Modupeola Akinyemi: What Writing for 100 Straight Days Taught Me About Myself

I began my 100-day writing challenge because I needed a space to process feelings I didn’t know how to handle. At the start of 2025, everything in my life seemed settled, giving me hope about adulthood. My career was stable. My spiritual life felt rooted. School was going smoothly. My relationship felt certain. I recall waking most mornings with a peaceful feeling that things were finally falling into place.

Then, sometime in the second quarter of the year, my relationship ended. Afterwards, I experienced weeks of emotional turmoil, feeling unfamiliar feelings that overwhelmed me. I sat alone, plagued by persistent thoughts, and I felt my footing slipping, along with my sense of self-worth.

This period spanned Q2 and Q3, which I now refer to as my pruning phase. It was an intensely uncomfortable experience. I struggled to maintain my grades, faced career rejections that dented my confidence, and had to work harder to stay afloat financially. I prayed frequently. Writing was the only thing that kept me sane.

My relationship with writing began months earlier in the most ordinary way. In December 2024, I vented to my partner about Lagos traffic and how draining Lagos life can be. He listened and then casually said, “You should put this in writing”. I did just that. That rant became my first article on Medium. At the time, I didn’t think much of it; I knew that putting my thoughts in writing made me feel lighter. 

Meanwhile, I have always been an overthinker. Writing provided an outlet for those swirling thoughts. During my pruning phase, journaling became a daily habit. I penned my feelings through frustration and prayer. Some days, tears accompanied my writing. On others, I wrote simply because I didn’t know what else to do. But each time, I gained clarity.

By the time Q4 arrived, I realised how much writing had benefited me. I was determined to take it seriously, to grow in it, and even to earn from it. One afternoon, while working on my vision board, I listed goals for my finances, academics and career. When I got to writing, I wrote “Be known as a writer” and paused.

I had fallen in love with writing. I wanted to be recognised for it. How do I stay consistent with it? I could write when I felt inspired or when my emotions were intense. However, showing up on ordinary days when I was tired or uninspired was difficult. I sat there for a long time, staring at the words, wondering how that could happen when I couldn’t even trust myself to write regularly. So I called my friend Susan.

I shared with her how much writing had helped me and how frustrated I felt about my inconsistency. She listened and then suggested a 100-day writing challenge, like creators like Mofe Ade, Salem King and others who had undertaken similar pursuits. I laughed and responded, “I’m not Salem or Mofe. That’s a lot of work. What would I even write for 100 days?”

After our talk, the idea lingered. It felt intimidating and a bit absurd, but at the same time, like the structure I needed. I thought about it for days, argued with myself, imagined failing, and running out of things to say. Eventually, half afraid and half determined, I declared that I was starting a 100-day writing challenge. I didn’t have a detailed plan or know what I’d write each day. All I had was determination and a somewhat dramatic public declaration. I only knew that writing helped me survive a tough season, and I was curious to see what would happen if I committed to showing up every day.

A few days later, I was talking with Efe Obiomah, a PR consultant. She always offers something new to learn. She has a knack for seeing opportunities where others see hobbies. I mentioned the 100-day writing challenge casually, expecting a simple, “Oh, nice.” Instead, she was excited.

She explained how powerful such a challenge could be for my brand. Consistent presence, she said, positions you in people’s minds, builds familiarity, trust, and authority. When your name keeps appearing alongside certain values, people start to associate you with them, turning visibility into credibility.

I listened closely. Originally, the challenge was a personal, almost therapeutic exercise for me. But her words made me realise it could also influence how the world perceives me. Then she asked, “So what do you intend to write about? What should we be expecting?”

I replied confidently, “Everything.”

She smiled and said, “Everything is nothing.”

She explained that writing about everything without focus would make it hard for people to understand what I truly stood for. Clarity helps others know what to expect from you, remember you, and reduces the difficulty for opportunities to find you because your voice is clear. Personal branding, she noted, isn’t just about visibility; it’s about deliberate positioning.

That evening, I reflected deeply on that conversation.

Until then, I wrote impulsively, driven by emotion. I wrote what I felt, what came to mind, and to survive. Now, I had to write with purpose. I sat on my bed with my notebook, listing everything I genuinely enjoyed writing about: self-discovery, friendships, healing, growth, adulthood, ambition, identity and love. I wrote without filtering.

When I first started on the 3rd of November, I was bubbling with excitement. The initial days felt absolutely electric. I’d wake up early, eager to write, edit, and post between 7 a.m. and 8 a.m., every single day. There was a genuine satisfaction in knowing that before the world woke up with its noise, I had already kept a promise to myself.

The response was truly heartwarming. Friends, family, colleagues, and even strangers online sent encouraging messages. “I’m proud of you.” “You can do it.” “This is such a bold move.” Some even sent small gifts. Others shared my work and cheered me on openly. I remember reading messages from people I scarcely knew and feeling profoundly seen. For the first ten days, it felt like an entire stadium was rooting for me.

In those days, I was really motivated.

Then, somewhere between days 15 and 30, reality settled in.

I hadn’t batch-created my content, and honestly, I didn’t want to. I wanted to experience the journey as it happened, feeling each moment as it unfolded. I wanted each piece to feel alive and connected to that exact day. But that meant waking up every morning asking myself, “What am I writing about today?”

The applause started to fade. The congratulatory messages became fewer. People’s attention shifted elsewhere, and I found myself still here, staring at a blinking cursor. I started to feel anxious: What if I ran out of ideas? What if I had already shared my best thoughts?

During that time, I remembered something I read in Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being. In a chapter titled “Look for Clues,” he encouraged creatives to stay observant and notice what others overlook, and pay attention to their surroundings. There is always something worth noticing. I began observing everything around me—conversations at work, scenes at the market, lines from movies, a passing comment from a lecturer, an argument I overheard at the bus stop, my own reactions to disappointment, the way someone said “sorry” without really meaning it, and the deep significance behind someone else’s apology. Life itself became material.

Around that time, I started framing my headlines as “What if” questions: What if you are not behind? What if you are becoming? What if you have a bad character? and they opened up space for reflection. They turned my writing into conversations instead of mere conclusions. I never expected it to become a habit, but it did. Before long, people began to look forward to it.

From that point on, I stopped worrying about running out of ideas.

Of course, there were still tough days. I had days when work deadlines and school responsibilities left me exhausted and running on little sleep. On day 43, I posted past 7 p.m., which was unusual for me. Earlier that day, my friend Damilare called to ask why I hadn’t posted yet. I told him I was working on it. After the call, I accidentally dozed off, woke up startled, and rushed to finish my piece.

Some days felt that heavy. But I kept showing up.

By then, I cared less about validation. I had made a public commitment—and more importantly, a private one—to myself. At that point, my goal was simply to write every day and enjoy the process. On day 50, I was tired in a way that sleep could not fix.

I went out for a small celebratory dinner with a friend to mark the halfway point. We dressed up, ordered good food, took pictures and laughed. Yet, somewhere between the appetiser and the main course, I kept asking myself, who really sent me message to do this? I was proud, but I was exhausted. Fifty days of showing up daily is not a cute aesthetic. It is work.

Days 51 to 100 stretched me the most. By then, I had changed. Around the middle of the challenge, I noticed how different my mind felt. I paid attention to everything. Ordinary moments became material. Conversations, frustrations, memories, prayers. Writing made me more present in my own life.

It also made me kinder to myself. On days the writing felt clumsy, I posted it anyway. I stopped waiting for the perfect mood. I wrote when I was tired, when I was busy, when I was distracted, when I was fine, when I was not. I became less talkative and more observant. My discipline improved quietly. I believed in myself more. I stopped writing to impress the algorithm and started writing to express my thoughts in ways that would resonate deeply.

When I went viral on Substack after celebrating 100 subscribers and gaining 62 new subscribers in 24 hours, I was ecstatic. I kept refreshing the page in disbelief. Finally, they see me. One of my most fulfilling moments was someone texting me on Twitter, now X, about how my article on friendships made him feel seen. That stayed with me.

I learned that the world is loud about visibility but quiet about effort. Everyone talks about growth, but few have the patience to watch it happen. Clout may be the currency. Consistency is the cost. Staying when no one is watching. Creating when no one claps. Believing when no one validates you. The absence of noise does not make your work less sacred. And just because people are seeing you now does not mean you are late.

Halfway through the challenge, I landed my first paid technical writing gig from someone who never engaged publicly but noticed I showed up daily. There were cash gifts, spa cards, and brunch invitations. By day 80, I was no longer counting down. Writing had become part of me. I was tired, yet I did not want it to end. My sister, Kike and my friend Damilare reposted my articles every single day from Day 1 to Day 100. It took a village.

On Day 100, the 10th of February, 2026, I looked back and realised the challenge did not just build a platform for me. It rebuilt me.