Rooms, Ruins, and Becoming Bibi

A Story Of Quiet Heartbreaks, Soft Victories, And The Girl I’m Still Learning To BeWhen I first stepped into the gates of university, I was walking into a world I had only imagined in blurry pictures and secondhand stories. I had dreams in my head, hope in my chest, and fear quietly sitting in my palms. I was 100 level, wide-eyed and unsure, constantly looking around to see if I was doing this whole "life" thing right. What no one told me, though, was that university would not just teach me courses. It would teach me people. It would teach me loss. It would teach me resilience. It would teach me how deeply a heart could feel and still not break into dust. It would show me how sometimes, healing doesn't come from being strong, but from being seen. In those early months, I watched from the edges—trying to figure out who I was in this sea of voices. I smiled a lot, spoke less, and listened too much. I made friends, some genuine, some temporary, some who only remembered me when they needed something. But I didn’t mind at first. I thought that maybe if I gave enough, someone would stay. I remember walking back from class one evening, the sun kissing the tips of the hostel walls, and my chest feeling heavy for no reason. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I now know what that was. It was loneliness. Not the kind that comes from being alone, but the kind that follows you even in a crowd, even when you're laughing. But somewhere in the chaos, I found outlets. Writing became my mirror. Stories became my safehouse. On days when I couldn’t say what I felt, I wrote it. I poured my fears, my daydreams, my heartbreaks into characters and captions. I didn’t even know if people were reading. But the page listened, and that was enough. Then, came the unexpected blessings—the kind you don’t plan for but somehow become lifelines. One of them was my school son. I didn’t think I could care so deeply for someone who didn’t share my blood. But he showed up, like a quiet promise from the universe. He taught me what it means to give without needing a reason. To protect, to guide, to be soft and strong at the same time. With him, I didn’t have to perform. I was just me. And that was okay. University gave me him. And through him, I found fragments of myself. In 200 level, I started to feel something shift. Maybe it was growth. Maybe it was the quiet defiance that comes from surviving things no one clapped for. I started leading, not because I wanted titles, but because I wanted impact. I wanted to create experiences, memories, and moments that made people feel like they belonged. That’s how the Halogen Triad Challenge was born. Not just a game, but a cry for connection. I saw the exhaustion in everyone’s eyes—the weight of assignments, expectations, and emotional distance. So I lit a fire. A fun, crazy, creative fire that pulled us together in laughter and collaboration. I watched people forget their burdens for a moment, and that moment made all the planning worth it. But for every highlight, there was a shadow. And mine followed me closely. I had nights where I cried quietly while everyone thought I was strong. I had mornings where I stared into the mirror, wondering if I was enough—enough to be loved, chosen, remembered. I’ve experienced rejection that made me question my worth, and silence that felt louder than screams. I’ve had feelings I buried so deep, even I couldn’t name them until they surfaced during a random worship song or a poetry line I wrote at 1 a.m. Sometimes I wanted to quit. Not school—but everything. I just wanted to pause my existence and rest in a place where no one expected me to be anything other than tired. But through it all, I kept showing up. Because somewhere deep down, I knew. I knew I was becoming something bigger than my heartbreaks. I was becoming someone whose pain would eventually become someone else's comfort. I was turning my loneliness into light, my silence into storytelling, and my restlessness into real impact. In those quiet spaces, I also found God. Not just in the big prayers before exams, but in the little moments—the sunset after a hard day, the message from a friend just when I needed it, the strength to smile when I thought I couldn’t. He reminded me that I wasn’t invisible. That every teardrop was a seed. That every delay was a design. And here I am, still in 200 level. Not a graduate. Not a fresher. Just a girl standing somewhere in the middle of her story. A girl who has felt too much, lost too much, and still chosen to love anyway. I’ve learned that university is not a place you survive. It’s a place that writes you, rewrites you, and sometimes burns you into something stronger. It gave me deep friendships. Silent heartbreaks. Laughter that made my stomach ache. Betrayals that made me wise. Epistles that became love letters to life itself. Platforms that amplified my voice. And a heart that now knows how to carry both joy and pain without breaking. I am not the same girl who walked through those gates in 100 level. I am becoming. And this is not just my life in uni. This is my becoming story. One memory at a time. One heartbreak at a time. One healing at a time. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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