The In-Betweens

 For the longest time, I believed I was living in “ the in-betweens. ” You know that space...the awkward gap between who you are now and who you hope to become. I used to imagine myself sitting in a cosmic waiting room, clutching a ticket, waiting for my name to be called into the Real Story. But lately, something shifted. Maybe it’s wisdom, maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe it’s the bedtime storytelling adventures of my five-year-old. Whatever it is, there’s a new truth echoing in my heart (and making it race a little): The in-betweens are the main event. The Tangent King and the Mismatched Shoes Every night, my son creates his own wild universe. He’ll start with a brave dinosaur, then veer into a jungle, detour to the moon, introduce a magic cupcake, and somehow end up fighting bedtime, if he doesn’t doze off first. Half the time, I’m listening. The other half, I’m trying to anchor him back to the original plot. But here’s my confession: I have to know what happens to the...

It’s Thursday morning. I’m not entirely sure where the week went, maybe it slipped through the cracks between dirty bottles, school drop-offs, and the constant negotiation of a toddler’s wardrobe choices. What I do know is that I woke up early today. I did my bit. I tried. I had a calm, quiet morning routine before the house slowly woke up. I breathed. I set intentions for the day. I thought maybe, j ust maybe,  today would feel good. But somewhere between Asante screaming that he didn’t want the red fluffy jacket HE picked out , and my little one refusing to be put down while I was still in my pajamas with 7 minutes to get out of the house… something in me cracked. It wasn’t loud. It was soft. Subtle. A slow leak. Like the air quietly leaving a balloon you didn’t realize had a hole in it. I Feel Drained. Sad. A Little Lost. There’s an emptiness sitting heavy in my chest today. The kind of sadness that doesn’t have a dramatic backstory—it just is . And on top of that, ther...

  You know that moment when you run into an old friend you haven’t seen in forever, and instead of the usual small talk, you both just sigh ? Like,  “B*… where do I even begin?” Yeah. That’s this post. That’s this moment. That’s me, showing up to The In-Betweens with one eye twitching from exhaustion, one hand cradling a cup of hot chocolate (that I may or may not finish while it’s still hot), and a heart that’s been quietly whispering, “Write. Say something. Let it out.” So here I am. Halfway through the year. Somehow both crawling and flying. Somehow laughing and crying. Somehow functioning on equal parts fumes, faith, and fibre. Motherhood Has Me by the Neck, Tits and the Heart Let’s start there, shall we? I am knee   deep in the trenches of motherhood. Like, “wipe your tears with a wet wipe and keep it moving” deep. One child on my hip, one in my ears, asking questions faster than my brain can formulate answers. There are days I feel like a vending machine ...

  Good Morning, Lovely Human. The kettle hums quietly in the background. Maybe you're cradling a cup of something warm, it could be coffee, lemoney-rooibos, or hot chocolate if you're like me. Maybe you’re scrolling between tasks, baby on your hip or deadlines staring you down. Wherever this finds you, this Tuesday morning, I hope you know: it’s okay to choose yourself. That phrase, "choose yourself," gets thrown around a lot. Sometimes it's wrapped in glossy self-care aesthetics (candles, spa days, yoga poses at golden hour). But choosing yourself isn’t always that curated. Sometimes, it's quietly radical. Sometimes, it's saying no when you’re expected to say yes. Sometimes, it’s whispering “I’m tired” instead of pushing through. Choosing Yourself Isn’t Selfish—It’s Sacred Maybe you’re a mom who hasn’t heard your own thoughts uninterrupted in days. Maybe you’re navigating singlehood and wondering if your worth is tied to your relationship status. M...

It’s 3:55 AM. I’m sitting in the dark — the gentle hum of the fridge in the background, a faint flicker of the WiFi light keeping me company, and the weight of a red pen in my hand. I'm marking final assessments, wrapping up the semester, and slowly exhaling after a season of deadlines, diaper changes, class prep, grocery runs, toddler tantrums, presentations, feeds, flurries of emotions and having to say " Hi, my name is Tshenolo Mashaba " OUT LOUD so much more than I had anticipated! My eyes are tired, my back is stiff, but my heart is… full. The semester has officially ended. I’ve passed my own modules — exceptionally , might I add. The kind of “exceptionally” that reminds me I’m not just surviving, I’m rising. I’m growing. I’m doing it — slowly, imperfectly, but powerfully. An Academic weapon as my co-mom/ sister/ lifeline labels it.  And now, as I stare into the quiet stillness of my home, with my babies sleeping peacefully and my mind already shifting gears to ...

  At this point, I don’t even know how I’m still alive. It’s been one of those weeks—the kind that makes you question if time is real or if we’ve all just been living the same chaotic Monday on repeat. The clock just struck midnight on Friday morning and I'm not too sure whether to call it a night or aluta-continua? Both my kids are sick (because why wouldn’t they time their immune system meltdowns perfectly?), I have deadlines flying at me every 48 hours like heat-seeking missiles, and my daily classes are a blur of words that I think are English but might actually be gibberish at this point. My brain? Completely unresponsive. My body? Moving purely out of muscle memory. My spirit? Somewhere hovering over my body, watching the madness unfold like a reality show. The Art of Mom Survival Each morning, I wake up with a pep talk that sounds something like: You got this. You are strong. You are capable. And by 10 AM, I’m bargaining with the universe: Okay but what if I just lie d...