Letter 11 • What Happens When You’re Underestimated
I don’t always feel strong enough to be who I am.
The other day, I delivered the biggest celebratory news of my life to my family… and the first thing I heard was, “You already cannot walk, why go on and confuse your brain too?”
Not a congratulations. Not even a smile. Just that.
Not long ago, freshly fired from my job, feeling low and high, I began writing about Rusted Robots - a world I’d like to play in when things became too much.
For years, I’d worked on this book — the thing that had kept my nerves steady with a bit of help from the vape pen. But after sharing its success, my family knew how to pull me right back where I’d been when it all happened - low.
Before the accident, I had remarkable upper-body strength. It’s what made me good at swimming, and I loved the water. That strength carried me up a huge ancient tree… the climb that shattered the use of my legs and the dream of becoming an astronaut.
But here’s the thing no one really talks about: that same strength, paired with a completely different kind of strength, that carried me through the aftermath — through the moment I realized I would never walk again. Through rebuilding a life I didn’t ask for but chose to live anyway.
Before the success of my book, I didn’t have wealth to flaunt. But I had confidence. I had dreams. Those mattered.
And somehow, even now — with everything I’ve achieved — my family still sees me as the child who fell from the tree and needed help just to go to the bathroom.
So when I told them about the possibility of walking again with a device designed just for me, the response only echoed a question that’s lingered beneath so much of my story:
Why would anyone be interested in you?
I know my family loves me. I know they were trying to protect me. But love wasn’t always enough.
They’ve had to contend with who I was — the kid who climbed trees — and who I’ve become: the adventurer with robot legs, the writer with a “crazy novel,” the person who travels and speaks and is, despite everything, strong.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking, I’d rather be a f*ing robot.
No pain. No death. No finality. No need to fear life.
But I’m not a robot.
I’m a person who keeps going, even when others doubt what I’m capable of.
And maybe that’s the strongest thing about me.
Zelu
This letter was inspired by the book Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor
A few lines slipped directly from its pages:
I don’t always feel strong enough to be who I am.
You already cannot walk, why go on and confuse your brain too?
Rusted Robots - a world I’d like to play in when things became too much.
…pull me right back where I’d been when it all happened - low.
I had remarkable upper-body strength. It’s what made me good at swimming
…love wasn’t always enough.
I’d rather be a f*ing robot.
Short Content Brew:
Think of this one like a double-steep: a book inside a book, a writer inside her own story. It’s tender, sharp, funny in moments, and honest about what it takes to keep going when life won’t stop throwing lemons. There’s one spicy word slipped in there — but don’t let that scare you. The real flavor here is courage.
The Cup We’d Share
Consider this a moment to sip tea with Zelu, someone who’s rewriting themselves even while being written by everyone around them. The Authenticitea Barista (never one to shy away from a layered story) would pour something steady and strong — a blend made for those who’ve rebuilt after life kept handing them lemons, and who’ve learned that strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s simply a matter of choosing to keep going.
It’s a cup for the ones who’ve been underestimated… including by the people who love them most.
A brew for the ones who have survived the fall, survived the doubt, survived the quiet ache of not being seen for who they’ve become.
A Sip of Resilience
Tea Blend: Rooibos + Ginger + Smoked Oolong
Mood Pairing: For the moments when you’re finding your footing again — even if the world keeps looking at the version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.
Flavor Note: Grounding, warm, and slightly smoky — a cup that reminds you your strength didn’t disappear; others just stopped noticing.
Reflection: When was the last time you surprised yourself with your own strength — and did you let yourself believe it?
Why This Letter?
I read this book months before I ever started writing Letters Slipped Through the Pages. At the time, I didn’t think I’d pull a letter from it. But this character… she wouldn’t leave me alone. She kept popping back into my mind long after I’d closed the book.
What stayed with me was how she was achieving something extraordinary — truly masterful — yet her family couldn’t see past her disabilities. Their protection of her was so intense it became its own kind of harm. They loved her, yes, but their love came wrapped in doubt, fear, and limits she didn’t ask for. Watching her try to celebrate with them, only to be met with worry instead of wonder, was heartbreaking.
It brought me back to a quote that’s been sitting with me for weeks.
Just because someone means well doesn’t make it right.
Sometimes, the people who care about us most are the ones who forget to ask what we want or need. They assume. They protect. They decide on our behalf. And without realizing it, they miss out on our greatness — and on the chance to truly see who we’ve become.
This letter is a reminder: strength doesn’t disappear just because others stop recognizing it. And sometimes the bravest thing we can do is trust the version of ourselves they have yet to see.
That’s the sip I’ll leave you with today. Thanks for reading — until the next letter.
P.S. If this letter made you smile or feel seen, feel free to forward it to someone who might need the same sip today. (Or leave a note in the comments — I love hearing how these letters land.)
