TETHERED - by Dolapo Oludairo

All my life, I’ve searched for purpose.Or maybe… I tried to define it.Tried to mold it into something tangible —something I could carrylike a name,like a legacy,like the dreams that weren’t minebut were handed down to me. Purpose.A pile of feathers.Soft, elusive,always slipping through my fingersjust when I think I’ve found it.Light enough to float,but heavy enough to haunt. I’ve asked myself, over and over:“What is the true meaning of purpose?”Is it real?Is it mine?Or have I merely been following a trail of voicestelling me what I should become? They say the flame inside is proof.That if you feel it —that pull in your chest,that ache in your spirit —then you're meant for something.And I do.I feel it.I burn quietly,restlessly. But the world outside meis louder than the one within.And sometimes I wonder if I’ve been living a lifepre-written in someone else's handwriting. I was born with dreams,but I inherited expectations.They dressed me in their hopes,taught me how to walk their pathbefore I could ever draw my own. They meant well.But good intentions still weigh heavywhen they aren't yours to carry. So I bend.I shrink.I rehearse gratitudefor a life that doesn’t feel like mine.And in the stillness,I mourn the girl I never fully became —the one who once believedthat she could be everythingshe imagined. I whisper to myself:"You know your purpose."And I do.Somewhere deep,beneath the silence,beneath the guilt,beneath the “what ifs”and the “don't disappoints.” I know it.It’s the rhythm I dream in.It’s the colour in my mind.It’s the way I come alivewhen no one’s watching. But how do you follow your flamewhen you’re afraid it might burn bridgesyou were raised to protect? How do you choose yourselfwhen you’ve been taughtthat love means sacrifice? The truth is,I’m tired.Not from chasing dreams —but from running from the noise.From apologizing for wanting morethan what was given. Still…the flame persists.Even dimmed,it burns. It flickers for mewhen everything else has gone quiet. And maybe,just maybe,that’s enough.Maybe that’s purpose too —the courage to keep reachingeven when your hands shake. I haven’t fully arrived.But I’m still walking.Still choosing.Still learning to trustthat the path I carvewith trembling handscan still lead me home.

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