AYLA IN AFRICA

Author: Ayla Jane

  • Radical Individualism

    I came across this term recently, Radical Individualism, in my small group. At first, it was a phrase that felt foreign, like a sociological idea I’d never really thought about before. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized how deeply familiar it actually was. Because, in truth, it’s become the very air we breathe in modern society.

    For much of my life, I wore independence like a badge of honor. I prided myself on being able to do everything on my own, convincing myself that needing others was weakness. I thought self-reliance meant strength. And while there is value in resilience, in determination, I’ve come to see how this mindset can also become destructive, both to ourselves and to the world around us.

    Society celebrates the lone achiever, the “self-made” success story, the person who “needs no one.” We are told over and over that freedom is found in doing it all ourselves, carving our own path, and putting ourselves first. But if that’s true, then why are we living in one of the loneliest generations in history? Why are depression, anxiety, and suicide rates higher than ever before, especially in the very places where people have more material wealth, comfort, and opportunity than almost any other time in human history?

    I think it comes down to radical individualism.

    So what is it? Radical individualism is the belief that the highest good is personal autonomy, that the most important thing in life is the self: my rights, my choices, my freedom, my success, my happiness. It’s the airbrushed motto of our time: “Do you. Look out for number one. Live your truth.” It tells us that the self is ultimate, and that community, tradition, or collective responsibility come second, if at all.

    We see it every day.

    We see it in the way people are glued to their phones while sitting in a café surrounded by strangers they never acknowledge.
    We see it in the endless pursuit of “financial freedom,” as if reaching a certain salary could somehow fulfil us.

    We see it in the curated lives plastered across social media, the new car, the kitchen renovation, the big house, the promotion, the holiday abroad, all framed as proof of success, proof of worth. And always, it’s done “for ourselves.”

    But radical individualism comes at a cost. It breeds discontent because there’s never enough, enough money, enough recognition, enough “likes.” Even when we get what we thought we wanted, the joy is fleeting. And so the cycle continues: striving, achieving, upgrading, isolating.

    Research has shown people who tie their self-worth or happiness to financial success often end up more anxious, stressed, and dissatisfied, because the very thing they are chasing becomes the thing that enslaves them. And I can feel the weight of that truth, because I’ve seen it all around me, and at times within myself. 

    It also deepens economic inequality. We celebrate the entrepreneur who “made it on their own,” but rarely stop to consider the privileges that made their journey possible, the country they were born in, education, family wealth, networks, or systemic advantages that not everyone has.

    Social media tells us that anyone can hustle their way to success, but the reality is far more complex. Radical individualism not only overlooks inequality, it disguises it. It tells the struggling single mother working two jobs that if she just tried harder, she could have the life of the influencer she sees online. It tells the young man in a developing nation that his lack of opportunity is his fault, not the result of global structures stacked against him.

    But perhaps the most devastating consequence of radical individualism is loneliness.

    We are lonely, even when we are not alone. Surrounded by people, but disconnected from them. We scroll instead of speak. We text instead of call. We fill every moment with noise and distraction, yet starve for real connection. We’ve forgotten what true community looks like, what it means to share life deeply, to carry one another’s burdens, to be seen and known not for what we achieve but simply for who we are.

    And I know I’m guilty of this too. I get busy, distracted, consumed with my own responsibilities and worries. Before I know it, months have passed without calling friends back home. Even here on the ship, where I live alongside friends in close quarters, I can go a week without slowing down enough to really check in with them, to ask how they are, really are.

    But I don’t think we were ever meant to live this way.

    From the very beginning, God said, “It is not good for man to be alone.” We were created for community, for family, for friendship, for shared life. And when I look at the life of Jesus, I see this truth lived out in every step He took.

    Jesus did not live as a radical individualist. He didn’t isolate Himself in pursuit of self-fulfilment or personal achievement. Instead, He lived in community. He chose disciples to walk alongside Him. He ate with people. He wept with people. He celebrated weddings, visited homes, taught in groups, healed in crowds. His ministry was built not on independence but on interdependence. Even as the Son of God, He modelled dependence, on the Father, on the Spirit, and on the relationships He cultivated around Him.

    And this isn’t just a “Christian” truth. Even if you set faith aside for a moment, human history, psychology, and science all point to the same reality, we aren’t built to live only for ourselves. From the earliest days of humanity, survival depended on community. Tribes hunted together, shared resources, cared for one another’s children, and protected the vulnerable. Connection was not optional, it was life.

    Even now, research consistently shows that people who are embedded in strong communities live longer, healthier, more fulfilled lives. Loneliness, on the other hand, has been linked to higher rates of depression, anxiety, heart disease, and even early death. We are literally wired, biologically, emotionally, socially, for connection, for reciprocity, for love.

    And yet, in our modern culture, we’re encouraged to chase independence at all costs. To make our lives about “me” my goals, my family, my success, my comfort, my future. But deep down, most of us know that the things that make life truly meaningful are not the promotions or possessions, but the relationships. It’s the moments of laughter around a table, the shoulder offered in grief, the friend who answers the phone at 2 a.m., the neighbour who shows up when you’re sick.

    But it’s not just about living in community, it’s about how we show up in it. True community isn’t simply being surrounded by people, it’s choosing to live in a way that is selfless, generous, and outward-focused. It’s not just asking, “What do I need?” but also, “What does my neighbor need? What can I give? How can I lighten someone else’s load?”

    Our culture trains us to measure everything by personal gain, but the deepest meaning is found in giving ourselves away. Whether it’s sacrificing time to sit with someone in pain, sharing resources even when we don’t have much, or simply paying attention to someone who feels invisible, these are the moments that matter. These are the actions that create bonds strong enough to weather hardship. When we stop living only for ourselves and begin to think of others first, we don’t just build stronger communities, we become more whole ourselves.

    So what does community mean today? It means slowing down. It means putting down the phone and looking someone in the eyes. It means choosing to call the friend you’ve been meaning to for months. It means showing up at a neighbor’s door with food. It means creating space at your table, even when life is messy and you feel like you have nothing to give. It means asking for help when you need it, and offering help when someone else does.

    For me, it also means being intentional, reminding myself, sometimes daily, that I don’t want to be consumed by individualism. I don’t want to drift into a life where everything revolves around me, my goals, my needs, my comfort. I want to live in a way that reflects the community of Jesus: open, generous, sacrificial, and loving. A life that notices others. A life that doesn’t just say people matter, but shows it.

    But if I’m being really honest, I know I fall short of this. A lot. I get busy, distracted, caught up in my own head. Too often, I choose convenience over community. I push aside that nudge to call a friend because I’m tired. I walk past opportunities to stop and listen because I’m in a rush. I tell myself I’ll “make time later,” but later doesn’t always come. Even on the ship, where I live surrounded by people I care about, I can go a week without really checking in, without slowing down enough to ask how someone is really doing.

    And I don’t like admitting that. Because it reveals a gap between the life I want to live and the life I’m actually living. But naming it matters. It’s part of holding myself accountable, of choosing not to settle for good intentions but leaning toward change.

    I know I need to grow in this. I want to be someone who reaches out more often, who makes space for others even when it’s inconvenient, who resists the pull to turn inward when life gets overwhelming. I want to do better at slowing down, at being present, at choosing people over productivity. Because deep down, I know that’s where the real beauty of life is found, in the moments we choose to step outside of ourselves and give.

    Because at the end of the day, it’s not the new car, the promotion, or the financial freedom that will matter. It’s the people we walked alongside. The lives we touched. The love we gave and received.

    We weren’t meant to live alone.
    We were meant to live together.
    And when we do, we discover that true joy, true fulfillment, and true freedom are found not in individualism, but in love.

  • Time Away

    Sometimes the most necessary thing you can do is step back, create distance, breathe, and refill your cup so that you can return with strength, clarity, and a heart ready to pour out again. This summer, I was blessed with the opportunity to do just that.

    And yet, as much as I longed for rest, as much as my body and mind craved a pause from the relentless rhythm of Connaught, there was a knot of conflicting feelings tangled deep inside me.

    When the ship sailed away at the end of the last field service, I left with a strange ache in my chest. My team, my people, were continuing the work without me. Katie, my colleague and friend, would be facing the daily challenges of Connaught alone again. Big meetings and annual reviews were looming on the horizon, and I knew my support from the other side of the world would be limited at best.

    There was guilt.

    Guilt that I got to step away when others didn’t.

    Guilt that I could rest while she shouldered the full weight of our shared mission.

    Guilt that I would be wandering through markets and mountains while Katie was in crowded wards fighting for resources.

    And yet, mingled in with that guilt was another feeling, one I didn’t want to admit. Frustration. Frustration that I wasn’t staying. That I felt, in some deep corner of my heart, slightly left out. That my absence might make me less needed, less integral. I knew in my head that none of those thoughts were true, but they still knocked on the door of my heart, asking to be let in.

    I had to decide what to do with them. 

    Jesus met me there.

    He reminded me that my worth is not measured by constant doing. That rest is not selfish, it’s obedience. That even He, stepped away from the crowds to pray, to be renewed, to draw close to the Father.

    Verses like Mark 6:31 echoed in my heart: “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”

    He showed me that this time away was not a betrayal of my calling, but a strengthening for it. That rest equips us to return with more to give, not less.

    But He also used this time to humble me. To remind me of how easily I can take for granted the privilege of stepping away at all.

    In Sierra Leone, most people I work alongside, nurses, cleaners, porters, doctors, don’t have that option. They work tirelessly, day after day, without the luxury of escape. Time off for them isn’t a plane ticket to another country, it’s a rare Sunday afternoon nap or a moment of laughter with family before the next shift.

    And here I was, flying across Europe. Eating pastel de nata in Portugal, their sweet custard still warm from the oven. Swimming in waters so impossibly clear in Croatia that I could see the sunlight dancing on the seabed. Walking the quiet, glassy shores of Lake Bled in Slovenia. Listening to the haunting, resilient stories of Bosnia & Herzegovina. Watching the sun sink into the Adriatic in Montenegro. Standing on mountain ridges in the Albanian Alps, wind in my hair, heart full of awe.

    Every step of that journey was a gift. A privilege. And one that countless people will never experience.

    I was, and am, deeply grateful.

    I’m learning something important: it’s okay to feel the guilt. It’s okay to acknowledge the frustration. It’s okay to admit when emotions aren’t neat or pretty. Pretending everything is fine doesn’t make me stronger, it makes me disconnected from my own humanity.

    But it’s also dangerous to let myself get trapped in those negative currents. I can acknowledge the feelings without letting them pull me under. I can recognize my privilege without drowning in shame. And I can choose, every day, not to take it for granted, the chance to step away, to breathe deeply, to return renewed.

    This time away reminded me that rest is a gift, not a given. And the right response to a gift is not guilt, it’s gratitude.

    Gratitude that I could go.
    Gratitude that I could return.

    And gratitude that, even in my absence, the work God began continues, because it was never mine to carry alone .

  • Processing

    On returning to the ship after what felt like one of the most challenging field services for so many of us, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about processing.

    Coming back, I’ve had conversations in passing with friends, over coffee, in the dining room, cozied up in my cabin, where we ask each other: “How was your time away?” “Have you had a chance to process?” “Do you feel ready for the next field service?”

    And every time I hear those questions, they linger in my mind.

    Have I processed the last field service?

    And if so, what does that even look like?

    When I look back over my life, I can see clearly that the way I used to “process” things, whether it was a hard day at work, a fight with a friend, the breakdown of a relationship, or a traumatic event, wasn’t really processing at all. It was survival.

    I would bury the pain deep inside, packing it down layer by layer, telling myself it was gone. But really, it was still there, alive under the surface, quietly waiting for the moment it would all spill out. And when it did, it often came out sideways, through anger, withdrawal, or habits that dulled the ache without ever healing it.

    I had a whole arsenal of unhealthy coping mechanisms: staying endlessly busy so I wouldn’t have to think, running away from my problems, numbing myself with distractions and unhealthy habits, or shutting people out completely. I thought I was protecting myself. But in reality, I was building walls so high that no one, not even me, could see what was happening inside.

    And then, I met Jesus.

    Everything changed.

    Now, I don’t want to paint some glossy picture and pretend that the moment I came into my faith, I suddenly knew exactly how to process pain in a healthy, godly way. That wouldn’t be honest. The truth is, I’m still learning. I’ll always be learning. I still stumble. I still have moments where the old me, the “old Ayla” wants to take back control, to run back to those habits that once made me feel safe but only did damage.

    But here’s the difference: I know now that there is another way. A better way.

    That way is Jesus.

    When I read Matthew 11:28,“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” I hear an invitation, not just for those big life burdens, but for the everyday heaviness I carry. It’s an invitation to bring it all, the grief, the confusion, the unanswered questions, right to Him.

    Processing with Jesus looks nothing like how I used to do it.

    It’s not about numbing, avoiding, or pretending I’m fine. It’s about slowing down long enough to feel what I’m feeling, and then laying it at His feet. It’s about sitting with Him in the quiet, letting His presence be the place where I untangle the knots in my heart.

    Sometimes that means opening my Bible and finding words that name my pain and anchor my hope. Sometimes it means writing until my thoughts become prayers on a page. Sometimes it’s walking in silence, letting creation remind me of God’s bigness when my problems feel overwhelming. And sometimes it’s just being still, whispering, “Jesus, I don’t know what to do with this, but I give it to You.”

    Another verse that has become a lifeline for me is 1 Peter 5:7—
    “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”

    There is something profoundly freeing in knowing that I don’t have to hold it all. That I was never meant to. That the God who holds the universe is willing to hold me, my heart, my hurt, my processing, without judgment, without rush.

    The difference now is that I’m not processing alone.

    Before, I thought strength meant independence, that I had to sort through everything in my own mind and on my own terms. Now, I see that strength is dependence, dependence on the One who knows me better than I know myself.

    And yes, I still journal. I still write. I still pray. But now, those aren’t just coping mechanisms, they’re communion. They’re sacred spaces where I meet with God, where my processing becomes prayer, where my pain becomes part of my testimony.

    I’m learning that processing isn’t about “getting over” something. It’s about letting God walk with me through it. It’s about letting Him speak into the places I’ve tried to silence. It’s about trusting that He can handle the full weight of my heart.

    And in that space, I am finding the courage to process.
    To face what I’ve seen, to feel it fully, and to place it in His hands.
    The kind of deep, soul-level processing that only He can guide me through.

  • Strong Like Water

    Isaiah 43:2 “ When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.”

    Lately God has been inviting me and challenging me to rethink what it really means to be strong. Not the kind of strength that comes from pushing through or holding everything together, but a deeper, quieter strength, one that’s rooted in grace and presence. It’s been a humbling journey, and today, I’d love to share a part of that with you.

    There are seasons in life when we feel like we’re barely staying afloat. Maybe it’s the weight of loss, chronic exhaustion, a relationship that’s broken, or the emotional toll of carrying burdens no one else can see. These are the “deep water” moments of life, where strength is needed, but where the kind of strength we’ve always leaned on doesn’t seem to hold up anymore.

    In these moments, many of us have internalized a particular version of strength: the kind that pushes through, stays stoic, and never shows weakness. It’s the strength that tells us to be tough, stay busy, and keep smiling. But what happens when that kind of strength runs out?

    That question is at the heart of a book I recently read called Strong Like Water by Aundi Kolber, a Christian therapist and trauma-informed writer. She offers a radically different view of strength, one that isn’t about becoming harder or more resistant, but instead about becoming more connected, more compassionate, more attuned to ourselves, others, and to God.

    She writes that true strength isn’t brittle. It doesn’t ignore pain or push it aside. Instead, it flows, like water. It adapts. It moves with grace. It yields when needed, but it never loses its power. This idea of being “strong like water” spoke deeply to me because it named something I had already been learning, sometimes painfully, on the front lines of service.

    As most of you know I recently started working off ship at a hospital in Freetown, mentoring nurses and walking alongside them through all kinds of clinical and emotional challenges. Some days are full of joy and progress; others feel heavy and heart-wrenching. There are moments when I’ve watched patients die because basic resources aren’t available, or when I’ve seen dedicated nurses pushed beyond their limits. The pressure to perform, support others, and be a source of strength can feel unrelenting.

    At first, I did what I’d always done: I pushed through. I told myself I had to be strong. I believed the lie that if I let myself slow down or feel too much, I would fail the people around me. So I worked long hours, put my own needs last, and kept showing up, even when I was emotionally empty.

    Eventually, my body and heart began to protest. I could feel myself going numb. Disconnected. Worn thin. The waters were rising, and I knew I couldn’t keep swimming in the same way. That’s when God began to gently invite me into a different kind of strength.

    Learning to be “strong like water” meant learning to stay present in hard places, not by fixing everything, but by being with people in their pain. It meant listening more and talking less. It meant grieving when I needed to grieve, resting when I needed to rest, and allowing God to meet me in my limits instead of trying to pretend I didn’t have any.

    I began to see strength not as pushing harder, but as allowing grace to carry me. I saw it in the quiet resilience of a nurse who kept showing up even after a night of loss. I saw it in the tear-streaked face of a mother who stayed beside her child’s bed, praying without words. I saw it in myself, in moments when I chose to soften instead of shut down, to keep my heart open, even when it hurt.

    Jesus, too, embodied this kind of strength. He wept with the grieving. He stopped to rest. He touched the unclean. He didn’t rush through suffering or avoid discomfort, He entered into it with fierce compassion and a steady peace. His power was never disconnected from love. He was strong like water.

    And the promise of Isaiah 43:2 reminds us: we are not alone in the deep waters. God doesn’t say *“if” you pass through the rivers—*He says “when.” The hardship is expected. But so is His presence.

    So if you’re walking through something hard right now, or if you’re holding space for others who are, I want to invite you to consider this:

    • Could it be that strength isn’t what you thought it was?

    • Could it be that God is more interested in your surrender than your performance?

    • Could it be that He is offering you the courage to soften rather than harden?

    You don’t have to force your way through. You don’t have to prove your worth. God is already with you in the water. And He is not asking you to be invincible, only present, only willing, only surrendered to His grace.

  • The Hard Days

    They say grief comes in waves, and I think that’s true of the hard days too.

    Working at Connaught sometimes feels like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. There are moments of hope and breakthrough, but lately… it’s felt heavy. Really heavy. The last month has been filled with some long, difficult days that seem to blur into one another, each one layered with its own weight, its own heartbreak.

    And it’s not that I haven’t experienced hard shifts before. I’ve worked back home in busy, high-pressure hospitals, juggling too many patients, managing codes, supporting grieving families, and walking out of the ward emotionally drained and physically wrecked. I’ve held the hand of a dying patient and comforted their loved ones, all while trying to keep pace with protocols, alarms, and expectations. Those shifts were intense, heartbreaking, and at times overwhelming.

    But Connaught… it’s different.

    Here, the challenges cut deeper, not because the patients are sicker, but because the safety nets I took for granted simply don’t exist. It’s not just short-staffed; it’s under-resourced in ways that force impossible decisions. It’s knowing what to do, how to help, but being unable to.

    The hard days here don’t just leave me tired, they leave me changed.

    A “difficult day” here doesn’t just mean being busy or overwhelmed. It means standing over a patient who is dying because we’ve run out of oxygen. It means trying to resuscitate someone with an ambu bag that has holes in it, knowing full well it’s not going to work the way it should. It means watching a patient die not because we lacked skill or care, but because he couldn’t afford the emergency supplies for the surgery that might have saved his life.

    It means holding the body of a baby, his chest still, after hours of trying to bring him back, knowing that if he had received care just a little earlier, he might have lived. But the nurses were stretched too thin. The health system failing him before he even had a chance.

    These moments stay with you. They don’t dissolve with the end of a shift. They sit in your chest, they wake you at night, they change the way you pray.

    At home, we fight to give our best care within a structure that mostly supports us. Here, we fight for the basics, gloves, medications, running water, electricity, and we still lose patients we might have saved anywhere else. The grief feels heavier because it’s laced with injustice. The exhaustion hits harder because it’s tangled with helplessness. And the victories, when they come, feel monumental, because we know exactly what it took to get there.

    I’m writing this not for sympathy, but for honesty. I love my job, deeply. I believe in this work with every part of who I am. But it’s not always easy. And I don’t always know what to do with the things I carry.

    When I return to the ship after a day at Connaught and someone asks me, “How was your day?” sometimes all I can manage is “fine.” Not because that’s the truth, but because I don’t know how to translate what I’ve seen into words that won’t overwhelm or burden the person asking. Sometimes I want to scream or cry or just be held in silence, but instead, I smile. I shrug. I tuck it all away.

    I’ve always prided myself on being strong. Independent. The joyful one. The helper. The one who listens. I’ve carried that identity like armor. But what I’m learning, slowly and painfully, is that strength doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean carrying everything alone.

    Over the past few months, I’ve built habits that help me cope, journaling, praying, reading Scripture, writing out what I can’t say out loud. Those tools have become lifelines. But I’ve also realized something deeply important: I need to talk. Writing helps me process, yes. But I’m a talker. I need to say it out loud. I need to be witnessed.

    This week, I finally reached out to chaplaincy. I sat down and let the words spill out. Some came easily, others broke as they came. But by the end of that session, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: relief. Not because the pain had gone. But because it had been shared. Because someone had looked me in the eyes and said, “That’s heavy. I see you. You’re not alone.”

    And that’s what I’m learning: I can’t do this alone. The work I do is sacred. But it is also brutal at times. And trying to carry it without support is not noble, it’s dangerous. Without space to speak, to cry, the grief bottles up. It festers. It waits to explode. And I’ve lived long enough to know the damage that can do.

    I’m learning that needing help isn’t weakness. That asking for space to process is not indulgent, it’s necessary. That vulnerability isn’t a crack in my foundation, it is the foundation.

    So I’m giving myself permission now.

    To ask for help.

    To lean on others.

    To say “I’m not okay today” and let that be enough.

    Because strength, I’m realizing, doesn’t come from holding it all together. 

    It comes from letting someone else hold it with you.

  • Threads of the Same Fabric

    Every day, I find myself trying to hold two truths in tension, joy and sorrow, love and loss, each one vast, vivid, and deeply real. At Connaught, my days are steeped in contrast. I see deep love and deep grief, joy and devastation, celebration and mourning, often all within the same hour. It’s a place where a patient willingly gives up their only medical supplies to help someone else in greater need. Where someone’s mother dies because the medicine she needs is unaffordable. It’s where laughter echoes down a hallway just hours after heartbreak filled the same space. 

    And somehow, I’ve come to see that these contrasts aren’t separate. They aren’t opposite ends of a scale that I need to balance. They are all part of the same whole. I’m beginning to understand that love and suffering are not two different things, but threads of the same fabric. That joy and sorrow walk hand in hand. That’s something I’m learning deeply through God.

    But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Some days, I come back to the ship with a full heart, bursting with gratitude, for the nurses who tried their hardest, for the patient who pulled through, for the quiet moment of grace in the chaos. And other days, I return hollowed out, angry at the world. Angry at God. I slam my journal shut after scrawling the words, Why God? Why? I ask Him to help me make sense of it all. To show me what good could possibly come from a child dying because they didn’t have a simple antibiotic. I wrestle with the injustice. With the brokenness. With the ache of helplessness.

    And yet, even in that questioning, even in the anger and confusion and exhaustion, I’m beginning to know something. I’m learning that God doesn’t ask me to pretend the pain isn’t real. He doesn’t ask me to paste a smile over my grief. He asks me to come to Him with it all. To trust that He is big enough to hold both my joy and my sorrow. Because He feels it too. He feels our joy. And He feels our pain.

    In my darkest, most disoriented moments, He is there. When I cry out to Him in anger, He doesn’t turn away, He leans in closer. And when I’m overwhelmed by joy, when I feel love so strong it threatens to split my heart open, I believe He is rejoicing with me.

    There is a verse that always finds its way to me, Isaiah 43:2-3:

    “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.”

    This is the God I’m learning to trust with all the pieces of my heart, the God who doesn’t promise to shield us from the fire, but who promises to walk through it with us. The God who doesn’t erase pain, but who transforms it into something deeper. More human. More holy.

    So I keep walking the line between these emotions; love, pain, joy, suffering, no longer trying to separate them, but allowing them to bleed into one another. Trusting that God is present in all, and that somehow, through Him, they can coexist in grace. Letting the suffering teach me how to love deeper. Letting the joy remind me why it matters. Letting God meet me in both.

    Because I’m starting to believe that the most profound transformation doesn’t happen when we escape the hard things, but when we stand in the midst of them and still choose to see beauty, to give thanks, to love wildly.

    And in that space, in that sacred, messy, middle ground, I know I am not alone.

  • My Baptism

    The day I was baptised is etched into my soul with a kind of permanence that words can barely capture. It isn’t just my favourite day from last field service; but it’s the most sacred, soul-stirring, and transformational day of my entire life. There are rare, moments that reach deep into the core of who you are and realign everything. You feel your heart shift, your spirit awaken, your identity begin to take shape in a new and profound way.

    June 8th, 2024, was one of those moments.

    I went into my baptism with an open heart. I hadn’t grown up in the Church. I didn’t know the rituals, the “right” things to say, or what it was supposed to feel like. I had never even witnessed a baptism before. And yet, despite all that I didn’t know, there was one thing I felt more clearly than anything else, this was right. This was exactly where I was meant to be. I carried a quiet certainty in my bones that day, a peace that settled over me. I wasn’t being swept along by emotion or pressure or anyone else’s expectations. I was saying yes to something eternal. Yes to God. Yes to grace. Yes to a love that had been patiently pursuing me my whole life, even when I didn’t know it.

    That morning, myself and about twenty-five of my closest friends from the ship piled into vans and made our way to Tokeh Beach. The drive itself was filled with a quiet, buzzing anticipation, laughter, music, a few people lost in thought, all of us carrying something tender in our hearts. Tokeh had always been a kind of refuge for me. A sanctuary. Just an hour outside the noisy heartbeat of Freetown, it felt like another world, untouched and peaceful. The soft, white sand hugged the shoreline like a gentle promise. Towering palms danced in the breeze, and lush green mountains watched over us like guardians. The ocean, vast and alive, seemed to breathe in rhythm with my soul. Over the past year, I’d spent so many weekends there, laughing until my stomach hurt, swimming in the warm waters, watching beautiful sunsets and sharing long conversations that nourished something deep in me. Tokeh had already cradled so many of my memories, but that day was different.

    Because on that day, it became sacred ground. There was something almost otherworldly in the air, a stillness beneath the breeze, a hush beneath the joy. It was as if heaven had leaned in a little closer. The beach that had always been my place of rest was about to become the place of my rebirth. I wasn’t just returning to a familiar coastline, I was walking toward holy ground, surrounded by people who had loved me, shaped me, and pointed me to the One who had called me by name. And as I stood on that sand, heart pounding and soul wide open, I knew I would never see this place the same again.

    When we arrived, that familiar hum of joy filled the air, bright laughter, warm hugs, the comforting buzz of community that made this place feel like home. Everyone began settling in, spreading out towels and finding shade beneath the palms, the ocean’s rhythm steady in the background. But even amidst the celebration, I could feel the moment approaching, the moment I would share my testimony. I remember my heart thundered in my chest, each beat loud and heavy with anticipation. Public speaking has never come easily to me. Just the thought of standing up and having all eyes on me usually sent my hands trembling and my voice retreating. But this… this was different. This wasn’t a presentation. This wasn’t about performance. This was my truth. I wasn’t just speaking, I was opening up my soul. I was laying bare the long, winding road that had brought me to this exact moment.

    I spoke through trembling lips about the years of silence and sorrow I had carried like a second skin. A trauma I had buried that left me feeling broken and hollow. The ache of a complicated relationship with my father, how his absence had shaped me, and how his presence, when it came, had often confused or wounded more than it healed. I spoke of the wandering, of years spent searching for love in all the wrong places, of feeling lost, unworthy, like a ghost moving through her own life. I had believed, for far too long, that I could never be truly loved. That if anyone saw the real me, they would turn away. I confessed the mistakes I had made. The pain I had caused. The choices born from desperation, from loneliness, from deep wounds I hadn’t known how to name. And as the words left my mouth, shaky and raw, I felt a trembling in my spirit, but not of fear. It was release.

    There were moments when my voice cracked, when I had to stop and breathe through the tears pressing against the back of my eyes. But even in those silences, there was a Presence. A quiet, steady warmth wrapped around me, like a hand resting gently on my shoulder, grounding me. I knew, I knew, God was right there. Not distant, not judging. Just with me. Steadying me. Holding me. And as I kept speaking, the weight I had carried for so many years began to lift. Not all at once, but layer by layer, like peeling back the heavy curtains of shame that had covered my heart. With each word spoken in honesty, light began to pour in. By the end, I wasn’t just standing on a beach in Sierra Leone. I was standing in freedom. For the first time in my life, I felt truly seen. Truly known. And, perhaps most astonishing of all, truly loved.

    I felt free. Not in a fleeting, surface-level way, but in the depths of my soul. The kind of freedom that only comes when you’ve met grace face-to-face, and let it hold you.

    When I finished speaking, there was a silence. Not silence born of awkwardness, but the kind of reverent quiet that settles in when something sacred has just taken place. And then, slowly, gently, everyone began to gather around me. I sat on the warm sand, its heat grounding me, reminding me that I was fully here, fully present, fully alive. And then twenty-five sets of hands reached out, surrounding me in the most tender embrace. Some rested lightly on my shoulders, others on my back, my arms, my hands, each one like an anchor, a reminder that I wasn’t alone, that I was being held by community, by love, by the very body of Christ. 

    They began to pray. One by one, voices rose in harmony, soft, powerful, full of love and fierce compassion. They prayed over me words I didn’t even know my heart had been aching to hear. Words of restoration, of strength, of joy. Of new beginnings. They spoke life over my past, hope into my present, and blessing over my future. Each sentence wove its way into the fabric of my spirit like thread repairing a tattered garment. I could feel the tears falling freely down my cheeks, but this time, they weren’t heavy. They didn’t sting like they had in the past. These tears were different, they were pure. Cleansing. Holy.

    It wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed me, but love. A love so vast and deep and undeniable that it broke something open inside me. I had never in my life felt so seen, so deeply known. Every broken part of me that I had tried to hide or fix or carry alone was now surrounded by grace, by hands, by prayers, by people who reflected the heart of a God who had never stopped loving me. In that circle, I felt something shift in my soul. I felt cherished. Not because I had finally “gotten it all together,” but because I had allowed myself to be fully real, fully vulnerable, and still, I was embraced. My heart felt like it might burst from the sheer beauty of it all. This was belonging. This was healing. This was the love of God made tangible, wrapped around me like a blanket of light. And I knew, in that sacred moment, that I would carry those prayers, the hands, the voices, the presence, with me forever.

    And then it was time. The moment my heart had been beating toward for months. With the sun high above us and the ocean stretched out like an endless promise, we began walking toward the water. Shannon was on one side of me, Lindsay on the other, two women who had become more than just friends; they had become sisters, mentors, mirrors of God’s love in my life. With each step, the warm sand gave way to the cool kiss of the ocean. The waves curled gently around our ankles, playful and welcoming, as if creation itself was rejoicing with us. We waded in slowly, the water rising around our waists, the salty breeze wrapping around us like a whisper of grace.

    I remember pausing for a moment and looking back toward the shore. There they were, my people. My ship family. The faces of those who had held me in my darkest moments, who had spoken truth when I couldn’t find it on my own, who had shown me again and again what the love of Christ looks like in the flesh. Some of them had cried with me. Some had prayed over me when I couldn’t find the words. Some had simply been there, faithfully, quietly, lovingly. Their smiles, their presence, their unwavering support, it was all a living, breathing testimony to God’s goodness. They didn’t just walk alongside me; they helped carry me. I don’t think they’ll ever truly know how deeply they impacted me. How their kindness, their grace, and their faith lit a path back to the Father I had wandered so long to find.

    I turned back to face Lindsay, and in that moment, time seemed to slow. Her eyes met mine, shining, steady, full of love. She placed a hand gently on my back, and with a voice both tender and strong, she spoke the words that will forever be carved into the deepest part of me: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” And just like that, the world stood still. Heaven opened. And I surrendered to the waters that would carry me into new life. Submerged in the ocean that had witnessed so many fragments of my journey, the tears I had shed in solitude, the prayers whispered into waves, the laughter shared with friends, the silent conversations between my soul and God. That sea had seen it all. And now, it held me in a holy pause. For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. Time stopped. Sound faded. All that existed was the stillness of water and the overwhelming nearness of God. 

    I could feel Him. Not in an abstract or distant way, but as real and close as breath. His presence rushed over me, not like a roaring wave, but like a deep, undeniable current moving through every part of me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was sure. Constant. Loving. Pure. In that sacred second beneath the surface, I felt the weight of my old self fall away, the shame, the fear, the lies I had believed for too long. They were washed off me like dirt in the tide. When I rose from the water, it was like gasping into new life. My arms shot into the air without thinking, as if my body couldn’t contain the joy erupting inside me. I cried out, not with words, but with a sound of raw, pure celebration. Tears poured from my eyes and blended with the saltwater already on my cheeks. Around me, the sound of clapping, cheering, and laughter broke like sunlight on the waves. It was peace. It was joy. It was love, full, unfiltered, unconditional. Love like I had never known before. Not love I had to earn or perform for, but love that had found me, claimed me, and called me His.

    My friends rushed toward me, splashing through the surf, arms open, hearts wide. They wrapped me in wet, salty hugs, their laughter mixing with tears, their joy mirroring mine. We cried, we laughed, we clung to each other as if the holiness of the moment could somehow be held in our embrace. I was completely overwhelmed, but not by fear, not by uncertainty. I was overwhelmed by goodness. By grace. By the sheer wonder of being known, loved, and made new. It was the most holy kind of flood. A flood of freedom. A flood of belonging. A flood of home.

    The rest of the day unfolded like a dream, one soaked in golden light, laughter, and the kind of joy that bubbles up when heaven feels especially close. It was a celebration in every sense of the word. We played beach frisbee, barefoot and free, our shouts echoing across the sand as the sun warmed our skin and the breeze tangled in our hair. We dove into the warm waters, splashing, floating, and letting the waves carry us like children unburdened by the weight of the world. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and sometimes we paused, eyes brimming with the ache of knowing the end of this chapter was near. 

    That day we reminisced about the ten incredible months we had spent together, months marked by service, sacrifice, growth, and more grace than we could count. We had cried together, prayed together, worked side by side through impossible challenges. And somehow, through it all, we had become more than just a crew. We had become a community of faith, of love, of purpose. 

    That day was more than a celebration of my baptism, it was a celebration of the miraculous, undeserved, extravagant love of God. A love that had found us from every corner of the world and knit our lives together in this time, in this place. I felt it in the way the waves kissed the shore. I saw it in every smile around the circle. I heard it in the laughter and the silence alike. And I carried it with me, deep in my bones. That day was a gift I will carry for the rest of my life. 

    And I will never, ever forget it.

  • Walking between Two Worlds

    I walk between two worlds now. Not fully belonging to one or the other, just hovering somewhere in the middle, in this strange, sacred liminal space that I never quite expected to become my reality. One foot on the ship, one foot off. Half in the shiny, air-conditioned world of floating steel and structure where things feel comfortable and safe, and half in the hot, heavy, beautiful chaos of Connaught Hospital and the vibrant, unfiltered rhythm of Salone.

    It’s not always easy. On the ship, there’s comfort. There’s order. We eat three full meals a day, sleep in cool rooms with clean sheets, we have electricity that always runs and we are surrounded by a rhythm of routine and community that feels sacred. There’s safety in it. Predictability. The ship has a heartbeat of its own, and when you live there, you move to its pulse without even thinking.

    But just outside that bubble, life beats to a very different rhythm. At Connaught, the air hangs thick with humidity and exhaustion. Resources are scarce, emotions are raw, and the work is relentless. And yet… it is also alive with colour and culture and a kind of sacred grit. The beauty here isn’t polished, it’s wild and worn and impossibly resilient. It grabs you by the heart and doesn’t let go.

    I find myself straddling both of these worlds, not quite rooted in either. Sometimes I step back onto the ship and feel like a foreigner in my own home. The conversations around me are the same as they’ve always been, the talk of the patients and nurses on the wards, but now I don’t always know how to speak into them. How do I talk about the weight of my day when I’ve just come from a ward where my patient died because they couldn’t afford their medicine? Where the nurses work with broken equipment and sheer determination?

    Before I was part of the on-ship crew, a team, a family. And yet, now that I work off-ship, there are moments when I feel forgotten. Unseen. Like I’ve quietly slipped out of view. But off-ship, I’m not entirely at home either. I don’t live in the crowded, colourful neighbourhoods. And when the ship sails, I sail too, leaving behind my colleagues who have made Sierra Leone their long-term home. I’m here… but not here. I’m there… but not quite there either.

    It’s a strange place, the in-between. Some days it feels like a bridge, strong and sure. Other days it feels like a tightrope. I’m learning to navigate it with grace, but it’s not without its ache. Still, I believe that maybe this space, this tension, is where some of the most meaningful transformation happens. Where empathy is born. Where humility grows. Where faith stretches.

    I’m learning that I don’t have to fully belong to either world to live purposefully in both. God is in the middle ground, too. And for now, that’s where I’ll keep walking.

  • Celebrating the SMALL things

    Life on the ship is full of big, beautiful moments. We celebrate the miraculous transformations. Children taking their first steps after life-changing surgery. A mother seeing her daughter smile again after a cleft lip repair. A man once cast out by his community because of a giant tumour, now walking back home with dignity and hope. There are dance parties in the hallways, people singing and clapping and worshipping together in spontaneous bursts of praise. Hope is restored daily in the most tangible ways. It’s impossible not to be moved when you’re witnessing life-altering change right before your eyes. These moments are extraordinary, and the celebrations that follow are filled with laughter, music, and tears of joy.

    But that is not the reality of my work at Connaught Hospital. When I first transitioned off the ship, it was a jarring adjustment. Gone were the high-energy celebrations, the miracle recoveries that made headlines on the Mercy Ships’s instagram. Instead, I found myself face to face with a different kind of work, a quieter, slower, and often messier kind of transformation. Here, change doesn’t arrive in a single surgery or in a burst of applause. It comes in fragments. In conversations repeated over months. In small shifts in attitude. In a nurse choosing to show up even after an impossible shift. In a vital sign finally being recorded.

    At first, it was hard to adjust. I felt disoriented, like I’d lost the rhythm that had carried me so effortlessly on the ship. There were days I questioned whether I was making any difference at all. Whether the quiet kind of change was still worth celebrating. I missed the immediacy of impact, the visible fruit, the emotional highs that came with witnessing physical healing and restored dignity in such a tangible way.

    But slowly, graciously, God began teaching me that this work is no less sacred. That transformation doesn’t always announce itself with trumpets. Sometimes, it whispers. Sometimes, it crawls. Sometimes, it looks like nothing at all until one day you look back and realize everything has changed. And in that realization, I’ve come to understand: this slower, humbler work isn’t a step down. It’s a deeper invitation. 

    You have to understand I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl. I see the good in people instinctively. I walk into rooms full of strangers and find something to love in every single one. I’m often full of what some might call an excessive amount of joy, a bubbling, ever-present joy that probably annoys people now and then. But I can’t help it. I am an optimist to my core. I wear my rose-coloured glasses proudly. And though working at Connaught has tested that joy in ways I hadn’t anticipated, I’ve refused to take those glasses off. I’ve just learned to look through a different lens.

    At Connaught, the victories look different. They’re quieter, less dramatic, often invisible to the untrained eye. There are no crowds cheering, no cameras capturing the transformation, no instant gratification. The miracles here are slower. More fragile. And yet, somehow, more profound.

    God is teaching me to see differently. To lean in closer. To find beauty not in the spectacle, but in the sacredness of the ordinary. I’ve started learning to celebrate the small things, the kinds of things that might seem insignificant to someone else, but to me, they feel like bright flickers of light cutting through the shadows.

    Like a nurse remembering to take post-op vitals without being prompted. Like a chart properly documented. Like a patient smiling at me with trust in their eyes. Like someone asking a question they were once too afraid to voice. These moments might not make it into newsletters or social media posts. But they are miracles nonetheless. Some days here are incredibly hard, emotionally, physically, spiritually. There are mornings when the weight of it all feels like too much, when the brokenness feels louder than the hope. There are moments where I feel like I’m pouring myself out with little to show for it, one step forward, ten steps back, again and again.

    But then… there are days like today. Days that break through the weariness and whisper, Keep going. Days that remind me why I’m here. Days that make me fall to my knees in gratitude for a God who sees what the world overlooks. Because I’m learning, really learning, that the small things are not small at all. They are the foundation of lasting change. The quiet echoes of God’s faithfulness in motion.

    And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

    So today I began my shift like I always do, with smiles and greetings. “How da bodi?” I’d ask, receiving the familiar response, “Da body fine.” “How da family?” “Da family fine.” “Tell God Tenki.” There are hugs and high fives, and of course, a chorus of “I gladi to see you” and “Me self gladi to see you.” Sierra Leonean culture is incredibly relational. You don’t just dive into work; you arrive first as a friend, a presence, a warm hello. Those greetings are more than just tradition, they’re threads that bind the community together.

    Once the greetings were shared, I began my usual morning routine, checking patient charts. I scan for vitals, medication records, doctors’ notes, the essential building blocks of care. What you have to understand is that nursing here is very very different to what most people are used to and there are many challenges. Sometimes it’s a lack of staff. Sometimes it’s broken vital signs equipment. Sometimes it’s knowledge gaps. And sometimes, it’s because patients simply can’t afford their medications that day.

    But today, something different happened. As I reviewed the chart of a patient who had undergone surgery the day before, I saw something that made my heart swell, every single post-op vital sign had been done and documented. To many nurses, that might seem basic, even expected. But here, in a country still healing from the wounds of civil war and an Ebola epidemic, where the healthcare system is stretched beyond its limits, it was a big deal. We’ve been mentoring the local nurses on the importance of post-op care all year, walking alongside them, reinforcing, encouraging. And to see this practice happening, without me or Katie being there, without reminders or prompting, was a celebration. It meant something was taking root.

    It was a sacred reminder: change is happening. It may be slow. It may not be flashy. It may not come with confetti and dancing and storybook endings. But it is real. And it is powerful. And it matters. These small changes, a nurse teaching a student, the accurate charting, or the nurse who chooses to go above and beyond, these are my miracles now. They are the quiet, steady proof that God is working here, in the hidden places, in the hard places. I don’t need the loud celebrations anymore, because my heart knows how to celebrate in the silence.

    I thank God every day for the chance to be here, for the lessons He’s teaching me, and for the joy I’ve found in celebrating the small things.

  • Guinea – The Stillness in the Hills

    This past week, I had the gift of traveling to Guinea with my friend Audrey. We visited a hospital nestled in a small village near Mamou, about five hours from Conakry. The community there is called Bowalwann, which, fittingly, means rocky, a name that couldn’t have been more appropriate. The landscape was breathtaking, rugged and raw, dotted with towering cliffs and dramatic rock faces. 

    Guinea, in many ways, reminded me of Sierra Leone. There were the familiar rolling green hills, the same humid air, and the lush, mountainous terrain. But the differences were striking, too. The people in Guinea apart from the fact they spoke french carried a quiet presence, more reserved than those I’ve met in Salone, but still so warm and welcoming. That unmistakable thread of African hospitality was still woven through every interaction, the kind of hospitality that makes you feel at home, even among strangers.

    Our connection to the hospital was through Audrey’s church, and although I was genuinely excited about the trip, I went into it thinking it would feel more like work than rest. After all, hospitals are my everyday reality. I expected long days, clinical observations, perhaps moments of reflection, but mostly a professional lens. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

    This past week turned out to be exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

    The hospital visit itself was insightful, it’s always valuable to see how other countries structure their healthcare systems, how teams operate under pressure, and what strategies they use to work with limited resources. I came with a curious heart, open to learning, and I found that they were facing so many of the same challenges we see in Freetown: resource scarcity, gaps in training, and deeply ingrained cultural dynamics around nursing and healthcare. There was something comforting in that shared struggle. It reminded me that we’re not alone in this work, others are fighting the same good fight, each in their own corner of the world.

    But what really marked the week wasn’t the hospital, it was the quiet. The village was completely remote. Nothing around for miles. No honking horns, no street vendors, no chaos. Just stillness. The kind of stillness that at first feels strange, even uncomfortable, but then wraps itself around you like a blanket. That quiet was such a contrast to the buzz of Freetown, and it allowed space, for rest, for thought, and for God.

    Our time unfolded into this beautiful rhythm of slowness. Morning devotionals, long walks through the hills, spotting small villages tucked into the trees like secrets waiting to be discovered. Strangers welcoming us into their lives with offers of smiles and oranges. We’d sit for hours reading our Bibles, journaling, and diving into books that stirred something deep in both of us. Conversations about faith flowed freely, raw, honest, and vulnerable. We opened up about our struggles, our doubts, our desires, and God met us there. Again and again.

    It felt like every time we brought something before Him, whether it was a question or a cry, He answered. Through a passage of Scripture, a line in a book, or something in a devotional that seemed to speak directly to what we were wrestling with. We’d run to each other with excitement: “Look what I just read!” “This is exactly what I needed to hear.” It became a rhythm of receiving and sharing, like a heartbeat, us and God, in perfect sync.

    At one point, we laughed and asked each other, “Why can’t it always be like this? Why don’t we hear from God this clearly every day?” But deep down, we knew the answer. We had stopped. We had unhurried. We had made space to actually listen. In the quiet, with no distractions, we had slowed down long enough to hear the still, small voice that had been speaking all along.

    Lately, I’ve been part of a small group called Practicing the Way, based on John Mark Comer’s new book of the same name. The book explores what it truly means to follow Jesus, not just to believe in Him, but to become His apprentice. To reorient our lives around His presence and His practices. It’s about moving beyond performance-based faith and into an intentional way of life that prioritizes being with Jesus, becoming like Him, and doing what He did.

    Before this trip, and even before starting the course, I think I had a more surface-level understanding of discipleship. I believed in Jesus deeply, but I hadn’t fully grasped what it meant to live with Him at the centre of everything. But this past week changed something in me. It felt like a door opened wider, my heart opened wider, and my relationship with Jesus deepened again.

    And what I’m learning is this: it’s a slow burn.

    Following Jesus isn’t about the instant fix. It’s not the emotional high of a single moment or the dramatic before-and-after transformation we sometimes expect. It’s the quiet, faithful decision to keep showing up, to keep seeking, listening, surrendering. It’s about the long journey of becoming more like Him, step by step, moment by moment. There’s beauty in that slow becoming, but it also requires patience. It requires trust.

    We live in a world that rushes everything, progress has to be measurable, results have to be immediate, growth has to be visible. We’re taught to hustle, to optimize, to fix what’s broken as fast as possible. But Jesus doesn’t work like that. He’s not hurried, and He’s not interested in surface-level change. He’s after the heart. And hearts take time to heal. Time to grow. Time to soften.

    So I’m learning to let go of the pressure, the pressure to have it all figured out, to be the “perfect Christian,” to know all the answers. I’m learning to lean into the mystery of it all. To sit with the questions instead of rushing past them. To trust that even when I can’t see what God is doing, He is still doing something. Still forming me. Still faithful.

    There is a sacredness to the slow work of God, how He gently peels back layers, reveals wounds not to shame but to heal, invites us into deeper trust, deeper surrender.

    In the quiet hills of Guinea, I remembered what it means to abide. Not to perform or strive or prove, but simply to remain. To stay close. To dwell with Him. And I don’t want to forget that. I don’t want to rush past the whispers of God in search of louder answers. I want to be the kind of person who lingers. Who listens. Who lets the slow burn of transformation warm me from the inside out.Because that’s where real change happens, in the slowness. In the staying. In the abiding.