Hi, my name is Chenai Mbanga! Welcome to my blog! I write to encourage, inspire and empower you in growing in your spiritual life through reflections and prose. I have been writing on this blog for 5 years now, and it has been a journey! Join me as I continue my journey toward self-actualizing.❤


  • 1
    Hindsight is my first book! Read about where the idea came from, why I think it’s important, and how it’s the book that led to self-actualization.♡
    Read more
  • 2
    I’m the founder and owner of amazing plant based hair and body butter! Transform your hair and skin with our natural plant butters and oils!♡
    Shop Now!


Latest Posts

In All Honesty..

when you are struggling 
in your 
writing (art)
it usually means
are hearing one thing.
 writing (creating) another

_honest | risk
|nayyirah waheed|

Writing feels like a chore lately, as though I am doing something unnatural to me. But putting pen to paper is both natural and learned, an exercise we all do, but some put more effort in it than others.
The words I've written are too honest, I can barely look at them, let alone share them. And so I must walk this tight rope of speaking with a knife to my throat so I don't say too much.
And other times I say too much and I can't take it back because feelings rise and spill over, but feelings are mercurial. They are not always true; they're reactionary and do not tell the entire story. And as I try to be rational to something mercurial, I find myself cut up, confused, facing my worst self because I let down my best self. 

Writing, lately, feels as though I am saying words that are not mine; like I'm borrowing someone else's words and coaxing them to dress like me. But I can't pretend because I know I'm not speaking the whole truth. But the truth is caught up in a complicated place, I can't make sense of it yet.
I am striving to write. There is so much that I want to say; much of it is racing to come out. The words are tripping over each other, competing to make it on paper, only to be arrested inexplicably by something. Fear? Uncertainty? I don't know. And so I am striving to create, striving to do something that I can do in my sleep because stress, fear, uncertainty, desperation, frustration, disappointment, worry.  But none of these feelings change anything. They suppress passion rather than ignite it. 

Writing is like a candle revealing the hope I am struggling to cling to. It is lifting me up and illuminating where I am struggling simultaneously. And I must continue arranging these words together, striving to make sense of what I can't make sense, encouraging myself to continue even when the feeling isn't there. Especially when the feeling isn't there. 

I am challenging myself to write deeply, honestly, and differently. Not to write what is obvious to me, but dig deeper, and reach the place that I am afraid to go. Explore the place of hope, and gratitude, of contentment. It's a challenge being content, feeling that I have enough, even when everything is screaming that I need more. Being enough, when I could write the hundred ways that I am flawed.  It's uncomfortable to sit in a place that I don't want, and note why I ought to be grateful. Finding the silver lining. And allowing contentment to flourish from the inside out. Whilst encouraging my disquieted, feverishly beating heart to have faith as I take a leap in unchartered waters. Because these waters are nothing like I have seen, felt, experienced. Nothing could have prepared me for this. No amount of prayer prepared me for it. 
But I need prayer because it is what will make this road feel less tumultuous, even as the wind and hail whip me relentlessly.  I pray I lay these words down carefully, honestly, and thoughtfully.