In the real world, hard work is not enough, and opportunities don’t just go to the qualified; they go to the visible.

I have a few regrets in life. The most recent being the morning I refused to pack an umbrella because I was “conserving space”. Of course, the weather chose that day to be ‘generous’, and it rained heavily. I spent the rest of the morning damp and feeling personally attacked by the skies.

But my bigger regret? Not documenting my work publicly.

I create every single day. For print, for social media, for my team, for myself. And yet, I hardly ever post about any of it. Although there’s a lot to share, somewhere along the line, I decided it was easier to keep the evidence of my life in my head and on my phone, instead of putting it somewhere it can actually serve me.

It really hit me when, after delivering one of my self-acclaimed Chidirim pep talks, a team member said, casually, “I checked your Instagram, and I didn’t even see a fraction of what you do here.”

It was not an insult. She was making a simple—factual—observation, but it landed like a slap. The irony? I am the loudest advocate for documentation.

I tell my colleagues all the time: post it on LinkedIn, even if it feels braggy, and even if people might judge you. Post your wins, even if they feel small. If you don’t show people what you’re doing, your job isn’t finished.

You owe it to yourself to keep a record of the things you do.

And, you know what? This applies to everything you do. It applies to the messy parts too, the pivots, the lessons, and the things you learned the hard way.

Last year, two of my colleagues were nominated for awards. One won Society Writer of the Year—yes, this is me calling you out, Suliyat Tella.

I told her, “Share it online. If you don’t, I will.”

        Guess what? None of us did.

We were too busy being busy. Too neck-deep in meeting the next magazine deadline. Or maybe we were too cautious about how we would be perceived. Not everyone feels comfortable in the spotlight. And so, in no time, we’d moved on to the next thing.

Our achievements should speak for us. Right?

I see this happen a lot in media and communications—and yes, I’m also eyeing you good people in marketing and PR. For people who fill the internet and the archives with news about inspiring people, we hardly work to control the narrative about ourselves.

So we decided not to let even the achievements speak for our work, as if achievements should be private, modest, and quiet, like a secret you only whisper to people who already believe in you.

And that’s the thing about silence: it feels humble, but it also erases evidence.

Silence doesn’t protect you. It hides you. And I understand why. 

Privacy can be protection, but privacy is not the same as invisibility. 

Over the past several years—particularly the last two as the Editor of Guardian Life magazine—I broke records, hit a few milestones, solved problems I’m incredibly proud of, and grew into a version of myself I once prayed to become. And most of it lives nowhere publicly.

When I look back at old journals from the start of my career, I’m always shocked by how much I achieved in a single day. Positively shocked. And impressed. Not the “I answered emails” achievement. I mean real work: pitching, writing, editing, building, fixing, negotiating, leading, delivering. I recorded it faithfully. I wrote it down and kept a trail on paper. For myself.

Now, when I read those entries, I feel something I don’t often allow myself to feel. Pride. Perspective. Proof.

Documentation builds perspective. Silence erases evidence.

And when evidence disappears, it becomes dangerously easy for someone else to rewrite your story in the worst way. Suddenly, you feel like you’re not doing enough, not growing fast enough, not successful enough, not visible enough. Meanwhile, you have been working quietly, consistently, and brilliantly.

But nobody can clap for what they cannot see. Opportunities rarely chase mysteries.

Women are trained to shrink. Especially African women.

Let’s be honest. As women, especially as African women, especially as Nigerian women from traditional backgrounds, we already carry enough shame. About what we did, what we didn’t do, what we should have done better, and what we should not have wanted in the first place.

So I’m not shaming myself for staying quiet. I understand where it came from. Instead, I am correcting it.

Somewhere along the way, working in a serious role in a serious organisation, I started shrinking the part of me that is fun, the part that is quirky, the part that thinks loudly and playfully and sometimes foolishly, the part that enjoys being seen.

It became easier to be “professional” in a way that was actually just smaller.

But who said fun and competence cannot coexist?

One of the women I admire works hard and parties harder. Both can be true. She doesn’t dilute herself to be taken seriously. She simply refuses to treat her personality like a liability.

Human beings are not one-dimensional. We are multitudes, composed of different parts, many of them contradictory, layered, and sometimes messy. Yin and yang. That is what brings a perfect balance. The serious part and the sexy part. The chaotic part and the organised part. The vulnerable part and the boundary-setting part. The part that wants to be loved and the part that will walk away if you disrespect it.

You don’t need to shrink any part of yourself to be credible. You just need to learn how to carry yourself in full.

So, this year, I promised myself that I will show up, I will share, and I will try.

That’s why I started this weekly column in the magazine, to share some of the things I’ve learned when navigating this journey we call life. I wrote so that at least one person can learn from me—since the people in my life don’t value my wisdom and refuse to take my advice (I jest). Thankfully, every week, at least one person says, “This helped me.” Sometimes just one. And that one is enough for me to keep going.

Most of the time, I am writing to myself. I write the core lesson I learn each week. But it turns out that when you’re honest, open and vulnerable, someone else recognises themselves in it. And that’s the point.

If you are like me—if you create but hesitate to share because you’re afraid of being dragged, perceived, misunderstood, or simply not “ready”—let this be your sign. 

Document your life. Document everything. Record your wins, your losses, and the lessons.

 Your story matters, even if it’s ten years old. Even if it happened last week. Even if it hasn’t happened.

There is far more risk in invisibility. Visibility, on the other hand, is incredibly rewarding.

Opportunities come from receipts. Communities form around honesty. Confidence grows from consistent practice and evidence. And watching someone grow in public forms an attraction like nothing else. It’s like watching a child grow and learn from their mistakes and become this confident person over time.

If I regret anything, it’s not that I failed. It’s that I stayed silent when I was actually winning.

As a gift to some of the women who have followed me on this journey, every day in March, I will be documenting some of the lessons I have learnt from some of the women I’ve crossed paths with. Trust me, these women have changed my life and are part of the reason why I am where I am in life today. I guarantee you will learn a lot from them as well, so follow me @chidirim and @chidirimmm. Let’s learn and grow together.