The world feels loud, even when I’m alone. I don’t know when I started feeling like I was behind. Maybe it was after graduation, or maybe it was when I saw that girl on Instagram again, laughing in Dubai, dressed in a two-piece, captioned with something like “Soft life or no life.”

It’s not that I’m jealous. I swear I’m not. I think it’s possible to admire someone and still stay true to yourself. I see girls my age renting apartments with marble floors, getting flown out, posting vlogs of unboxing designer perfumes, and decorating their homes with all the things I wish I could afford. Some of them have boyfriends who take them on surprise trips, send them handwritten notes with flowers, and buy them brand-new iPhones just because it’s Monday.

Me? I’m 23. I don’t own anything “designer” unless you count the worn-out handbag my mother gave me for my internship. I still eat food my mum sends from home, and I go to bed thinking about how many job applications are left unread in someone’s inbox. But I’m not angry. And maybe that’s what confuses people. That I can feel this pressure, this silent weight on my chest and still smile when someone else is winning. That I can know how hard my life is, and still clap for the girls living soft. I don’t think people should have to dim their lights just to make others feel better. But at the same time, I wish the world would make space for people like me too, the ones who are trying. Slowly. Gently. Quietly.

My name is Adwoa, I’m 23 years old, and sometimes it feels like it’s me against the world. But I’m still writing. So, if you’re reading this, I want you to know: this is not a story about envy. It’s not even a story about lack. It’s about pressure. And hope. And how I’m still here, heart aching, eyes wide, holding on to the dream that even if the world isn’t soft for me yet, I can still find beauty in my own life. Maybe not with air conditioners and summer trips. But maybe with peace. And maybe that’s enough for now.

Sometimes, I wake up and lie in bed for hours, not because I’m lazy, but because I feel heavy. It’s a quiet heaviness, like there’s an invisible bag strapped to my chest filled with things I haven’t figured out yet. What next? Where do I start? Am I already too late? I’m 23, and it feels like the world expected me to have figured life out by now. People smile and say, “You’re still young, you’ve got time,” and yet that same world praises 22-year-olds who own businesses, 21-year-olds who just bought their second car, and girls my age flying first class with captions like “No pressure, just vibes.”

But me? I am the pressure walking around in a wrinkled dress, trying to look confident at interviews where the receptionist barely glances up. I am the pressure scrolling through job sites at midnight, submitting CVs to inboxes that may never be opened. Some days, I cry without tears. Not because something bad happened. But because nothing did. Again. No email. No callback. No miracle. Just me. Still. Waiting. The worst part? I don’t even want the world. I just want enough. Enough to live without trading myself. Enough to stop calculating transport fare and food like I’m playing some impossible puzzle game.

I’m genuinely happy for the girls who are glowing. I really do smile when I see it. Because it gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s possible. Still, the pressure is loud. It follows me into the bathroom. It stands behind me when I look in the mirror and whispers, “You’re not doing enough.” And yet I’m trying. God knows I’m trying. I fold my own clothes. I help my parents when I can. I write in this journal instead of screaming. I keep moving, even if I don’t know where I’m going yet. Because even though I sometimes feel like I’m drowning in silence, I remind myself that I am not invisible. And one day, I’ll realize the pressure didn’t crush me. It shaped me.

Instead of a two-bedroom apartment in East Legon or Trasacco, let me tell you about my room. My room is not much. One door. One window. One single bed that creaks when I turn. A fan that sounds like it’s been through war, spinning slowly like it’s too tired to pretend. Plastic drawers stacked in the corner. A small table where my dreams sit in silence. Sometimes when it rains, the ceiling leaks and I have to shift my bucket around like it’s part of the furniture. There are days I light a candle, not for vibes but because ECG took the light. But it’s mine. And I’m learning to love it. This is my one-room kingdom. This is where I write these words. This is where I’m growing quietly, slowly, honestly. And even when I see those other girls on Instagram decorating their dreamy apartments, I don’t shrink. I remind myself: a beautiful space does not define a worthy life. It’s okay if your curtains don’t match your bedsheets. It’s okay if your fan doesn’t spin fast enough. You are still worthy. You are still soft. Because sometimes, success is simply waking up, bathing with water you fetched yourself, stepping out with clean clothes, and trying again.

I didn’t know I had entered a race until I realized I was already behind. No one ever says it out loud, but somehow, we’re all running. By 23, you should have a job. By 24, you should have moved out. By 25, you should be earning well. By 26, engaged. By 27, married. By 28, pregnant with your first child while running your own business. By 30, everything should be settled. Packaged. Done. But no one talks about the in-between. I would open my phone and see former classmates launching brands, getting promoted, announcing engagements. Meanwhile, I was still choosing between rice and bread for dinner not because of cravings, but because of coins. Sometimes I wonder if the race is even real. Who decided that success by 25 is more valuable than peace at 35? What if it’s okay to be late? What if “late” doesn’t even exist? What if your first real job comes at 28 but it aligns with your purpose? What if all this running isn’t necessary? I’m learning to walk. To pause. To say, “Even though I’m not where they are, I’m still on my way.”

Sometimes I feel embarrassed. Not because I’ve done something wrong, but because I still rely on my parents. At 23, I still call my mother and say, “Mummy, please can you send me something small for food?” And she sends it. Even when I can hear the tiredness in her voice. When she does, I say thank you, hang up, and cry quietly. Because this isn’t what I imagined adulthood would feel like. I thought by now I’d be taking care of them. Buying my father new shoes for church. Sending money every month. Instead, I’m still being cooked for. Still being prayed over. Still being carried. And it hurts, not because they make me feel like a burden; they never do. But because I carry a guilt that whispers, “You should be doing better by now.” I’m learning to release the shame. Being helped does not mean I’ve failed. Leaning on the people who love me doesn’t mean I’m weak. One day, I’ll repay them not just in money, but in peace. In relief. But for now, I will honor them by trying. By not giving up.

To every girl who feels she’s not doing enough, this is for you. I know what it’s like to scroll through Instagram and feel like everyone else has figured it out except you. You wake up with hope in your chest, and by midday, it’s crushed under rejection letters and dreams that still feel too far. But you still smile. You still show up for others. You still push through. Your pace is not your failure. Slow progress is still progress. Refusing to trade your dignity for comfort is still victory. You are not here to impress the world. You are here to be whole. If all you did today was get out of bed and survive, I’m proud of you. You are not behind. You are not forgotten. You are being built in silence. And when your time comes, it will be loud, undeniable, and beautiful.

There are nights I’ve laid in bed, feeling like my chest was sinking into itself. Nothing specific happened. No fight. No heartbreak. Just sadness, quiet, thick, wrapping itself around me like fog. Sometimes a single tear. Other times, a silent sobbing, the kind where you cover your mouth so no one hears you. I’ve never really told anyone how often I feel this way. There’s a pressure to be okay all the time, to smile through the confusion, to be grateful because “others have it worse.” And yes, I’m grateful. But gratitude doesn’t cancel pain. You can count your blessings and still feel broken.

Maybe I am not behind.
Maybe I am just unseen.

Just because someone else’s light is bright doesn’t mean yours is off. You are not behind. You are just becoming. And becoming does not always make noise. Sometimes it looks like quiet rooms, slow days, and unanswered emails. Sometimes it looks like surviving. But even here even in this silence, I am growing. And one day, this version of me, the one who kept going without applause, will be the reason I made it.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jeffery Erhunse on Unsplash