Jacky's Corner

Sometimes you witness something so simple that it stays with you long after it is over. That happened to me over the weekend. I went for a painting session, one of the little extracurricular things I have been doing to keep life interesting and to give myself something to look forward to. There were three ladies there who had clearly come together as friends. What happened over the next three hours was unexpectedly beautiful. They painted. Then they took a break and did a TikTok dance, complete with the kind of laughter that makes you forget anyone else is in the room. After that, they sat down and played Ludo. Somehow, they managed to fit all of this into one afternoon. But what really caught my attention was the effort behind it. Two of them lived quite far from where we were. Yet they had made the effort to come because they wanted to spend time with their friends. One of them even kept saying that she needed to travel quite a distance, but she would leave a little later because she...

This weekend I had one of those moments that only make sense in your own head. I had just gotten my nails done. Ladies, you know the investment I'm talking about. Time. Money. Sitting in one position until your back starts negotiating with your soul. They looked beautiful. Then Saturday happened. I was doing some chores and... chip. One nail. Just one. Nine others were still looking fantastic. Guess which one my brain decided deserved all of my attention? That single chipped nail. Within seconds I had already planned another salon appointment, calculated the money I would have to spend, imagined the hours I'd lose, and quietly mourned the entire manicure. It was almost impressive how quickly my mind escalated the situation. Then another thought interrupted me. "Who exactly is demanding perfect nails?" Silence. No one. Not my family. Not strangers. Not the supermarket cashier. Certainly not my dog. The pressure was coming entirely from me. That realization stayed with ...

Sometimes the best trips are not the ones filled with endless activities or perfectly planned itineraries. Sometimes they are the ones that quietly remind us of who we are when the world finally becomes still. My recent trip to Kalangala was one of those experiences. Of course, there were beautiful views, long walks, fresh air, and the soothing rhythm of the waves. But the greatest gift of the trip wasn't the destination. It was the realization that I didn't need every moment to be extraordinary in order for it to be meaningful. For so long, I have unknowingly tied my happiness to other people's energy, attention, or participation. I assumed that rest would somehow feel incomplete if everyone around me wasn't equally engaged or if every plan didn't unfold exactly as imagined. This trip challenged that thinking. There were quiet moments when nothing much was happening. We sat by the water. We watched the waves roll in and out. We took walks without rushing to the nex...

Last Friday, I attended a work event that was followed by a cocktail session. The event ended around 2:00 p.m. and the cocktail session was meant to start at 4:00pm and was expected to stretch well into the evening. As the minutes passed and nothing much was happening, I found myself thinking about my usual Friday workout from 5:00 to 6:00 p.m. I had a choice to make. I could stay because that was what everyone else was doing, or I could keep the commitment I had already made to myself. I chose the latter. I left, completed my workout, and returned by 6:30 p.m. The cocktail continued until around 8:30 p.m., so I still had plenty of time to enjoy the food, conversations, and networking with my colleagues. What surprised me was their reaction. "Where were you?" they asked. "Did you really go to exercise?" When I admitted that I had, many commented on how disciplined and consistent I was. While some remarks felt like genuine compliments, others made me wonder if ...

This month, I signed up for swimming lessons. At first, that might not sound remarkable. After all, I already knew how to swim...or at least I thought I did. I could float, move through the water, and comfortably enjoy the shallow end. But there was one problem. I could never confidently venture into the deep end. For years, I convinced myself that was enough. Until I went on a trip to a beautiful place called Diani where everyone was excited to explore the ocean, I quietly calculated how close I needed to stay to shore. That was the moment I realized I hadn't mastered swimming. I had simply become comfortable with my limitations. It took me a while of reflection and i wont say it was easy to admit i needed help but eventually i did make the decision to learn again. So, I enrolled in lessons. On my very first day, my coach smiled and said something reassuring: "You already know the basics. We just need to correct a few things." That sentence stayed with me long afte...

  A friend recently told me about a colleague who had resigned after landing a better opportunity. It was good news, the kind you genuinely celebrate. Yet as the excitement settled, something else quietly entered the room. Sadness. Not because the colleague didn't deserve the opportunity, but because everyone immediately began thinking about what their departure meant for them. Who would take over the workload? Would the replacement be as capable? What would happen to the team dynamic? The colleague was leaving, but everyone else's minds had already shifted to the gap being left behind. As she spoke, I smiled because I had lived the very same story from the other side. A while ago, I left an organization after finding a new role. My friend and I had built a wonderful routine. We shared lunch breaks, exchanged stories, laughed about work, and made each other's days lighter. When I told her I was leaving, she was genuinely happy for me. We had both hoped for that opportunity ...