E. Joseph Cossman once said, “The greatest power is often simple patience.” I concur wholeheartedly, as this principle was embodied in the way my father built our home.
As a child, I remember gazing at the building plans, marveling at how sand, water, and cement could transform into blocks, and how those blocks would eventually become a house. I was captivated by the process and eagerly accompanied my father to the construction site whenever I could. Watching the structure take shape was nothing short of magical.
Then came the rainy season, and the project was paused. On those days, I would sit by the window, watching raindrops race against the louvre glass. Some droplets hurried down and crashed into each other, while others took their time, forming a pool beneath the window. I learned early on that even the simplest of things exhibit patience.
When the sun came out to play, the construction resumed, as did my visits. However, one day, I saw my father’s excitement turn into worry, concern, and finally disbelief. The drive home was silent, and it was only through my unrepentant nosiness that I learned about the issue: the foundation was flawed. It was a problem that couldn’t be ignored, as it would cause serious repercussions later. Rebuilding the foundation would cost more money and time, which explained the deep scowl on my father’s face.
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As a child, I didn’t understand why he chose to start over, especially since it meant the house would not be ready as planned. I was disheartened, eagerly awaiting the day I could finally move into the new house. But now, as an adult who has had to build her life brick by brick, I understand.
Life often requires us to take the road less traveled. In a world that constantly moves, we are sometimes forced to mirror the slow pace of snails. Although it’s difficult to see at the time, delays often remind us that they are not denials. My father’s goal was clear: he wanted to build a sturdy house that would stand the test of time and seasons. To achieve this, the foundation had to be solid. These days my house is a shadow of the shiny building 15-year-old me used to love twirling about in, but it stands tall and intact. I don’t think this would have been possible if my father hadn’t made the decision to redo the foundation.
In the same vein, as an adult, I’ve had to cultivate patience in my own life. Rupi Kaur writes, “To heal, you have to get to the root of the wound and kiss it all the way up.” One might think that knowing this would prepare me for the challenges of adulthood, but I am living proof that knowing better does not always equate to doing better. Knowledge alone is not power; it is the application of that knowledge that makes us powerful.
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Entering adulthood, I realized that patience is easier when everything is going well. On days when I have accomplished my tasks and the weather is just right, patience feels like a walk in the park. But when life throws heavy storms and blinding suns my way, patience bids me farewell. On those days, getting out of bed can feel like a herculean task, and I retreat into myself, abandoning patience.
I often joke about a mean woman in my head who criticizes me, but on days when she’s loud and harsh, it’s less of a joke and more of my reality. When anxiety keeps me rooted to the ground, incapable of crossing to the other end of the street, I chastise myself, and patience seems to vanish. I preached and advocated for self-love everywhere but when the curtains were drawn, I was the meanest person to myself
For most people, love is a beautiful thing but when your lover goes by the name fear, it becomes a thing that you dread. Fear is a terrible lover, smooth-talking with deceitful sweet nothings. I often let fear into my bed, allowing him to whisper doubts and insecurities. “What do you think you’re doing?” “How dare you try?” “Did you forget that you’re not good enough?” “Look closely, they’re all laughing at you.”
I want to tell fear that no one cares enough to laugh at me and that I’m willing to try despite not being perfect. Yet, fear’s comfort is a double-edged sword. By avoiding risks, I avoid failure, and I can convince myself that if I had put in the work, I would’ve succeeded. So, I leave the door open for fear night after night, until one day, I borrow a bright torch from Peculiar, who is breaking ceilings of her own. I wield Tofunmi’s belief in my supremacy and I chase fear away. We establish a routine—me chasing, fear running.
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I wish I could tell you that I win this battle every day, but that would be a lie. I keep fighting, and sometimes I win, while other times, fear thrives. What matters is my consistent pursuit of victory. On days when fear wins, before the mean woman in my head speaks, I play Alessia Cara and remind myself that I should take my time to recover because healing and patience are lovers.
Healing isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it looks like lying in bed with closed eyes because the world is moving too fast. Other times, it involves ticking off tasks on a to-do list. I might cry myself to sleep only to drag myself to work the next morning because the bills won’t pay themselves. I wish I could provide a formula for healing—perhaps something involving motivational quotes and bubble baths, or self-discipline and workout routines. But there’s no quick fix for healing. It’s like Shakespeare said, “To each, his own.” Healing is a cloth sewn just for you. It may not always be glaringly obvious, but it’s happening regardless.
So, on my worst days, I look myself in the eye, call myself by my name, and say, “Tovia, please be patient with yourself on days when the light at the end of the tunnel is dim. You are a work in progress, and you are deserving even if all you do today is survive.”
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Tovia Inokoba is passionate about finding magic in the mundane. She is a writer who draws life’s lessons from the most unexpected places; whether in the intricacies of a K-drama or the quiet moments of everyday life. She thrives on the subtle beauty hidden in the ordinary. Specialising in creative nonfiction, Tovia’s work explores the fluidity of human experiences, weaving together wit, empathy, and a desire to leave traces of glitter in the minds of her readers. With words as her sword, she inspires in the gentlest way possible, writing for herself, for you, and the quiet wallflower in the corner.
