Love, Fishbowls, and the Unscripted Hugs That Set Me Free

The Fishbowl

It happens often now: strangers see me with my nephews and assume I’m their mother. At first, it startled me. My mom would chuckle, correcting them — “No, that’s my daughter, and this is her nephew” — but their assumptions lingered like static.

To them, a woman tending to a child must fit a script: marriage, motherhood, a life measured by milestones.

I call it living in a fishbowl. People press their noses to the glass, gawking at choices they don’t understand. “You’ve missed the boat on marriage,” some say, as if love were a ferry schedule. Others suggest adoption, as though my worth hinges on a title.

But here’s the secret they miss: inside this fishbowl, I’ve found an ocean.

The Alchemy of Aunts, Aprons, and Monkey Armies

I have three nephews — ages 10, 5, and 3.

The eldest started me on this journey. With him, I learned that love could be this magical. He’s my first monkey; his brother followed, and then their cousin, my youngest nephew, made my little monkey army official.

With the eldest, I waited the longest — waited until he was old enough for LEGO sets, and I’m still waiting for the day I can gift him the full Calvin and Hobbes collection. But along the way, we’ve explored so many books together.

My favourite place to find stories for my monkeys is The Marginalian. The books I pick aren’t just entertainment — they’re little gifts, vessels carrying my love. In every story, they don’t just meet new worlds; they feel the shape of my heart, page by page.

With my three-year-old nephew, I’m “pretty much his age,” at least in his eyes. We charge each other like batteries: “Bua is low on energy, buddy. Hug me till 20?” He’ll wrap his arms around me, counting aloud, and suddenly a meltdown over mismatched socks becomes a quiet miracle.

With the five-year-old, I have a Friday baking partner. We scour YouTube for cookie recipes, dust flour on the counter, and argue over chocolate chips. He doesn’t care if the edges burn. What matters is the ritual: flour fingerprints on my phone, his laugh when the timer dings, the way he waits for the baked goodies to cool.

These moments aren’t parenting. They’re collaboration. Love, I’ve realised, isn’t about filling a void — it’s about building bridges between hearts.

The Big Leap (and the Fish That Jumped)

Years ago, in a coaching session, I declared myself “a possibility of love.” At the time, it felt like wishful thinking. Then I stumbled on a book called The Big Leap, its cover a fish mid-leap, escaping a tiny bowl. The metaphor gutted me.

Author Gay Hendricks writes about self-imposed “upper limits” — the stories we cling to because familiar pain feels safer than unknown freedom.

My bowl was forged young: conditional love that dangled approval like a carrot. Do well. Be quiet. Look right. Earn this.For decades, I swam in circles, convinced I was unlovable.

But my nephews? They love like it’s breathing. No applications, no audits. Just “Bua, let’s make cookies!” or “play with me!”

One morning, after a tantrum over school clothes, I sat cross-legged with the three-year-old. “What if we charge each other?” I asked. We hugged, counted to 20, and something shifted.

Love wasn’t a reward; it was a renewable resource.

The Night Love Walked In

Last week, while drafting this piece, my nephew wandered into my room. Dinner was done, bedtime still a while away , T-shirt mismatched with his shorts , hair a riot of soft curls.

He paused at my desk, snuggled for a hug, and said, “I love you, Bua.” Then he left.

No fanfare. No agenda. Just three words that cracked me open.

That’s the thing about love — it doesn’t knock. It arrives in mango stained Ts, mid-sentence, when you’re least prepared. It’s not a trophy or a transaction. It’s a child’s sticky hand slipping into yours at the zoo. It’s the little monkey asking if you’ve taken your meds.” It’s the way a 20-second hug can recalibrate a universe.

The Ocean Beyond the Bowl

Society still peers into my fishbowl, baffled. Why isn’t she married? Why no kids? But I’m no longer the fish they’re watching. I’ve leaped.

The truth? Love was never scarce. I’d just been handed the wrong map. It’s not a finish line — it’s the dirt under our nails while planting tomatoes. It’s the batter-smudged phone, the tears wiped mid-hug, the way a three-year-old’s “I love you” lingers like sunlight long after he’s left the room.

I used to think healing meant fixing old wounds. Now I know: it’s about building new landscapes where love flows freely — unasked, unearned, ours.

So let them gawk at the fishbowl. I’m too busy swimming in the sea.

Epilogue

After my nephew’s bedtime declaration, I closed my laptop and sat in the dark, smiling. Somewhere, a fish was leaping. Somewhere, a bowl was shattering.

And here, in the quiet, love was rewriting the rules — one unscripted hug at a time.