Nobody tells you that sometimes, you will not cry over a person. You will cry over a version of yourself that never came to life. Over the home you thought you would build. The job you imagined you would love. The life you swore would be better by now.

That is the quiet kind of grief many Nigerians carry, one that does not wear black or stand at a graveside. We mourn quietly, deeply, and daily. It is the mourning of dreams, of timelines missed, passports unused, potentials buried under the weight of survival. It is not always loud. Often, it hides in the sigh after scrolling through social media, in the ache of comparing the life you are living with the life you once envisioned.

From childhood, we know by default or rather, we dare to dream that by 25, you should have your life together. By 30, you should have travelled to at least five countries. You should own property, be married (or at least close), have a fulfilling job, and a passport with bold entry stamps not one that is still as crisp and empty as the day it was printed, then expired, and got quietly renewed again, just in case.

Instead, many are in their late 20s and 30s, stuck in traffic and job cycles that drain them, still depending on parents or caring for them, watching peers from other parts of the world do the things we thought we would be doing by now: building companies, buying homes, taking annual vacations, posting soft life content. We see a 24-year-old in a developed country with a blooming career and passport stamps and we flinch. Not because we envy them, but because we are reminded of who we thought we would be.

Even those who made it out of here, relocated, carry a different grief. The guilt of leaving. The loneliness of starting over. The constant pressure to succeed because “you are the one who escaped.” Our parents? They are grieving too. Some believed retirement would be the start of a softer chapter, that they would travel, have peace, and rest but they are still working, still supporting children, still sacrificing. Decades of service to the system, only to be left navigating a shaky economy, inflation, poor healthcare, and unfulfilled promises.

This grief is real but it is also hidden because society teaches us to stay strong, to hustle, and not to complain. So we carry it in silence, sometimes mocking our pain with humor, sometimes numbing it with distractions but always feeling it.

We do not talk enough about what it means to grieve the life you thought you would have. To grieve the energy you gave a country that did not give back. To grieve the child in you who dreamt boldly before reality interrupted. To grieve every plan postponed because survival came first.

Grief wears many faces in Nigeria. It looks like a grown man sleeping in his car because rent is due. Like a woman with three jobs yet unable to afford a break. It sounds like laughter that ends in silence. Like a birthday wish that tastes bitter. Like a prayer that feels more like a plea.

Yet, we rise. Not because we want to, but because there is often no other choice because survival is the baseline, and to rest feels like failure. Our dreams may not be dead, just deferred and we keep holding on.

There is also power in naming it. In saying that it hurts to only have dreams. In admitting that you expected more than this. In understanding that your pain is valid. We are allowed to mourn our old dreams, even as we make new ones. We are allowed to cry for our younger selves, even as we show up for our present. We are allowed to grieve and still hope that it gets better.