Long before adulthood arrived, many of us had already written it.
Maybe not on paper.
But in our minds.
Some of us had vision boards.
Some had journals filled with timelines.
Some scribbled dreams at the back of school notebooks.
Some imagined it quietly while lying awake at night.
"By 25, I'll be here."
"By 30, I'll have figured this out."
"I'll be working in this field."
"I'll be married by then."
"I'll have travelled out."
"I'll have my own place."
"These are the people who'll be there when I get there."
None of us realized we were writing a script. Until life started improvising.
For some, it started with not getting into the university they dreamed of.
Or not studying the course they had imagined for years because JAMB said otherwise.
For others, it was spending an extra year or two in school when they were supposed to have graduated already.
One delay became another.
One detour became a completely different destination.
Then adulthood came.
And somehow, survival became the plan.
People who imagined themselves in one profession found themselves building careers somewhere completely different.
Some discovered they loved it.
Others are simply trying to make ends meet.
Some friendships didn't survive adulthood.
Some relationships ended before the milestones they were supposed to witness.
Some parents who were meant to clap at graduation ceremonies now exist only in photographs.
Some dreams quietly expired without anyone noticing.
Not because we failed.
But because life happened.
I think that's the part we don't acknowledge enough.
Sometimes the grief isn't about what we lost. It's about the life we expected to be living by now.
And because no one else knew that version of our future, we don't even realize we're grieving.
We just think we're behind.
We compare.
We panic.
We wonder why everyone else seems to have figured life out.
When really, we're trying to make peace with a version of life that no longer exists.
Maybe that's why so many people feel like failures without actually failing.
They're not only comparing themselves to other people. They're comparing themselves to a version of themselves that never got the chance to exist.
And that's a comparison no one else can see, because no one else was there when you first imagined your life.
I badly want to do a “pespire to aspire” and tell you that you are not failing and that there is a light at the end of the tunnel
I badly want to remind you that Life doesn’t only take. Sometimes it redirects.
The course you never wanted introduces you to lifelong friends.
The delay you hated teaches you things success never could.
The people you thought would stay leave. Then new people arrive and love you in ways you never imagined.
And perhaps all of that is true.
But that's not the heart of this essay, it's not hope.
It is permission to grieve.
The internet and people around you are so quick to say:
"God has a better plan."
"Everything happens for a reason."
"Your story is still being written."
Sometimes that's true.
But sometimes...
Someone has buried a spouse/parent.
Someone is doing the work they never imagined they'd be doing, not because they love it, but because survival demanded it.
Someone has had many failed businesses
Someone has been trying to conceive for twenty years.
Someone has applied for jobs for three years.
Someone has watched all their friends move on while they are stuck in one position.
Someone is 40 and still grieving the life they imagined at 20.
There are people grieving a future that never happened, while everyone around them is congratulating them for how far they've come.
They don't need another stranger telling them, "Your breakthrough is around the corner."
Because we don't know that.
And I don't think I should write as though I do.
I don't have a neat conclusion for this.
I don't know why some dreams arrive late, why others never arrive, or why life asks so much of some people and so little of others.
I only know that there are many of us quietly carrying lives we thought we would have lived by now.
Not every grief has a funeral. Some simply become the quiet ache we carry through ordinary days.
Maybe the first step isn't pretending that grief doesn't exist.
Maybe it's giving it a name.
Because grief that remains unnamed has a way of turning into shame.
Perhaps that's why so many of us are so hard on ourselves. We think we're carrying failure, when what we're actually carrying is grief. And those are not the same thing.
I don't think every dream is meant to come true exactly as we imagined.
Maybe some dreams evolve.
Maybe some don't.
I honestly don't know.
What I do know is this:
You are allowed to mourn the life you thought you would have.
That doesn't make you ungrateful.
It doesn't mean you've given up.
It doesn't mean you don't appreciate the life you have.
The opposite of gratitude isn't grief. You can be deeply grateful for the life you have and still mourn the life you imagined.
It simply means you're grieving a life you expected to live.
And that makes you human.
All my love,
Star Girl Mercy ❤️
P.S: I looked through my Substack drafts today and smiled. It seems I've accidentally started writing a series around one question: What does it mean to become a whole person in a world that keeps asking us to become something else?
Grief. Friendship. Love. Identity. Vulnerability. Closure. Adulthood.
That's all I'll say for now. But whew... I'm excited for what's coming. 🤍
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