I used to have a problem with individualistic people. You know the type, those who seem to live in their own little bubble, doing what’s best for them and never really apologizing for it. At first, it felt cold to me. Like, whatever happened to checking on your friends, to random acts of kindness, to caring about something other than your own peace?

There was a time when life felt softer. People helped each other without thinking too hard about it. Someone would hold the door for you, or give up their seat in a matatu, or stay up with you just because you sounded “off” on the phone. Now, those small gestures feel like they belong in another lifetime.

Sometimes I laugh and say, “Chivalry is dead, hahaha,” but deep down, it’s not really a joke. It’s more like a quiet realization that the world has changed, and so have we. These days, everyone seems to be walking around with invisible armor, protecting their boundaries, their energy, their peace. And maybe I used to think that was selfish. But lately, I’ve started to understand it.

Because honestly? Life is heavy. And maybe people aren’t colder; maybe they’re just tired.

I think somewhere along the way, the world just got… loud. Everyone is rushing somewhere, chasing something: money, validation, survival, maybe even just a break. There’s so much noise, and everyone seems to be talking, posting, performing. It’s no wonder people started pulling back into themselves.

City life doesn’t help either. You can live in an apartment building for years and never know your neighbor’s name. We’ve mastered the art of coexistence without connection. Nairobi, for instance, will teach you that people can love you deeply on WhatsApp and walk right past you in town without saying hi. It’s not personal, it’s just life.

There was a time when I thought that was sad. When I’d look at people who moved in silence, who never overshared, who kept their circles small, and I’d think, “Why are they like that? Don’t they care?” But now I get it.

Because somewhere between deadlines, heartbreaks, rent stress, and endless expectations, people realized something crucial: you can’t pour from an empty cup. You can’t save everyone. You can’t always show up for the world when the world never shows up for you. So people started choosing themselves, protecting their energy, saying “no,” disappearing when they need to.

And maybe that’s not selfishness. Maybe that’s evolution.

Sometimes I miss how things used to be.
I miss when we didn’t have to overthink kindness, when being there for someone wasn’t a scheduled task but a reflex. When “ukifika home ping me” actually meant someone was waiting for your text. When people didn’t need to post screenshots to prove they cared.

There was a time when friendship meant showing up, physically, emotionally, consistently. When you could knock on a friend’s door without calling first. When birthdays weren’t performance art, and people didn’t vanish after saying, “I’m here for you.”

Nowadays, connection feels… curated. We check in through emojis, comfort people with memes, and call that closeness. It’s efficient, sure, but sometimes I wonder what we’ve lost in the process. Maybe it’s not that people stopped caring; maybe caring just became inconvenient.

We live in an age where vulnerability feels risky, and kindness is misunderstood as weakness. So we build walls, call them boundaries, and convince ourselves we’re protecting our peace. And maybe we are. But once in a while, I miss when peace meant people, not distance.

It took me a while to understand that individualism isn’t always selfishness. Sometimes, it’s survival. It’s the body saying, “I can’t carry everyone anymore.” It’s the mind realizing that constant giving without refilling leaves you hollow.

We live in a time where everyone is trying to stay afloat. The economy is tough, relationships are complex, and mental health is finally part of the conversation, but it’s also fragile. So when someone says they’re focusing on themselves, it’s not arrogance. It’s self-preservation.

I used to think choosing yourself meant turning away from others, but I’ve come to see it differently. Sometimes choosing yourself is the only way you can show up for others later, whole, grounded, and real.

There’s something deeply honest about that. About saying, “I love you, but I need space.” Or, “I care, but I can’t be available right now.” It’s not coldness; it’s clarity. It’s understanding that you can’t heal the world if you’re bleeding quietly.

And maybe this is what growing up looks like, learning that love doesn’t always mean proximity, and compassion doesn’t always mean access. You can care deeply and still protect your peace. You can value connection and still choose solitude.

So, no, I don’t judge people who choose themselves anymore. If anything, I admire them. It takes courage to say, “I matter too.”

Maybe the truth is, we all exist somewhere in between, between the person we were raised to be and the person life turned us into. Between wanting to care for everyone and realizing you simply can’t. Between missing the warmth of community and learning to sit comfortably in your own company.

Individualism isn’t the death of kindness. It’s just the modern version of survival, people learning to breathe before they drown. But I also believe the world doesn’t have to swing to extremes. We can choose ourselves and still be kind. We can protect our energy without becoming unreachable.

Sometimes, it’s as simple as sending that text, showing up for that one friend, smiling at a stranger. Tiny things. Gentle reminders that even in this loud, tired world, we still see each other.

So no, I don’t judge people for being individualistic anymore. I get it. We’re all just trying to make it through life with our sanity intact. But maybe, as we protect our peace, we can leave the door slightly open, just enough for love, laughter, and a bit of humanity to walk back in.