Today, I turn 26, though many of you might assume I’m older. I’ve never been one to share every detail of my life online, and curiously enough, I’ve never celebrated with birthday candles since the day I was born. But that’s always been fine with me—what matters most is good health, focusing on what’s important, and keeping God at the center of everything I do.
As I reflect on this milestone (technically a day late, as my birthday was on May 8th), I can’t help but compare my childhood dreams with my current reality. Like many, I once imagined a straightforward path: a good job, financial security, and perhaps a family of my own. Despite some successes, life has taken different turns. Yet even now, I see glimmers of hope on the horizon.
My journey began in Kibomet village in Kitale town, Trans-Nzoia county, where I was born and completed my early education through secondary school. My first significant transition came when I left for college in Meru County—my first extended time away from home. That departure marked more than just a geographical change; it was my first taste of independence, though I didn’t yet understand how much I would need to rely on the foundation my childhood had built.
On this birthday, one question echoes in my mind, something I wish I could whisper to my seventeen-year-old self: What if our deepest wounds become the inkwells where we draft redemption? This piece comes from a young man who had it all, lost it all, but continues rebuilding himself amid chaos at just 26 years old.
Light the candle, little Joe. We’ve stories to tell…
Roots and Responsibility
In African households, being the firstborn child carries unspoken expectations not just from parents but also from siblings and society at large. While many might wish to escape this birthright, I’ve come to embrace mine. As the eldest of four siblings—three brothers and a sister—I inherited responsibilities that arrived before my baby teeth had even departed.
I became a “junior parent” at an age when most children only worry about play. This meant helping with household chores, watching over my younger siblings, and being held to a higher standard of behavior. My mother’s voice still echoes in my memories: “Unaona vile Brian kwa boma ya akina…ni mtoto mzuri” (Look at how good Brian is in that family). Though naturally quiet rather than rebellious, I still found myself constantly measured against other children.
The weight of these expectations shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to understand. Every small decision carried implications beyond myself—if I failed a test, it wasn’t just my disappointment to bear, but a reflection on my capability to lead my siblings toward academic success. If I showed disrespect, it didn’t just earn me a scolding, but set a precedent that my younger brothers and sister might follow. This constant awareness of being watched, measured, and emulated created a hypervigilance that both protected and exhausted me.
For eighteen years, my father was my blueprint for manhood, a businessman whose entrepreneurial spirit shaped my understanding of work ethic and ambition. I admired how he navigated the complexities of running his ventures, balancing risk with calculated decision-making. His business acumen taught me the value of persistence, strategic thinking, and identifying opportunities where others saw obstacles. His confidence in professional settings and commitment to providing for our family established standards I internalized long before I understood their significance. When he’d return home with stories of negotiations and deals, I absorbed these lessons as fundamental truths about success and responsibility.
Looking back, those evening conversations around our dinner table were my informal MBA classes. He would describe challenging clients, explain why certain business partnerships succeeded while others failed, and demonstrate through his actions that providing for a family required more than just showing up—it demanded constant adaptation, continuous learning, and the courage to take calculated risks. I watched him problem-solve in real time, and unknowingly, I was learning to think like an entrepreneur long before I knew what that word truly meant.
However, everything changed between late 2021 and early 2022, shortly after I received my admission letter to Meru University. My parents’ marriage fractured, and suddenly, the theoretical responsibilities of being the eldest became painfully practical. The role I had rehearsed since childhood became my reality precisely when I needed guidance most.
The timing felt particularly cruel. Just as I was preparing to step into my own independence, the family structure that had prepared me for that step began to crumble. The man whose business wisdom I had absorbed for eighteen years was no longer present to help me navigate the transition from dependent son to responsible young adult. The irony wasn’t lost on me—all those years of preparation for leadership had culminated in leading during a crisis I never could have anticipated.
Through this turbulence, my mother emerged as a pillar of strength that I hadn’t fully appreciated during the stable years. Her resilience inspired me to seek ways to ease her financial burdens, though I often felt inadequate to the task. It was during this challenging period that I discovered online writing—initially as an escape, but eventually as both passion and profession. Over the years, I’ve cultivated my voice through blogging and content writing, eventually contributing to leading publications both in Kenya and globally, particularly in the technology sector.
What began as a desperate search for income became an unexpected calling. Writing gave me a way to process the chaos of family dissolution while simultaneously building skills that would prove invaluable. Each article I published, each client relationship I developed, and each positive feedback I received helped rebuild the confidence that family instability had shaken. Writing became both my therapy and my ticket to financial contribution—a way to honor the responsibility I felt while discovering talents I never knew I possessed.
What I’ve learned about being a firstborn son is profound: this position demands evolution before you feel ready for it. The crown of responsibility represents a vision, not merely a weight, forcing you to develop foresight, anticipate needs before they’re articulated, and understand that sometimes leadership means absorbing shock so others don’t have to. This realization is why I don’t regret my position—it has sculpted the anxious young boy into the self-determined man I am today.
The transformation wasn’t immediate or comfortable. There were months when the weight of everyone’s expectations felt crushing, when I questioned whether I was strong enough to be the stability my siblings needed. But gradually, I began to understand that strength isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about showing up consistently, even when you’re figuring things out as you go. It’s about being honest about your limitations while still accepting responsibility for what you can control.
What I cherish most is witnessing how my siblings observe my every move. My younger brother often mirrors my actions, seeks involvement in my projects, and comes to me for guidance. These seemingly small interactions have fundamentally reshaped my perspective on responsibility. I’ve learned that accountability isn’t just about handling what falls to you but consciously choosing what example you set, knowing younger eyes are always watching, and learning not from your words but your responses when tested.
Recently, when my youngest brother asked me to help him with a school project about entrepreneurship, I realized how the cycle continues. Just as I had absorbed my father’s business wisdom through dinner conversations, my siblings are now absorbing lessons from how I handle challenges, pursue goals, and treat others. The responsibility feels both heavier and more meaningful knowing that my responses today are shaping their understanding of what’s possible tomorrow.
Much has happened that I choose not to detail here, and this isn’t meant to be a comprehensive memoir. Today, I maintain contact with my father, and I’m grateful to report that our relationship has entered a season of healing and rebuilding. I harbor no hatred toward him, understanding that everything unfolds for a reason. Yet the lesson remains: disappearing when your children need you most leaves wounds that platitudes cannot heal. In the end, family is about clarity, showing up consistently, and refusing to engage in blame games.
The path back to relationship with my father hasn’t been linear or simple. There have been awkward phone calls, tentative conversations, and moments when old hurt threatened to overshadow new possibilities. But we’re both learning that healing requires patience, that rebuilding trust happens through small, consistent actions rather than grand gestures. When he called me “Mzee” last week—a term of respect that acknowledges my growth into manhood—I felt something shift between us. For the first time in years, I felt like his son rather than a stranger carrying his name.
As I symbolically blow out twenty-six candles, I’ve tasted lessons no university curriculum offers: that responsibility’s grip strengthens rather than weakens you, that family fractures can unexpectedly build new bridges, and that crowns, no matter how heavy, polish the brow that bears them. The weight of early responsibility doesn’t diminish your youth—it matures it into something more valuable, resilient, and capable of weathering whatever storms still await.
The Anatomy of Heartbreak
Honestly, beyond the five rites of passage we learned in primary school social studies—birth, adulthood, marriage, eldership, and death—I would add a sixth: heartbreak. This unexpected ceremony takes center stage in our emotional development. I’ve heard countless stories from friends, grown men, and podcast hosts claiming that no boy truly becomes a man without experiencing the fracture of romantic loss. Yet despite these warnings, nothing truly prepares you for heartbreak when it arrives unannounced at your doorstep.
The interesting thing about heartbreak is how it masquerades as an ending when it’s actually an intensive education. Every broken heart carries a curriculum specifically designed for the person experiencing it. The lessons aren’t comfortable, and the classroom is wherever you happen to be when the waves of grief hit—sometimes in the middle of a grocery store, sometimes during a conversation with friends who don’t know what happened, sometimes in the quiet hours before dawn when the world is still but your mind refuses to rest.
I’ve collected my own anthology of disappointments in matters of the heart. I haven’t been particularly fortunate in love’s lottery, though amidst the chaos, I’ve experienced precious moments of giving and receiving affection that illuminate what’s possible. Sometimes, I wish love came with an instruction manual—a troubleshooting guide for when the connection begins to falter, explaining which wires might be crossed and which emotional circuits have short-circuited.
But perhaps the absence of such a manual is intentional. Love that could be reduced to a set of instructions wouldn’t require the vulnerability, growth, and faith that make it transformative. The uncertainty, the risk, the possibility of loss—these aren’t bugs in love’s system but features that force us to become more courageous, more empathetic, and more aware of what we truly value.
I hesitate to share too many details here, as I genuinely respect my former girlfriend. She’ll likely read this—she was always my most enthusiastic supporter and remains so even now. This is partly why our separation affected me so profoundly, causing me to lose sight of myself for a time. Looking back, I recognize her as one of the strongest, most resilient women I’ve known. Now, I find myself surrounded by memories of us, struggling to articulate the complexity of what remains.
The peculiar thing about losing someone who genuinely believed in you is that their absence echoes in every small victory and every moment of doubt. I would find myself wanting to share good news with her, reaching for my phone before remembering that the direct line to her encouragement was no longer available. Her faith in my potential had become so integrated into my own self-concept that losing it felt like losing a part of my identity.
What made the loss particularly complex was that it wasn’t rooted in betrayal or dramatic incompatibility—sometimes relationships end not because someone did something unforgivable, but because timing, circumstances, and personal growth patterns create distances that love alone can’t bridge. This type of ending carries its own specific grief because there’s no villain to blame, no clear narrative that explains why something good had to end.
Perhaps my homeboy Allano could tell this story better than I can. He witnessed the aftermath firsthand, offering both emotional support and practical help, like finishing meals when my appetite disappeared along with my relationship 😁. His friendship, along with others, became instrumental in my healing journey, even as I continued to miss her deeply. I reminded myself daily that everything unfolds for reasons we may not immediately understand.
The friends who show up during heartbreak deserve their own category of appreciation. Allano didn’t just offer sympathy—he offered presence. He sat with me during the worst of it, helped me maintain basic functioning when grief threatened to derail everything else, and provided the kind of steady companionship that reminds you that losing one important relationship doesn’t mean you’re alone in the world. These friendships often deepen during crisis because they’re tested by real need rather than just shared good times.
I won’t delve into the specifics of what transpired between us or engage in assigning blame. Heartbreaks are simply part of life’s curriculum. I made mistakes. She made mistakes. But ultimately, we cultivated something beautiful between us, even if it couldn’t endure.
However, life has a way of writing sequels to stories we thought had ended. After months of separation, self-reflection, and individual growth, we’ve recently decided to try again. This decision didn’t come from desperation or inability to let go, but from a recognition that we both evolved during our time apart. We’ve learned different lessons about ourselves, developed better communication skills, and gained clearer perspectives on what we want from a partnership.
Reconciliation after heartbreak requires a different kind of courage than the initial vulnerability of falling in love. It means acknowledging that the problems that led to separation were real while believing that the growth that happened during separation was equally real. It means choosing hope over the safety of emotional distance, even when you know that healing together might be more challenging than healing apart.
We’re approaching this new chapter with more wisdom about each other’s needs, better tools for handling conflict, and deeper appreciation for what we almost lost. The relationship feels both familiar and entirely new—built on the foundation of genuine affection that never disappeared but structured by the lessons we learned while apart.
To her, wherever this new journey takes us, thank you for showing me that love’s capacity includes both breaking and rebuilding, that endings can become beginnings, and that sometimes the thing we lose and find again becomes more precious for having been at risk. Thank you for being willing to try again, not because the first attempt was easy, but because what we built together was worth the difficulty of reconstruction.
Heartbreak doesn’t appear on any formal curriculum, yet it teaches us more about ourselves than many designated courses of study. The scar tissue it leaves behind becomes both armor and map—protecting vulnerable places while marking the territories where we’ve learned to navigate with greater wisdom. At twenty-six, I understand these wounds aren’t just injuries but investments in a more compassionate, self-aware future. Sometimes, they’re also preparation for loving the same person better the second time around.
I Refuse to Quit: A Birthday Promise
At twenty-six, the most meaningful gift I can give myself isn’t flowers, well-wishes, or cake—it’s the bravest truth I must acknowledge: mere survival is insufficient. My scars have evolved into a covenant, a sacred promise to myself that I will thrive, not just endure.
This shift from survival to thriving represents a fundamental reorientation of how I approach challenges. For too long, I measured success by what I avoided losing rather than what I actively gained. I celebrated making it through difficult months rather than celebrating the skills, relationships, and wisdom I developed during those months. Now, I’m learning to see obstacles as raw materials for building the life I actually want rather than just barriers to survive.
I haven’t mentioned this previously, but I can’t overlook the numerous hospital visits that have punctuated my young life—the IV drips, head CT scans, and medical uncertainties. At only twenty-six, I’ve already navigated more medical corridors than some people twice my age. I find myself whispering to the universe: Please show mercy from twenty-six onward. While various doctors proposed different diagnoses—sepsis, dehydration, BPPV—all blood tests ultimately revealed nothing conclusive. One physician suggested stress as the culprit, and intuitively, I recognized the truth in this assessment.
The relationship between stress and physical symptoms became impossible to ignore once a doctor named it directly. Looking back, every major health scare coincided with periods of intense pressure—family instability, academic deadlines, financial worry, relationship uncertainty. My body was keeping score of emotional burdens I thought I was managing well mentally. This realization was both sobering and empowering: if stress was contributing to my health challenges, then learning to manage stress could be part of my path to better physical wellbeing.
These medical experiences taught me that the body’s wisdom often surpasses the mind’s stubbornness. When I pushed through exhaustion, ignored emotional needs, or convinced myself that rest was optional, my body eventually forced the conversation I was avoiding. Each hospital visit became an unwelcome reminder that taking care of myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary for taking care of everyone else I feel responsible for supporting.
I’ve dedicated myself relentlessly to mastering my craft. Though I never initially aspired to become a writer or blogger, my passion led me unexpectedly into this profession. Now, at this significant juncture, I’ve made a pivotal decision. This isn’t about quitting but rather about realigning with my deepest interests. I’m choosing to focus more intensively on coding and software development—essentially marrying myself to machine learning and artificial intelligence, fields that have always called to me.
This transition represents more than just a career change—it’s about honoring the part of myself that has always been drawn to understanding how systems work, how problems can be solved through elegant solutions, and how technology can amplify human potential. Writing taught me to communicate complex ideas clearly, to research thoroughly, and to work independently—skills that translate beautifully to software development. The discipline I developed meeting writing deadlines, the curiosity I cultivated exploring different topics, and the problem-solving approaches I learned tackling various content challenges all serve as preparation for this new focus.
Machine learning and artificial intelligence represent the future I want to help build rather than just observe. These fields combine logical thinking with creative problem-solving in ways that excite me more than any career path I’ve previously considered. The prospect of developing systems that can learn, adapt, and solve problems feels like the perfect intersection of my analytical nature and my desire to create things that matter.
Perhaps the most profound gift I can offer myself at twenty-six is reconciliation with God. Raised in a loving Christian family, I’ve gradually recognized my spiritual drift over recent years. This distance no longer feels acceptable to me. As I begin this twenty-sixth year, I’m drawn to the promise in Malachi 3:7: “Return to me, and I will return to you.” This reciprocal invitation feels particularly meaningful now.
The drift happened gradually, the way most significant changes do—not through dramatic rejection but through small neglects that accumulated over time. Prayers became less frequent, then perfunctory, then occasional. Church attendance shifted from regular to sporadic to rare. The spiritual disciplines that once provided structure and peace slowly faded as other priorities claimed their time. I convinced myself that I maintained the essential faith while allowing the practices that sustained that faith to atrophy.
But I’m learning that relationship with God, like any meaningful relationship, requires intentional cultivation. The promise in Malachi suggests that divine love is always available, but accessing it requires movement from my side—a return that is both physical and emotional, involving both actions and heart posture. This reconciliation isn’t about perfect performance but about renewed commitment to the conversation that once grounded everything else in my life.
As I conclude, I have messages for those who matter most:
- To My Siblings: I love you immeasurably. Forgive my absences, as I’ve missed witnessing parts of your growth. As we continue sharing a home, remember we don’t just share blood—we share a name that we’re responsible for preserving with dignity for generations to come. Watching each of you develop your own strengths and interests has been one of the greatest privileges of being your older brother. Your individual successes reflect not just your hard work but the resilience of our family unit. I promise to be more present for the milestones ahead.
- To Dad: When you called me “Mzee” last week, I recognized the progress we’re making. Though I’ve grown into a young adult, I still need your guidance to navigate life’s complexities. For the first time, I feel like your son rather than a stranger carrying your name. Thank you for finding your way back to us. The business wisdom you shared during my childhood is serving me well now, and I’m grateful for the foundation you provided even during the years when our relationship felt strained.
- To Mum: Words feel insufficient to express my gratitude. You’ve been my unwavering strength through everything. Your resilience during our family’s most challenging seasons taught me that love shows up through action, not just words. Please know that no matter what challenges arise, I’ve got you—always. The sacrifices you made to keep our family intact didn’t go unnoticed, and I’m committed to ensuring your later years reflect the care you’ve always shown us.
- To Her: Thank you for being willing to try again. Our separation taught us both valuable lessons about communication, personal growth, and what we truly want from partnership. I’m grateful that we can approach this new chapter with more wisdom, better tools for handling challenges, and deeper appreciation for what we’re building together. Whatever this second chance brings, I’m committed to showing up as the best version of myself.
- To God: Let’s resume our conversation—not just crisis prayers when troubles arise, but expressions of gratitude for the mercies You’ve shown in repeatedly granting me fresh starts when I’ve needed them most. I want to rebuild the spiritual disciplines that once provided structure and peace, recognizing that my relationship with You forms the foundation for every other relationship in my life. Thank you for the patience that allowed me to find my way back.
- To You Reading This: Whatever insights you gather from this brief chronicle of my life is yours to interpret. What I can offer is this: your breakdowns contain the blueprints for your breakthrough. Whether you choose to study these plans or set them aside remains entirely your decision. But know this—the challenges that feel overwhelming today are often preparing you for opportunities you can’t yet imagine.
“For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.” — Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and author of “Man’s Search for Meaning.”
The story continues, and at twenty-six, I’m only beginning to understand the privilege of discovering my meaning in each passing moment. The next chapter starts now.
