TWO MONTHS BEFORE Part 9 : What I Actually Learned (Not the Instagram Version) This isn't a neat testimony with three points and a prayer. This is a messy truth from the trenches of a hard decision. Here's what I really learned: 1. Spiritual discernment isn't mystical—it's often just wisdom dressed in prayer. My father couldn't articulate what was wrong with Chris because it wasn't one big obvious thing. It was a thousand small things: The way Chris's smile didn't reach his eyes when he thought no one was looking. The way he deflected every time someone asked him a direct question about his life. The way he needed constant validation from women but called his fiancée insecure when she noticed. The way his charm felt performative, like a show he'd practiced. My father's "lack of peace" wasn't spiritual mysticism. It was decades of observing people and recognizing patterns that I, blinded by hope and desperation, .couldn't see. Sometimes the Holy Spirit speaks through the discernment of people who've lived longer and seen more than we have. 2. "God told me" can be spiritual manipulation—even when you're doing it to yourself. I convinced myself God had sent Chris because: - He appeared when I needed help (timing!) - He was a Christian (church attendance!) - He quoted scripture (spiritual!) - The proposal felt like a movie (romantic!) But I confused coincidence with providence. I confused Christian culture with Christian character. I confused emotional highs with spiritual confirmation. God also gave me: - Parents with wisdom - A mentor with discernment - Red flags I kept ignoring - A lack of peace that never went away But I only wanted to listen to the "signs" that confirmed what I already wanted. That's not faith. That's wishful thinking with a Bible verse attached. 3. Breaking up is not the same as giving up. People told me I gave up too easily. That relationship takes work. That I should have tried harder. But here's the thing: You can't "work on" someone who doesn't think there's a problem. I tried for five months to: - Communicate concerns (he called me controlling) - Suggest counseling (he called it unnecessary) - Point out red flags (he called me insecure) - Set boundaries (he called it lack of trust) At some point, trying harder just means tolerating more. Walking away from Chris wasn't giving up. It was wisdom. It was self-preservation. It was choosing reality over potential. And it took more strength than staying ever would have. 4. The red flags were always there—I just kept repainting them green. Month 1: "He doesn't want me earning more than him" → He's just traditional Month 2: "He wants me away from my family" → He just wants more time together Month 3: "He flirts with other women" → I'm just jealous Month 4: "He refuses accountability" → He's just private Looking back, I can't believe how creative I was at making excuses. But that's what happens when you want something badly enough. You become a defense attorney for someone who doesn't even deserve a trial. 5. Peace matters more than plans. For months, I had no peace. Not a day. Not an hour. Not even a moment. Every time I thought about the wedding, my stomach knotted. Every time Chris and I fought, I couldn't sleep. Every time my father looked at me with concern, I felt sick. But I kept pushing forward because: - The venue was booked - The dress was being made - People were expecting it - I'd already said yes I valued my plans more than my peace. And I almost paid for it with my entire life. Here's what I learned: When you lose peace about a decision and it doesn't come back even after prayer, that's not anxiety. That's an answer. The absence of peace IS God speaking. And I'm learning to listen to it, even when it costs me everything I thought I wanted. 6. God's "no" is not punishment—it's protection. I used to think God was withholding good things from me. Keeping me single while blessing everyone else. Now I understand: He wasn't saying no to marriage. He was saying no to THAT marriage. There's a difference. God's "no" to Chris was protection from: - Years of walking on eggshells - A lifetime of gaslighting - Children raised watching their mother shrink - A home without peace - A marriage without partnership - A life without joy When God closes a door, stops a relationship, blocks a path—it's not because He's mean. It's because He sees what's on the other side, and He loves you too much to let you go there. 7. Your family's concerns aren't always about control—sometimes they're about care. I spent months thinking my father was being overprotective. That he didn't trust me. That he wanted to control my life. I was wrong. He was trying to protect me from something he could see but couldn't prove. And when I finally walked away, he didn't say "I told you so." He just said, "Thank God." Our parents aren't perfect. They won't always be right. But when multiple people who love you—who have no agenda except your wellbeing—are all saying the same thing? Listen. They might see something you can't see when you're in the middle of it. These lessons cost me: - ₦1 million in lost deposits - Six months of my life - My reputation in some circles - Relationships with people who took his side - The dream of being married by 30 But they saved me from: - A lifetime of misery - Children in a toxic home - Losing myself completely - Living without peace - Never knowing my worth So when people ask if I regret calling off the wedding, my answer is simple: Not for one single second. The lessons hurt. But they didn't break me. They made me who I am today. © Adebimpe Obafemi #TwoMonthsBefore #LessonsLearned #ChristianSingles #Back2Eden #SpiritualGrowth

Please don't copy, edit, or republish without permission. Want to share? Just credit the author: Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi. Thank you! 💕 TWO MONTHS BEFORE Part 8 ; The Aftermath (The Part Nobody Talks About) Breaking off an engagement two months before the wedding was emotionally devastating and logistically nightmarish. The venue: We'd paid ₦500,000 as a deposit. Non-refundable. The manager was sympathetic but firm. "It's in the contract, madam.” The dress: Half-sewn, half-paid. The tailor tried to be understanding, but she'd already bought all the fabric and lace. I lost ₦150,000. The caterer: They'd already ordered supplies. Another ₦200,000 gone. The photographer: Booked months in advance. Couldn't refund the deposit. In total, I lost close to ₦1 million. Money I'd saved for years. Money that represented countless shifts, late nights, and sacrifice. Gone. Then came the calls. I had to personally call each of my aunties and uncles who'd planned to travel from Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt. "Aunty, the wedding is off." "What? Why? What happened?" How do you explain in a phone call? How do you convince them you're not being rash when they've already bought their aso-ebi and booked their hotels? Some were understanding: "Omolabake, if you're not sure, it's better to stop now." Others were... less understanding: "But the dress is already made! Can't you just work it out?" One uncle actually said, "Omolabake, marriage is not a bed of roses. You have to compromise." I wanted to scream: This isn't about compromise. This is about survival. But I just said, "I understand, Uncle. I'm sorry for the inconvenience." Church was the worst. The first Sunday after the breakup, I almost didn't go. But I couldn't hide forever. I walked in and felt every eye on me. People whispering and pointing. Some tried not to stare but failed. During announcements, our names were supposed to be called for final marriage class registration. They weren't. The silence where our names should have been was deafening. After service, some people avoided me completely. They literally crossed to the other side of the corridor when they saw me coming. Others came up with fake sympathy: "Oh, Omolabake, we heard. Are you okay?" Translation: Give us the gossip. A few were genuinely kind. One older woman, Sister Funke, pulled me aside and said, "Better a broken engagement than a broken life. Well done." She was one of the few. Chris moved to another church within two weeks. I heard through mutual friends that he was telling people I'd broken off the engagement because I was "too controlling" and "had trust issues." He painted himself as the victim. The good man who'd been wrongly rejected. And some people believed him. The months that followed were dark. I'd wake up some mornings and forget, just for a second, that I wasn't engaged anymore. Then reality would crash back in. I stopped going to weddings. I couldn't bear it. Every bouquet toss, every first dance, every "you're next!" comment, felt like salt in an open wound. I avoided baby dedications too. Because someone always asked, "So when is yours coming?" Work became my escape. I threw myself into my projects at ACE, stayed late, volunteered for extra assignments. Anything to avoid thinking about what I'd lost. My weight fluctuated from the stress—I lost 10kg, then gained it back. But what grew more than my weight was my faith. I threw myself into prayer, into serving at church, into seeking God's face. He became my comfort. His word became my anchor. And slowly, I began to heal. Except I hadn't lost anything real. I'd lost an illusion. But grief doesn't distinguish between real loss and imagined loss. It all hurts the same. Six months after the breakup, I heard Chris got engaged to Sister Bimpe. My friend showed me the Instagram post. The proposal photos looked eerily similar to mine. Same garden. Same sunset timing. Same pose. He'd recycled our proposal. Part of me felt vindicated. See? I was right. It wasn't just friendship. Part of me felt like an idiot. How did I not see this sooner? Part of me just felt... sad. Sad for Bimpe because she had no idea what she was walking into. Four months later, they were married. Quick engagement, quick wedding. Like he was in a hurry. I didn't go, obviously. But I heard about it. I heard it was beautiful. I heard that Bimpe looked happy. I prayed for her that day. Genuinely prayed. Because I knew what was coming. And about a year into their marriage, I started hearing whispers. Bimpe had stepped down from ministry. She wasn't posting on social media as much. Seemed withdrawn at church and had gained a lot of weight. I saw her once at a wedding we both had to attend. She couldn't look me in the eye. And I understood. She knew now. She knew what she'd signed up for. And my heart broke for her. Because that could have been me. Two years post-breakup, I'm still single. I'm 30 now. The age I thought I'd be married by. Some days, I'm at peace with it. I've rebuilt my life. My career is thriving. My relationship with my family is stronger than ever. I have good friends. I'm involved in church. I'm... content. Other days, I panic. The biological clock is loud. Very loud. I attend another wedding and feel that familiar ache. I watch my friends with their babies and wonder if I'll ever have that. I field questions from well-meaning aunties: "Omolabake, you're not getting younger o." Thanks, Aunty. I'm aware. But here's what I know now that I didn't know then: Being single is not a failure. Being 30 and unmarried is not a tragedy. Choosing peace over plans is not weakness. I'd rather be 30, single, and whole than 30, married, and broken. I'd rather wait for the right person than rush into a lifetime with the wrong one. I'd rather trust God's timing than force my own. And honestly? I'm grateful. Grateful I listened to my father. Grateful Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi pushed me to pray. Grateful God opened my eyes. Grateful I had the courage to walk away. The aftermath was painful. But nowhere near as painful as a lifetime of that marriage would have been. So yes, I'm still single. But I'm free. And that's worth more than any ring. © Adebimpe Obafemi #TwoMonthsBefore #LessonsLearned #ChristianSingles #Back2Eden #SpiritualGrowth