I remember my first day in junior secondary school. I remember the few weeks before, when we went out as a family to get things for my resumption—how we picked the wrong belt off the counter and had to come back the next day to swap it. How I stood in front of the mirror at the tailor’s shop and tried on the trousers he had sewn for me. They were the perfect fit for any boy twice my size, but my parents weren’t about to get them reduced.

“You are growing; you will grow into it,” they said. I just now realize that this is what every Nigerian parent tells their children. So, I remember getting dressed for my first day and almost shedding tears when I saw how the trousers fell in layers over my black school shoes. I just knew that I was going to be the class clown… I wasn’t wrong.

The thing is, I don’t think we fully grasp how important beginnings are—not necessarily the activities that take place in the beginning, but rather the perception of those activities. Looking back now, I wasn’t the only student who resumed with baggy trousers. I wasn’t the only one wearing something closer to boots than shoes, and I certainly wasn’t the only one who had both. But I was part of the group of people who obsessed over these things and completely forgot the role that my personality played in first impressions. I was young, I was inexperienced, and I had not mastered the art of perfect delivery.

So, unsurprisingly, my years in junior secondary school were terrible. They eroded my mental stability and made me think too little of myself. They made me feel like I was the one dark splotch on a perfectly white canvas, and I hated it. One particular memory that stuck was when I got a letter in my locker. It was a secret admirer confessing her feelings. I was naive. I wanted to be admired; I so desperately desired validation that I did not second-guess it in any way. So when the letter said to meet right behind the dining center after the evening meal, I foolishly waited. Oh, I waited… for 30 minutes or more, until my legs got heavy. Then I saw a couple of girls walking my way, and the realization hit me before the wind carried the sound of their laughter to me. I so desperately wished that the ground would open up and swallow me.

I went through many similar experiences, and slowly I began to learn. I started to write out the feelings and emotions I found hard to express through physical actions. I began to study the behavioral patterns of the most popular people. I took the walking style of a certain Daniel and kept a wallet in my back pocket like Lanre in Year 3. I spoke with a slur like Sola, and I kept my eyes half-closed like Damilola. I took what I felt were the best qualities of the best people and tried to force them down my throat, tried to make them agree with my soul, which desperately wanted something different.

It didn’t take long for people to spot the lack of originality in my actions, and it was as though their disdain for me grew in leaps and bounds. I was even more confused—how much more perfect could I be?

I came the closest to the truth I had ever come when I was in my first year in senior secondary school. One day, the journal where I expressed myself and painted literary pictures dropped to the ground, and Tolu happened to pick it up before I could. I saw her facial expression shift from amused to shocked, then finally to amazement—a strange look for someone who only ever showed me scorn.

She took an interest in me that day. She began greeting me during classes, speaking to me during dinner. It was awkward at first, became more comfortable as time passed, until we actually engaged in real conversations. We began to like the people we discovered beneath the masks we both set up for the public. It was a beautiful experience… and so I held on to that truth: that the “me” behind the mask was a whole personality capable of attracting at least some people. And so, I decided to let it all out.

Tolu and I didn’t work out, because I stumbled on another truth—that feelings alone would never be enough to sustain a real relationship. She taught me that I actually needed to put in the effort to be there for people I cared about. She taught me it was okay to hold the hands of those I loved without being afraid the world would snatch them away. I learned that love was possible even from a distance with her. I will never forget how much virtue she poured into me; it was an educational experience being with her.

Then I changed schools, and there were many more “Tolus” with many more lessons to teach me about humans and the ways they maintain relationships. I remember all their names and all their lessons, and I do not wish to forget either. In my opinion, the tutor is just as important as the tutorial.

Fast forward to today, and I’m getting ready for my first day at university. I have my clothes spread out on the bed, my laptop on my lap as I’m typing this. I know now that I will walk into the school with my back straight and my personality present. I know not to be fazed by the imaginary stares but rather to take them as a boost—“I must really look that good.”

I’ve learned that first impressions are crucial, but even more so is the personality behind those impressions. Thinking back to my years in secondary school, I truly do not know what I would have become without those experiences, without Tolu and the many lessons she taught me.

Growth isn’t just about changing schools or cities, or even moving from one phase of life to another. It’s about embracing the awkwardness, learning from the heartbreaks, and allowing every failure to shape you into someone stronger. As I step into this new chapter, I carry those lessons with me. Because in the end, the greatest journey is not the one that takes you to new places, but the one that leads you back to yourself.

And so, this piece is my attempt to express the feeling called GROWTH.