When All The Trying Wasn't Enough. Poem by Olorunkemi Kareem

I wanted to be a prefect—
not for the applause,
not for the title pressed into fabric,
but because it felt like proof
that maybe I mattered.
That maybe all the quiet ways
I gave of myself
would finally be seen.

For over a year,
I folded myself into something better,
something useful,
someone worthy.
I woke before dawn,
went to bed with the weight of duty
settled on my chest like a stone.
I learned to measure my days
in small victories—
a task finished, I learned to measure my days
in small victories—
a task finished,
a promise kept,
a smile earned.

And then my body grew tired.
Three months it asked me to rest,
and in those empty hours
everything I built began to slip away.
I told myself they would remember—
the way I stayed,
the way I tried.
But illness is invisible,
and in the end,
they only saw my absence.

They gave the badge to someone else.
And I swallowed the sorrow,
as if it was a small thing,
as if it didn't crack me open.
I told everyone I was happy for Samson,
and it wasn't a lie—
because I truly was.
He worked hard,
he deserved to be seen too,
and a part of me wanted so much
for us to stand side by side,
sharing that moment together.

But another part of meBut another part of me
felt like I was fading behind him,
like all I'd done
was never enough to count.

Esosa spoke so carelessly—
her words tumbling out
as if my disappointment
was something she could name
without feeling it.
She doesn't know
how those words stayed with me,
how they felt like salt
in a wound I had tried to hide.
How I went home that day
and replayed them in my mind
until I started to believe
I was the reason
for my own heartbreak.

I have always wanted
a quiet life.
Not one of recognition,
just a life where I could breathe
without feeling I was letting someone down.
But life is loud and unkind,
and even when I give everything,
it asks for more.

Sometimes I think
no one really cares.
People leave when it's inconvenient,
when my sadness is too large
to ignore.
And I am left
with all the questions
no one answers—
Was I ever enough?
Did all that trying mean anything?

I am tired in a way
that no sleep can cure.
I have lost the love I had for books,
for learning,
for the small comforts
that used to keep me alive inside.

If you ask me now,
I will say:
Yes, I am human—
fragile and unfinished.
And today, that feels
like too much to bear.

Still, here I am,
in the quiet of this moment,
hoping someone will hear me,
hoping someone will stay—not to fix me,
but to hold the softness
I have left.