In Nigeria, you’re officially an “aunty” once you turn 25. It’s a title that comes with a mountain of expectations. Children look up to you for gentle pats on the back, wise words, warm smiles, and endless treats. You’re supposed to have your life together — or at least make it look like you do. The first time I was addressed as aunty by a teenager, it took me by surprise. I was now the adult in situations I’d typically look for an adult in, and it didn’t feel real or great.

I’ve been an aunty for three years now, and I’ll admit, I’m terrible at it. My life has pretty much gone downhill since I entered this era. I lost my job, and finding another one has been a constant battle. I scrape by doing odd jobs that barely cover my expenses, thanks to inflation and other factors I don’t even fully understand.

At the peak of my pre-25 career, I imagined that turning 25 would bring more opportunities, stability, and a better quality of life. Instead, I’m a mess — plagued by health issues, wondering how I’ll survive each day without letting anyone see that I’m falling apart.

Aunties used to be so cool. They had all the answers, disposable income, and they were fun. Clearly, I missed the memo because I’m not auntying like others have auntied.

In my head, I’m still a lost teenager trying to make sense of life — until someone hits me with a “Good afternoon, aunty,” and I’m reminded that the world sees me as a full-grown adult woman, even though I rarely feel like one. How did it happen so fast? One minute, I was in my early 20s, brimming with potential and hunger for something big; the next, I’m 27, feeling as helpless as I did at seventeen. Too tired to move some days, desperately trying to make something of myself before it’s too late, but unsure how to do it.

I just want someone to tell me what to do, how to live, how to be happy. I’ve tried to figure it out on my own, but I don’t feel equipped to handle all the hurdles that keep smacking me in the face. Sometimes, it feels like everyone else is in on a secret they’re not telling me. They’re thriving, living the lives they’ve always wanted, while I wonder if I’ll be remembered as a star that shone brightly and then burned out. It’s hard to admit this because I genuinely hate wallowing in self-pity, but every day feels like swimming in shallow waters and somehow still drowning.

Everyone looks at me like, we thought you’d be at this point by now. And maybe they’re right — or maybe I’m just projecting. Either way, I really need a breakthrough. Can it just fall out of the sky and land in my lap?

The shame that comes with repeatedly trying and failing is overwhelming. I know I was made for so much more. I can do a lot, but why does everything feel out of reach? It’s hard not to let self-doubt creep in when every time I refresh my inbox, it’s filled with rejection emails — or worse, no response at all.

In Nigerian society, you’re also expected to be married by the time you reach “aunty” age. The first thing older aunties ask when they see you is, “Are you married?” or “When are you getting married?” I was at the hospital with my aunt recently when her friend came over to say hello. I greeted her politely, and the next thing she asked was, “Are you married?” I’m not. “Do you have a job?” I don’t. I don’t care much about being perceived as unlovable, and marriage isn’t an aspiration of mine, but being seen as jobless? That one stung.

Where do unstable, anxiety-ridden aunties go to seek help? It’s not cool to be unsure. I’m getting past the age where people are understanding about struggles. If you don’t have it together by now, you’re dismissed. I’m holding onto the last threads of my sanity, hoping I can still push myself to where I need to be.

I feel like I’m stuck reliving the same days sometimes — it’s hell. I do not enjoy being in a “Groundhog Day” situation at all. It’s all so routine and boring, I’m on the verge of losing my mind, oscillating between doomscrolling online and finding something that makes me laugh so hard my sides hurt. But it’s temporary, very fleeting.

Oh, and I’m so lonely. Many of my longtime friends have moved away, and communicating over the phone through text and calls doesn’t really hit the same. Sometimes, I just want to go over to a dear friend’s house for a nap date or to talk about silly things and feel like living is great, because there are people who make it that way.

So many days, I want to scream and cry, to talk to someone — really talk to them — without worrying they’ll think I need an intervention. It’s so abysmal up in my head, and no amount of deep breathing or meditation has helped me keep it together. So, when anyone asks, I put on my best bubbly voice and squeal, “I’m fine!” No, really. What did you hear?

My favorite coping mechanism is watching characters who are also struggling and trying to hide it. I watched Fleabag when I was 24, and now I understand why she was such a mess. Carrie Bradshaw isn’t so much of a bird anymore — she had her reasons. And Skinny Girl in Transit’s Tiwalade? Not so annoying after all. I get all of them now, and I’m grateful for media that mirrors these experiences. Art really is a soothing balm for tired souls.

Oh, what would I do without music, books, and films that remind me it’s all part of the human condition? We all struggle — some of us are just better at hiding it. Temporary setbacks don’t mean I’m a loser or that I’ve failed. These are just the days that happen sometimes. Time will tell.

If you found this depressing, I’m sorry. In the meantime, I’m learning to take each day as it comes — focusing on the little things and surrounding myself with people who get it. Some days are long and hard, but I’m learning to focus on the little things — my little playlists that I love to make, my comfort shows with characters that I relate to, and lots of reality tv. Maybe that’s enough, for now at least.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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