Insight of a Kenyan Girl

This isn’t a cry for pity. It’s a whisper from someone who knows what it feels like to grow up invisible. If you’ve ever felt like the background character in your own life, this is for you.

I spend most of my time behind my phone screen. I like to believe I’m doing something productive—building a future, chasing a dream. But lately, I’m not so sure. There’s a strange kind of loneliness in always striving, yet never arriving.

I didn’t grow up with fairy tales. We didn’t even own a TV until I was about four. And when we did, there was no electricity to power it. It sat in the corner like a box full of promises that never came. It wasn’t until a year later, when my parents got an old car battery, that it finally lit up. Many wouldn’t understand what it’s like to power a TV with a battery—but I do.

Before that battery, I’d just sit and stare at the dark screen, wishing it would flicker to life. When it finally did—black and white, grainy—it was magic. But even then, we used it sparingly. The battery charge was precious. At school, other kids would talk about their favorite shows. I’d nod, laugh, pretend I knew them too. I thought if we had real electricity, maybe I’d fit in. Maybe I’d belong.

Eventually, my mother bought a small solar panel. Suddenly, I could watch all the TV I wanted. I thought that would make me happy. But I realized I wasn’t watching for joy—I was watching to fit in. I wasn’t chasing happiness; I was chasing acceptance.

School brought its own shadows. Math was my biggest struggle. No matter how much I studied, no matter who helped me, I always fell short. My teacher made jokes at my expense. I became the class clown, but not the kind anyone laughs with—only at.

Desperate, I cheated on four math exams. Not to succeed, just to escape the ridicule. I wanted the teacher to feel guilty, to stop calling me stupid. But nothing changed. I was still the joke.

At home, it wasn’t much better. One day, my father called me stupid too. The word stung more than I expected. Then came the comparisons—to my sister, the golden child. I wasn’t just struggling—I was invisible. Unwanted. That feeling lodged deep in my chest, and it never really left.

I finished high school—not with honors, but not with failure either. College wasn’t an option. We didn’t have the money. So I looked for work. When I landed my first job, I felt hope again. Like maybe things would change. But it didn’t last long. I lost the job. Another chapter in a book full of disappointment.

Being the unwanted child isn’t just a phase. It becomes your identity. It whispers that you’ll never be enough, no matter how hard you try. That kind of voice eats at your soul. And so yes, I spend most of my time on my phone—not because I’m lazy, but because I’m trying. I’m still searching—for a job, for meaning, for myself.

Along the way, I’ve lost pieces of who I used to be. Maybe someday I’ll find them again. Maybe I won’t. If I don’t find myself in this life, I hope I do in the next.

Maybe—just maybe—I’ll become someone. And if I don’t? That thought hurts. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: love your children. Make them feel wanted. Because when you don’t, they spend their lives trying to fix a mirror shattered by neglect. They see the cracks, not their reflection.

Don’t let your children grow up wondering if anyone would notice if they disappeared. Don’t let them carry silence like a second skin. Maybe it’s tough being me. Or maybe—it’s a quiet kind of blessing. One that teaches empathy. One that helps me see people others ignore.

But even blessings can be heavy to carry alone.