I live here. I dreamed I’d live here

When I moved into a new apartment a few months ago, it felt like a full life cycle repeating itself—only this time with two pre-teen offspring and a PhD in Character Development.

In all ways—emotionally, financially, sexually (yes), spiritually, and even physically—I found myself right back at twenty-four: a fresh graduate with big dreams, unreasonable faith, and the dangerous confidence of someone who knows they will afford the life they are already living.

Sixteen years ago, I had moved into a one-bedroom apartment from a single room with shared bathrooms with nothing but certainty. Not money—certainty. I believed my gifts, my art, my light would multiply. I just didn’t know how long it would take, or that consistency and visibility were non-negotiable. I was also an undiagnosed ADHDer who assumed dreams ripen simply because you dream them.

Spoiler alert: they don’t.

I worked, yes—but I avoided endurance. I took an easier route out. That route, my friends, matured into a very committed two-year karma. We’ll talk about it later. Probably in a book.

For the last decade, I’ve built businesses, launched projects, and consulted for big companies in learning and development. My father always said I could sell ice to Eskimos. Almost literally—I have.

Then, about two years ago, I entered a pit. Mentally. Financially. Spiritually. I know the chronology by heart, but you’ll have to wait for the memoir.

I had seen this apartment on a broker’s ad over a year before I moved. I loved it instantly. I didn’t mind starting here. It felt like the home deserved me—and I, it. Still, my delulu brain whispered, You can leap from rock bottom straight into a 120k townhouse.

Reader, I got the apartment.

How? One of the first unfathomable things I still cannot explain.

The move itself was… forced. As we all know these days, “nothing is nothing.” But after a full year of inner work, I wasn’t afraid. I would occasionally feel a very specific sweat between my ass cheeks when I thought about rent, arrears, and adult responsibilities—but fear? No.

Help came. At the right time. From places I didn’t imagine.

Why?

Because I maintained my highest passion to the best of my ability.

Through writing, speaking, creating—through telling the truth about my struggles, failures, hopes, and dreams—my destined help saw me. Expression is my art form. And art is a very loud prayer.

A few months in, I was newly managing a household. Newly co-parenting. Newly paying bills. Newly rebuilding—alone.

Then my only phone—the one running the only business bringing income—crashed.

No phone. No income. No funds to fix it. All resources exhausted. And yes, I was supposed to be paying some people back.

Bills were due. Rent wasn’t always on time—but I held no arrears.

The apartment’s headmaster (because landlords deserve titles) summoned me repeatedly. Warnings. Lectures. Suggestions that I move into a single room and “squeeze” in with my children.

When he finally served me a vacation notice after three months of delayed payments, I smiled through his rough sermon.

Why?

Because I still hold that belief.

My big dreams.

Through all this, my children never missed school. ADHD time blindness has made us miss the bus once or twice—but when that happens, I pay twenty bob, drop them at the gate, and walk the two kilometers back home. Morning cardio. Gratitude included.

On days we catch the bus, I retreat to a small carpet-grass field near my house. I blaze. I meditate. I align. Then I go home and build.

In the last two months—without a phone, without asking, just my over-talkative, overconfident self—I’ve landed paid consultancies in writing, publishing, and business development. Enough to cover small bills. Enough to remind me: the gift still works.

In the last three months, I have watched the skies like they were scripture. Sunrises tearing through darkness. Purple sunsets dissolving into surrender. Rainbows curving into the air like promises that refuse to expire.

As I write this, birds are chirping outside my bedroom window. Sunlight reflects off the glass panes. This exact vision lived in my mind long before I moved here—long before I knew how.

In the last four months, I have seen grace.

I have seen favor. Help. Alignment. Purpose.

When I moved here, I made a decision: to live in my highest self. Fully. Authentically. Unapologetically. I stopped caring what neighbors, acquaintances, or friends thought.

And the fruits? I watch them grow.

I am building my career in my highest excitement.
I am mothering in my highest excitement.
I experience each day as an adventure because I am living in my passion.

I know many of us are rebuilding.
Some of us are still at rock bottom.

Wherever you are—listen.

We’ve all heard the phrases:
You are what you create.
You are what you command.
What you think, you become.

They are not metaphors.

Everything that happens to you is something you have commanded—consciously or not—because you are the creator.

Before you call me mad or delulu, listen to Nangami Masakha. Listen to Juliana Rose. Watch enlightened beings speak shamelessly about abundance using the simplest formulas.

In my own underground era—when even toothpaste felt like a luxury—I learned the art of submission. To God. To the universe. To timing. It is humbling. And goddamn beautiful.

This time, as I rebuild with my children beside me, I have found an “easy way out” again—but not as escape.

As awakening.

As remembrance.

As long as I exist in my highest passion—in perception, emotion, expression—I don’t need to expect abundance.

I already have it.

Your reality is what you command.
I will not stop saying this.

Sadhguru once said: your senses are not for seeing what’s happening within you—they are for observing what’s happening around you. What you perceive is a reflection of what lives inside you.

The favor, wonder, and provision I keep witnessing—while unemployed, rebuilding, and raising two children—are reflections of the peace forming within me.

Many will not get this.
Some will stop reading halfway.
Others will think I’m bragging.

God’s children—this is not about matter.

It is about the mind.

The creator.

And the command.

Mumbi Rimungi | ADHD Unfiltered