How to Sit, How to Eat, How to Suffer Quietly.

I was born in England. Raised in Nigeria. And for the last thirteen years, I’ve lived back in the UK and still don’t quite know where I belong.

I’ve studied and made friends in both countries. I’ve sat in churches, public buses, WhatsApp groups, and now, mostly, in virtual rooms where interaction has become flattened to video calls and polite emojis. And through all of that, one truth keeps repeating itself:

I am always too much or not enough -never just right.

In Nigeria, I was the quiet one. Not boisterous enough, not bubbly enough, not quick to perform the warmth expected of a “proper” Nigerian. I was open, but not loudly. Emotional, but private. And that felt like a defect in a culture that values expressiveness.

Then I moved back to England.

And suddenly, the small honesty I had felt comfortable sharing became too much. People here ask if you’re okay, but they’re not actually asking. “You alright?” is just a sound. The correct response is “Yeah, fine,” with maybe a question about the weather. You do not talk about sadness. You do not unpack loneliness. You do not make the room heavier than it needs to be.

What I’ve learned is that emotional restraint is a way of life here - a performance stitched into every social interaction. There are rules. Rules about how to sit, how to eat, how to behave at events, how to dress grief in humour. Even online, where interactions are technically boundless, the codes remain. It’s not safe to just be. You must perform comfort, even if you’re slowly disappearing under the weight of isolation.

I once saw an account called Englishman Called Mike that breaks down what British expressions really mean. I laughed. But I also winced. Because it’s funny until you realise that none of this is exaggerated. “Not bad” means “good.” “We should catch up sometime” means “we probably never will.” “Could be worse” means “I’m barely holding on but I won’t tell you that.” And there’s another account - a posh etiquette expert - who teaches how to eat, how to speak, how to behave. It’s polished, aspirational, very British. But also incredibly sad. Because those rules are not just social graces. They are instructions for emotional invisibility.

There’s a culture of quiet suffering here. People hold everything in — grief, stress, mental health - behind jokes and small talk and half-smiles in team meetings. I’ve tried to open up in online friendships and “safe” spaces, and even there, the discomfort is clear. Vulnerability is welcomed only when it’s charming. It’s rarely welcome when it’s real.

And the irony? This is a country that has mental health slogans on billboards. Posters that say It’s okay not to be okay. Hashtags for awareness days. But what’s awareness when nobody really wants to hear the answer to How are you?

I’ve been to churches here in the past. I’ve sat through the soft hymns and polite prayers, the coffee and small talk. It’s a far cry from Nigerian churches -wild with energy, noise, tears, laughter, raw worship. There, church is about release. Here, it felt like theatre. And I don’t say that as judgment - say it as someone who kept trying to feel something and found herself edited down to fit the room.

I don’t attend church now. I don’t go into offices. Most of my life is virtual. But even from behind a screen, I can feel the weight of it. The coded emotional stiffness. The unspoken rules.

In Nigeria, I was quiet in a loud room.

In England, I’m loud in a quiet one.

I’ve spent most of my life sitting in the middle. A British citizen, but never quite English. A Nigerian, but not Nigerian enough. A person shaped by both worlds and still surprised by how little room either makes for someone like me.

I’ve learned how to code-switch. How to tone myself down. How to keep things light. But I’m still learning how to show up fully -not just the version people find easiest to digest.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have a grand takeaway. But I know I’m not the only one. There are many of us - cultural in-betweeners, emotional shapeshifters, digital nomads of the self - trying to find spaces where we don’t have to shrink to be accepted.

So if no one else will say it, I will:

I’m not fine.

"But thank you for asking."