Getting into pharmacy school felt like a big win—not just for me, but for my parents, for everyone who had invested in my education, for the version of me who was told that a good, respected profession would lead to a good life. It wasn’t medicine, which I originally wanted, but it was close and so I carried it with pride.
For years, I followed the motions. I studied, wrote the exams, and wore the lab coat. I was proud of how far I had come. But somewhere along the way, I started feeling something I couldn’t ignore: a subtle, persistent discontent.
Pharmacy never really felt like mine. It was something I was doing because I could, not because I truly wanted to.
I wasn’t angry about it. I wasn’t bitter. But I knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t give me the kind of life I dreamed of. Not in Nigeria. Not with the kind of vision I had for myself. I craved more freedom, creative expression, a life that allowed me to be multiple things at once.
The Searching Years
While I was still in pharmacy school, I started exploring little passions on the side, things that made me feel a bit more like myself. In 2015, I enrolled in makeup school. I took to it quickly, spending hours watching YouTube tutorials and practicing on friends until it felt natural. I even began taking on clients. I loved the creativity, the calm focus it required, and the way someone’s whole mood could shift just by seeing themselves differently.
But even with all that joy, something still felt incomplete.
A few years later, I tried something new—culinary school. I’ve always loved cooking, and learning the craft more intentionally felt exciting. I began sharing meals, cooking for people, and eventually turned it into a small business. People genuinely loved what I made, and that made me happy.
But again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t good at these things, I was. But the deeper sense of purpose I was searching for… I hadn’t found it yet. I think part of me always knew I was meant to build something that could hold all of me, my creativity, my curiosity, my need for meaning and I just hadn’t arrived there yet.
Graduation day was supposed to be a big moment, the kind of day you look forward to for years. Everyone around me was glowing, taking pictures, hugging, crying, making plans. And I smiled too. I laughed when I needed to, posed for the photos, did everything I was expected to do.
But inside, I felt… quiet. Off, somehow.
There I was, holding the degree I had spent six long years working for, and instead of pride or clarity, all I felt was uncertainty. A soft ache in my chest. I kept thinking, Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? And the answer, though it hurt, was honest: no.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t grateful. Or that I didn’t value the journey. I did. But in that moment, I was simply being real with myself in a way I hadn’t allowed before.
And there was something else quietly weighing on me—grief.
Not long before graduation, I lost my brother. I had watched him fight for his life with everything he had. That kind of loss changes you. It rearranges your perspective. Suddenly, the things that used to feel so urgent lose their edge. And the things that truly matter become clearer than ever.
Standing there in my gown, in the middle of all the noise and joy around me, something clicked: If he could fight that hard just to live, then I can fight for the kind of life I want. Not someday—right now.
Following the Spark
A few weeks after graduation, while sorting through some old things, I came across a notebook from a UI/UX course I had taken a few years earlier. It was mostly theoretical, just something I had signed up for on a whim, without any real expectation. At the time, I hadn’t designed anything. I didn’t even consider it a serious path.
But flipping through those pages stirred something I didn’t see coming.
I paused on one of the lessons, and I remember thinking, I really enjoyed this. Not in a loud, life-changing way, but in a quiet, steady one, the kind of enjoyment that leaves a mark.
That small flicker of curiosity came back. I sat with it for a bit, not rushing it. Then I mentioned it to my best friend and to my surprise, she told me she had started learning design too. That felt like a gentle nudge from the universe. Like maybe this wasn’t just a passing thought.
So in March 2022, I took the leap. I enrolled in two design bootcamps and gave myself permission to go all in. I stayed up late watching tutorials, experimenting with layouts, getting lost in Figma. I carried my laptop everywhere—once even to an eye clinic, because I had a task to finish. That still makes me smile.
But what mattered most was how it made me feel. For the first time in a long while, I felt grounded. Not just interested, but connected. I wasn’t just learning a new skill, I was slowly finding my way back to myself.
My First Yes
About a year into my design journey, a friend reached out. He had been quietly watching how immersed I’d become—the late nights, the practice, the steady progress, and he asked if I could help him design an e-commerce app. I remember pausing when I saw the message. I didn’t feel quite “ready.” But something in me whispered, say yes. So I did.
It was my very first design gig. The project was small, but the feeling wasn’t. That moment—the first time I got paid for something I had taught myself, something I was growing to love, meant everything. It gave me a new kind of confidence: quiet, but lasting.
Not long after that, I landed an internship with a Web3 startup. It was fast-paced and intense, unlike anything I’d experienced before. Some days, it felt like I was running to catch up. But those months taught me how to move with urgency, how to solve problems without waiting for perfect instructions, and how to trust my own ideas.
Eventually, that experience led to another opportunity, a freelance role I got through a referral. I’ve been in that space ever since, almost two years now. Still learning. Still growing. Still gently reminding myself that I’m capable of doing hard things, even when they scare me.
Things I’m Learning (and Relearning)
- You can be proud of where you started and still choose a new path.
Pharmacy shaped a part of me but I had to let myself grow beyond it.
- Trying different things doesn’t make you lost.
It means you’re searching. Each version of me, student, makeup artist, cook, helped me find the next one.
- Discipline carries you when motivation fades.
Some days, I don’t feel inspired. I show up anyway.
- Say your dreams out loud, even the wild ones.
The more I believe in what’s possible, the more it begins to take shape.
- You get better by doing, not by waiting to feel ready.
Design didn’t feel natural at first. Practice changed that.
- The quiet seasons are not empty.
They’re where the groundwork happens, the slow kind of becoming.
- Rest is part of the process.
You don’t have to burn out to prove you’re working hard enough.
- Grief will change you, but it can also clarify what matters.
Losing my brother taught me to live louder. Softer. And more urgently.
Where I Am Now
I’m still becoming. Still learning how to trust my voice, trust my work, and trust myself. Some days are clear; others, not so much. But what’s different now is that I’m no longer trying to live someone else’s version of a “good life.”
For the first time, I’m building something that feels honest—a life that looks and sounds like me. One shaped by intention, not just expectation.
It’s not perfect. It’s not always easy. But it’s mine. And that, for me, makes all the difference.
If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re still searching, still wandering, still unsure, I want you to know you’re not alone. There’s nothing wrong with becoming slow. Nothing wrong with trying things, letting go, starting again. Your path doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else.
Give yourself permission to pivot. To evolve. To dream bigger. To begin again, as many times as it takes.
You deserve a life that feels like yours.