteps slow, as though trying not to be noticed. I saw it in the three changes of clothes she rotated. In the way she asked a fellow waiting roomer for a sachet of water like it took everything in her to form the request. Also, I didn’t see any visitors around her again since the day after her delivery.

After three weeks, I got to see the baby’s face again. I saw her legs first, covered in reddish streaks and rashes. I was alarmed. Then, her face. She no longer looked like a newborn. Her eyes had already been lined with kohl, her stare jarring. How quickly she blended into the background weighed on my mind. I walked by faster that day—I needed to.

I wondered about the father. Then I got angry. At the situation. At the man. I don’t even know the full story, but in my head, I needed to pin the blame on someone. So I imagined him as a useless man, wasting his meagre earnings on burukutu. But when that made my chest feel too
tight, I changed the script. Maybe he was out there, struggling, trying to raise money. I let myself believe that too. But nothing worked really, so I muttered, “God abeg.”

One day, after five weeks, their corner was empty—they were gone. I missed the celebration and prayers I knew the other waiting roomers must have made at the news of their discharge, but I was relieved nonetheless.

There was another mother. She stood out—not because of herself, but because of her child. For four days, the waiting room had a new kind of brightness, and it was her child. The child was biracial—half Nigerian, half Asian. Her features were unmistakable: the curly long hair, the
small pink lips, the squinty eyes, and the flattened face. She couldn’t have been more than two years old, but she carried herself like someone who knew how much she stood out. She wore joy like it was her birthright, and she didn’t mind showing off her incomplete dentition at every given chance. She bounced around the room like it was a stage she was born for. Everyone gushed looking at her, and she returned the favour by giving high-fives and returning every smile with bigger ones—as if she knew that the waiting room needed lots of comic relief.

But her mother though… she looked like someone trying too hard and barely holding on. She was young—definitely in her twenties. She was bleached fair in complexion—you could tell because her knuckles, knees, and elbows had remained loyal to the essence of melanin. Yet, you
could clearly see that she was a beautiful woman. Her upper arm was tattooed with roses and some words that were already fading out.
The tattoo, though it had lost its shine, had become a different kind of artwork… one caught up in the meshwork of stretch marks that made their way out from her armpit. The sinewy stretch marks crawled across the ink. The bloom looked collapsed, and a rose stalk appeared to have been broken by the trespassing stretch marks.

Though rose tattoos are quite common, I wanted to hear the story behind this particular one. Maybe it’s partly because the tattoo looked like something entirely different or because this woman looked drawn and unkempt—a sharp contrast to her daughter.

Then it dawned on me—she’s trying so hard to keep her biracial kid on the pedestal. It showed in the way the girl was always dressed like she was ready to strut the runway. The fancy blouses, bouncy skirts, her curls styled differently each time, how each day came with different sneakers and crocs. The girl stood out. She didn’t fit the narrative of the room. She stood out too much. Just like a diamond in the rough… yet someone’s treasure.

The mother was making a sacrifice. She didn’t care how she looked. All her effort, all her money, all her attention went into that little girl. She wanted the world to see beauty where it hurt the most.

I never figured out why they were waiting roomers. I never knew their story. But for those four days, I watched a mother pour everything she had into making sure her child looked untouched by the weight of their reality. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about the joys of motherhood. But here, in the waiting room, those joys don’t always come wrapped in lullabies or pastel-coloured baby blankets. Sometimes, they look like a woman begging her breast to produce milk, while imploring a device determined to mock her. Sometimes, they look like biscuit
cartons and mosquito nets. And sometimes, they look like broken roses on bleached skin while a daughter spins in sparkly shoes.
Different mothers. Different stories.
Same waiting room. Same ache.
And still, somehow… same love.

By: Adeoluwa Deborah

The post The Joys Of Motherhood By Adeoluwa Deborah appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Most of us are in cocoons that only we as individuals are aware of. Pits that we fear the worst and would rather bury it in our hearts than speak it out. In our minds, we fear what people will perceive of us. Sometimes, we feel alone and have no support system to help us sail through.

In other situations, guilt creeps within us, rendering us helpless to save the situation. Motherhood is a good example. As a young mom, one navigates how to tender to your baby and hopes your actions are correct. It is a clueless journey in which you tell yourself you will figure it out when you get there. It’s not easy to have expectations set with unrealistic ways to meet them.

Looking back then and now, things are tougher than you could have ever imagined. Challenges are there, but they are twice as hard. It’s more of taking one day at a time and handling them as they are. As human beings, we should aim to listen and not judge. Seek to hear someone out and aim
to help where you can. Sometimes, it can be pretty hard and look like a `nuisance’, but try to at least.
The thought of an individual venting out something to you means they fully trust you. Don’t take that for granted. Another thing is don’t judge an individual; choose to look and ignore. You don’t know what that particular individual is going through.

In this new age of the internet, a lot is happening on various social media platforms. When you see something that is irking you, choose not to judge and think twice about the comment you will make.

We aren’t perfect. Each of us has flaws, but if we work on our flaws, we will grow exponentially. Growth comes from within, and it’s a personal initiative. Let’s propose building a world with less judgment and more positive vibes for improvement.

By: Annette

Instagram

The post Don’t Judge! Think Twice ~By Annette appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Shamyne Doreen Mwila

A soul so bright,
Torn apart by darkness and endless fight.
Bipolar disorder’s waves crash on her shore,
As schizophrenia’s whispers echo evermore.

Her loved ones, they couldn’t understand,
The turmoil raged like a stormy land.
They rejected her with words that cut deep,
Leaving her to face the demons, asleep.

Her thoughts, a jumbled mess, like a puzzle unsolved,
As paranoia’s grip tightens, her heart evolves.
The world, a distorted lens, through which she views,
A reality warped by the voices that accuse.

Oh, Shamyne, dear one, don’t lose your way,
Through the darkness that surrounds, there’s still a ray.
Of hope, of love, of light that shines so bright,
Guiding you through the blackest of nights.

You are strong, though your mind may stray,
You are brave, though the voices whisper, night and day.
You are loved, though rejected, by those who don’t see,
The beauty, the worth, that’s you, wild and free.

Shamyne, dear one, hold on to hope’s refrain,
For you are not alone in this struggle, this pain.
Some care, who understand, who see,
The beauty, the strength, that’s you, wild and free.

By Shamyne Mwila

Facebook: Shamyne Mwila

The post A Soul Torn, A Spirit Unbroken by Shamyne Mwila appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Many believe knowledge is power, but it might be according to someone’s situation. When studying, knowledge becomes a sense of fulfilment; it brings hope and enlightenment in relationships and pursues dreams regarding careers, while it might be scary when applied to understanding self-identity and personality. As I learn and encounter plenty of knowledge regarding psychology, social affairs and relationship attributes, it scares me how I see things differently. I have been able to understand quickly the reasons why people act and react in a certain way as they interact with one another. I observe, listen actively, and assess their body language.

The scary part is how I understand myself by navigating my emotions, making internalized self-conversations, and making fair judgements. Calculating how I tortured myself by consciously undermining my abilities, doubting my skills, being brutal towards myself, and constantly blaming myself by referring to my previous mistakes, hate, and hopelessness hurts me. I owe myself a sincere apology for the unpleasant treatment. I had been experiencing insomnia, restlessness, anxiety and not self-assured lately. I thought overworking and the pressure associated with meeting scheduled deadlines led to how I felt and took some days to rest, but nothing changed. As I was reading the articles, I discovered something shocking. Humans naturally portray our beliefs in our actions, consciously or unconsciously.

If one is traumatized and somehow does not manage to heal, the body and mind will keep on reacting in reflection to the past, believing that it is likely to happen again. The sad thing is, in the journey of growth and healing, we usually look on the outside, pointing out who did what, figuring out ways to forgive, forget and move on, leaving behind the things we did unto ourselves. We think that we have healed but eventually find ourselves in the same situations or even worse, while we swore not to repeat the same mistakes and even made strategies to overcome them. What is the reason behind this? We took care of the external matters, leaving internal conflicts unattended. As I went through the article, I felt triggered and began asking myself uncomfortable questions.

I aroused the matters which I constantly ran away from them in fear of getting hurt. I have been keeping up and embracing my self-worth, dignity, respect, clear boundaries, self-discipline, and faith. I felt pain for that person while noting my thoughts in the journal. I refer to her as “that” person because I felt shame for what I have been doing towards her as I realized that I would not consciously treat myself in such a way. Going through uncomfortable emotions was a gateway out of the suffering. Everyone needs someone to talk to, and sometimes all you need is a self sincerely talk. Distracting ourselves through movies, social activities, music, and whatever we feel is helpful is not enough to help deepen our wounds and fill the gaps within. Allowing ourselves to feel vulnerable is the best gift we may receive, thereby standing on behalf of ourselves fully. Being sorry, respectfully speaking to ourselves, and treating ourselves as we treat others lovingly is the next level of grace upon us. Love exists; it is easy to attract the other when we find it within.

By: Dativa Mugashe

Instagram: real_datty

The post Midnight Thought – By Dativa Mugashe appeared first on Sheevolves.world.