I grew up in a strict Seventh-day Adventist household. Saturday was holy, quiet, serious, and structured. In the early 90s, when I was ten years old, I had one consistent spiritual gift: arriving late. Not because I hated church, but because I loved space. Or more precisely, I loved Star Trek: The Next Generation — those weekly adventures of Jean-Luc Picard and his crew, exploring strange civilizations that somehow taught me more about human nature than any lecture could. In the series, you had alien races like ‘the Borg’— obsessed with assimilation, turning identity into a factory line. You had ‘the Ferengi’— where everything was about profit and bargaining, even breathing felt negotiable. And you had ‘Q’— this omnipotent troublemaker who kept putting humanity on trial. Every “alien” was a mirror. And many evenings after the house settled, I would look at the sky and wonder: What is the next frontier of human imagination? Here’s the cosmic truth: light from many stars ta...
Let me start with a confession. I smoked my first cigarette when I was fourteen. Before you quietly close this article and assume this is a story about smoking, addiction, and teenage rebellion, hold on. It is not. It is a story about how habits truly start. About identity. About belonging. About freedom. And about responsibility. And more importantly, about how one small, seemingly innocent moment can quietly influence the course of your life. I need to rewind this story slightly. At fourteen, I had just moved from Nanyuki. Nanyuki was gentle, quiet, and homely; a town that moved at its own pace. It had a more National Geographic vibe. And I loved it. It was the kind of place where you learned to enjoy your own company. Where friendships weren't intense, loud, or invasive. Where people knew part of you, not all of you, and no one hurried you to share the rest. There was no rush. Then I was suddenly transplanted into the city. Lights. Movement. Noise. Speed. Urgency. Ev...