Looking Back, Becoming: The Girl I Was, The Woman I Am

Next week, I will be done with my first final degree exams. It feels strange to even say that out loud.

For so long, this moment lived somewhere far ahead of me, almost imaginary. And now that it is here, I find myself turning back, gently tracing the path that brought me here. And maybe calling them my first final exams makes it even more special… a quiet reminder that this is not the end of learning for me, but just one milestone in a much longer journey.

Looking back, I see a young girl on her first day of school. Scared. Quiet. Unsure. She did not know anyone in that classroom. Everything felt new, unfamiliar, overwhelming. And yet, there was something soft about her. Something warm. I remember how people loved me, even those in higher classes. It feels almost unreal now, like a distant echo of a version of me I am still trying to understand.

Sometimes I ask my mother why she didn’t take more photos of me when I was young. Because in my memory, I seemed so beautiful. Not just in appearance, but in spirit. The kind of beauty that was reflected in how people treated me, in the love I received so freely. And somehow, I remember it all.

I see that girl growing into her primary school years. Learning. Adapting. Making friends. Slowly becoming.

Then I see her in high school. Determined. Hopeful. Quietly carrying dreams bigger than her circumstances. In many of our African homes, rewards are never simply given; they are earned. I worked hard, for both grades and something that felt symbolic—a first phone. It was never just a device. It was proof that effort could become something real, something I could hold.

And when that moment came, it felt like a milestone. Small to the world, maybe. But to me, it meant progress. It meant possibility.

I remember the ambition that followed. The desire to pursue a computer packages course. At a time when access to a computer was not guaranteed, that opportunity felt like stepping into a new world. Learning how to start a computer. Understanding what a CPU was. Hearing words like “motherboard” and slowly realizing that I, too, could belong in spaces that once felt distant. There was excitement in that learning. A quiet pride in understanding something new.

And then there were the journeys. Visiting relatives in the city for the first time. That long drive that felt like an adventure on its own. Watching the roads grow busier, the buildings rise taller, the rhythm of life changing before my eyes. Everything felt bigger. Faster. Full of possibility.

When I returned home, I carried those experiences like treasures. I narrated every detail—every building, every street, every moment—as if telling the story would help me hold onto it a little longer.

My first day in campus, I remember it all, walking in with my mother by my side. I was so happy. So full of hope for what was ahead.

I remember choosing Journalism and Mass Communication. Back then, my inspiration came from the women I watched on television—confident, articulate, powerful. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to step into those spaces and dominate.

But as I went deeper into the course, I discovered something more meaningful. It was never just about being seen or heard. It was about creativity. Authenticity. Expression. It was about telling stories that matter.

There were discouragements along the way. Every time I told people I was pursuing media, I was often met with sympathetic looks, as if I had chosen a path leading straight to unemployment. But even then, something in me refused to shrink.

Along the way, I discovered volunteerism. I worked with Non Governmental Organisations. I served. I listened. I learned. And through those experiences, I understood something that has stayed with me ever since: always take a stand for social justice. Be ashamed to leave this world without having stood for something that benefits humanity. Because if you don't help bring about justice, one day you too may experience injustice and may need someone to stand for you—and there will be no one.

I took short courses. I discovered new interests, new talents, new layers of myself. All of it shaping the woman I was becoming.

Now, looking back today, I see more than just memories. I see growth.

I see a journey defined by small, consistent steps. By effort. By curiosity. By the courage to keep going, even when the path was unclear.

That girl who once celebrated a first phone, who once sat in front of a computer with wide-eyed curiosity, who once marveled at city lights—she did not know exactly where she was going. But she moved anyway.

And now, here I am.

Standing at the edge of one chapter, and the beginning of another.

There is a quiet kind of gratitude that comes with looking back. Not just for how far I have come, but for who I have become. For the resilience I did not know I was building. For the courage that grew in ordinary moments.

Because sometimes, the most powerful journeys are not the ones the world applauds loudly.

They are the ones that happen quietly. Steadily. Faithfully.

And as I step into what comes next, I carry this truth with me:

Every small beginning mattered.

Every step counted.

And every version of me along the way was necessary to become who I am today.