Growing up, I got slapped with a label I never signed up for: “the failure.” It stuck to me like glue – at school, back in the village, even at family weddings. People snickered when I tripped over my own feet, rolled their eyes when I tried anything new, and flat-out told me I’d never make it.
Teachers called me slow, aunties held up my cousins as shining examples, and neighbors acted like my future was already cancelled. Every little side hustle I tried – selling phone credit, fixing bikes, whatever – crashed and burned before it even started. Each flop felt like fresh proof they were right. The harder I pushed, the harder life shoved me back. Honestly, I started wondering if I was just born under some bad star. By my mid-20s, everything was falling apart. Relationships fizzled, money never stayed, jobs vanished right when I thought I had them. Friends leveled up while I spun my wheels – broke, angry, and completely emptied out.
The worst part? People turned my name into a warning. Mess something up? “Don’t pull a [my name].” Those jokes hurt worse than punches. One night, after bombing yet another interview, I sat on the floor of my tiny room and cried until my eyes burned. I kept asking, “Why does nothing I touch ever work?” Then a friend who’d watched the whole train wreck said something that hit different: “Bro, you’re not cursed. You’re carrying weight someone else put on you.” Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35248
