AYLA IN AFRICA

Category: Mercy Ships

  • 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.

  • The difference between You and Me…

    A few days after an exhausting and emotionally charged couple of weeks at work, I found myself lost in reflection. The weight of everything I witness, the stories etched into the faces of my patients, the stark realities of healthcare in Sierra Leone, it all settles heavy on my heart.

    One of the challenges in my new role has been learning how to process what I see each day. The suffering, the resilience, the moments of hope intertwined with heartbreak. There is no blueprint for how to navigate these emotions, no clear path for reconciling the disparity between what should be and what is. I wrestle with the limits of my own hands, the boundaries of what I can do, and the ever-present question of whether I am doing enough.

    Amidst the weight of it all, writing has become my refuge, a space where I can pour out the thoughts and emotions that often feel too complex to speak aloud. It allows me to process, to make sense of the chaos, to find clarity in the midst of overwhelming need.

    So, after a particularly hard couple of weeks, I turned to writing.

    THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOU AND ME…

    The difference between you and me is where we were born. That single stroke of fate determined the course of our lives before we even took our first breaths. I was born into a world of privilege, of running water, of sterile hospital rooms stocked with medicine, of schools that welcomed me with open arms and the promise of a future I could shape. You were born into a world where survival is not a given, where every sip of water could be laced with sickness, where education is a privilege, not a right, where a small infection, easily treated where I come from, could steal away dreams, futures, lives.

    I walk through the hospital where I work, past rows of beds filled with suffering that should not be inevitable. I see mothers holding feverish children, whispering prayers, their eyes pleading for relief that may never come. I hear the cries of pain from patients who need surgery but have no money, their agony echoing in the dimly lit wards. I watch as doctors and nurses work tirelessly, their hands skilled but often empty, battling diseases that should be treatable, preventable, eradicated. The difference between them and me is where we were born.

    I sleep safely in my bed at night, wrapped in the certainty of tomorrow, in the security of knowing that should I fall ill, help is a call away. But you, your night is filled with uncertainty. The shadows hold dangers I will never know, the morning does not promise safety or healing. You face a world that is unfair by design, where the privilege of one means the suffering of another. And I ask God, again and again—why?

    Why do I get these opportunities while you are denied them? Why does a simple twist of geography decide the course of a life? Why was I born into a world where education, healthcare, and safety were my baseline, while you were born into a world where these are privileges, fought for daily, often out of reach?

    How is it that, in this age of progress, we still live in a world where this is reality? Where inequality is not some unfortunate accident but a design, a system, woven into the very fabric of our societies. A force so deeply ingrained that it determines who thrives and who barely survives.

    It is in the hospital wards, where a mother holds her child, knowing that the medicine they need is just beyond her means.

    It is in the eyes of a nurse who works for wages that do not sustain, yet continues, because what else can she do?

    It is in the young girl whose dreams stretch beyond the horizon but whose reality tells her she will never reach them.

    And the weight of it presses on me. I did nothing to deserve my privileges any more than you did to deserve your struggles. And yet, here we are. People standing in the same room, breathing the same air, sharing the same world, But living entirely different lives.

    And I cannot unsee it.
    I cannot unknow it.
    And I will not be the same.

    The difference between you and me is where we were born. And yet, that difference changes everything.

  • Education, Training & Advocacy

    From the moment I stepped foot on The Global Mercy and heard about Education, Training & Advocacy (ETA),then known as Medical Capacity Building, I knew, without a doubt, that this was the end goal for me.

    I had always loved bedside nursing. There was something deeply rewarding about the immediate impact of caring for a patient, about seeing the transformation happen right in front of me. But deep in my heart, I knew my passion lay in something bigger. In something lasting. My heart had always been drawn to development work, to long-term sustainability, to looking at the bigger picture.

    I remember sitting in a university lecture, years ago, learning about downstream vs. upstream strategies, the concept of tackling health issues at their root rather than just treating the individual. It made so much sense to me. The idea that we could prevent suffering before it even started. That instead of just catching people as they were drowning, we could go upstream and stop them from falling in at all. It lit a fire in me, and that fire only grew as I learned more about global healthcare and the gaps that existed.

    What we do on the ship is incredible, there is no doubt about that. The surgeries we provide, the lives that are transformed, the hope that is restored, it is all beautiful, sacred, and life-changing. But the truth is, it is not a long-term sustainable solution.

    Because what happens after the ship leaves? That is where ETA comes in.

    ETA is more than just a program, it is a promise. A promise that the work of Mercy Ships will not end when the ship pulls away from the shore. That the healing will continue, that the impact will stretch beyond the walls of a floating hospital, embedding itself into the very foundation of the healthcare system we leave behind.

    We do not come as saviors, as outsiders with ready-made solutions. We do not come to impose Western medicine in places that already have rich traditions of healing and care. This is not about us.

    This is about them, this is about Sierra Leone.

    It is about partnership, not pity. Empowerment, not dependency.

    What I love most about Education, Training, and Advocacy (ETA) is that it is not a quick fix. It is not about short-term relief, it is about long-term transformation. It’s about walking alongside local healthcare professionals, not above them, not in front of them, but with them. It’s about sharing knowledge, resources, and skills so that the impact extends far beyond what Mercy Ships alone could ever accomplish.

    It is about ensuring that when we sail away, the work does not stop. That the nurses, doctors, and hospital staff we have worked with feel equipped, confident, and capable, not because we gave them all the answers, but because we invested in them, trained them, mentored them, believed in them.

    And this work does not just happen within the walls of the Global Mercy.

    It happens in local hospitals, where nurses and doctors are working tirelessly, often with limited resources, doing the best they can with what they have.

    It happens in universities, where students dream of becoming surgeons, anaesthetists, and medical professionals, but need the training, the support, and the opportunities to make that dream a reality.

    It happens in communities, where access to healthcare has been a struggle for generations, where people deserve better than to be told that surgery is a luxury they cannot afford.

    ETA is about laying a foundation that will outlive us.

    It is about breaking the cycle, about ensuring that the next generation of healthcare workers is stronger, better equipped, and more empowered than the last.

    It is about planting seeds today so that one day, no one will need Mercy Ships at all, because their own healthcare system will be strong enough to stand on its own.

    That is the dream. That is the goal. That is what makes this work worth it.

    So, where do I fit into all of this?

    At the start of this year, I took on a new role with ETA, helping to run a Nurse Mentor Program at Connaught Hospital in Freetown.

    This hospital, one of the largest in Sierra Leone, is a place that has challenged and stretched me in ways I never could have imagined. Five surgical wards, overflowing with patients. Limited resources. Staff shortages. And yet, in the midst of it all, nurses who show up, every day, ready to fight for their patients, even when the odds are against them.

    Alongside another Mercy Ships nurse, I work side by side with these nurses, training, educating, and mentoring them as part of a larger Safer Surgery Program. Our goal? To help improve surgical care in Sierra Leone, not just for today, but for the future.

    And it has been an incredible, challenging, eye-opening, rewarding, frustrating, humbling and joyful few months.

    I have learned so much in such a short time, not just about myself or nursing in Sierra Leone, but about the resilience of this country, the strength of its people, and the reality of what it means to do development work.

    I have watched nurses work impossible shifts for offensively low pay, sometimes no pay at all. I have seen patients receive care in conditions that would be unimaginable in other parts of the world. I have walked through wards where access to the most basic medical supplies feels like a distant dream. And yet, these nurses, doctors, patients keep going.

    Every day, despite the exhaustion. Despite the lack of resources. Despite the challenges that should make this work impossible.

    I have learned that this is what development work truly looks like.

    It is slow.
    It is hard.
    It is frustrating.
    It is not glamorous.

    But it matters.

    I have learned to celebrate the smallest wins, because they are everything. A nurse teaching a student how to do neurovascular observations for the first time. A nurse sharing new knowledge with a colleague on A to E assessments. A team coming together to improve patient care in ways that seems small today but will change everything tomorrow.

    These moments may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but they are not. Because sometimes the truth about development work is that we may never see the change we are helping to create. We may never be here to witness the full transformation.

    But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening.

    It is happening every single day in the hands of these local nurses and health care professionals, in the lives of these patients, in the policies being shaped, in the skills being passed down.

    That is why development is the future.

    It is the way forward.

    It is the work that will outlive us all.

  • What is Nursing like on Mercy Ships?

    The hum of Africana music drifts through the air, a rhythmic melody that seems to pulse with the very heartbeat of the ship. It fills every corner of the ward, blending seamlessly with the laughter, the clapping, the joyful shouts of patients and caregivers alike. Their voices rise above the beeping monitors and the rustle of nurses moving through the room, a harmony of hope, resilience, and celebration.

    Patients are dancing, singing, and laughing, their joy spilling over like sunlight after a long storm. Their energy defies the usual image of a hospital, there are no hushed whispers of sickness, no sterile silence, no weight of despair hanging in the air. Instead, there is life. There is movement. There is joy, in its purest form.

    I stand in the middle of it all, watching, smiling, taking it in, because nursing on The Global Mercy is like nothing I have ever experienced before.

    Here, healing is not just found in IV drips and sutures, in medication rounds and post-op care. It is found in veranda time with patients, where we sit in the warm embrace of the African sun, swapping stories and watching the ocean stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s railing. It is found in dance parties in the ward, where patients who once arrived weighed down by suffering now twirl with uncontained joy, their hands reaching toward the sky, their feet moving in rhythms passed down through generations.

    Healing is found in spirited games of Uno and Connect Four, where competition is fierce and laughter is louder than any medical alarm. It’s in the conversations that unfold naturally between shifts, with patients, with caregivers, with the local day crew, each story a glimpse into the beautiful, complicated, resilient lives lived in Sierra Leone.

    It is in the friendships formed among nurses, the ones that feel like family by the end of it all. We bond over the long shifts, the unexpected challenges, the moments that leave us breathless with laughter, and the ones that bring us to tears. We share the weight of this work, the heartbreak, the triumph, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming beauty of what it means to serve here, in this sacred space, on this floating hospital of hope.

    This is not just another hospital. This is not just another shift. This is a calling. A privilege. A front-row seat to hope being restored, to lives being changed, to miracles unfolding in real-time.

    Imagine a hospital where nurses only stay for a couple of months. An operating room where the surgeons change every week. A surgical team made up of nurses and doctors from six different countries. A ward filled with volunteer nurses, each speaking a different language, each with a different scope of practice. Patients who speak at least five different dialects, their voices carrying the weight of stories untold. You would think I was crazy. You would say, “No way. That could never work.” And yet, it does. It works in a way that no other hospital I have ever worked in does.

    Why? How? Because we are all volunteers. We are not here for money, or promotions, or because we have to be. We are here because we want to be. Every single person I have worked with, from the surgeons to the nurses to the cleaning staff, has been overflowing with kindness, love, and compassion. The teamwork here is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Despite our different languages, our different countries, our different ways of doing things, we come together with one mission, one purpose: to bring hope and healing. And that kind of unity? That kind of selfless care? It changes everything.

    But if I could tell you about the heart of Mercy Ships, I wouldn’t start with the nurses, or the surgeons, or even the ship itself. I would tell you about the patients. I can’t explain to you what it’s like to work with them, their stories, both heartbreaking and inspiring, their courage in the face of unimaginable suffering. They travel from faraway villages carrying nothing but hope. They come with conditions that should have been treated long ago, conditions that in other parts of the world would have been caught in infancy, fixed before they ever became life-altering. They come with massive tumors, ones that have grown so large they have overtaken their faces, making them unrecognizable even to themselves. They come with twisted limbs, their bones bent in ways that have made walking impossible. They come with scars from burns, skin fused together in painful reminders of accidents that could not be treated in time.

    And yet, they come. They come despite the whispered fears in their villages, fears that tell that they might leave worse than when they arrived. They come because hope is a force greater than fear. And when they step aboard this ship, when they are greeted not just with medicine, but with love, something shifts.

    I have watched transformations unfold that cannot be put into words. I have watched once-guarded faces soften into smiles. I have watched hunched shoulders straighten with newfound confidence. I have watched eyes that once held only uncertainty now shine with hope. Because healing here goes far beyond the physical.

    Yes, we remove tumors. Yes, we straighten bones. Yes, we treat scars. But the real healing, the one that leaves me speechless, is the healing of the heart, the spirit, the dignity of the people we serve. I have held the hands of patients who have been shunned by their communities, only to see those same people welcomed back home after surgery. I have heard the laughter of a child who had never walked on straight legs before take their first steps. I have wept as a young woman, once afraid to even meet my eyes, looked at herself in a mirror for the first time in years, and smiled.

    This is not just nursing. This is a life-changing, soul-shaping, faith-deepening kind of nursing. The kind that reminds you why you started. The kind that breaks your heart and rebuilds it stronger. The kind that teaches you that healing is so much more than medicine.

    So if you read this and feel a calling in your heart, a desire to try a different kind of nursing take a leap of faith and come volunteer with me onboard Mercy Ships.