Generation Twist

The Boy Within the Man
by Ita Hozaife

He cannot reach himself,
So he reaches out for me,
Inflicting wounds of distrust, making me feel insecure.
His gaze, once a safe harbour,
Now the eye of a storm.
His embrace, a battleground where I become collateral,
And his world- an apocalypse birthed by a childhood gone wrong.
Where love once thrived, now it hangs,
A martyr swaying on branches, silhouetted against the dying sun.
Joy and peace- choked silent in gas chambers of memory.
Kindness and goodness, their heads struck from their gentle bodies,
Left as lessons, painted on streets like graffiti of warning.
Gentleness entombed alive,
And self-control, violated,
Wanders the earth, mad and aimless.

He cannot reach his core.
His pain, mingled with the metallic tang of fear,
Drips guilt, helplessness, disappointment,
Rejection, and judgment, seeping from his pores like poison.
His anger, no longer just heat,
Becomes wildfire, devouring every tree of optimism,
Leaving behind a desolate landscape,
Littered with gravestones inscribed: What could have been.

He cannot still his thoughts,
So they thrash like caged beasts,
Mutating with viral precision,
Twisting reality until healthy bounds turn to seething walls,
And harmless words ignite like gunpowder.
His mind- uncontrolled and uncharted- corrupts our inner compass,
Guiding us not to safety,
But to the cold, abyssal depths of lost bearings.

He cannot reach for hope.
So he reaches for relief:
Moments distilled in bottles,
A puff that clouds reality,
In temporary sanctuaries of borrowed arms and legs of anyone,
Each act a defiant search for reprieve,
Even if only for a heartbeat.
Addiction, the saviour, his truest and cruellest confidant.

He cannot find the path back.
But if he’d just stop,
Stop running, stop clawing at the emptiness,
Sit, and be still-
Maybe, just maybe,
The boy he left behind,
The boy who waits in the hollows of his being,
Could catch up.
They’d sit face-to-face,
Eyes locked, raw and wet with unsaid truths.

Maybe the boy,
With fists unclenched and tears finally flowing,
Could speak of all that was taken,
All that was never given.
And maybe the man, shedding his battle-worn armour,
Could wrap that boy in arms that once only defended,
But now protect and comfort.

Maybe, the man and the child,
Could sift through the ashes of disappointment,
And rebuild not as heroes or with expectations,
But with what they have-
With what they are.

Maybe, they’d turn their faces skyward,
Trace constellations carved in the fabric of their souls,
And find their guiding star,
A light that leads them home.
To a peace long lost,
To a wonder that whispers,
'You are found.'

When You Dare to Shine,
Men in Darkness Will Try to Erase You (Continued)
by Ita Hozaife

I once read a quote: “The best apology is a changed behaviour.” But what happens when our apology isn’t accepted? When our changed behaviour goes unnoticed? When, no matter how hard we try- knowing we are human after all- there will always be those who remind us of our mistakes, who cling to the people we once were, refusing to see the people we are becoming?

There’s a reason one of the most powerful villains is called The Accuser. They don’t just remind us of our mistakes- they remind us that we’re not enough. They whisper: You aren’t worthy. You did this. You hurt that person. You cheated. You’ve failed so many times, what makes this time any different? You’ll never change. You’ll always be a bad parent. A bad partner. Bad with money. You’ll drink again. You’ll slip… again. You can’t be trusted. The accusations keep coming, like stones hurled by a crowd, striking at the heart of who we are trying to become.

Yet, those who throw stones, those who accuse, are no different from us. They, too, are flesh and blood, marked by their own mistakes. They may say, “I could never…” “I would never…” “I have never…” But they have. We’ve all hurt people, broken promises, let people down and fallen short of our own expectations. We’ve felt the sharp sting of guilt, regret and shame. And yet, we gather with stones in hand and accusations like acid on our tongues.

I once heard a story of a woman who was about to be stoned to death. One man simply said, “Let the one without guilt throw the first stone.” That day, the woman was lucky. The crowd had soft hearts and no social media accounts to hide behind. When the stones fell to the ground, the man asked her, "Does no one condemn you?"
“No one, sir,” she replied.
“Neither do I,” he said. “Go your way, and keep yourself from trouble.”

It didn’t matter what the woman had done. The man wasn’t distracted by the need to judge or label. Rather he seemed focused on being constructive. It wasn’t that he had given her a pass. No. But he understood what she needed in that moment- compassion. She was given the grace to face another day, the chance to try again, and the space to rise toward her highest self.

And that’s what each day is for me- a new opportunity to grow, to change, to become. Despite the accusations, despite the stones thrown by others or even the ones we throw at ourselves, the path forward remains. It’s always there, waiting for us to step onto it with courage.

When-not if- the accusers appear, we must remind ourselves that their accusations are often reflections of their own pain. We are more than our mistakes. We are worthy of grace, of compassion, of the chance to transform. Each day offers us another opportunity to become the people we were always meant to be.

With love and courage,
Ita, Kindness Coach
(Founder, Think Kinder Ltd.)

It’s Not Over. It's Complete.
by Ita Hozaife

When a relationship ends, whether through death, divorce, distance, betrayal or a falling out, we grieve. It feels like a death- because it is. It’s the death of a connection, the loss of shared moments, and the end of something once alive.

I have sat with family and friends as they grieved relationships, and I have even had the devastating task of delivering news of a close family member's death to my mother. The memory of her broken cry still brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Her anguish was deep, and the fear of a future without that person ever again was palpable.

I’ve felt a similar grief- not because of death, but because of the parting of ways with a close friend. At the time, I wasn’t ready to let go. So I held on tightly to the memories, wishing and hoping things would miraculously change, that we’d be friends again. But that hope, though well-intended, was keeping my grief alive, feeding it like a flame that wouldn’t go out.

Then I came across one simple sentence that changed everything: “The relationship is not over. It’s complete.” And it struck me. Our time together wasn’t over- it was complete. We had shared what we were meant to share - it had served its purpose, and now it was complete. The realization allowed me to finally let go. I was able to smile at the memories, feel gratitude for the moments shared, and release the grief that had held me captive.

Sometimes, when we face the end of a relationship, it feels like a loss we can’t bear. But perhaps it’s not really the end. Perhaps, like a book with its final chapter, it’s simply complete.

If you're holding on, wondering why it feels so hard to let go, remember this: If you feel it's over, it’s not. It’s complete.

With love and kindness,
Ita, Kindness Coach
(Founder, Think Kinder Ltd.)