Mayok Media

Category: Lifestyle

  • “Out of the House, Into the World: Dashing Through Loneliness”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    No one talks enough about the quiet grief of starting over in a new city.

    There’s the initial excitement—the fresh start, the new possibilities. But then comes the silence. The weekends with nowhere to go. The birthdays without familiar faces. The slow realization that knowing a place on a map is not the same as being known in it.

    Loneliness has a sneaky way of slipping in, especially when you’re high-functioning. You get through the workday, send the emails, join the Zoom calls, smile when needed—and then close your laptop to an empty room. That’s when the silence grows louder. That’s when the ache sinks in.

    And so, one day, I signed up for DoorDash. Not for the money—not really. But because I needed to move. I needed to see people. I needed to remind myself that the world was still out there, waiting for me to rejoin it.

    Motion Is Medicine

    There’s something sacred about putting on your shoes, grabbing your keys, and getting behind the wheel when everything in your body tells you to stay in bed.

    DoorDashing became a lifeline. Not because it filled the emotional gap completely, but because it gave me just enough reason to leave the house. To listen to music. To smile at a restaurant worker. To wave at someone as they opened the door. To be part of something, even for 30 seconds.

    It gave me structure when I felt unmoored. It gave me purpose when my purpose felt foggy.

    Micro-Connections That Matter

    People often underestimate the power of small interactions. A warm greeting from a restaurant host. A customer who thanks you sincerely. A child who peeks out the window and waves.

    These aren’t grand friendships. They’re not heart-to-hearts. But they are real. They’re reminders that I exist in relation to others—that I am still part of the human ecosystem.

    And some days, that’s enough.

    The Depression No One Sees

    Depression doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like scrolling mindlessly. Cancelling plans before they’re made. Sitting in silence, convincing yourself you’re fine.

    DoorDashing didn’t fix that. But it disrupted the cycle.

    It helped me interrupt my own isolation. It forced me to open the door—literally and metaphorically.

    And with each delivery, I began delivering myself, slowly, back into the world.

    A Practice of Presence

    Dashing helped me pay attention again. To street names. To shifting seasons. To the way a city comes alive at different hours of the day. It reoriented me.

    I began learning my new city block by block—not just through a screen or Google search, but through experience. I began to reclaim it as my city. I began to show up—not just for customers, but for myself.

    Final Thoughts

    If you’re in a new place, feeling unanchored and unseen, know this: you’re not alone. The ache is real, but so is the possibility of healing.

    You don’t have to force friendships. Sometimes, all you need is movement. A reason to leave the house. A small exchange that reminds you—you’re still here.

    DoorDashing gave me that. Not a cure, but a rhythm. A ritual of reentry. A way to navigate both a new city and my inner world.

    And for now, that’s more than enough.

  • “Packing Problems: The Secret Struggles of a DoorDasher”

    What your food goes through before it gets to you.

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Let me tell you something most people don’t know: the food delivery hustle isn’t just about driving. It’s about engineering. About balance. About strategy and survival—specifically, survival of the fries.

    As a DoorDasher, I’ve learned the hard way that packing problems can turn a smooth delivery into a mini disaster. I’ve seen it all—and at this point, I should get an honorary degree in food Tetris.

    1. The “Handle with Care” Illusion

    You walk into a restaurant and the staff hands you a giant paper bag with no handles. It’s stuffed to the brim, grease already soaking through the bottom, and your fingers are screaming for help. You’re expected to lift it like it’s a bouquet of feathers, but it’s actually a 14-lb dinner-for-five leaking sweet-and-sour sauce.

    Spoiler: No matter how gently you carry it, that bottom is always one turn away from betrayal.

    2. The Drink Dilemma

    Drinks. The bane of every Dasher’s existence.

    Whether it’s a precarious iced latte balanced in a cardboard carrier, or a fast-food cup sweating through thin plastic, one wrong turn and—splash! Now the backseat smells like caramel macchiato, and the straw is somewhere under your brake pedal.

    Even worse? Drinks with dome lids. They look secure but come with the audacity to leak on sight. By the time you arrive, the bottom of the bag is sticky and your car has officially become a soda graveyard.

    3. Sauce Shenanigans

    Sauce packets should come with warning labels.
    “Contents may shift violently in transit.”

    I’ve had hot sauce packets burst in bags, ketchup explode in cup holders, and ranch containers open themselves out of spite. The worst part? The customer always notices.
    “Hi, I asked for extra BBQ sauce… why is it in my drink?”

    Good question, my friend. Good question.

    4. “Securely Sealed” Is a Lie

    Some restaurants proudly staple the bag shut as if that solves everything. But they didn’t seal the insides. So when you take a turn—just one gentle turn—everything inside slides to the corner like passengers in a rollercoaster.

    Burgers topple, fries spill, and somehow the onion rings migrate into the dessert tray. It’s chaos in a paper bag.

    5. The Bag That Burps

    Ever had a delivery bag that made a sound? No? Then you haven’t picked up 3 large containers of pho.

    I once zipped up my hot bag, only to hear it burp 10 minutes later as steam tried to escape. The pressure build-up made the lid pop off one of the soup containers, and it was like a noodle volcano erupted in the back seat. I arrived with a perfectly sealed bag—and a perfectly ruined soup.

    6. The Balancing Act

    You think yoga improves your flexibility? Try balancing a pizza box, a tray of smoothies, and a bag of tacos while opening a customer’s gate in the rain. My foot has become a tool. My elbow? A hook. My nose? Sometimes it presses doorbells.

    Packing isn’t just about space. It’s about balance, angles, grip strength, and the secret hope that gravity is on your side today.

    Final Thoughts: We Do It for the Stars (and the Tips… sometimes)

    Packing problems are part of the gig. They’ve tested my patience, my physics knowledge, and my ability to smile while explaining why the milkshake lid popped off again.

    But with every mishap, I get smarter. I now keep paper towels in the car. I request drink trays like my life depends on it. I gently re-pack when I must, even if the restaurant gives me side-eye. Because at the end of the day, I care. I want people to open their bag and feel joy—not soggy disappointment.

    So next time your fries are still hot or your smoothie arrives standing tall, remember: a DoorDasher somewhere went to battle with bags, bumps, and beverages… and they won.

  • Delivering My Way In: How DoorDashing Helped Me Discover My City (and Myself)

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    When I moved to this town less than a year ago, everything felt unfamiliar. I didn’t know the people, the neighborhoods, or even where to find a decent plate of food. The quiet ache of starting over can be louder than we admit—especially when you’re used to being rooted. But surprisingly, it wasn’t a map, a meetup group, or an app for making friends that helped me find my place—it was DoorDash.

    From Side Hustle to Street-Level Discovery

    At first, I signed up to kill the boredom, use my after work hours more meaningfully, and make new connections. What I didn’t expect was how much this gig would help me learn the fabric of my new surroundings. From Worcester to Shrewsbury, Millbury to Marlboro, Paxton to Spencer. I’ve dashed through side streets, shopping plazas, residential nooks, and winding back roads in Holden, Auburn, Rutland, and Leicester—places I wouldn’t even have thought of going to.

    Each delivery became a micro-tour, a lesson in local life. GPS didn’t just direct me to houses and storefronts—it led me through a living map. And slowly, the dots started connecting.

    The Flavor of Place

    Before DoorDash, I didn’t know where to get a good poke bowl or who made the crispiest wings. Now I’ve picked up from places like:

    • Island Fin Poke Company
    • Charleys Cheesesteaks and Wings
    • Papa Gino’s & D’Angelo
    • Wings Over Worcester
    • Cali-Burrito
    • Red Crab Juicy Seafood
    • Fantastics Pizza and Cafe
    • …plus the everyday stops like Chick-fil-A, Burger King, Dippin Donuts, and 7-Eleven

    Each bag I carry holds more than food. It holds a glimpse into a small business’s rhythm, a family’s dinner table, a worker’s break room. I walk into kitchens I never knew existed and leave with stories—sometimes in the form of scent, sometimes in the form of laughter.

    Faces Behind the Doors

    This job has brought me face to face with more of humanity than I expected. Nurses at the end of long shifts. Students up too late. Parents balancing babies on hips. Elders who bless me with slow smiles and knowing eyes. Strangers with tired faces. Strangers with joy.

    Even in the briefest handoffs, there’s something personal. Something real. However, some just want their food “dropped at the door”, which is also fine.

    Mishaps, Mystery, and Mindful Motion

    Not everything has gone perfectly. I’ve almost delivered to the wrong house more times than I’d like to admit. GPS reroutes can be bold liars. And I once saw a full toilet seat sitting on someone’s porch like it was patio furniture—no questions asked. I have even run into some not so friendly dogs and wondered if I could being my own dog along for moments like that so other dogs know I am also a dog-person.

    I’ve forgotten to check delivery notes, missed sauce requests, and gotten stuck behind trains, school buses, or tractors. But even in those imperfect moments, I’ve stayed in motion—and learned to laugh.

    Not Just Earning—Belonging

    I don’t dash because I have to. I dash because it grounds me. It gets me out of the house, away from endless scrolling, and into spaces I wouldn’t normally visit. I also walk a lot during dashing- especially when I have to deliver at shopping malls or have to park a distance away from my pickup and delivery addresses. Parking can be a menace! For someone still learning a new city, DoorDashing has become a tool of connection—subtle, practical, human.

    It’s helping me feel more rooted, more curious, and more open.

    Each delivery is more than a transaction. It’s an interaction. A chance to be part of someone’s day—and let this city become part of mine.

    And perhaps that’s what I needed all along. Not just a way to connect.
    But a reason to keep moving.
    A reason to belong.

  • “No Tips, Just Grit: My DoorDash Diaries”

    Mary Mba

    I never imagined I’d become a delivery driver.

    Not because I felt above it—but because it wasn’t on my radar. Like many things in life, it came quietly, in a moment of pause—after long days at work and quiet evenings where I felt the urge to move, connect, and discover my surroundings. I downloaded the DoorDash app not out of desperation, but out of curiosity and a desire to meet new people. What I found was far more layered than I expected.

    The First Dash

    I still remember my first delivery. Nerves fluttered in my chest as I hit “start dash,” wondering if the GPS would behave. It did. I picked up the food, followed the route, and gently rang the bell. No tip. No smile. Just a door closing softly before I could say, “Have a great evening.”

    And still—I felt proud. Not for the money, but for moving forward. For doing something new, something honest. For showing up.

    Reflections on Tipping Culture

    One thing I hadn’t fully anticipated was how tipping—or the absence of it—would shape my thoughts on labor, value, and cultural conditioning.

    In the U.S., tipping is often treated as a moral barometer, a stand-in for decency. Yet, it’s also a system built on economic inequity—where many service workers are paid below minimum wage and expected to earn their living through the kindness (or guilt) of customers.

    Contrast that with France, where I once lived and worked. There, tipping—le pourboire—is exactly what the name implies: a small token “to drink with,” not an obligation. It’s rarely expected and never demanded. Good service is assumed as part of one’s professional pride.

    In Nigeria, where I’m from, tipping is even more complex. If someone insists on a tip for a service that should already be compensated, it’s often viewed as egwu—suspicious. Bribery. An ethical red flag. The idea that someone must tip to access fairness or dignity is deeply uncomfortable in many African contexts.

    So here I am, dashing through the streets of Massachusetts, wondering what tipping really means: Is it a form of gratitude? A cultural reflex? A class performance? Or simply another place where our assumptions about worth get exposed?

    Earn by Offer vs. Earn by Time

    DoorDash offers two ways to earn:

    • By Offer: You choose which orders to accept, each with a visible payout.
    • By Time: You’re paid a guaranteed hourly rate for active delivery periods.

    Each has its rhythm. “Earn by Offer” gives you the thrill of choice and strategy, but can leave you short if tips are low. “Earn by Time” is steady and fairer on slow days, but comes with its own limits.

    Neither model can predict kindness. Some days, the tip is generous. Other days, it’s silence in a bag.

    Lessons from the Driver’s Seat

    What I’ve learned is this: I don’t dash for validation. I dash for movement, for presence, for the quiet autonomy it gives me after a long workday. I dash to learn new streets, meet new people, and feed my writing with real-world texture. And yes, I dash to earn a little extra—not out of lack, but out of intention.

    Here are the truths I carry with me between drop-offs:

    • Time is currency. Spend it wisely.
    • Generosity is cultural—and complicated. Extend grace, but hold boundaries.
    • Solitude can heal. And silence can teach.
    • Even without tips, you can still walk away with wisdom.

    Final Thoughts

    DoorDashing isn’t glamorous. But it’s real. It’s human. It’s teaching me about my new city, and about myself—how I navigate, how I adjust, and how I stay grounded in motion.

    This is not a sob story. It’s a street-level meditation on value, labor, and the strange intimacy of showing up at someone’s door with something they need.

    And maybe, in delivering their dinner, I’m also delivering something else—a lesson, a story, a reminder that I’m still in motion.

    No tips? No problem. I’m still moving forward.

    Share your thoughts about the tipping culture.

  • “Movement with Meaning”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    There’s something humbling—and surprisingly empowering—about driving through your city with a car full of movement and meaning.

    When I started DoorDashing, it wasn’t about chasing dollars. It was about reconnecting—with my surroundings, my time, and my sense of direction in more ways than one. After long days at work, I needed something that got me out of the house, off the screen, and into the real world. Something that offered both motion and mindfulness.

    DoorDashing gave me that.

    It gave me routes to learn, new businesses to discover, and a rotating cast of people I’d otherwise never meet. It gave me stories—funny, awkward, kind, and sometimes a little strange. And yes, the extra income doesn’t hurt. But the real gift? Time spent moving with intention.

    Morning Hustles, Evening Grinds

    Some days, I dash early in the morning when the city is still stretching and yawning. The streets are quiet, and the dashboard glows with promise. Other times, I hit the road in the evening rush, dodging detours and watching the city exhale into dinner and downtime.

    What I’ve come to appreciate is the solitude. That soft space between drop-offs, filled with playlists, podcasts, or just silence and breath. It’s become a kind of meditation on wheels.

    I’ve experimented with both Earn by Offer and Earn by Time—one is a strategy game, the other a slow burn. Each has its own rhythm, but both keep me grounded in the fact that I choose how I move through this world.

  • Letter to My Current Self: Navigating the Next Phase

    “A mother, becoming her own home.”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Dear Self,

    They’re growing up. One by one, they will walk out that door, full of ideas and stories you helped shape. Some will leave without hugging you. Some will speak with resentment in their voice. You’ll want to explain. You’ll want to defend yourself.

    But pause. Breathe.

    You have already done enough. You have mothered well.

    Now, it’s time to mother yourself.

    The debts are heavy. The silence hurts. But this next chapter is yours to design—not in service to others, but in service to your peace.

    You are allowed to rest. To say no. To cry. To laugh again without permission. To not answer the phone when your heart is too tender. You are allowed to build something beautiful from the rubble.

    Grieve what you lost. But don’t forget to dream. There’s a whole world waiting for you, beyond duty and sacrifice. Find it. Walk in it.

    You are not alone. And you are not done.

    With love,
    Your becoming self

  • Letter to My Younger Self

    “You did not deserve the shame they gave you.”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Dear girl,

    You were just trying to survive. You thought if you loved hard enough, if you worked hard enough, if you stayed long enough, maybe they would see you. Maybe they would help carry the load. Maybe they wouldn’t walk away.

    I want you to know it wasn’t your fault. The shame you carried for being abandoned, for not being enough, for failing to hold everything together—it was never yours to begin with.

    You were already enough.

    I’m proud of you for fighting. For going back to school. For giving birth and giving love when it felt like no one saw you. You didn’t have the support you deserved. And still, you rose.

    You don’t need to apologize for the boundaries you’re just learning how to set. You don’t need to earn rest or softness. You always deserved both.

    And one day, they’ll look back and realize that the woman they resented was the reason they could stand at all.

    I see you. I honor you. I release you from the need to be everything to everyone.

    Love,
    The woman you became.

  • Healing Prayer

    “A prayer for the weary mother…”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Divine Creator,
    I come to You not as a perfect parent, but as a weary soul.
    You saw every tear I cried in secret.
    You walked with me through hospital rooms, courtrooms, classrooms, and grocery aisles where I counted pennies.
    You saw the strength I didn’t even know I had.
    And You see the pain I carry now.

    I release the guilt.
    I release the shame.
    I release the need to be understood by those not yet ready to see.

    Restore my joy.
    Send peace into the hollow places.
    Send healing into my memories.
    Let those I have lost find their way back—not just to me, but to truth, to clarity, to gratitude.

    Let me live. Let me rest. Let me rise again—not as a fixer, but as a whole woman walking toward light.

    Amen.

  • Journal Letter (for grieving without names)

    “Let me speak my sorrow…”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    I don’t even know where to begin—only that my chest feels too tight and my eyes too full. The ache of being misunderstood is sharp, but the silence that follows is even sharper. I have given everything I had, sometimes more than I should have, for the sake of love, for survival, for the hope of a better future for those I carried, nursed, fed, and fought for.

    Now, when I look around, the emptiness begins to echo louder than any cry. I am grieving not just what’s lost, but what was never truly mine: appreciation, reciprocity, softness. I mothered through fire, and now I sit in the ash.

    No one sees how deep the sacrifices go. The unpaid bills. The sleepless nights. The soul-level exhaustion. The ways I folded myself small so others could feel large. The way I bore insults and kept walking. But now, the accusations hurt because they come from the mouths I once fed, the hearts I once shielded.

    Still—I let this grief pass through me. Not to carry it forever. But to honor it, to give it voice, to set it down.

    I have nothing to prove anymore. My pain has earned its place, and my healing deserves space too.

  • Three Generations of Resilient Women

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    She walked alone,
    my mother—
    first girl in Ezialayi
    to sit in a classroom
    meant only for boys.
    She wrote her name
    on chalkboards of resistance,
    etched it into history
    with every lesson she taught
    as a teacher,
    as a principal,
    as a mother.

    She taught me
    to speak softly
    but walk boldly.
    To read by lantern light,
    to lead from the margins,
    to wear my worth
    like a second skin.

    And I—
    I carried her books in my blood,
    her courage in my bones.
    As I studied, birthed, worked,
    nursed babies between classes,
    and stitched dreams together
    with whatever thread I could find.

    You watched me,
    my daughter,
    small hands in my robe,
    head high in meetings,
    feet tapping under tables,
    learning early that women
    do not wait for permission
    to rise.

    And now it is you—
    hooded in honor,
    garlanded in grace,
    degrees blooming
    in both hands.
    A granddaughter.
    A daughter.
    A rising sun.

    This is not just a graduation.
    It is a legacy fulfilled.
    A lineage of learning.
    A full circle closed—
    only to begin again.