Tọlá Belva

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend—someone who has always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. She’s the one who encouraged me to keep writing, long before I found the courage to share my words or create my website to let anyone outside my own thoughts hear what I had to say.

When I told her I had restarted my website, her excitement wasn’t just about my writing—it was because she understood the journey behind it. She had witnessed my doubts, my endless questioning, and my starts and stops. As we spoke, I realized just how much I had learned during those quiet years when I wasn’t sure if my voice even mattered.

Back in 2018, when I first launched my website and began sharing my writing on Instagram, I was hopeful. I thought the people closest to me would be my biggest supporters—friends and family celebrating every vulnerable piece of me I dared to share. But instead, I was met with silence and, sometimes, even criticism.

Some ignored my posts entirely, while others assumed everything I wrote was about them, often asking:

“Is that about me?”
“What’s going on with you?”

When I didn’t immediately respond to texts or calls, they would check my Instagram. If I posted, I’d often get a message like, “You’ve been posting on Instagram, but ignoring me.”

Here’s the thing—many didn’t know about Instagram’s scheduling feature, or maybe they chose to ignore it. If they understood how scheduling works, I guess they wouldn’t have asked those questions. Instagram allows you to schedule posts in advance, which I mostly did while juggling work, life, and raising two toddlers at the time. Despite working a full-time job, people assumed I had endless free time. The truth is, it became exhausting trying to explain it.

There were times I abandoned my accounts and created new handles. Eventually, the same people would judge me for it. Social media, which once felt like my sanctuary, became a space I dreaded. Even when I tried to avoid them by creating new accounts, they would follow me again, repeating the same toxic behavior. I needed to step away, and it took me a long time to feel comfortable following people I knew—not because I was arrogant, but because some of them had hurt me and made me second-guess my writing. Strangely, I felt more comfortable around strangers, or random people online who didn’t have preconceived judgments about me.

I received discouraging comments like:

“Do you get paid for all the writing you do?”
“Why do you bother when there are so many other writers doing the same?”
“Nobody has time to read these things you write.”

Many didn’t know that my writing extends beyond motivational quotes and poetry. When I first started writing, I shared real stories, and I still do. Motivational writing wasn’t my niche at first, and I’m still not tied to one. I discovered motivational writing through random posts I made on Facebook, where people encouraged me to write my own quotes.

Despite it all, here’s my truth: I don’t write for attention. I write because it’s how I express myself. It doesn’t matter if my posts are liked or validated. If my words resonate with just one person, that’s enough. If no one resonates with them, that’s fine too. It’s my platform, my space, and I share because it’s something I love to do.

And here’s what I’ve realized—some people just won’t relate to your posts or engage with them. Sometimes it’s simply because it’s you. And that’s okay. I’m not sharing this piece for validation; I’m sharing it to express my truth.

It took me a while to reach this point. I had my Instagram account for over two years before I finally decided to start posting again. It took countless pep talks to myself to take that first step. I had to silence the voices of the naysayers—those who tried to convince me my words didn’t matter. I distracted myself with other things, but I kept coming back to writing. And even though I didn’t share publicly for a long time, I never stopped. Writing is part of who I am; it’s something I’ve done since childhood.

For years, I hid behind the pen name Tola Belva—a combination of my middle name and a nickname from a friend. Initially, I loved the persona it created, but I later realized it was also a shield—a way to hide. It gave me an illusion of protection, but the more I hid, the more I felt like I was betraying myself.

It took me a long time to write as me. To stop measuring my words by likes, shares, or comments. To stop thinking my writing had to be for someone else.

When I started to doubt myself, what once felt like a safe space began to feel like a risk. Each post seemed like an invitation for judgment. I deactivated my Instagram more times than I can count—not because I had nothing to say, but because I was afraid of who might be listening. At times, I even considered hiding behind anonymity again, so I could write without fear.

But in that silence, I realized something crucial: I wasn’t writing for validation. I was writing because I desired to.

One funny thing I’ve noticed is that some of those who are quiet and rarely post on their timelines are often the first to view other people’s stories. Yet they still sit in judgment, criticizing those who post frequently. No disrespect to those who choose to post less—that’s your personal choice, and you’re free to express yourself however you like. But the line is crossed when certain people judge others for posting more often. If they’re allowed to be themselves, why should others be expected to limit their expression? As long as no one is causing harm, we should all be free to express ourselves however feels right.

Writing has always been my therapy, my way of making sense of the world. When I chased validation, I lost sight of that. Chasing likes and approval pulls you away from creativity—it clouds the art itself.

I got tired of hiding. I got tired of shrinking to make others comfortable. I got tired of feeling like I had to explain why I write.

I used to share my writing only with a small group of close friends and family—people I trusted. Putting myself out there was a brave move, but that bravery eventually led me to retreat. I needed time to separate my writing from expectations. I needed to remember why I write.

And today, I can say that I’m in a better place. My dad’s support, along with my sister’s encouragement—both of whom share my love for writing—kept me going and reminded me to never stop.

I no longer need everyone to understand me. I no longer need approval to do what I love. I write because it’s who I am, and I share because somewhere, someone might need to hear my words.

As I spoke with my friend recently, we both reflected on how far I’ve come. I’ve learned to set boundaries, to stop letting others’ opinions define my worth. I’ve learned that starting—even in uncertainty—is better than standing still, waiting for everything to align perfectly.

There’s power in taking that first step, even when you don’t know where it will lead.

Starting, even in small, messy steps, makes the path clearer. Standing still—frozen by fear or the need for validation—only keeps you stuck. The world doesn’t wait for you to get comfortable. It moves whether you do or not.

I’m writing again, not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve come to understand that I don’t need to. There’s freedom in starting, even without knowing where it will take me.

This journey isn’t perfect, and I’m still learning. There are days when I question if anyone will read my words or if they will matter. But that’s okay. What matters now is that I choose to keep going, even when it’s hard.

What I’ve realized is that the only approval I need is my own.

Today, I look back at the doubts, the hesitations, and the judgments and see them for what they were: distractions. I’ve let go of the need to please everyone, and I’ve found strength in trusting myself and my voice.

In retrospect, I don’t blame certain people for doing certain things. I allowed them in my space in the first place, and I let their snide comments and discouraging words get to me. It’s a lesson. I’m not the same person I was in 2018. I’ve learned, unlearned, and relearned on my journey. I’ve learned to ignore people’s toxicity, and I’ve learned to build resistance. I’ve also learned to use the unfollow and block buttons without guilt. It’s funny to remember there was a time I felt so guilty unfollowing or blocking people for being toxic. And I get it—I may even be the toxic one in some people’s lives. Perhaps my posts bother them. Perhaps certain things I do make them uneasy. Whoever feels that way could unfollow me too. That’s okay. It’s just social media. Ultimately, we should all do what works for us.

To that friend, and to everyone who has always believed in me: Thank you for seeing me when I couldn’t see myself, for not giving up on me even when I wanted to give up on myself. Your constant encouragement means a lot to me.

This post is as much for me as it is for anyone reading it. It’s a reminder that no matter how many times I’ve stumbled, I always have the choice to get back up. To start again. To speak my truth.

If you’re reading this, I hope it speaks to something inside you that’s been waiting to be heard. Maybe you’ve been holding back, afraid to start, afraid of what people might think, afraid of failing.

I want you to know this: Your voice matters. Your passion matters. And the world is waiting to hear it.

If you’re unsure where to begin, that’s okay. Start where you are. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be planned. Just begin.

Because when you move—even in small steps—the path begins to reveal itself. And when you keep going, the journey becomes the reward.

Your dreams are worth chasing. Your story is worth telling. And you are worth believing in.

Start where you are.

And keep going.

Side Note: If you’re a writer like me or a content creator, here’s a tip: Even though I work a 9-5, I use the scheduled posts functionality sometimes, dropping my posts exactly when I want them to, while balancing a busy work-life.