I am a complex person, and I believe that God can handle my complexity. After all, He created me. But another human being like me? I don’t think they can. Not fully. Not without breaking under the weight of it.

What does it mean to be complex?

Being complex means my thoughts, emotions, and experiences are layered, sometimes contradicting, sometimes aligning in ways even I struggle to explain. It means I feel things deeply, think beyond the obvious, and wrestle with truths that don’t always fit neatly into words. I carry depth—intellectual, emotional, spiritual—and that depth does not always make sense to others.

Ezinne Akam

Where does my complexity come from?

It comes from life. From the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve survived, and the things I know. It comes from a mind that refuses to settle, a heart that beats to rhythms others don’t always hear, and a soul that has been both wounded and healed, sometimes at the same time.

I have spent years trying to be seen, trying to be understood. But it’s as if there’s a veil over people’s eyes. They look, but they don’t always see. They hear, but they don’t always listen.

And I have come to realize something—what I seek isn’t something a human being can fully give me.

There is a space in me that only God can fill.

A “God-level” space. Not human level.

It takes something divine—something beyond human limitations—to hold all of me. Because God doesn’t just listen, He understands. He doesn’t just see, He knows.

He corrects, protects, teaches, instructs, calms, loves, forgives—over and over again. That kind of love, that kind of endurance, that kind of knowing—it’s not something any human has the capacity to give.

People try. Some mean well. Some come close. But no matter how much love or intention they have, they will always be limited by their own humanity. And that’s okay. That’s not their role to fill.

Still, I am human, too. I crave connection. I want to be seen, to be known, to be chosen—not just tolerated, not just figured out in pieces, but fully embraced. That desire doesn’t go away just because I understand that only God can truly fulfill me.

But here’s the beauty in it—when I let God fill that space first, I stop placing impossible expectations on people. I stop looking for them to be something they were never created to be. Instead, I can love them for who they are. I can receive love for what it is, without the pressure for it to be more than it was ever meant to be.

I am intricate. I am layered. I am not the easiest person to figure out. And that’s okay.

Some will mistake my calm for weakness, unaware of the storms I have mastered within myself. Some will try to shape me into something more palatable, not realizing that I have already fought to be exactly who I am. Some will judge what they do not understand, forgetting that not everything is meant to be understood—some things are simply meant to be respected.

And that’s okay, too.

Because God gets me.

He sees the unspoken thoughts. The hidden struggles. The contradictions and the clarity. The chaos and the calm. The battles no one else even notices.

He sees me—all of me.

And in that, there is peace.