The first time I admitted out loud that the pain was too much was after an intense prayer session. My body was screaming, my chest tight, and every breath felt like betrayal, and when I said it, someone quickly hushed me.

“Don’t name it. Don’t call it. You’re healed already.”

That moment taught me something I’ve carried ever since: in a deeply religious home, pain is not just a symptom, it is a test of faith. To speak of it is to confess unbelief. To swallow it is to prove devotion. And so, with sickle cell anaemia, I learnt early on that silence could sometimes feel holier than honesty.