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I Hope I Die First

A poetic essay on motherhood as burden, as devotion, as quiet disappearance. This is not a lament—it is a reckoning. A wish for rest from the role that never ends.

I Hope I Die First

I hope I die first. Not because I do not love, but because I have loved too long without pause. I hope I die first so I can finally rest.

There is a kind of woman who never sits with her ears closed. She listens for breath, for silence, for the sound that shouldn’t be there. She is the one who knows the temperature of the room without touching the walls. She is the one who remembers the appointments, the allergies, the dreams.

She is called mother. But that word is too small. It does not hold the weight of her vigilance, the architecture of her care, the erosion of her name.

She is the one who stays awake. Even when she sleeps, she stays awake. Her body is a sensor, her mind a map. She is the archive, the translator, the balm.

And when others rest— when they lean back, when they forget, when they trust the world to hold itself— she does not.

She cannot.

There is no off-switch for the one who holds the thread. No silence that does not feel like danger. No solitude that does not feel like abandonment.

She is praised, sometimes. Admired, occasionally. But rarely understood.

Because to understand her would require listening with the same ears she uses. It would require holding the same weight. It would require staying awake.

And so she remains alone in her alertness. Her exhaustion becomes sacred. Her sadness becomes ritual.

She does not ask for help. She asks for rest. She does not ask for recognition. She asks for release.

And so she dreams of being the first to go. Not out of despair, but out of longing. To be the first to arrive at silence. To be the first to sit without listening. To be the first to be held, without holding.

She loves deeply. Fiercely. Without condition. But she also remembers the woman she was before the role consumed her.

And that woman is tired.

So if rest is a gift, let her be the first to receive it. If peace is a place, let her arrive early. If silence is sacred, let her sit in it without apology.

I hope I die first. Because maybe then, I’ll finally get to rest.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Why Is Potty Training My Little One Such a Huge Trigger for Me?

By Nolwazi Monyetsane

For the last couple of months, since my little girl turned one, we’ve been on what feels like an emotional obstacle course — also known as potty training.

At first, it was magical. I bought her a potty seat that fits snugly on the toilet. I gave it a name. I introduced it like it was the coolest thing in the house. She looked at it with wide-eyed excitement, and on her very first try — she got it right. The family clapped. We celebrated like she’d just graduated. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking, Maybe this time will be different.

Because I remember the chaos from my firstborn. I remember the accidents, the frustration, the questioning. I promised myself I’d do it differently this time — be more patient, more playful, more “go with the flow.” But I should’ve known that parenting doesn’t always reward your optimism.

Not long after that magical first try, she lost interest. She sat on the potty just to play. Then came the tears. The resistance. The accidents. The puddles. The messes. The smell that creeps in before the confession. And then there’s me — watching her every move, decoding every squirm, scanning her face for signs of needing to go.

And through it all, I find myself silently muttering, This is all my fault.

That voice is cruel, but it’s loud. It says, You must be doing something wrong. Even though she’s not yet speaking in full sentences, she understands so much. She follows instructions like a little champ. She has a clear sense of what she wants and how to make that known. So naturally, I assumed potty training would be a breeze with her.

I was wrong.

Instead, it’s been an emotional tug of war. Between my nerves and her defiance. Between her patience and my expectations. Some days she nails it — points to the potty, sits, goes, smiles. And on those days I think, Yes! We’re getting it right! Then, without warning, the next day she’ll pee right through her clothes and look at me like nothing happened.

And here’s the part I haven’t admitted out loud until now: this has triggered me in ways I didn’t expect.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry about it. That I wouldn’t put pressure on her. But I’ve cried. I’ve paused mid-cleanup to sit in frustration. I’ve stood in silence, holding back tears of disappointment — mostly in myself. Because I genuinely don’t know what I’m doing. And that scares me.

It makes me feel like I’m failing her.

Yes, I know this will pass. That one day she will go on her own, wipe, flush, wash her hands, and we’ll never talk about this stage again. I know I’ll look back and probably laugh. But right now? I’m in the thick of it. The sticky, smelly, frustrating thick of it.

And my emotions are raw.

Potty training has become more than just a developmental milestone — it’s a mirror. A mirror that reflects my fear of failing, my desire to get it “right,” and my deep longing to be a good mom.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Nothing in Music Is Coincidental — Especially Not the Beat

(This could’ve been a Rolling Stone cover story, tbh.)

Let’s talk House. Amapiano. Kwaito. Not just genres — cultural blueprints. Codes passed down in basslines, kick drums, and whispered adlibs. And trust: nothing about them is coincidental.

House music didn’t just come out of Chicago dancefloors by accident — it was born out of the queer Black experience, built in underground clubs where freedom was constructed beat by beat. When that sound travelled to South African townships, it morphed — it adapted to its new environment, took on new struggles, new stories.

Enter: Kwaito — the defiant heartbeat of post-apartheid youth. Slowed-down house, layered with township slang, born from liberation and layered in attitude. It wasn’t just music to dance to — it was a sonic middle finger to the system. A declaration: We’re still here. We’re still loud.

Then came Amapiano — jazzy keys, log drums that vibrate your spine, and smooth-as-silk grooves. It’s not just a genre; it’s a social movement with a cool haircut. Amapiano is what happens when township kids take global sound tech and remix it with local flair. It’s aspirational, stylish, deeply rooted. Whether it’s a groove at a carwash or a global TikTok trend, the sound carries history in every rhythm.

And that’s the point: Music is never just music. It’s sociology. It’s street philosophy. It’s about narrative and focus. What we choose to groove to tells the world what we care about — what we won’t forget.

🎧 That log drum? It's a cultural GPS pin. 🎹 That synth? A sonic memory of jazz elders. 🗣️ That vocal? A township griot telling you their truth.

So when you're vibing to Amapiano on a Sunday, sweating to Kwaito classics at a groove, or getting lost in a house set at a rooftop party — remember: you're not just dancing. You're decoding. You're remembering. You're resisting.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

The Greatest Injustice: Women as Free Labor in the Home

Imagine giving up your dreams, your career, and your freedom to raise children—only to be told, day in and day out, that you should be grateful. Imagine waking up before dawn, tending to children before your husband even opens his eyes, juggling breakfast, school prep, laundry, and a never-ending mental checklist, all while trying not to lose yourself completely.

Meanwhile, he gets up, showers, thinks only about his own body and his own schedule, and drives off to a workplace where he gets to be a person. He gets to have adult conversations, earn accolades, and pretend that what he does is important. At the end of his day, he comes home exhausted—exhausted from sitting in meetings, from having lunch in peace, from having the luxury of focusing on one thing at a time. And yet, you—who have been working non-stop, with no breaks, no respect, no paycheck—are expected to cater to his exhaustion.

It never ends. The home, the children, the emotional labor, the logistics, the planning, the doctor’s appointments, the birthday gifts, the grocery lists, the late-night wake-ups, the school runs—every single detail of life is on you. You are the default parent. The primary caregiver. The house manager. The emotional support system. And when you dare to ask for help? You’re met with sighs, reluctance, or outright incompetence, so you just do it yourself.

And then one day, you wake up and realize: you have nothing. No career to return to, because the gap on your résumé is now too wide. No financial independence, because the work you do doesn’t come with a salary. No sense of self, because every moment of your life has been spent in service of others. And worst of all? No way out—because you were never set up to be free.

I will tell my daughter: *Choose yourself*. Choose freedom. Choose the life that is yours before you are pressured to give it away. Marriage and motherhood will never be fair to women—not in a world where our labor is invisible, expected, and dismissed. I will not lie to her and tell her she can have it all, not when the weight of "all" will always fall on her shoulders alone.

This life? This trap? I would not wish it on any woman.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Monologue: "Mothers, We Fucken Create Life

(The room is dimly lit, the air thick with the weight of unspoken truths. A woman stands in the center, her face illuminated by a single flickering bulb. Her hands are calloused, her eyes hollow but burning with a fire that refuses to be extinguished. She speaks, her voice low, guttural, each word a dagger carved from the bones of her existence.)

"Mothers. We fucken create life. We do. We bleed for it. We scream for it. We tear ourselves apart for it. And what do they give us? A pat on the back? A fucking ribbon? A day in May where they pretend to care? No. No, they don’t see us. They don’t see the nights we spend awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if we’re enough. Wondering if we’re failing. Wondering if the world we brought them into is a goddamn curse.

We create life, but we also carry death. In our wombs, in our hearts, in the shadows of our minds. We know what it is to hold something so fragile, so pure, and to know that the world will try to break it. And we can’t stop it. We can’t stop the wars, the hate, the greed. We can’t stop the knives they’ll twist into each other’s backs. We can’t stop the poison they’ll drink just to feel something. We create life, and then we watch it rot.

But we don’t stop. We don’t stop because we can’t. Because somewhere deep down, in the marrow of our bones, we believe in it. In life. In the hope that maybe, just maybe, the next one will be better. The next generation will be kinder. The next child will be stronger. We believe in it even when the world spits in our faces. Even when they tell us we’re too much. Too loud. Too angry. Too broken.

They don’t understand. They never will. They don’t know what it’s like to feel life growing inside you, kicking, twisting, demanding to be born. They don’t know what it’s like to hold that life in your arms and know that you would burn the world down to protect it. They don’t know what it’s like to love something so much it feels like dying.

Mothers. We fucken create life. And we destroy ourselves doing it. We give pieces of ourselves away until there’s nothing left but ash and bone. And we do it again. And again. And again. Because that’s what we do. That’s who we are. We are the architects of the future. The keepers of the flame. The ones who stand in the darkness and say, ‘No. Not today. Not this one.’

So yeah, they can ignore us. They can forget us. They can try to silence us. But they will never, ever break us. Because we are mothers. And we fucken create life."

(She pauses, her chest heaving, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The room is silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break. And then, softly, almost to herself, she whispers:)

"And we will keep creating it. Until the last star burns out. Until the last breath leaves our bodies. Until the end of everything."

*(The light flickers once more, then goes out. She stands in the darkness, a silhouette of strength and sorrow, a monument to the unyielding power of creation.)*

(Continued...)

"But let me tell you something—something they don’t want you to hear. You don’t have to choose this. You don’t have to be a mother. You don’t have to carve yourself into pieces just to prove you can bleed for someone else. Life isn’t a debt you owe to the universe. It’s not a contract you signed in blood before you were old enough to know what the fuck it meant. Life is yours. Yours. And you get to decide what it is.  

You want to be a mother? Fine. Be one. But be one because you chose it, not because they told you it’s the only way to matter. Not because they said your body is a factory, your worth a equation of how much you can give, how much you can sacrifice. Fuck that. You are not a vessel. You are not a martyr. You are not a goddamn footnote in someone else’s story.  

And if you don’t want it? If the idea of creating life feels like a chain, like a weight you don’t want to carry? That’s okay. That’s more than okay. That’s brave. Because it’s harder to say no in a world that screams yes. It’s harder to walk away from the script they handed you and write your own. But you can. You can.  

Life isn’t just about creating it. It’s about living it. Really living it. On your terms. In your way. Whether that’s with a child in your arms or a world at your feet. Whether it’s in the quiet of a morning alone or the chaos of a life you built with your own two hands. Life is whatever you want it to be. Whatever you dare to make it.  

So don’t let them tell you what it means to be a woman. Don’t let them define your strength, your purpose, your fire. You are not less if you don’t create life. You are not more if you do. You just are. And that’s enough. That’s everything.  

So go. Live. Burn. Break. Build. Whatever you do, do it because you chose it. Not because you were told to. Not because you were afraid not to. But because it’s yours. Your life. Your choice. Your fucking legacy.  

And no one—no one—gets to take that from you."  

(She steps back, her chest rising and falling like the tide, her eyes daring anyone to challenge her. The room is electric, charged with the weight of her words. And then, with a smirk that’s equal parts defiance and freedom, she turns and walks away, leaving the ending unwritten, the future wide open.)

[lwazisaidso-blog]

WORLD RADIO DAY - 13 Feb 2025

Celebrating World Radio Day: The Heartbeat of Democracy and Community

Happy World Radio Day! 🎙️ Today, we celebrate the incredible power of radio to connect, inform, and empower communities around the globe. This year's theme shines a spotlight on the vital role of community radio stations in fostering democracy and giving a voice to the voiceless.

Community radio stations are the lifeblood of local democracy. They provide a platform for diverse voices, ensuring that everyone, regardless of their background, has a chance to be heard. These stations are often run by passionate volunteers and dedicated professionals who work tirelessly to bring you the stories that matter most.

Let's take a moment to appreciate the unsung heroes behind the scenes:

Producers and Technical Producers: These creative minds and technical wizards ensure that every broadcast runs smoothly. From planning and coordinating shows to managing the technical aspects of production, their hard work and expertise make it all possible.

Desk Writers: The newsroom's backbone, desk writers, craft the scripts and stories that keep us informed. Their dedication to accuracy and storytelling ensures that we receive reliable and engaging content every day.

Together, these individuals create a powerful medium that not only entertains but also educates and empowers. On this World Radio Day, let's celebrate their hard work and commitment to making radio a true beacon of democracy and community spirit.

Tune in, stay informed, and support your local community radio station! 📻✨

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Overstimulated. Overwhelmed. Over it.

Lately, I feel like everything is on me—from the moment I wake up to the moment I finally collapse into bed (if I even get to sleep). Morning, noon, night—every second, I’m minding the kids, trying to keep the house together, holding everything up while feeling like I’m falling apart.

There are bits of me scattered around the house, cracks and dents no one notices, and a deep need for repair that no one seems to acknowledge. I don’t get to be sick. I don’t get to have period pains. I don’t get to have a headache or even a moment to meet friends. My spark is gone, and I don’t even know where to begin looking for it.

My day is a cycle of waiting—waiting for my youngest to nap, waiting for my eldest to get ready, waiting for a moment of rest that never seems to come. And then my husband walks through the door, wanting as much from me as the kids, not realizing that I have nothing left to give.

Every day, it’s the same routine:

Wake up. Get the kids ready. Take the toddler to preschool. Get the baby down for a nap. Wash the dishes. Do the laundry. Tidy up. Make food for my husband. And before I can breathe, the littlest one is awake, demanding everything from me again. By the time dinner, bath time, and bedtime roll around, I am running on fumes, fighting my youngest to sleep while I silently fight my own exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and resentment.

And honestly? Sometimes I regret this life. I wish I had stayed at work, built my career, skipped marriage and kids. I love my children, I appreciate my husband, but they are all taking from me while I have nothing left to give. I don’t even recognize myself anymore—I am at my angriest, my ugliest, my most unfulfilled.

Is this regret? Is this depression? I don’t know.

Doing the laundry has become my escape, my excuse to be alone. I daydream about the life I could have had, and I find myself telling my single friends not to rush into marriage and kids, because their lives, just as they are, seem so perfect.

Anyway… hmmm. It’s whatever.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

A Love Letter to My Body

I want to take a moment to thank my body for carrying my daughter.

We found out we were pregnant at just three weeks. The first trimester was incredibly difficult—when we went to the clinic, the egg hadn’t even attached to the uterine lining yet. We had recently lost an early pregnancy, and this one came as such a surprise. I struggled with my breathing during that first trimester, unable to sleep lying down without feeling like my chest was caving in. Maybe that was just the fear of losing her again—I held my breath pretty much throughout the pregnancy, just praying she would stay.

But my body was good. My body was strong. Even though some days I felt more scared than excited, her little kicks and wiggles gave me so much hope. As she stretched and grew, so did my body. The stretch marks and extra weight I carry now are nothing compared to the joy of having my daughter.

Both of my kids were born via emergency c-section. I guess you couldn’t wait to see the world I tried to describe to you every day. And still, my body rose to the occasion. I am most grateful for how my body honored this gift, how it held on, kept her safe, warm, and healthy, and made sure nothing would harm my precious baby girl.

It’s been 11 months since I had her—our last born, our last baby, our full circle. My back hurts most days, and the extra weight is hard on my knees, but those are things I can work on. They’re small prices to pay for the happiness of holding her, watching her grow, and feeling the joy that fills my heart every time I see her smile.

So thank you, body, for everything. For being strong, for carrying her, and for giving me the gift of my daughter. You gave me something that nothing else ever could—my family, my joy, my reason.

With love,

A grateful mama.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

2024 was the year that stretched us in every possible direction. It was the best year and the worst year all at once. It was the year we welcomed our beautiful daughter, our rainbow baby, into the world—a moment of pure light after so much darkness. But it was also the year I lost my older sister, a loss that continues to echo through every corner of my life.

We found out I was pregnant just three weeks in, and from that moment, it was as if I was holding my breath for 40 weeks straight. The fear of losing her was so heavy, it never left my side. Maybe that’s why I hold her a little tighter now. She is here, she is safe, and she is mine—but it took everything in me to get to this moment.

The joy of her birth was tempered almost immediately by tragedy. My sister had a stroke shortly after my daughter was born. She never fully recovered, and in the months that followed, we learned she had breast cancer. By October, she was gone. Just like that. I still don’t know how to reconcile the joy of our daughter’s arrival with the heartbreak of losing my sister. We were torn between celebrating life and grieving death, and nothing about it felt fair.

Through it all, my husband carried us as if we were one heart. He let me cry, and I cried a lot this year. From the pain of breastfeeding that I had to stop, to seeing my sister lose her ability to see, walk, or even recognize us—it was an unrelenting wave of grief. Her loss has left a hole in our lives that nothing can fill.

When my birthday came on December 30th, my husband asked me what I wanted. I couldn’t think of a single thing. My heart felt empty. My kids are healthy, my marriage is loving and supportive, and yet all I wanted was peace. I wanted to stop feeling so torn between gratitude and sorrow. I wanted clarity, a glimpse into what the next year might hold for us.

Still, as we begin 2025, I can see the glimmers of hope. We’re planning swimming lessons for our son, preparing him for a new grade, and even thinking about extending the house to give our daughter her own room. We dream of bigger and brighter things. We’re grateful, yes, but also open to more.

This year was carried by our close friends and family. They held us up when the sadness threatened to swallow me whole. There were moments when I thought my heart would melt out of my eyes from crying. And yet, here I am, looking around in awe at the life we’ve built. It’s imperfect and messy, but it’s ours, and it’s filled with so much love.

2024 was a rollercoaster. But we’re still here, still dreaming, still building. And that, I think, is something worth holding onto.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

The start of a new year always brings with it a mix of emotions—hope, reflection, and even uncertainty. It’s a long road ahead, and not everyone made it into this new year with us. That thought alone can be sobering, a reminder of how fleeting life can be.

We’re often told that life is short, but sometimes it feels long and winding, full of endless twists and turns. Every day, we’re faced with constant choices—some big, some small, some that feel impossible to make. And yet, the beauty of it all lies in the truth that we *always* have a choice, even when it feels like we don’t. A choice to pause, to start again, to pivot, to let go, to hold on, or simply to keep going.

This year, I hope you allow yourself the grace to choose differently when needed. Life doesn’t always arrive in bursts of celebration or streams of confetti. Sometimes it’s quiet and monotonous, a slow march forward where the victory is just making it through the day. And that’s okay—there’s growth and resilience in those quiet moments too.

So, wish boldly for yourself and for others. Dream big, even in the midst of routine. Don’t let the monotony of life dishearten you. And above all, embrace the opportunities life gives you to change direction, to try again, to move forward—because there is power in simply continuing.

Here’s to a year of steady progress, moments of grace, and the courage to keep choosing your path. We’ve got a long road ahead, but one step at a time, we’ll get there.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

"The Tiny Human Chronicles: Lessons in Love, Patience, and Juice Requests" Parenting is a wild ride, full of unexpected twists, tiny victories, and moments that make you question your sanity. My 5-year-old and I have been growing together, learning as we go. Some days, he feels like a little genius, teaching me new ways to see the world. Other days, he’s just my baby, reminding me (through tears and cuddles) that he’s still figuring it all out too. This post is a little peek into our chaotic, beautiful journey — and a reminder that no one has it all figured out.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Pay attention to the way I rest my head on your shoulder, the pace in which you race to kiss my hand. Its this image, these crashes to the heart, flipping coins, jumping over sun beams and picking up a jars full of butterflies. Dont call it love, No one knows what heaven tastes like, lick yourself and complete the circle of feeling yourself.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

I swear to the finger pointing to shimmer, the first I saw crept into my wish list, obscured by night clouds, I slept with star dust in my hair. He said he saw a star, I proposed to the sky to mist his window with constellations of shooting movements of forever. Finger pointing to the shimmer.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Its the shadows of doubt coiled like magnets on your back, threatening your existence like snakes on ladders feeding on times exhaustion. Foolish you are to conspire with the devil as if he shares the table with angels, you'll never see morning while your sleeping with the dark. I suggest you wrap your hands around faith and run your fingers down the lights back while breaking bread with blue skies. Thats where you begin...

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Patience is uncomfortably chafing my power of resistence. Cant imagine this cryptonite drift from reality gracing my beliefs with unwarranted ideas of existence. I insist on a monumental break, to subsequently gather sufficient tools of persuation to find loop holes in time traveling.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Black rose, gold dust, empty frames, easy complications, sunny Junes and the menifestion of normality in the crowded room of scared faces. Insight to enlightenment is scatchy when truth is a personality you have not found. Resist the foolish from holding your hand, they like to take the lead.

[lwazisaidso-blog]

Mind your minutes, as you waste time attempting to put cents together. Timing is within virtue, when you dont know how much of it you have stored in the hour glass. Mind your minutes.