Eight Things I’ve Learned in Eight Years

Eight years ago, I left Nigeria for the U.S. to pursue a graduate degree at Georgetown University, Washington D.C. It was a journey of many firsts for me. My first experience leaving my home country was my first international experience. Any room for doubt was quickly dissolved by excitement and fierce ambition.

What I didn’t know then was that this choice would shape me in ways I’m still discovering.

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I arrived cautious, like a fish in fresh water, alert to everything. I refused to dwell on being an “immigrant” or internalize the feeling of being “other.” Keeping that word at a distance meant I didn’t give too much weight to the racist undertones that occasionally surfaced. It was a survival strategy—to move between worlds without getting caught up in the labels.

Each year since, I’ve documented my journey—the failures, the victories, the lessons. But this year feels different. This year, I want to honor the full picture. Now, in my eighth year living in the United States, I find myself reflecting on my journey—not as a story of triumph or loss, but as a continuous process of growth. Here are the lessons I’ve learned, and continue to learn, about myself over the past eight years.

Reconstructing Faith (On My Own Terms)

I grew up religious in a way that made questioning feel dangerous. You didn’t interrogate what came from the pulpit; you accepted it, built your life around it. Doubt was weakness.

Living here, where religious pluralism is the norm and questioning is encouraged, gave me permission to examine my inherited beliefs. What do I actually believe versus what I was told to believe?

I’ve spent years deconstructing and reconstructing my faith. I’ve stepped back from organized religion at times to figure out what’s true for me. It’s been uncomfortable work, lonely sometimes, liberating other times.

My faith is still central to who I am, but it’s more honest now. It includes doubt and questions. It makes room for complexity. I’ve learned that interrogating your beliefs can be an act of devotion, not rebellion.

This wouldn’t have happened in Nigeria, not at this depth. The social pressure to perform certainty is too strong. Here, I’ve had the space to figure out what I believe when no one’s watching, when there’s no congregation to perform for.

The gift is authenticity. The cost is that some people back home worry about my soul. But I’m more at peace with God than I’ve ever been, even—or especially—with all my questions.

Learning Boundaries (Without Losing Connection)

The strongest influence America has had on me is learning to establish boundaries. In Nigeria, we have tall fences, but they don’t translate to people minding their business—not your family, not your friends, not your neighbors, and especially not the church.

While this way of life has presumably prevented more people from “offing themselves,” as Nigerians say, it has also allowed the abuse of personal space and finances, increased a sense of entitlement. The reverse is true in the United States, where fences are low or nonexistent, but personal boundaries make up for it.

I’m learning the balancing act—leaning right toward more boundary-setting while keeping my feet planted in the culture that raised me. This approach has allowed me to maintain a sense of self, learn more about who I’m becoming, and hold less animosity toward others.

Teaching Myself Taste (and Discovering What I Actually Like)

I grew up poor. My family worked its way into the middle class, but our exposure to things like travel, art, and good food was limited. We ate to survive, dressed practically, and saved every kobo.

During my eight years here, I’ve been teaching myself about taste—not in a pretentious way, but by paying attention to what I genuinely enjoy. I’ve learned to notice how spaces make me feel, why certain materials matter, and what food can be beyond just fuel.

I’ve engaged with art that challenges me, traveled to places where I’m a beginner again, and read books outside my comfort zone. My writing has evolved too—from a personal diary to something more intentional. I’ve launched a newsletter about creativity and meaning-making. I’ve learned to cook with intention and to design spaces that reflect who I’m becoming.

Finding Stillness (When I Had No Choice)

Stillness is how I make sense of the world around me. Eight years ago, moving to the United States without family and knowing only a few friends, I was forced into stillness.

Out of that stillness has come tangible things: my footwear rebrand, another degree in computer science, this blog’s evolution, a newsletter that helps people find meaning in their creative work. But the real gift wasn’t what I produced. It was learning to be alone without feeling lonely, learning to hear myself clearly.

The tradeoff? I miss the chaos sometimes, the vibrancy that made me feel relatable. American solitude can feel too quiet, too still. But I’ve learned that growth often requires space, and space sometimes feels uncomfortable before it feels generative.

Writing With Purpose (and Finding My Voice)

I’ve authored this blog for fifteen years. I’ve watched my writing evolve from diary entries to something more crafted. But the most significant growth has happened here, in these eight years.

Not because America makes better writers, but because I’ve been exposed to different voices, styles, and perspectives I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise. I’ve learned to engage with my audience differently, to write with more intention and clarity.

My writing now extends beyond this blog. I run a newsletter about creativity and helping people find meaning in their work. I’ve learned to make my writing carry weight, to say something worth reading.

This is one of the clearest wins of the move—discovering I have something to say and learning how to say it well.

Embracing Complexity (in Myself and Others)

I grew up with binary thinking. Things were either/or, right/wrong. Nigeria has diverse cultures, but there’s still an overarching Nigerian-ness, a shared reference point that makes understanding each other easier.

Moving here was my first time living among people with vastly different identities, religions, and lived experiences. It forced me to get curious instead of making assumptions.

I’ve learned to hold complexity—in myself and in others. To recognize that people can be contradictory and still whole. That multiple things can be true at once. That my experience isn’t universal.

This shift has made me a better friend, a better thinker, a better writer. It’s made me more comfortable with ambiguity and less quick to judge. This is growth I deeply value.

Understanding the Law (and My Own Power)

The laws in America, they’re the guardrails that have cautioned against the actions of people who are, as they say here, “coo coo for cocoa puffs.” Knowing the law and applying it gave me my green card. I’m also about to file a discrimination lawsuit against a landlord in my city.

Nigeria has several layers that make approaching the law repelling—navigating it feels traumatic for me. So I appreciate having access to what I need to know and clear pathways for how to proceed. The transparency feels radical.

Contributing Beyond Myself

Because American systems have historically failed certain communities, opportunities to volunteer and contribute are everywhere. I’ve volunteered with various organizations and plan to again once my schedule allows.

There’s specific meaning in giving time to something beyond your immediate circle. It’s a reminder that you’re part of a larger community, that your actions can matter beyond your own life.

This sense of civic engagement is something I’ve absorbed here—the idea that you don’t just complain about problems, you show up to address them where you can.

What I Know Now

I appreciate who I am becoming. Someone who asks questions, who sets boundaries, who pursues quality and meaning, and excellence without perfection. Someone who can sit in stillness, who fights for herself, who writes with purpose. Someone who understands that growth and loss often come packaged together.

This is my eighth year. I don’t know what the next eight will bring—I know this: I’m building a life that hold space for the both worlds I come from without requiring me to choose just one. And that feels like enough.

Also, a quick fun fact. I love Bravo TV and the housewives franchise… a surprising twist with full details coming at a later date.