I'll be okay - by Emilia's Pen

I'll Be Okay. I spiralled. I don't know exactly when it started or how it happened, but it was sometime after the essay competition. I had approached that competition the same way I would approach a final-year project. I researched, drafted, revised and researched again. I treated it like a thesis rather than an essay. Looking back, I understand why some people thought the work felt artificial. That part was my fault. What hurt wasn't necessarily losing. What hurt was being told that something I had poured so much thought into felt AI-generated. After that, I decided to step back from writing for my own good. Then I started spiralling. Not the kind of spiralling where you lock yourself away from the world. The kind where you feel like you're drowning while standing still. The kind where you're falling and somehow already exhausted from the impact. I started seeing things that weren't there. I questioned things I had already settled in my mind. I lost confidence in parts of myself that had always felt certain. It was as if someone had taken pieces of me and scattered them in different directions, leaving me to figure out what belonged where. Then I got a job. An accountant for a real estate company at twenty years old. A job I didn't apply for, yet somehow found me. For the first time in a while, I felt excited. It gave me an opportunity to put everything I had learned into practice and actually contribute to something bigger than myself. On my third day, while familiarising myself with the company's system, I found myself thinking: This will never work for me. It was slow, repetitive and inefficient. So I built a new automated system that eliminated most of the manual work with the click of a button. Someone wasn't happy about that. A colleague who had been with the company from the beginning seemed to view every improvement as a threat. As the head of my department, I think she expected someone she could constantly direct and correct. Unfortunately for her, she met me. At that point in my life, I was already carrying enough weight. Her attempts to complicate things only irritated me. Eventually, I stopped taking it personally. I realised she wasn't fighting me. She was fighting change. And change was going to happen whether she liked it or not. During one of our Monday meetings, the boss praised the new system and the improvements it had brought. I didn't have to say anything. The look on her face said enough. Things became smoother after that. At least for a while. Then I started noticing a different kind of decline. My business. Months had passed since I had made something new. The last piece I created was the Bloom Top. People loved it. The reactions were there. The orders weren't. At first, I thought that was the problem. Then I realised it wasn't. The real issue was that I felt stuck. Everywhere I looked, crocheters were making the same pieces over and over again. Somewhere along the line, I started feeling like I was blending into the background. So I stepped back. I started studying stitches differently. I paid attention to how yarn behaved, how it flowed, how different textures interacted with each other. I drafted new patterns. Tested colour combinations. Experimented. Created. And eventually, I built an entire collection. The Soft Form Edit. The name came from a lesson I had been learning throughout the year. For months, I had been trying to change. Change my circumstances. Change my reactions. Change myself. But somewhere along the way, I realised I didn't need to become a completely different person. I simply needed to make edits. Edits that suited me. Edits that didn't weigh me down. The collection reflects that. Its soft neutral colours represent warmth from within. The kind of warmth that comes from accepting yourself while still leaving room for growth. It is a collection about reinvention rather than replacement. About potential rather than perfection. About reminding myself that there is a difference between me and everyone else, and that my business is not a mistake. Then Nigeria called. More specifically, NYSC. I was excited when I saw my call-up number. The TikTok videos had convinced me I was about to have the time of my life. Then I saw Kano. Lord, no. Anywhere but Kano. I had never been there before and had absolutely no idea what to expect. An Abuja corper posted to Kano. Who came up with that idea? I told my parents and the next available flight was booked. Only for Nigerian airlines to remind me exactly why they're still Nigerian airlines. My flight was moved from 11 a.m. to almost 6 p.m., and we didn't even take off until around 7:30 p.m. By then, I was already tired of the entire experience. All this could have been avoided if these people had simply allowed me to camp in Kubwa peacefully. When I finally arrived, Kano welcomed me with heat so intense it felt personal. There was no turning back. I spent the night at my uncle's house and continued the journey to camp the following morning. Then I checked Google Maps. Forty-seven kilometres. Forty-seven. And Katsina was somehow on the way. At that exact moment, one thought entered my mind: I'm cooked. The further we travelled, the more it felt like I had somehow been transported into a different era. Mud houses. Cows everywhere. People sitting comfortably in the trunk of vehicles while the actual passengers squeezed themselves into the car. The trunk looked more organised than the seating arrangement. I had mentally checked out before we even arrived. Then came hostel allocation. A nightmare and a fever dream rolled into one. People were pushing. People were shoving. People were scrambling for spaces. Meanwhile, one of the hostel matrons stood there smiling as if there was something entertaining about the chaos unfolding before her. "Don't worry, you'll get a space." Before or after I sprained my ankle? Because by the end of that ordeal, my reward was a spot on the floor. Not a bed. The floor. I remained there until Monday when I was finally promoted to a bed because its original owner was leaving camp. Even then, the victory was questionable. The bed was a top bunk with metal supports that looked incapable of supporting anyone's life decisions. My friend and I ended up sharing it anyway. The first morning parade was a blur. Exhaustion. Heat. Confusion. More heat. My friend and I successfully escaped the rest of that day. And the day after. Eventually, reality caught up with us. The heat in Kano is unlike anything I have experienced before. It doesn't simply make you sweat. It irritates you. It follows you around. It settles into your skin and dares you to remain cheerful. After parade and the swearing-in ceremony—which was essentially a professionally organised roasting session under the sun—camp somehow managed to become even more interesting. Some stories, however, are remaining under oath. As I write this on Day Eight, I am tired. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. But something is different. I am not spiralling anymore. I am not trying to become a different person. I am not trying to have everything figured out. I am simply trying to be stable. Stable for myself. Stable for my dreams. Stable for the things I am building. And for now, that's enough. I'll be okay. ♡

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