There’s a quiet thrill in my chest that I haven’t felt in a while—not the caffeine-induced kind (although the new espresso machine in my apartment definitely deserves its own love letter), but the real, deep-belly kind that comes when something you’ve nurtured in private finally blooms in public.

Japa Chronicle has officially taken on a life of its own. What started as a late-night scribble, equal parts laughter and longing, is now a full-bodied blog series that’s tugging at hearts, sparking conversations, and—if my DMs are any indication—convincing folks to rebook their japa plans with strategy. I’ve read messages from readers in Brooklyn, Birmingham, and even Belgium.

You’ve sent voice notes, email replies, shared links with your group chats, dragged exes in my comments, and shouted out the stories on Instagram like they were your own. Some of you even found pieces of yourself in Folusho, Tekena, Ogechi, Uzor, Itua. And honestly? That means more to me than I can put into words.

To everyone who’s read, shared, commented, reblogged, or bought copies of my past work from Amazon or indie bookstores, thank you. Whether you stumbled on my words through a random hashtag or have been rocking with me since the Red Lines days, thank you. You’re the reason I keep showing up to the page—even when I’m tired, even when the doubt creeps in, especially when the world feels too loud.

And oh, there are words. So many of them.

I’ve quietly begun a new novel. A series, actually. One, I believe, might just shift everything I thought I knew about my writing. I won’t say too much now (a girl must keep some mystery), but think: high-stakes ambition, slow-burns that sizzle, betrayal that bites, and a kind of love that feels dangerous in all the best ways. It’s deeply technical, wildly emotional, and yes, just a little obsessed with a certain kind of powerful man who thinks he can’t fall in love… until he does.

I’ve been writing with an urgency I haven’t felt in years, and every day, it feels like building a new world that’s about to burst open.

Meanwhile, Texas is slowly shedding its layers. The cold mornings are warming into those teasing spring afternoons where you don’t know whether to bring a jacket or just hope your melanin has your back. And Dallas? She’s all coquette mode, flirting with summer and all—her soft winds brushing against the back of my neck one minute, and full-on sun that turns car seats into griddles the next.

I find myself opening the blinds more, letting the light in. I still don’t trust Texas weather completely (and I stand by that), but I do feel like I’m adjusting to its rhythm. This city—its noise, its people, its random taco trucks and silent highways—is no longer a stranger to me.

I’ve found rhythm. Not balance exactly, but a kind of negotiated peace between work and writing, deadlines and dreams. I’ve stopped apologizing for turning down weekend plans because “I’m editing something.” I’ve stopped shrinking from the bigness of my ambitions. I’m giving myself permission to take up space here, in my stories, in my skin. And more than that, I think—finally—I’ve found my place in this city.

The apartment feels like mine. The routes are familiar. The coffee shops know my order (black, no sugar, just vibes). For the first time since I landed, I’m not just in Texas. I’m of it.

Last night was one of those moments that reminded me why I stayed.

I met up with my three best friends—Ndidi, Karla, and Vicente—at the Dallas Arboretum right around that golden hour where everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey and pressed through a nostalgia filter. We spread out on a picnic mat Karla insisted we bring (and thank God, because Vicente wore all white like he was attending his own naming ceremony). There were fruit skewers, jalapeño-stuffed pastries, a few cupcakes that melted slightly in the sun, and one lone bottle of Prosecco that we definitely didn’t sip responsibly.

The conversation sparkled. Ndidi’s sarcasm was dialed up, Vicente kept giving unsolicited dating advice to a couple we didn’t know (“She deserves someone who actually listens, Jason”), and Karla—sweet, glowing Karla—finally dropped the bombshell.

She’s been approved to adopt.

A baby girl. Five months old. Chubby cheeks, big eyes, and the kind of baby smile that disarms you instantly. She showed us a photo, and we all dissolved into mushy puddles of joy right there on the grass. Karla kept saying, “I can’t believe it’s real,” but the way she’s already started shopping? It’s very real. Onesies, bibs, tiny little booties. She’s nesting hard and glowing harder.

We stayed until the moon cast soft silver on the lake. The city lights blinked in the distance like approving winks from a friend. Someone nearby played an old jazz tune on a portable speaker, and the moment folded in on itself, poignant than a love song.

This is what fullness feels like. Not perfection. But presence.

Thanks for riding this wave with me—from Lagos to Dallas, from Tejuosho market chaos to Arboretum nights and slow-building romances across continents.

There’s more coming.

Keep reading.

Keep sharing.

Keep showing up.

Because the stories? Oh, they’re just getting started.

Yours always,

— Timi Waters