Trying to live is not easy. The world we move through can feel heavy with negativity, and finding people who bring real, meaningful positivity into your life isn’t always simple.
I am lucky — I truly am — to have a family that loves and supports me. But somewhere along the way, the person I became found it difficult to rely on them. And if you struggle to rely on the people closest to you, opening up to new people can feel almost impossible.
I’ve often been told how happy I was as a child. Sometimes that’s hard to believe, because it feels as though life has slowly consumed so much of that lightness. Life comes with highs and lows, yet we often remember the falls more vividly than the rises. It can be painful to look back and struggle to find the good among the difficult.
I’ve been through things that have changed me. My trust in people is at an all-time low. I’ve spent years trying to build friendships with people who genuinely care, and that hasn’t always been easy. Working in the industry I’m in, I’ve met incredible people — but incredible doesn’t always mean good for me. It has taken time to understand that not everyone moves with your best intentions at heart. Human nature can be selfish. But there are also rare people who will show up for you simply because they care — not because of what they gain.
Even now, I’m still learning to tell the difference between what is genuine and what is conditional. I was raised in a fairly traditional first-generation Caribbean household. My mum, born in the UK, raised my older brother and me largely on her own. They say it takes a village to raise children, and she carried the weight of that village on her back.
Being a Black woman raising two boys while working and studying was no easy task. We always had what we needed — a roof, a bed, food on the table — and I was grateful. But it also shaped a mindset in me: things could always be worse.
My mum was — and is — incredibly strong. I rarely saw her ask for help. Looking back, I can see how much that has influenced me. Asking for help feels unnatural. Most of the time, I simply don’t.
What people around me may not realise is how that upbringing, alongside the expectations placed on men to remain tough, has made me withdrawn. Vulnerability doesn’t come easily. I often assume people have bigger, more important problems than mine — that my struggles should come second.
As I enter this final year of my twenties, after 14 years of being in and out of hospital, I’ve had to reflect deeply. Yes, everyone has their own battles. But many people also care about you more than you realise. Just as life contains good and bad moments, it also contains good and bad people. Sometimes experience is the only way to learn the difference.
It’s been humbling to accept that I am still learning these lessons. Understanding love. Recognising the people who want to see me happy without conditions attached. Making better decisions for my health and my future.
To some, these might sound like basic life skills. But when earlier circumstances disrupt the foundation, the lessons can arrive later — and hit harder.
One truth about me is this: I struggle to say no.
Because of that, I’ve become someone many people rely on. If someone needs a lift, somewhere to stay, help financially — I am often the person they call. And while I gave that help willingly, I didn’t realise how much resentment I was quietly building.
I assumed people would automatically consider my health, my limitations, my difficulty with boundaries. But how could they, when the version of me they see is always smiling, DJing, socialising — coping? Very few people have seen the real Keiran.
I’ve had to accept something uncomfortable: people can only respond to the version of you that you present to them.
So now, as part of my journey of living and not simply surviving, I am choosing to take my power back. I am learning to create boundaries. I am learning that love and friendship should not feel transactional. And I suppose this next chapter will reveal who is truly willing to know the real Keiran — and who was only comfortable with the version that was convenient.
This is new territory for me, and I won’t get it perfect. But for the first time, I am choosing to move with honesty instead of fear, and boundaries instead of guilt. I hope the people who walk beside me will come to know the real Keiran — because he deserves love, patience, and understanding too.
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