Don’t Hate, Admire. You Still Have Time

I’m a few days away from turning 52.
Yes, 52.
I know, I may not look it, but the years are real.
And more importantly, they’ve been lived.

I’ve never been one to broadcast my age.
But lately, I’ve started to realise how important it is,
Not for applause,
But for perspective.

Because when you know how long someone has walked,
You understand why they don’t stumble over things you’re still tripping on.
You recognise the cost behind the confidence.
The warfare behind the wisdom.
The oil behind the anointing.

I’m the eldest of the three youngest sisters,
And truth be told, not everyone has greeted me with open arms.
I’ve felt the sting of side-eyes and subtle jabs.
The unspoken “Who does she think she is?”
And more often than not, those reactions came from women younger than me.
Sometimes a full decade younger.

What they didn’t realise was…
I’m not actually their peer.
I’ve lived ten years more.
Ten years deeper.
Ten years of choices, challenges, and chapters they haven’t read yet.

I didn’t just wake up like this.
This version of me was fought for,
In boardrooms and prayer rooms,
In heartbreak and healing,
In silence and in fire.

It took me over four decades as a Christian before I truly encountered the Fire of God.
Before I could cry out without throwing tantrums.
Before I trusted God with everything and finally let go of control.

It took a failed marriage.
It took a relationship that nearly unravelled my mind.
It took encounters with people whose mission was to break me,
just to make themselves feel taller.
And it took a holy awakening to realise:
Some people come to exploit, not to love.

It took me stepping out of my shell,
out of my “cocoon”
and into a world that doesn’t always fight fair,
so I could learn to fight back without losing my soul.

It took more than thirty years in the workforce:
Branded for having a voice.
Pushed out for standing too tall.
Fired for refusing to compromise.
And finally, landing a job that didn’t just pay me, it fulfilled me.

I wasn’t born with a gold spoon.
The only privilege I ever truly had… was time.

And I used it well.

As a child, I sat in my room, long before we had a television, and made a promise:
I will not live an ordinary life.

And I’ve kept that promise.

Not just in books or boardrooms, pulpits or podcasts,
but in the real, raw, hands-on building of my life.

These hands?
They’ve laid ceramic tiles.
They’ve painted walls.
They’ve started over… again… and again.
Held dreams.
Held tools.
Held it together when everything was falling apart.

I walk confidently in 3-inch heels,
and with equal grace, I garden with a swiper or a cutlass,
sweating in the soil while threading purpose into every leaf I turn over.

I laugh until my stomach aches.
And I cry quietly over the growth decisions I have to make alone.

This life? It’s not just beautiful.
It’s built.
By hand.
By faith.
By fire.

So all the books I’ve written?
The sermons I’ve preached?
The messages that made someone feel seen?
The kindness that softened a hard heart?
The doors I opened for others to run through?

That’s not performance.
That’s purpose.

So, to the woman watching from the sidelines
The one who’s tempted to compete, compare, or criticise…

Don’t hate. Admire.
You still have time.
You can still become.
You’re not too late.
You’re just a few years behind me.

I’m not superhuman.
I’m just a woman who decided to live,
Rather than simply exist.