Seeking Answers

By Toyin (full name withheld to preserve his anonymity)

Important Note from IHS Team: the piece you are about to read is quite unusual. But it is so honest and authentic that we had to share it after Toyin sent it to us. Toyin is attending IHS camp for the first time this year and what he shares in his piece is how he feels coming into camp. We welcome the challenge he is presenting through the heartfelt words in his writing because we know God is going to have a chat with him at camp, no doubt!

Growing up, my life was simple in a way that sometimes felt like a cage. It was the same rhythm every week: school, Mommy’s shop, church on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, and then back home again. Every free moment had to be spent doing something “meaningful.” Maybe the adults were afraid too much free time would spoil a teenager. I didn’t understand any of it. I only knew that I lived between books I adored, church benches I knew too well, and the ceiling boards in my mother’s shop that I counted like stars I never got to see.

I grew up in Ajegunle, the part of Lagos everyone hides under the carpet. A place where life is hard, loud, and unforgiving. My parents loved me the only way they knew how: by locking out the world. But in doing that, they locked me into silence. Into routines. Into myself.

An image attempting to depict Toyin’s story

Isolation protected me, yes. It saved me from the vices around us, pushed me into books, stretched my imagination, and made me thoughtful beyond my age. But it also planted a kind of softness in me, a timidity that clung to my skin. I lived more in my mind than in my life. I could stay in a room all day creating worlds, having imaginary conversations, drifting into sleep with half-finished stories floating in my head.

I was also painfully curious. I had questions about God, about faith, about everything. But every time I tried to ask, I was brushed aside or told, “You’re just a child.” And slowly, something in me shut down. I didn’t walk away from God; I just didn’t feel seen by Him.

As I grew older, something became clear: timidity might feel safe, but it doesn’t let you grow. I needed people. I needed a community where I didn’t feel like a stranger to God and to myself. But by then, confusion had become a part of me. Church felt like a duty, not a home. I kept going because the guilt of not going felt heavier than the emptiness of being there.

An image attempting to depict Toyin’s feeling of being detached from God even though he was in church every Sunday

During sermons, I picked everything apart. Too many contradictions. Too many unanswered questions. Too many things everyone else seemed okay with but I wasn’t. I examined every testimony, every prayer point, wondering if we were praying or just passing time. And the thought of joining another Christian group terrified me. I couldn’t bear another round of silence when I dared to ask questions or the judgemental set of eyes watching me like I was the problem.

Then one day, an acquaintance told me about a christian community in school that was about balancing prayer with reading. Ah! balance! Something my soul had been craving. I rushed in with excitement.

But the group was all prayer again. No balance. No real conversations. I felt alone even in a room full of people. Why was I the only one asking how to live well outside school? How to be godly and still enjoy life? How to pursue excellence without losing myself? Why did my mind always feel different?

Slowly, I started skipping meetings. And one day, I opened the group chat and found I had been removed quietly, without a word.

That broke something in me. Another place I didn’t belong. Another reminder that my questions made me “too much.” I started to accept painfully that maybe I needed help. But asking for help isn’t easy when you’re a “fine boy who loves Jesus but doesn’t always understand Him.” The desire for balance was there, but the passion had buried itself under years of confusion, rejection, and exhaustion.

Strangely, I heard about IHS (In His Steps) from a writing community. A friend who understood my struggles even though we never talked deeply about faith, always listened when I spoke, cared and showed up, told me her IHS story, how she found family, understanding, and healing there, invited me to camp.

And for the first time in a long time, a small part of me wondered: Could something like that exist for me too? Could there be a place where I’m not too quiet, too curious, too confused and too “different”?

So here I am, preparing for IHS Camp. But on some nights, when everything goes quiet and my thoughts get loud, the fear still creeps in:

What if my insecurities push people away again?

What if I become invisible again?

What if I’m quietly removed without explanation?

What if I open up and regret it?

What if IHS becomes one more place where my questions echo back at me with no answers?
What if…?

I don’t know.

But maybe… just maybe… It's time to give my heart another chance.