“If you call me after 9 p.m. and I don’t pick up, it’s not pride. It’s preservation.”

There was a time I couldn’t understand why my parents would hiss when the house phone rang at night.

“Who’s calling at this hour?” they’d grumble, as if the ring itself was an insult to peace.

I used to roll my eyes. It wasn’t midnight — it was just 9 p.m.

We were still awake, so what was the big deal? Why not just pick up?

Now, years later, I get it. I’ve become them.

These days, my phone politely clocks out at 9 p.m. No drama, no guilt, just peace.

This is a public service announcement: if I’m your emergency contact and it’s not life or death, it can wait till morning.

Once upon a time, 2 a.m. was for gist, laughter, and “just one more idea.”

Now, 2 a.m. is for deep sleep or journaling, if my thoughts refuse to rest.

Party nights, dancing till dawn? Don’t get me wrong, it was fun. But now, sleep feels like the better party.

I sleep at 9 p.m., wake up at midnight, sleep again, wake up at 4 a.m. to pray, meditate, and plan my day. Then I rest again till 7 a.m. before heading to the gym.

My peace has a rhythm now. My mind finally found its own clock.

If you text me at 10:17 p.m., you’ll get a reply at 5:43 a.m. Not out of spite, but because that’s when I’m up again, stretching, sipping water, whispering gratitude.

By then, you’ve processed your emotions, moved on, maybe even found a husband — and that’s okay.

It’s funny how adulthood humbles you quietly.

The same rules you once mocked become your survival code.

I finally understand why my parents guarded their nights like sacred ground.

Peace is precious. And noisy living will always try to steal it.

I still don’t understand why people time how fast I reply to messages, as if they bought the phone for me. And even if they did, nko?

People expect instant responses, like it’s part of a service plan.

“Oh, Ada didn’t reply to my message since 3:45 p.m., it’s already 10:15 p.m.”

Well… get over yourself. Life is also life-ing me.

I used to wear exhaustion like a badge. The later I stayed up, the more “productive” I felt.

Now, I wear boundaries like perfume — subtle, intentional, non-negotiable.

We live in a world that glorifies being available 24/7.

Every ping, every buzz, every “urgent” message pulling us away from ourselves.

But not everything deserves instant access. Not every door should stay open all night.

Some doors need closing, even digital ones.

Because sometimes, peace isn’t found in another brainstorm or podcast.

It’s found in stillness — in learning to say, “I’ll reply in the morning.”

When I finally get into my room, the air already knows what I need.

The soft hum of my Tinuke Luxury Reed Diffuser — warm, woody, calming — greets me before I even exhale.

 

We’ve all fallen in love with the new Tinuke Collection from WhiffWonders Company. For me, it’s more than fragrance; it’s a ritual.

Sometimes I spritz my sheets with the Tinuke Room + Linen Fragrance. One mist, and the world softens.

 

The noise outside fades, and even my own thoughts take a seat.

That’s what peace smells like.

Not silence, but calm.

Not luxury in noise, but luxury in stillness.

This is my soft life now — not being everywhere, but being well where I am.

So if you text me after 9 p.m., know this:

I’m not ignoring you.

I’m choosing me.

Choosing calm.

Choosing sleep that smells like Tinuke.

Because peace, my dear, is the real Luxury Silk.

 

Ada Obiajunwa
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Ada Obiajunwa writes from Lagos about the big truths tucked inside ordinary moments — friendship, self-discovery, and the quiet revolutions of everyday life. She believes in the power of presence, good banter, and decoding the unsaid. Through her fragrance studio, WhiffWonders, she also crafts scents that weave memory and emotion into experiences that feel like home.