The Day I Stopped Chasing Motivation and Started Becoming It

For years, I thought motivation was something you hunted — like a spark you had to chase before it vanished. 

I’d scroll through quotes, podcasts, YouTube videos — anything that could light me up for a few minutes. 

But motivation, I’ve learned, is a slippery guest. It shows up loud, but never stays long.

Somewhere along the way — maybe in the middle of another blackout night in Bauchi, Nigeria, or during one of those silent mornings when nothing seemed to move — I realized I didn’t need another spark. 

I needed to become the flame.

It wasn’t a single moment of revelation. It was slow, ordinary, sometimes painful. 

But that’s how transformation really happens — not in the noise of inspiration, but in the quiet act of showing up when no one’s watching.

This piece isn’t about quick fixes or productivity hacks. 

It’s about the subtle shift that happens when you stop chasing what inspires you and start living like you’re already inspired. When you stop waiting for the right energy, and start becoming the source of it.

And funny enough, that realization didn’t come from a big success moment — it came from misunderstanding. From being called confused when I was actually finding clarity. 

From being told I was wasting my life when, in truth, I was finally beginning to live it. 

1. Never Trade Your Assignment for Argument 

In Nigeria, we’ve made jokes out of motivation. 

We think motivational speakers are liars — people who wake up one morning and say, “Dangote started by selling pure water for ₦20, and now he’s a billionaire. If he did it, you can too.” 

We laugh. We roll our eyes. Because life here can be too raw, too unpredictable for fairytales.

But every now and then, someone like Frank Ikemefune shows up — and you can feel the difference in his tone. 

He doesn’t speak from delusion. He speaks from depth. 

In one of his videos, he said something I can’t forget:

“Never trade your assignment for argument.”

That line pierced something in me. Because truthfully, I’ve been there — explaining, defending, almost begging people to see what I see.

When I stepped away from school in my final semester, it wasn’t rebellion. It was clarity. 

But try telling that to family members who equate success with certificates. 

To them, I wasn’t focused — I was failing. 

So, I did the only thing that could give them peace: I kept pretending I was still in school, just so they could sleep at night.

Then came the faith moment — that wild, confusing week when I started speaking about peace, connection, and hope, and everyone thought I’d lost my mind. 

They didn’t see a man searching for meaning; they saw a boy losing his grip. 

In that moment, every voice around me wanted to argue me back to “normal.”

But the truth is, you can’t argue people into understanding a revelation they weren’t given. 

You can only live it — quietly, consistently, until your results speak louder than your explanations.

That’s what Frank’s quote means to me now. 

Your assignment — the thing your soul is called to do — will always sound strange to those who’ve never heard that calling. 

They’ll question it, misunderstand it, even mock it. But your job isn’t to argue your sanity; it’s to honor your purpose.

So these days, when people don’t get me, I just smile. 

Because peace, I’ve learned, is more productive than proving a point.

---

2. The Paradox of Success Is That the Truth Sounds Boring  

When I first started writing, I wanted to sound smart. 

Every writing guru said, “Don’t repeat what everyone already knows.” 

So if I wanted to write about success, I’d try to come up with some wild new take like,

“Wake up by 5 a.m. and you’ll become successful.” 

Or, 

 “Drop out of school if you really believe in your dreams.”

I thought saying something different meant I was saying something valuable. But with time, I realized — the most powerful truths in life don’t trend. They endure.

If you strip every success story down to its bones, you’ll still find the same quiet words nobody wants to hear anymore: work hard, believe in yourself, stay consistent, never give up.

They’re not glamorous. They don’t go viral. 

But they’re the reason why someone like me — sitting in Bauchi, with no electricity, chasing words by candlelight — is still here.

We live in a world where everyone’s trying to say something new, but no one’s really doing what we already know works. 

We overthink, overplan, and under-act — then call it “research.”

It’s easier to come up with clever theories about success than to keep showing up for your own life. 

But the truth? 

The magic isn’t in the method — it’s in the motion.

Even my mentor, Tim Denning, says the secret of success is obsession. 

And he’s right — but if you strip the word down, obsession is just a poetic remix of the same old truths we’ve grown tired of hearing. 

Work hard. Stay the course. Care deeply. Repeat. 

It’s not new — it’s just unpopular to say things that simple out loud.

So I’ve stopped trying to sound profound. 

Now, I write from what’s real. I’m not trying to hack life anymore — I’m trying to honor it. 

One day, one sentence, one act of consistency at a time.

Because success isn’t a secret. It’s just that most people are too distracted by noise to hear its simplicity.

---

3. When the World Locks You Out, Build Your Own Door  

I’ve always believed that when life keeps saying no, maybe it’s time to stop knocking — and start building your own door.

I wasn’t always this stubborn. 

As a kid, I preferred reading to watching TV. While everyone around me was obsessed with blockbuster shows — Harry Potter, Outlander, Game of Thrones — I was buried in the books that inspired them. Words, not screens, raised me.

So it made sense that I would one day fall in love with writing. I built small blogs on WordPress and Blogger, failed a dozen times, but kept trying. Then one day, in 2020, I discovered Medium — the global stage for writers. It felt like home… until I realized Nigerians couldn’t join the Partner Program or earn.

That moment broke something in me. 

Here I was, a Nigerian kid with nothing but stories, watching the world get paid for what I loved doing — while I couldn’t even sign up.

But I didn’t give up. 

I did what desperation teaches every Nigerian dreamer to do — I found a way.

After hours of YouTube tutorials, I used Photoshop to create a fake Belgian ID card with my own picture and name, just so I could open a Stripe account. I wasn’t trying to scam anyone. I was trying to survive — to write, to earn, to belong.

And for a while, it worked.

I wrote eight articles a month while top writers like Tim Denning, Ayo Awosika, and Sinem Günel were publishing thirty. Tim once said he wrote seven articles a day — I thought I could never match that. I told myself I wasn’t smart enough, not an expert enough, so I played it safe and wrote about relationships — something I could talk about without being questioned.

It worked. 

I made over $10,000 in three years. 

Not bad for a kid from Bauchi chasing dreams with a second-hand phone and unstable power.

Then everything fell apart. 

Medium changed direction under the new CEO, and my earnings plummeted. Stripe discovered my fake ID and froze my account — over $2,000 still trapped there till today. Then Medium suspended my account for “fraudulent activity.” No explanations. Just silence.

It felt like the digital world had spat me out.

But I didn’t quit. I watched closely — YouTube still pays Nigerian creators decently. But Facebook? I saw a small creator earn less than $10 for nearly 2 million views. TikTok? Only live gifts. Millions of Nigerian creators working for “exposure.”

That’s when I had the thought: If no one’s going to build a fair system for us, why not me?

That’s how Xprex was born — a video streaming platform where Nigerians can post their videos and get paid locally, fairly, and transparently. A place built by one of us, for all of us.

Now, I don’t know how to code. 

I’m not rich. I’m in a polytechnic in Bauchi. 

When I reached out to computer science students, they liked my dream but had their own priorities. Some said it was impossible. Others simply ghosted me.

But I’ve been here before — and I’ve learned to start from where I am.

Since I can’t afford to hire a developer, I’m building the MVP on WordPress — the same platform where I’ve failed and risen before. It’s not the end goal, but it’s a start. I’ll test it, improve it, and use it to raise funds for the real version someday.

Today is the second day I’m working on it. I plan to finish in a week. I don’t know if it’ll work — but I’ll keep building until it does.

Because I’ve learned something the hard way: People will call you crazy until your dream starts working. 

They’ll say you’re unrealistic — until your “unrealistic” idea becomes their new normal.

So I’m done listening to doubters. I’m done apologizing for dreaming big from small places.

I may have lost my Medium account and my Stripe earnings. But I’ve found something better: a reason to fight again.

A boy can dream — but this time, he’s not just dreaming. 

He’s doing.

---

4. Stop Waiting for Validation — Nobody Knows Your Vision Better Than You 

For years, I thought humility meant silence. 

I believed I had to stay small — to be the quiet dreamer waiting for someone else to say, “You’re amazing.” 

I didn’t know that every time I waited for validation, I was quietly telling myself I wasn’t enough.

And yet, every time I talked to people, they’d tell me how brilliant I sounded — how well I wrote, how much potential I had. But inside, I never believed them. I thought maybe they were just being kind.

Even when life gave me proof — real proof — I still doubted myself.

At one point, I was writing for The Good Men Project and other major platforms I can’t even remember now. My stories on Medium had racked up over 2 million views, and I was part of Ayo’s Medium Writing Superstars program. 

I’ll never forget the day during a coaching call — the power went out mid-conversation, but before it did, Ayo said something that stayed with me:

“John, you’ve done well. You should tell your story as a Nigerian.”

But I hesitated. 

I told myself, “We’re known for scams. Who would take me seriously?” 

So I stayed quiet — afraid of being judged by where I came from.

Now, I tell my story anyway — right here on my blog. 

And guess what? 

It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. 

For the first time since 2015, my blog has crossed 40,000 sessions for the fourth consecutive month from Pinterest. All because I stopped hiding and started owning my truth.

But the search for validation didn’t only show up in my career — it showed up in love too.

I once dated a girl I thought was my soulmate. She was my best friend, but she was stuck in a toxic relationship with a man who physically abused her. After one brutal fight, I told her she deserved better — that she deserved me. 

Why not? I was kind. I was emotionally available. I was even earning over $1,000 on a good month from writing — while her boyfriend ran a small POS business.

She agreed to date me, said she was over him. 

But in the end, she went back. 

She said she couldn’t trust me — because I was younger, Igbo, and too ambitious. 

She said men like me always leave once they become successful. 

So she chose the “devil she knew.”

Even when he beat her again — while she was pregnant — she came back crying, asking me to help her escape. But I couldn’t. Because love shouldn’t cost you your peace or your purpose.

That heartbreak taught me something: Sometimes, people don’t reject you — they reject the version of you that scares them. 

They see your light, and instead of warming up to it, they hide from it.

Years later, I met Sandra. 

She wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated. 

She believed in me — the crazy dreamer version of me who talks about building a video platform or turning words into change. 

But when people saw us together, they laughed.

“She’s too short.”

 “She’s too dark.”

 “She’s not even fine.” 

One of my cousins even said, “If I were a man, I wouldn’t look at her twice.” 

And for a while, I believed them. I started to feel ashamed of the woman who loved me purely, deeply, and without conditions.

But you see, Sandra didn’t love me for what I could buy. 

She loved me for more than what I could become. 

Even when I lost everything — Medium, Stripe, my income — she stayed. Some months, she’s the one helping me survive. She’s a pastor’s daughter from Plateau State, simple, grounded, and pure-hearted. 

And she’s proof that real love doesn’t need filters or packaging.

Today, I no longer care about validation — not from strangers, not from family, not from the world.

I don’t need people to clap for my dreams before I chase them. 

I don’t need society to approve of who I love before I hold her hand in public. And I don’t need success to look like someone else’s before I claim it as mine.

Because in the end, validation is a trap. It keeps you performing instead of becoming.

So whether it’s love, work, or life — I’ve decided to be radically selfish with my dreams. 

To choose myself. To believe myself. To celebrate myself — even when nobody else does.

And to anyone out there who feels unseen, unheard, or underestimated, I have one thing to say:

Stop waiting for the world to clap for you. 

You’re not a performer. 

You’re the show.

---

5. Reach Out Anyway — Closed Mouths Don’t Get Fed 

If there’s one thing that used to terrify me more than failure, it was rejection. I’ve been told “no” so many times that it began to sound like my own name.

So, for years, I stayed quiet. 

I didn’t pitch people. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t ask for help. 

I convinced myself that real creators make it alone. 

But that’s not true — not even close.

Every blog that shaped me — from SmartBlogger to Tim Denning’s Substack — preaches one thing: “Network. Reach out. Build relationships.” 

But I never did, because I was scared. Scared of being ignored, misunderstood, or dismissed as another “Nigerian dreamer.”

This morning, though, something shifted. 

I was talking to a tech guy I know here in Bauchi, named Fahad. 

He’s good with Blender, builds apps, and runs a business called Nascomsoft — they teach tech literacy, especially to girls in a society that still tells them, “Find a rich man, not a purpose.” 

And honestly? I respect that deeply.

We’ve had our history. 

I once shared my Xprex idea with him — a video platform built for Nigerians by Nigerians — and he didn’t seem as excited as I hoped. 

But I get it now. He has his thing. His path. His lane. 

So instead of being bitter, I told him the truth this morning:

“I admire what you do, bro. You’re amazing.”

He laughed and told me I should consider politics. 

And I laughed back, because I’m the farthest thing from a politician — I’m more of a political apathist, if that’s even a word. 😂 

But the exchange stayed with me.

It reminded me that sometimes, connection isn’t about people agreeing with you — it’s about acknowledging them anyway. 

Appreciating what they bring to the world, even if they never see what you’re trying to build.

So today, after this post goes live, I’m doing something different. 

I’m going to reach out — heart first, ego last.

I’ll message Frank on Instagram to tell him how his line, “Never trade your assignment for argument,” became the seed that birthed this entire piece.

I’ll write to Tim and Ayo on Substack, to tell them that their words built me — that I’m still here, still writing, because they once made me believe I could.

Will they reply? 

Probably not. 

Will they read this? 

Maybe.

But even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. Because the act of reaching out — that’s the win.

I’ve learned that silence doesn’t protect you; it just hides you. And you can’t build a life from the shadows.

I reached out to Ayo recently, actually. 

Told him about my struggles, about how Medium crashed my world, how I wanted to join his new program “Words to Dollars” but couldn’t afford the $3K yet. I promised to pay later, as I earned. He said no.

And yeah, it stung. 

But I didn’t hold it against him. Because maybe that “no” was just the universe testing how badly I wanted to grow.

So I’ll keep reaching out — to creators, dreamers, builders. I’ll keep sending those messages, even if nobody answers. Because somewhere out there, someone will. 

And when that happens, it’ll make every unanswered DM worth it.

Ayo once said,

“A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.”

He was right. And I’ve kept my mouth closed for too long.

Now, I’m opening it — not to beg, not to boast — but to connect. 

To build bridges where I once built walls. To speak life into the same world that once told me to shut up and stay humble.

Because rejection isn’t death. Silence is.

So if you’re reading this, and you’ve been afraid to reach out — to ask for help, to send that message, to introduce yourself — do it.

Not because you’re guaranteed a yes, but because every no you survive makes you braver.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes — one brave message to change everything.

---

The Quiet Between the Noise 

When I look back at everything I’ve written here — the fire, the faith, the heartbreaks, the failed systems, the little flashes of hope — I see one truth running through it all: life never promised to be fair, but it promised to be yours.

From the boy who Photoshopped a Belgian ID just to chase words, to the man building a platform from nothing but stubborn belief, to the lover who stayed when the world said she wasn’t enough — I’ve realized success was never about proving anything. 

It was about becoming someone who no longer needed proof.

For years, I waited for validation. 

For a yes. For a door to open. 

But life isn’t a hallway of open doors — it’s a series of locked ones that test whether you’ll keep knocking.

And sometimes, the door that finally opens isn’t the one you were praying for. It’s the one that opens inside you — quietly, without applause.

Every “no” that broke me, every failure that made me start again, every love that didn’t choose me back — they were all teachers.

They taught me that peace isn’t found in being understood; it’s found in understanding yourself enough to stay.

So I’m staying. 

In the work. 

In the words. 

In the small, stubborn faith that even here — in a corner of Bauchi, with the lights flickering and the world doubting — a dream can still catch fire.

And if you’re reading this, wherever you are — maybe your own version of darkness, or doubt, or starting over — just know this: the world may not clap for you yet, but it will, eventually. 

When it finally sees what you refused to stop building in the dark.

Because the ones who make it aren’t always the loudest. 

They’re just the ones who never stop whispering “not yet.”