I used to think I hadn’t been loved right. That no one ever really showed up for me. But when I sat down to remember, really remember, I realized I’ve been held more times than I gave credit for. Loved in silence. Fed without asking. Gently protected. Gifted little things that said, “I saw you.” This is a poem for the ones who already showed up, even if I forgot about them. If you’ve ever felt unseen, maybe this will remind you too: sometimes, love is softer than we expect… and easier to overlook.
They say memory is fickle,
that it leans toward the loud, the dramatic, the hurt.
But lately, I’ve been remembering in flashes,
moments that didn’t scream love,
but whispered it gently into the folds of my days.
I used to sit in the ache
of all the ways I thought I was unloved.
Thought love had skipped me.
That generosity passed me by.
That I’d never know what it meant to be adored in silence
or celebrated in the open.
But memory, softened by time and healing,
reveals what pain had carefully hidden.
Lately,
the wind’s been whispering my memory back to me,
not loud, not urgent,
just soft reminders,
delicate echoes,
quiet yeses from the past
tapping on the shoulder of now.
And suddenly, I see,
I’ve been loved.
God, I’ve been loved.
Not always in the ways I expected.
Not with fireworks or rings.
But in packed lunches and thoughtful glances,
in money sent without asking, just because,
in a hand holding mine at the stage,
like I was something worth protecting.
In bought shoes and shared fries,
in meals cooked by hands
that had their own worries
but still chose to feed me.
How could I forget my son’s father?
We were both so young, too young, maybe,
but he never ran. He stood.
When the test turned positive, he turned up.
Held my hand through hospital corridors of uncertainty.
Even jumped the fence once when I was close to delivering
to bring me fruits after visiting hours, just because I wanted them.
When I needed help, he showed up.
He made me fries when my cravings made me cry.
When I needed care, he brought comfort in small, quiet ways.
He cooked for me.
He tied my shoes.
held my hand as I left his place,
Walked me to the stage,
like a man protecting his whole world.
waited until I was safely inside,
and waved until the bus was out of sight.
Maybe I was too focused on the kind of love
wrapped in grand gestures
to notice the kind that quietly stayed.
The kind that showed up when no one was watching.
The kind that didn’t need a label,
only a heart willing to remember.
I thought no one ever stood up for me.
But someone did.
Went against their bloodline for my dignity.
Defended me.
Protected me,
Chose me,
when choosing me wasn’t easy.
I remember now.
The pandemic…
When the world shuttered in silence,
when streets were empty and hope was rationed,
I, a mother with a child, stood at the edge of uncertainty.
But someone opened their door.
and with it, offered us safety. Security.
A roof that didn’t just protect us from the weather,
but wrapped us in calm when survival felt loud.
He never owed me anything.
Yet gave everything in those quiet months
He let my son crawl across his chest like he belonged there.
And I… I belonged too.
He cooked for us.
Protected us.
Let laughter fill the spaces between power cuts.
Rice and stew became the scent of peace.
He gave what he could.
And I had nothing to offer but gratitude.
Still, he gave.
I thought no one ever told me I was beautiful.
But their eyes said it when they thought I wasn’t looking.
They laughed at my jokes
not out of courtesy,
but because they genuinely felt joy around me.
There were compliments whispered in crowded rooms.
Silences held when I didn’t have words.
Favors done without request.
Lifts offered.
Doors opened.
Souls who said “I got you” and meant it.
No one ever shouted “I love you” from rooftops.
But love still came,
in detours, in disguises,
in small things I almost missed.
He didn’t need a body to show me love.
Dates without expectation,
chocolates without reason.
He gifted me my first dungaree, my favorite.
a gift chosen because someone saw me,
knew what would light up my face.
He had never had me physically,
but saw my worth anyway.
Who gave without taking,
who wanted nothing but to witness my joy.
And my birthday…
how did I forget?
I remember chapatis rolled with love.
Stew simmered with thought.
A birthday I thought would pass quietly,
instead filled with cake and juice and warmth.
Even a necklace,
the letter A,
delicate and full of meaning.
It wasn’t about the gift.
It was the thought that someone thought of me.
He watched me, really watched me.
Saw me pause just a beat too long at a trouser I’d never ask for.
I laughed it off,
“Budget ni tight,” I said.
But the next day, it was folded and waiting for me.
The kind of noticing
that doesn’t make noise
but makes you feel seen.
He even sent gifts home to my parents
through me,
like love traveling two ways,
forward and back.
Shoes came without asking,
whenever my soles had worn too thin.
He made sure I walked like I was worthy.
Outings with our son,
skating sessions I didn’t know I needed,
fries and laughter
served in the soft light of Nairobi afternoons.
He bought me experiences
when money was tight
but love was large.
He was gentle with his hands.
He knew I loved massages.
Even after long days,
he’d press love into my shoulders,
without expecting it returned.
He’d remove my shoes,
arrange my food,
wrap me in hugs
that said “rest, I’ve got you.”
He brought snacks like he’d studied me,
chicken always included,
cake and yoghurt too.
He made nourishment feel romantic.
I used to think I was unloved,
unseen,
uncared for,
but I was just looking in the wrong direction.
I forgot to remember
how deeply I’ve been carried.
I forgot to remember
that love wore many faces,
Sometimes it smells like food warming in someone else’s kitchen.
Sometimes it feels like your feet being lifted into comfort.
Sometimes it is silence that doesn’t suffocate,
arms that hold without needing to possess.
The problem wasn’t the absence of love.
It was my memory,
trained to count thorns and forget the roots.
To focus on who didn’t stay,
not who stayed longer than they needed to.
To search for grand gestures,
not gentle ones.
I thought I was the girl who was never chosen.
But I’ve been picked over and over again
now I see I have been loved in all the other ways,
quietly, deliberately, abundantly.
Not for my body.
Not for convenience.
But because somewhere, somehow,
someone looked at me and thought,
“She deserves softness.”
Maybe it’s just the flowers that haven’t come yet.
But I’ve been gifted.
I’ve been affirmed.
I’ve been taken on dates.
I’ve been spoken to gently.
I’ve been cooked for and cared for and covered.
Love came in currencies I didn’t always recognize at the time,
acts of service, presence, protection, provision, playfulness.
And I forgot.
Because I was so busy waiting for it to arrive in a particular form.
But it had been arriving all along.
I was so busy waiting for a bouquet
that I didn’t see the garden
growing beneath my feet.
Some of them,
I no longer speak to.
Some, I never got to love fully.
Some were chapters that closed
before I knew how to say thank you.
But today,
I remember.
I remember the way I was seen.
The ways they tried.
The prayers said for me in silence.
The times someone waited for me to arrive safely,
texted just to be sure.
The laughter we shared over nothing.
The effort it took to know me.
The way they noticed the little things
and loved me in languages
I didn’t know how to translate.
And I wonder,
how many other moments have I forgotten?
How many gestures have slipped
through the cracks of my pain?
How many “you’re beautifuls”
did I dismiss because they weren’t
from the mouth I wanted?
I see it now.
I was not invisible.
I was not unloved.
I was not a woman left behind.
I was a woman carried,
lifted, fed, sheltered, seen.
I was a woman loved in a thousand quiet ways
by souls who didn’t need titles
to be special.
I remember now.
And I will not forget again.
Because the truth is,
I have been loved.
I have been seen.
I have been adored.
I have been chosen
I have been provided for.
in moments that didn’t look like miracles,
but were.
And now, I say thank you.
To the unseen.
To the half-remembered.
To the ones who stayed a while,
and the ones who passed through,
leaving warmth in their wake.
Thank you to the men who were kind,
who gave without needing to take.
Thank you to the memories that didn’t make it to photos
but lived in the quiet.
Thank you to the universe
for proving me wrong
about being unloved.
I was.
I am.
And I always have been.
I just forgot for a while.
But now, I remember.
No, I didn’t get the flowers.
But I got the the massages.
The clothes.
The necklaces.
The breakfasts.
The birthday surprise
The just because dates
The shelter.
The safety.
The sneakers.
The noticing.
And maybe, just maybe,
that’s the deeper kind of love.
And now, when someone asks if I’ve ever been loved,
I’ll smile and say,
More than I remembered.
More than I deserved.
More than I knew.
This poem is about recognition. About opening my eyes to what was already there. I thought I was chasing love, but turns out I’ve been loved so many times in quiet, thoughtful ways. I just forgot. So this is my thank you. To the ones who cooked for me, bought me my favourite things, held space for my child and me, saw me when I was too tired to ask to be seen. I might not have said it then, but I remember now. I was loved…. God, I’ve been loved.
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