ELASTIC HEART: Healing After the Robbery That Shook Me

They say life toughens you up… but nothing, absolutely nothing prepared me for the day armed robbers attacked my home, snatched my phone, and with it, my peace!

It wasn’t just about losing a device that carried my work, my connections, my ideas; it was the trauma that followed. The sleepless nights. The nightmares. The fear. The constant unease. For days, I couldn’t eat well. I couldn’t think straight. I felt trapped in a loop I couldn’t escape. I was devastated.

And yet... here I am - learning to stretch, to heal, to breathe again like an elastic heart, shaken, stretched, but not shattered.
THIS IS MY STORY.

The Night That Changed Everything

It was Sunday, July 13th, around 1:45 a.m., I heard voices in my head that woke me from sleep. Before I could even process what was happening, I saw them. Three men. Armed. Standing in my room. They had broken in through the sitting room, smashed the kitchen door, probably with the thought that it led to a bedroom, and then forced their way into mine. All I heard were Agbero (harsh) voices: “Bring the phone! Bring the phone!”

I screamed. The sound pulled my mother from her room. I’ll never forget the confusion in her eyes when she saw them. Amidst my panic, I screamed at her to go back and give them her phone. But before she could, they had already found it. Then came the sound I will never forget - a gunshot. They fired through her bed, thinking someone was hiding underneath, and moments later, they were gone.

It felt unreal. Like I was stuck inside a movie I never auditioned for.

The Unseen Wounds

We clung to each other, my mother and I, trembling in disbelief, while she kept whispering, “Calm down… It’s just a phone.”
But in my head, all I could inaudibly scream was, “No… It’s not just a phone. I want to understand what just happened to us.”   

For days, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the moment over and over. In the days that followed, I was just existing, haunted and hollow. I couldn’t sleep well in that room. Every creak or indistinct sound sent my heart racing. I found myself checking and rechecking the doors and windows at the slightest noise, as though it could fix what had already been broken inside me.

Repeatedly and rhetorically, I asked myself the following questions: Why us? Why me? What if we had fought back? What if I had told them I didn’t own a phone? What if they had hurt my mom? What if they had shot me, or “touched” me?
My mind wouldn’t stop. I wanted answers. I wanted peace. But mostly, I wanted to feel safe again. I didn’t know trauma could feel like this, like your body is here, but your mind is frozen in that one moment, playing it on endless repeat. I remember trying to eat and having to stop halfway because I’d suddenly felt a lump in my throat. My appetite disappeared. My joy disappeared. My sleep disappeared.

The few people I reached told me to be thankful I was alive, and yes, I was, and I am. However, only a few discussed the survival aspect that follows. The part where your body is safe, but your mind is still under attack. That’s when I realized… healing would be a slow, messy, unpredictable, but necessary process.

Little by little, I started reclaiming pieces of myself. Talking about it helped. Praying helped. Writing helped. Holding my mom’s hand and knowing we made it out alive helped. I cried when I needed to. I prayed when words failed, and sat with the fear until it didn’t grip me so tightly anymore.

This experience bent me in ways I didn’t expect, but it didn’t break me, because deep inside, there was something elastic holding me together, a quiet strength stretching past the fear, past the silence, and past the pain.

The Pause I Didn’t Ask For

Beyond the fear and sleepless nights, something else hit me hard - the sudden pause in my life. My phone wasn’t just a phone. It was my connection to everything - from clients, customers, ideas, to my plans. One night was all it took for everything I had been building to grind to a standstill.

Even though I knew my people were waiting for me somewhere out there, I just couldn’t function. It felt like I was standing still while the world kept moving.

 In that silence, I turned to things I normally ignored. Before the frightful night, I had seen just one movie all year. But in the weeks that followed, I watched over fifteen movies. I finished books I didn’t even remember starting. They weren’t hobbies. They were escape routes and little hideouts for my mind when fear became too loud.

The Long Walk To Freedom

I’m writing this now, not because I’ve fully healed.
I’m not.
But writing is my way of breathing. My way of telling fear, “You will not have the last dance.”

This story isn’t a testimony of complete recovery. It’s a reminder that healing isn’t a straight-line graph. Sometimes, it zigs, other times, it zags.  Some days I feel okay. Other days, a loud bang or sudden knock can send me spiralling.

Looking back now, I realize healing isn’t something you wake up and declare complete. It’s the quiet in-between moments, between panic and calm, between tears and small wins like sleeping through the night without intermittent panic attacks.

“You don’t just get over fear, you grow around it.”

What Survival Really Means

This experience taught me that survival isn’t just about making it through the incident itself. It’s about learning to breathe again afterwards. To trust your space. To trust yourself. And when that trust wobbles, giving yourself the grace to try again tomorrow.

I don’t know how long it will take to feel completely okay, and maybe that’s fine. Perhaps, the goal isn’t to rush back to who I was before, but to grow through what I’ve survived.

So, to anyone who has been shaken to their core, by fear, loss, or pain, this is your reminder:
 You are allowed to heal slowly.
 You are allowed to grieve what was lost, even if others can’t see it.
 You are allowed to stretch without breaking.

This is me… stretching, healing, surviving.

Like an elastic heart.

...Sweet Lilian