LIVIA'S BOOKLET

  For International Overdose Awareness Day🎗 There is a temptation to make an overdose story simple. To say someone made bad choices. To say they should have known better. To say their family should have seen it coming. To reduce a human life to the substance that eventually took control of it. But human beings are rarely that simple. Behind addiction there may be grief that was never addressed, trauma that was never treated, loneliness that became unbearable, mental distress hidden behind ordinary conversations, pressure, poverty, dependency, or simply a vulnerability that no one knew how to recognise. None of these things make every decision harmless. But understanding is not the same as excusing. And compassion is not the same as approval. Overdose can happen when a person's body is overwhelmed by a substance or combination of substances. Sometimes a person knows exactly what they are taking. Sometimes they do not know what is in it. Sometimes tolerance has changed. Sometimes su...

  I used to think change would announce itself. I imagined there would be a morning when I would wake up and suddenly understand that I had entered a new chapter. Perhaps there would be a sign. A door closing loudly behind me. A beautiful sunrise. Some unmistakable moment that would tell me, You are no longer who you used to be. But life rarely changes so dramatically. Sometimes, transformation happens quietly. It happens in the day you stop explaining yourself to people who have already decided to misunderstand you. In the moment you realise that not every unanswered message requires another message. In the afternoon when you choose peace over proving your worth. In the evening when you look back at something that once broke you and realise it no longer has the same power. You simply become different. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But gradually. There are versions of ourselves we have to mourn before we can become someone new. The woman who stayed too long. The man who kept hoping...

  A Conversation About Stomach Cancer The body does not always shout when something is wrong. Sometimes, it whispers. A little discomfort after eating. A loss of appetite that seems temporary. Unexplained tiredness. Feeling full sooner than usual. Indigestion that refuses to leave. A change in weight that nobody can quite explain. Because these symptoms can resemble ordinary stomach problems, it is easy to dismiss them. And that is part of what makes stomach cancer so difficult. Stomach cancer, also called gastric cancer, begins when abnormal cells develop in the lining of the stomach and grow uncontrollably. It is a serious disease, but it is important to remember that experiencing one of its possible symptoms does not automatically mean someone has cancer. Many of these symptoms are caused by much more common conditions. The important thing is persistence. When something in your body changes and does not return to normal, it deserves attention. Possible symptoms of stomach cancer...

  International Day of Remembrance and Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism There are some tragedies that leave more than ruins behind. They leave an empty chair at the dinner table. A mother who still listens for footsteps that will never come. A child who grows up knowing someone through photographs rather than memories. A husband who keeps an old shirt because it still smells faintly of the person who once wore it. A family that learns, unwillingly, how grief can become part of the architecture of a home. Terrorism is often discussed in numbers. How many were killed. How many were injured. How many buildings were destroyed. How many lives were disrupted. Statistics help us understand the scale of tragedy, but numbers cannot tell us who those people were. They cannot tell us who loved them, what they dreamed of becoming, what made them laugh, or what ordinary plans they had for the following morning. Every number was someone's person. Someone's child. Someone's parent. Som...

  (For Juvenile Arthritis Awareness Month) There is something sacred about watching a child run. The careless laughter. The untied shoelaces. The knees stained with dust. The little hands reaching for butterflies as though the whole world had been created simply for play. That is how childhood should be; light enough to forget the time, brave enough to believe every tomorrow will arrive carrying another adventure. Yet for some children, the morning begins differently. Their tiny fingers hesitate before they close around a spoon. Their knees bargain with each step. Their ankles whisper, "Not so fast today." And while the world expects them to race, their bodies are busy negotiating with pain. It is a quiet kind of suffering. Not loud enough to stop the sun from rising. Not visible enough to silence the playground. Many will look at them and see only a child. Few will notice the courage hidden inside every careful movement, every smile offered despite aching joints, every game ...

(For Sickle Cell Awareness) Some battles never announce themselves. They do not march with drums or banners. They arrive quietly, tucked beneath a smile, hidden behind the laughter of a child, resting silently inside blood that has carried both life and an unbearable weight since the very first breath. There are mornings when getting out of bed is an act of courage no one applauds. The body remembers pain before the mind has fully awakened, and every movement becomes a conversation between endurance and hope. Still, there are dreams to be chased. There are classrooms waiting for eager minds. There are birthdays to celebrate, roads to travel, songs to sing loudly, and futures that refuse to be rewritten by a diagnosis. We often mistaken strength for the absence of tears. But I have met strength in hospital corridors, where mothers whisper prayers they have memorized by heart. I have seen it in fathers who hold tiny hands while pretending they are not afraid. I have watched it in childre...

  SLIDE TWO There are people who meet the devil once. A sudden tragedy. A single betrayal. One terrible day. And then there are those of us who walk beside him for years. I met him in a church pew. Not in a bar. Not in a dark alley. Not beneath a stormy sky. I met him where people raised holy hands and sang worship songs. He was a church boy. The kind every mother prayed her daughter would marry. The kind who carried a Bible that looked worn from use. The kind who could quote Scripture faster than most people could find the page. Every Sunday he was in church. Every prayer meeting. Every youth gathering. Every sermon. He spoke about God with a conviction that made people listen. He shared messages from pastors across the world. He spent hours discussing faith, purpose, and righteousness. And I believed him. How could I not? For two months, I fell in love with the man he pretended to be. The man who appeared gentle. The man who seemed disciplined. The man who looked as though heaven...

  SLIDE ONE There are people who meet the devil once. A sudden tragedy. A single betrayal. One terrible day. And then there are those of us who walk beside him for years. Not because we invited him. Not because we welcomed him. But because life placed him on the road ahead and said, "Keep walking." I met him when I was young. Not with horns or fire. He came dressed as grief. He stood beside a grave and watched as I buried the first man I ever loved—my father. I was too young to understand death. Too young to know that some departures never stop hurting. From that day onward, the devil rarely left my side. Sometimes he called himself loneliness. Sometimes he called himself fear. Sometimes he wore the face of violence. Sometimes humiliation. Sometimes abandonment. Sometimes sorrow so heavy that breathing felt like work. I learned how to smile while carrying broken things. I learned how to laugh while bleeding internally. I learned how to survive. Years passed. The world called ...

  I came back to the place of my sorrows, to roads that remember the footsteps of a grieving child, to hills that watched my first heartbreak, to skies that carried the day my father left. Years have passed, yet grief still knows my name. It waits in the sunrise. It hides in the evening wind. It sits quietly beneath the moonlight and whispers memories I tried so hard to bury. Here, I lost my first love— my father. The man whose voice made the world feel safe. The man whose absence turned laughter into longing. When sorrow found me. I was too young to understand death. Too young to understand pain. Too young to know that some wounds survive the years. Now, I am a woman. A survivor. Yet in this place, I sometimes become that child again. The child who cried in silence. The child who carried grief like a stone in her chest. The child who learned that life can change forever in a single moment. And still, I rise. With tears in my eyes, I rise. With heartache in my soul, I rise. With me...

  When Aku married Lozayo, everyone said he was the lucky one. She was beautiful, outspoken, and full of life. At their wedding, people laughed, danced, and wished them a lifetime of happiness. Aku believed every word. The first year was good. The second year changed everything. It started with words. Small words. Words that seemed harmless when heard by others. "You are useless." "Look at other husbands." "What kind of man can't provide more than this?" Aku would laugh awkwardly whenever she said such things in front of friends and family. Everyone laughed with her. Nobody noticed the embarrassment behind his smile. As time passed, the words became sharper. Lozayo controlled everything. His phone. His salary. His friendships. Whenever he wanted to visit his family, she accused him of neglecting her. Whenever he spoke about his feelings, she called him weak. Whenever he remained silent, she called him heartless. No answer was ever the right answer. At ...

Hi Dad, It’s me again. Another 6th June has come around, and as always, I find myself reaching for words that somehow carry everything I’ve lived through back to you. It’s the 27th time I’m doing this now, though sometimes it still feels like I’m learning how to speak into silence. Life has been… full. Not in a loud or perfect way, but in that quiet, complicated way you only understand when you’re the one living it. Since last June, I’ve had days where I felt like I was finally getting things right—like I was becoming someone I could be proud of. I’ve also had days where I doubted everything, where even simple things felt heavier than they should. But I kept going. I think that’s something I’ve learned to do better now… just keep going, even when I don’t fully understand where I’m headed. There have been small victories too. The kind I don’t always say out loud, but I know you would’ve noticed. The moments I handled things better than I used to. The times I chose patience over reaction...