Category: My Faith Journey

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.

Leaving the ship was harder than I ever imagined. It wasn’t just about saying goodbye to the work, although that alone felt significant, to walk away from patients whose courage had inspired me, from a team whose dedication and faith had shaped me. It wasn’t just about the people either, though those goodbyes were gut-wrenching, knowing I might never again share such sacred moments with some of the friends who had become like family. It was about leaving behind something intangible but deeply profound: a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose and connection that I had never experienced so fully before. On the ship, I had found more than a mission, I had found a home for my soul.

Yet, despite the ache in my chest as I stepped away, my sadness was tempered by a bubbling excitement and anticipation for the months of travel ahead of me. I had planned this time as a space to explore, to reflect, to rediscover who I was outside the comforting walls of The Global Mercy. I needed to see if the lessons I had learned, the growth I had felt, could hold steady out in the wider world. The ship had begun to chang me in ways I was only beginning to understand, and now it was time to see what that change might look like when I stepped beyond its boundaries.

For the first week of my travels, I wasn’t alone. A friend I had met on the ship, Louisa, joined me for the beginning of my journey. Louisa was everything I needed in that transition from the intense, structured world of service to the wide-open road. She was a beautiful, vibrant woman whose joy seemed to radiate from her very being. There was something infectious about the way she approached life, with an unapologetic zest that made even the smallest moments feel like a celebration.

Together, we navigated the bittersweetness of leaving Senegal, sharing stories of the countless beautiful connections we had made on the ship. We spoke of the patients who had touched our hearts, the friends who had become family, and the quiet moments of grace that had made the challenges worthwhile. Louisa understood my sadness in a way few others could. She had felt it too, the weight of leaving behind a place that had transformed us both. But with her by my side, the sadness felt less overwhelming, balanced by the shared hope that we were carrying the lessons and love of that season with us into whatever came next.

As we ventured into our week of travel, I found myself leaning into the comfort of her presence. Lou reminded me that it was okay to feel the heaviness of goodbye, but also to embrace the excitement of what lay ahead. She helped me see that while my time on the ship had been deeply meaningful, it wasn’t the end of my story, it was the beginning of a new chapter, one that I would write with every step of my journey.

Morocco was my first stop, a land of vibrant colour, rich culture, and breathtaking contrasts. From the moment I stepped into the bustling spice markets of Marrakech, I was swept up in its rhythm, a symphony of life that seemed to pulse through every narrow alleyway and crowded square. The air was thick with the fragrant aroma of cinnamon, cumin, and saffron, mingling with the sweetness of freshly pressed orange juice from nearby carts. Vendors called out to passersby in a cacophony of French, Arabic, and Berber, haggling over prices with an energy that felt equal parts chaotic and mesmerizing. The stalls overflowed with treasures, vividly dyed textiles, intricately painted pottery, and rows of shimmering brass lanterns that seemed to hold the glow of a hundred sunsets.

I spent my days immersing myself in this vibrant world, tasting steaming tagines infused with spices that lingered on our tongues and sipping sweet Moroccan tea on rooftop terraces. The tea, with its perfect balance of mint and sugar, became a daily ritual, as did watching the golden sun sink below the horizon, casting Marrakech in a warm, magical glow. Each sunset seemed to whisper that we were exactly where we needed to be, as if the universe itself had conspired to bring us here in this moment.

The journey took me to the dreamlike blue streets of Chefchaouen, a place that felt plucked from the pages of a fairy tale. Every winding alleyway seemed to hold a secret waiting to be discovered, walls painted in varying shades of blue, their brilliance shifting with the light. Children played in the streets, their laughter echoing off the cobalt walls, while locals sat on doorsteps, sipping tea and weaving stories with their hands. There was a stillness there, a quiet beauty that wrapped itself around me and made the rest of the world feel far away.

The Atlas Mountains rose majestically in the distance, their jagged peaks dusted with snow, a striking contrast against the otherwise arid landscapes. Hiking through them felt like stepping into another world, where ancient villages clung to the mountainsides, their architecture as timeless as the peaks themselves. At Ait Ben Haddou, I stood in awe of the centuries-old kasbah, its sand-coloured walls blending seamlessly into the desert landscape. It was a place steeped in history, its stones bearing silent witness to the countless lives that had passed through its gates.

In Taghazout, I faced something I hadn’t dared to confront in many years. Surfing had once been my refuge, a way to connect but it had become a reminder of a painful memory from my past. Yet here, on Morocco’s tranquil coast, I found the courage to paddle out again. I was awful, of course. I fumbled through the whitewash, my balance shaky, my timing off. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that I was there, letting the ocean cradle me, trusting the waves to hold me as I let go of the fear that had kept me away for so long. With each paddle, each attempt to catch a wave, I felt something inside me soften. The ocean’s quiet rhythm, the way it ebbs and flows without force or hesitation, began to mirror something within me, pulling me back to myself. 

Surfing, once a source of pain, became a source of healing. Today, in Sierra Leone, I surf weekly. The ocean has become my place of communion, a sacred space where I feel God’s presence in a way I never imagined. Each time I paddle out, I feel Him in the gentle sway of the water, in the way the waves seem to carry my burdens away, leaving only peace in their wake. Surfing quiets my mind, silences the noise of worry and doubt, and fills me with a sense of calm I now recognize as His gift to me. It’s not just about riding waves anymore, it’s about riding life’s currents, trusting that, no matter how rough the waters may seem, I am never truly alone.

But the true pinnacle of my time in Morocco was the Sahara Desert. As I ventured into the vast expanse of golden dunes, the world as I knew it seemed to fall away, replaced by an endless horizon of sand and sky. I rode a camel through the undulating dunes, the silence broken only by the rhythmic padding of hooves and the whisper of wind carrying grains of sand into the air. When night fell, the desert transformed into something otherworldly. Lying on the cool sand, wrapped in a blanket to guard against the chill, I gazed up at a sky so alive with stars it felt almost overwhelming. Billions of them stretched across the heavens, their light spilling into the vast emptiness around me.

In that moment, I felt small in the most beautiful way—as though the universe was cradling me in its infinite embrace, reminding me that I was a tiny yet cherished part of something so much bigger. The vastness of the desert and the sky made my worries seem insignificant, my questions about the future less urgent. It was a moment of profound stillness, of connection to something I couldn’t fully articulate but could feel deep in my soul. Morocco had already captivated me with its beauty and contrasts, but in the Sahara, I felt humbled and grounded.

From Morocco, I journeyed to Egypt, a land of ancient wonders and timeless beauty that seemed to hum with the echoes of its rich history. The moment I stood before the pyramids of Giza, their towering forms rising from the golden sands, I felt a sense of awe that defied words. They were more than stone structures; they were monuments to human ambition, ingenuity, and mystery, their grandeur humbling me in ways I couldn’t fully articulate. I found myself marvelling at how something so ancient could still stand so proud, commanding the desert skyline as they had for thousands of years.

As I walked through temples far older than I could fathom, I ran my fingers over the intricate carvings etched into their walls, stories of gods and pharaohs, of victories and offerings, each mark a testament to a civilization that once ruled the world. The sheer scale of the columns and statues left me breathless, as if their creators had imbued them with a permanence that defied time. It was impossible not to feel small in their presence, like a fleeting moment in the vast continuum of history they had witnessed.

Cruising down the Nile, I felt the weight of that history surrounding me. The river, ancient and eternal, seemed to carry the memories of Egypt’s past in its currents. Each bend revealed something new, villages where life remained unchanged for centuries, palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, and ruins that whispered of long-forgotten dynasties. The Nile wasn’t just a river; it was a lifeline, a thread that connected the modern world to the ancient one, binding them together in a way that felt almost sacred.

The sun blazed fiercely as I explored, its heat relentless and unyielding. But the magic of Egypt overshadowed the discomfort, captivating me so completely that I barely noticed the sweat dripping down my back. The treasures of this land were like nothing I had ever experienced, an intoxicating blend of grandeur and mystery that left me in awe at every turn. Standing in the Valley of the Kings, gazing upon the tombs of rulers who had been laid to rest millennia ago, I couldn’t help but reflect on the impermanence of life and the lasting legacy of those who dared to leave their mark on the world.

Egypt wasn’t just a destination; it reminded me of how vast the world truly is, how small we are in comparison, and yet how deeply we are connected to those who came before us. The land felt alive with stories, waiting to be heard and remembered, and as I departed, I carried a piece of its timeless beauty with me, a quiet sense of wonder that stayed long after I left its shores.

Next came Jordan, a land where history and nature seemed to weave together in perfect harmony. The highlight of my journey was standing in awe before the ancient city of Petra. The approach alone felt like stepping into another world. Walking through the Siq, the narrow sandstone canyon that served as the gateway to Petra, I was surrounded by towering walls of rock that seemed to glow in shades of pink, orange, and gold as the sunlight shifted. The canyon, carved by time over billions of years, was both humbling and enchanting, a reminder of nature’s quiet, persistent artistry.

As I reached the end of the Siq, the breathtaking sight of the Treasury revealed itself, as if the earth had parted just to showcase its splendour. Its intricate facade, carved directly into the rose-hued rock, left me speechless. I stood there, transfixed, marvelling at the craftsmanship and vision it must have taken to create something so magnificent in such an unforgiving environment. It wasn’t just its beauty that struck me, but the sense of wonder it evoked, a feeling that reshaped something inside me, as though connecting me to the countless lives that had passed through this place centuries before.

Petra felt alive, its grandeur steeped in stories of the Nabataeans who built it, of traders and travellers who once walked these same paths. Wandering deeper into the city, I explored tombs, temples, and an ancient amphitheatre, each corner revealing more of the ingenuity and spirit of the people who had created this marvel in the heart of the desert.

A night under the stars in Wadi Rum was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, its vastness illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight and the brilliance of countless stars scattered across the sky. The stillness was profound, almost sacred, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind brushing against the sand. Lying there, wrapped in a blanket, I felt small in the most humbling way, as though the universe was gently reminding me of its enormity, and my place within it.

The next morning, I rose at 4 a.m., the chill of the desert air sharp against my skin, my breath visible in the faint light of dawn. Climbing into a hot air balloon, I felt a mixture of excitement and wonder as we lifted off the ground, the desert below slowly unfurling like a canvas. As the sun began to rise, its golden rays painted the landscape in shades of amber, pink, and deep orange, casting long shadows across the jagged rock formations and endless dunes.

From above, Wadi Rum looked like another world, alien and untouched, its beauty almost surreal. The jagged mountains and smooth dunes seemed to stretch infinitely, a sea of sand and stone carved by time. In that moment, suspended in the stillness of the air, tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t sadness, and it wasn’t joy it was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite put into words. It was awe. Pure, unfiltered awe at the beauty of this world, at the intricacy of creation, at the way everything seemed to fit together in a way that felt both fragile and eternal.

I remember thinking, Maybe God really is real. It wasn’t just a fleeting thought it was a whisper in my heart, soft but insistent. How could something so magnificent, so perfectly orchestrated, exist without a Creator? The desert, the stars, the sunrise, they weren’t just beautiful; they felt intentional, as if they were designed to remind me of something greater than myself.

That morning in Wadi Rum was more than just an experience, it was a moment of connection, of clarity. The beauty of the world wasn’t just something to marvel at; it was something that pointed to a deeper truth, a quiet assurance that perhaps I wasn’t as alone as I had always believed.

But Jordan’s magic didn’t stop. I floated in the salty, buoyant waters of the Dead Sea, marvelling at the surreal sensation of weightlessness, the warm sun on my face as I let go of the world’s heaviness, if only for a moment. The landscape there was stark and otherworldly, a place that felt like it belonged to another planet.

And then there was the Red Sea, its vibrant coral reefs teeming with life and colour. Beneath the surface, it was a world of its own, schools of fish darting through coral gardens, each movement a dance of nature’s brilliance. Snorkelling there felt like being part of a living painting, one crafted by the careful hands of creation itself.

Jordan was a place that left its mark on my heart, not just because of its beauty, but because of the sense of connection it inspired. To walk through canyons carved by time, to stand before structures that had weathered centuries, to immerse myself in landscapes both stark and vibrant, it reminded me of how small we are in the grand scheme of things and yet how deeply we are woven into the fabric of history and nature. Jordan wasn’t just a destination; it was a reminder of the beauty that exists in both endurance and transformation.

Traveling this time felt different, like I was experiencing the world with new eyes. My time on Mercy Ships had shifted something deep within me, stirring emotions and perspectives I didn’t fully understand at the time. It wasn’t just about the awe-inspiring landmarks anymore, the grandeur of the pyramids in Egypt, the carved magnificence of Petra, or the vast stillness of the Sahara Desert. Of course, those wonders captivated me, leaving me breathless and humbled, but they weren’t the only things that stayed with me.

What struck me more than ever were the smaller, quieter moments. I found myself marvelling at children laughing and playing in the streets, their joy so pure and unburdened. The warmth of strangers’ smiles lingered with me, their kindness speaking louder than words in languages I didn’t understand. I noticed the beauty in the simplest acts, the way people greeted one another with genuine care, a hand on a shoulder or a nod of respect, as though every interaction was an opportunity to share love.

At the time, I couldn’t quite articulate what had changed in me. I only knew that I was seeing the world differently, more deeply, as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes. Now, looking back, I understand it was Jesus. Gently, lovingly, He was helping me see the world as He sees it, through eyes of love, grace, and wonder. He was showing me beauty not just in the extraordinary but in the everyday, inviting me to notice His presence in the small, overlooked corners of life.

Though I thought about Him often during my travels, I still wasn’t ready to fully let Him in. There was a part of me that clung to the familiar walls I had built around my heart, afraid of what surrendering would mean. To let Him in would require vulnerability, a willingness to face my brokenness and release the illusion of control I had held so tightly. I wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

And so, He lingered at the edges of my mind, always present but never forceful. It was as though He was patiently waiting, whispering softly in the background of my experiences, allowing me the space and time I needed to process what I was beginning to feel. Even as I marvelled at the world’s beauty, I kept Him at arm’s length, unsure of how to reconcile the longing in my heart with the fears that still held me back.

From Jordan, I flew back to Africa, my heart racing with anticipation as I landed in Cape Town, ready to embark on a camping trip that would carry me through South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, and Zimbabwe. Those months were nothing short of extraordinary, a kaleidoscope of breathtaking landscapes, vibrant cultures, and moments that etched themselves into my memory forever.

In South Africa, I tasted wine along the Garden Route, the rolling vineyards stretching endlessly under the golden light of late afternoon. Each glass was a symphony of flavours, the perfect complement to the dramatic coastal views that unfolded around every bend of the route. The sound of waves crashing against rugged cliffs felt like nature’s applause, reminding me of the beauty of the world I was lucky enough to explore.

Namibia offered a stark yet stunning contrast, a land where the earth seemed to meet the sky in its purest form. At Fish River Canyon, I stood at the edge of the world, or at least, that’s how it felt. The canyon stretched out before me, its vast, craggy depths painted in shades of ochre and rust, the silence so profound it felt almost sacred. It was a place that demanded stillness, a reminder of how small we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.

Wandering through Deadvlei, I found myself in a surreal, almost otherworldly landscape. The ancient, gnarled trees stood frozen in time, their blackened skeletons stark against the cracked white clay pan and the vibrant red dunes that towered around them. It was hauntingly beautiful, a reminder of the earth’s resilience and its ability to create beauty even in desolation.

In Namibia, I also climbed the highest sand dunes, their fiery red peaks glowing in the soft light of early morning. The hike up was hard in the hot sun, the sand slipping beneath my feet with every step, but as I reached the summit, the effort melted away. Standing atop those towering dunes, the world felt infinite. The desert stretched endlessly, its contours shifting in golden hues as the sun began its ascent. The wind whispered across the sand, carrying a stillness that felt alive, as though the desert itself held secrets it would only share with those who listened.

In Botswana, I had the privilege of gliding through the serene waters of the Okavango Delta in a mokoro, a traditional wooden canoe. The delta was alive with the quiet hum of nature, the water lapping gently against the sides of the boat as reeds swayed softly in the breeze. Wild hippos surfaced nearby, their massive forms breaking the stillness, sending ripples across the mirrored water. Each time they emerged, I held my breath, captivated by their power and grace, knowing full well how dangerous they could be. Yet, the moment felt intimate, like a window into the untamed beauty of life in the delta.

At night, we camped under a sky so vast and filled with stars that it felt like the heavens had been stretched out just for us. The Milky Way spilled across the darkness in a glittering arc, more vivid than I had ever seen before, making me feel both insignificant and deeply connected to the world around me. In the distance, the silhouettes of giraffes moved gracefully along the edges of our campsite, their elongated necks blending into the night, a quiet reminder that we were visitors in their world. The sounds of the African wilderness surrounded us, the distant roar of a lion, the call of a hyena, the rustling of unseen creatures in the brush, each noise a testament to the raw, unfiltered life that thrived here.

In Chobe National Park, I witnessed scenes that felt like they had been pulled straight from a nature documentary. I watched as elephants, majestic and wise, waded into the water, their playful sprays creating rainbows in the sunlight. Nearby, lions stalked through the savannah with a quiet intensity, their sleek forms moving effortlessly through the golden grass. It was the kind of beauty that made you feel alive, a reminder of the delicate balance of life in the wild, a place where survival and grace intertwined in every moment.

Finally, in Zimbabwe, I stood once again before the mighty Victoria Falls, the thunderous roar of the water was deafening, its power shaking the very ground beneath my feet. Sheets of mist rose high into the air, drenching everything in their path and creating shimmering rainbows that seemed to dance in the sunlight. The sheer force of the falls was both humbling and awe-inspiring, as if nature itself were showing its full strength and majesty. Standing there, gazing at the endless cascade of water plunging into the gorge below, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It was a fitting end to this chapter of my African adventure, a reminder of the world’s raw beauty, its power, and its ability to leave us speechless. 

After Africa, I flew to Portugal, eager to embrace a new chapter of exploration. This time, it was special, my mum joined me for seven unforgettable weeks, a chance for us to not only discover the beauty of Europe but to reconnect in a way we hadn’t in years. Together, we wandered the cobblestone streets of Porto, where the colourful facades of buildings lined the Douro River like a postcard brought to life. We indulged in rich, velvety glasses of port wine paired with traditional dishes like bacalhau à brás and custard-filled pastéis de nata that seemed to melt in our mouths. Lisbon was equally enchanting, its steep streets alive with the sound of trams rattling by and the aroma of grilled sardines wafting through the air.

From the cities, we ventured into the countryside, driving through the winding roads of the Douro Valley. The rolling hills, terraced with lush vineyards, seemed to go on forever, each turn revealing another breathtaking view. The river snaked through the valley below, its surface shimmering in the sunlight. We stopped at family-run wineries, sipping wines that carried the stories of generations, and shared laughter over long, leisurely meals, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.

Further south, the Algarve greeted us with its dramatic cliffs and golden beaches. Hiking along its rugged coastline was like stepping into a dream, the turquoise ocean stretching endlessly before us, waves crashing against the rocks below. The natural arches and sea caves carved into the cliffs added an almost mystical quality to the landscape, and the salt air filled our lungs as we stood at the edge of the world, marvelling at the raw beauty of it all.

From Portugal, we continued our journey to the south of France, staying in a friend’s charming cottage nestled in a tiny village straight out of a storybook. Life slowed down in the best way there, giving us time for quiet reflection and simple joys. Mornings were spent reading by the window, the sunlight streaming in and the distant sound of church bells marking the hours. We cooked meals together in the cozy kitchen, experimenting with fresh, local ingredients from the village market.

One day, we kayaked down the Dordogne River, the gentle current carrying us past ancient castles perched on hillsides and villages that seemed untouched by time. The tranquillity of the water, combined with the beauty of the surrounding countryside, felt like a balm to the soul. We explored quaint, picturesque towns like Rocamadour, clinging dramatically to a cliffside, and Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, with its narrow streets and flower-filled balconies that felt like stepping back in time.

Our journey continued to the heart of Europe, weaving through cities that were as unique as they were breathtaking. In Budapest, we strolled along the banks of the Danube, marvelling at the grandeur of the Parliament building lit up at night, its reflection dancing on the water like a painting come to life. We soaked in the historic thermal baths, the steam rising around us as we relaxed in pools that had been enjoyed for centuries. The blend of old-world charm and vibrant energy made Budapest a place that felt alive with stories.

Vienna followed, a city steeped in elegance and classical beauty. We wandered through its grand boulevards and marvelled at the opulence of the Hofburg Palace and Schönbrunn Palace, imagining the lives of emperors and empresses who had once called them home. In the evenings, the city’s rich musical heritage came alive as we sat in a small, intimate venue, letting the melodies of Mozart and Strauss wash over us. Over steaming cups of coffee and decadent slices of Sachertortein one of Vienna’s historic cafés, we savored the city’s timeless sophistication.

Next was Prague, a fairytale city of spires and cobblestone streets. Crossing the iconic Charles Bridge, with the statues bathed in golden light and the mist rising from the Vltava River, felt like stepping into a dream. We explored Prague Castle, its towering Gothic architecture imposing yet breathtaking, and wandered through the Old Town Square, watching the Astronomical Clock strike the hour as a crowd gathered in awe. The charm of Prague lay not only in its stunning sights but in its quiet corners, a hidden café, a tucked-away garden, where the city’s magic seemed to linger.

Berlin brought a stark contrast, its history raw and unflinching yet laced with resilience and creativity. We walked along the remnants of the Berlin Wall, tracing the graffiti-covered panels that told stories of division, hope, and unity. The Brandenburg Gate stood tall, a symbol of a city that had been through so much yet remained steadfast. In the evenings, we explored Berlin’s eclectic neighbourhoods, dining in quirky restaurants and absorbing the city’s undeniable energy, a mix of history and modernity colliding in the best way.

Brussels was a delightful interlude, filled with the indulgence of Belgian chocolate, waffles, and some of the best mussels and fries we’d ever tasted. The Grand Place left us speechless with its gilded facades, glowing under the soft light of dusk. We strolled past charming shops selling lace and comic books, discovering a whimsical side to the city that felt playful and inviting.

Finally, our journey led us to Paris, a city that needs no introduction but still managed to exceed every expectation. Together, we wandered along the Seine, pausing to admire the artists selling their paintings and the timeless beauty of Notre Dame. The Eiffel Tower stood tall above the city, its lights twinkling like stars against the night sky as we watched from the Champ de Mars. We indulged in flaky croissants and rich coffee at quaint cafés, the hum of Parisian life filling the air. It was a city that seemed to romance every visitor, and for us, it was a perfect place to conclude our adventure.

And then, it was time to say our goodbyes. Standing in an airport hotel, the weight of parting after such an incredible journey together felt bittersweet. There was sadness in letting go of the time we had shared, but also a deep gratitude for the memories we had created, moments of laughter, awe, and quiet reflection that would stay with me forever.

As I hugged my mum one last time, I felt ready to return to the ship and the purpose I had found there. Traveling had been healing, transformative, and freeing, but now it was time to step back into the life that had called me to serve. And though I was saying goodbye to her and the incredible journey we’d shared, I carried the warmth of those weeks with me, a reminder of the love, connection, and wonder that had filled every step of our adventure.

Those four months of travel were nothing short of transformative. By the time my journey came to an end, I had achieved a goal I had held onto for years: visiting 30 countries before I turned 30. In fact, I had surpassed it, reaching 40 countries, a milestone that felt both surreal and deeply meaningful. My love for exploration, for the thrill of stepping into the unknown and discovering the world’s endless beauty, was now firmly embedded in my heart, woven into the very fabric of who I was.

The adventures were extraordinary, each one a reminder of how vast and beautiful the world truly is. From the golden dunes of the Sahara to the blue streets of Chefchaouen, from the bustling cities of Europe to the serene cliffs of the Algarve, I fell in love with the world over and over again. But as incredible as the experiences were, I couldn’t shake the thoughts that followed me wherever I went. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mercy Ships, or more specifically, about God.

He was always there, lingering at the edges of my thoughts, like a gentle whisper I couldn’t ignore. Every time I entered a beautiful old church in Europe, which became an almost daily ritual,I felt it: a quiet stirring, a subtle nudge that brought me back to the questions I had started asking on the ship. I would sit in the pews, gazing up at towering stained-glass windows that bathed the stone walls in hues of red, blue, and gold, and think about what I had witnessed during my time with Mercy Ships. I thought about the unwavering faith of the people I had worked alongside, the undeniable transformations I had seen, not just physical but spiritual and the love that seemed to flow so freely through them.

The grandeur of those churches often mirrored the awe I felt for something greater, something I couldn’t quite name. I wondered, Could it truly be real? Could it be that God exists, that Jesus died for us, that everything I was witnessing was true? The idea filled me with a mixture of longing and unease. On one hand, it felt like a missing piece, a truth waiting to be embraced. On the other, it felt terrifying, as though opening myself to belief would mean exposing every part of me I had worked so hard to hide.

Because I knew what accepting God would mean. It wouldn’t just be about believing in something bigger, it would be about confronting the deepest parts of myself, the wounds and traumas I had buried so deeply they had become part of my foundation. To accept God would mean acknowledging my brokenness, dredging up the moments of pain I had spent years running from. It would mean facing the things from my past that I had kept buried deep, the layers of shame and regret that had shaped so much of my life.

And so, I kept Him at a distance. Even as I felt Him quietly pursuing me, His presence growing stronger with every passing moment, I wasn’t ready to let Him in. It was easier to hold on to my doubts, to keep Him at the edges of my life rather than at its centre. But deep down, I knew He wasn’t going anywhere. He was waiting, patiently, lovingly, for the moment I would be ready to open my heart, to stop running, and to finally let myself be found.

I will never forget the moment I first saw The Global Mercy in all its glory for the first time. The sight of it took my breath away, the sheer size of it, the pristine white exterior gleaming against the backdrop of the endless sea, and the unmistakable air of purpose that surrounded it. It was more than just a ship; it was a beacon of hope, a floating sanctuary that carried the dreams and prayers of so many, patients seeking healing, families longing for miracles, and volunteers answering a call greater than themselves.

As I stood there, gazing up at its towering presence, a lump formed in my throat. I felt something stir deep within me, an unfamiliar yet comforting sensation, a pull, a whisper, a quiet knowing that settled into the very core of my being. It was the same warmth I had felt months ago when I first read about Mercy Ships, sitting alone in my apartment, scrolling through their website with cautious excitement. Back then, it had felt like curiosity, a spark of possibility. But now, standing in its shadow, it felt like something more.

It felt like coming home.

I didn’t recognise it in that moment, but looking back now, I know it was God. He was there, whispering into my heart, gently nudging me toward a path I didn’t yet fully understand. It was as if He had been leading me here all along, through every heartbreak, every moment of doubt, every late-night prayer I wasn’t even sure anyone was listening to. And now, here I was, exactly where He wanted me to be.

There was a quiet awe in the air, a sense that I was stepping into something far greater than myself. The hum of activity around me, the laughter of volunteers, the steady movement of crew members going about their work, the distant sounds of waves lapping against the hull felt almost sacred. This ship wasn’t just a place of healing for those who would come aboard; it was healing for me too. It was the start of something I couldn’t yet put into words, but I could feel it, like the softest of whispers in my soul: You are meant to be here.

The ship at the time was docked in Senegal, a vibrant and bustling country on the coast of West Africa, where the air was thick with life and possibility. From the moment I arrived, I was captivated by the energy that pulsed through the streets, the chaotic yet harmonious rhythm of daily life that seemed to dance in perfect balance. The roads were a whirlwind of movement, filled with the constant hum of motorbikes weaving through cars, the chatter of vendors calling out their wares, and the rich aroma of sizzling street food drifting through the air.

The markets were a sensory explosion, stalls overflowing with bright fabrics in every hue imaginable, shimmering under the relentless African sun. The scent of fresh mangoes, spices, and grilled fish grounding me in the reality that I was truly here. Everywhere I turned, I saw faces full of expression, eyes that held stories of resilience, and smiles that radiated a warmth I had never experienced before. The rhythmic blend of French and local dialects, like Wolof, flowed through the air in a melody that was both foreign and familiar, wrapping around me and making me feel strangely at home.

Africa had drawn me in once before, but this time, it was different. This time, I wasn’t just a traveller passing through, chasing adventure and fleeting experiences. I was here with a purpose. I was here to serve, to heal, to offer my skills as a nurse to people whose lives would intersect with mine in ways I couldn’t yet fathom. The weight of that purpose settled into me in the best possible way, filling a void I had carried for far too long.

The excitement coursing through me was almost overwhelming. It bubbled just beneath the surface, a blend of anticipation and awe that made my heart race. I had spent so much time dreaming of moments like this, but standing here, breathing in the reality of it, felt surreal. I knew that the work ahead would be challenging, emotionally and physically demanding, but for the first time in a long time, I felt completely aligned with something bigger than myself.

And as I stood on the dock, taking it all in, the ship towering behind me, the vibrant city stretching out before me, I realized that this was more than just a new chapter. It was a beginning, a chance to redefine myself not by my past, but by the impact I hoped to make. Africa had welcomed me back, and this time, I was ready.

Life aboard the ship was unlike anything I had ever experienced, a world within a world, floating on the ocean yet brimming with warmth, purpose, and a profound sense of unity. It was more than just a hospital; it was a close-knit community bound together by love, faith, and an unshakable desire to serve. Every person on board, from the highly skilled surgeons and dedicated nurses to the deckhands fixing things and the kitchen staff preparing meals, had willingly left behind their lives, their families, their comforts, their careers, all for a single, unwavering purpose: to serve God through serving others.

It was awe-inspiring. I watched in quiet amazement as they moved through their days with a sense of peace and purpose that I couldn’t quite grasp. There was a lightness in the way they carried themselves, a quiet confidence that came from knowing they were exactly where they were meant to be. It was as if they were fuelled by something deeper than duty or obligation, something I couldn’t yet understand but longed to. Their faith wasn’t just spoken; it was lived out in the smallest of actions, in the way they cared for patients with tenderness, in the way they treated one another with kindness and patience, in the unwavering joy they carried despite the challenges of ship life.

Unlike them, my reasons for being there felt… different. I had come with good intentions, of course. I wanted to help, to make a difference in people’s lives. I craved the adventure, the thrill of immersing myself in something new and meaningful. I saw it as an opportunity to gain invaluable experience, a stepping stone toward bigger dreams. But if I was truly honest with myself, my motives were also tinged with self-interest. A part of me had been running—from heartbreak, from old wounds, from the gnawing fear that I had wasted too many years chasing the wrong things. I was searching for something, though I wasn’t sure what. A fresh start? Redemption? Proof that I was capable of building a life that mattered?

But these people… their motivations came from a place so selfless, so pure, that I couldn’t help but feel humbled in their presence. They weren’t here for accolades or personal gain. They were here because they believed, deeply, unwaveringly, that love was meant to be shared, that their skills and talents were gifts meant to be given freely. It wasn’t just about the work; it was about the why behind it. They didn’t need external validation or recognition. Their reward came in the form of every life touched, every patient healed, every act of service given with love.

Being surrounded by such unwavering faith and dedication made me question myself in ways I hadn’t before. Could I truly give without expecting anything in return? Could I learn to serve with the same open-hearted grace I saw in them? I wasn’t sure yet, but for the first time in a long time, I wanted to try. I wanted to understand what it meant to surrender to something greater than myself, to let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to my own insecurities for so long.

Life aboard The Global Mercy wasn’t just about healing patients, it was about healing hearts. And slowly, I was beginning to realise that maybe, just maybe, I had been brought here for a reason far greater than I had imagined.

The work itself was beyond incredible, unlike anything I had ever experienced in my nursing career. It wasn’t just about the procedures or the technical skills; it was about the atmosphere, the spirit that filled every corner of the hospital deck. There was a tangible sense of joy, an undercurrent of hope that wove itself into every task, every interaction. It was in the way the nurses greeted each patient with a warm smile, in the gentle hands of the surgeons performing life-changing operations, in the soft prayers whispered over the beds of those waiting for a second chance at life. Everyone wanted to be here, and that desire showed in everything they did. There was no burnout, no resentment, no sense of obligation, just a pure, unwavering dedication to serve. It was love in action, and I had never seen anything like it before.

And then there were the patients, oh, the patients. They were nothing short of extraordinary, each one carrying a story that would break and inspire you all at once. They arrived on the ship with a mixture of desperation and quiet resilience, many having travelled for days, sometimes weeks, just for the chance to be seen. They came with conditions that would have been treated long ago in other parts of the world: massive tumours that had overtaken their faces, leaving them unrecognisable; limbs twisted and bent in ways that made walking impossible; scars from burns that stretched across their skin, each one telling a silent story of pain, survival, and endurance.

What humbled me most was their trust, their unwavering belief that we, complete strangers from distant lands, could offer them hope when they had all but given up. They placed their lives in our hands, despite the fears that clung to them, fears born from whispered stories in their villages—stories that spoke of the white people who might steal their organs, who might take more than they gave. Yet, they came. They came because hope, no matter how fragile, was a force greater than fear.

To witness their transformations was nothing short of breathtaking. I watched as once-guarded faces softened into smiles, as hunched shoulders straightened with newfound confidence, as eyes that once held only uncertainty now shone with hope. Healing here went far beyond the physical. Yes, tumours were removed, bones were straightened, scars were treated, but something deeper happened, something I had never witnessed before. The healing touched their hearts, their spirits, restoring not only their bodies but their sense of dignity, their belief that they were worthy of love and care. 

I remember watching the patients after their surgeries, their fingers brushing over once-disfigured faces with cautious wonder, tears pooling in their eyes as they took in their reflection. In those moments, it wasn’t just their face that had been transformed, it was their entire future. They left the ship not only healed but whole, radiating a confidence that had once been buried beneath layers of shame and despair.

Every day on The Global Mercy reminded me that healing is not just about medicine or surgery; it’s about connection, about restoring the soul as much as the body. It was a kind of healing I had never witnessed before, one that rippled far beyond the operating room and into the very essence of a person’s being. And it was here, in the midst of it all, that I began to understand the true depth of what it meant to serve, not just with my hands, but with my heart.

***

When I first arrived on The Global Mercy, I had a plan, volunteer for three months, gain valuable experience, and then move on to my next adventure. It was supposed to be a stepping stone, another chapter in my journey of exploration and self-discovery. I had mapped it out in my mind so neatly, convinced that I was in control of my path, that I knew what was best for me. But God had other plans.

Little did I know, He was already at work, gently, quietly, patiently weaving His way into the deepest corners of my heart. He was softening the barriers I had unknowingly built over the years, barriers formed from past wounds, disappointments, and my relentless pursuit of independence. Looking back now, I can see it so clearly: He had been working in me all along, long before I set foot on that ship, long before I even considered that faith might have a place in my life. I just hadn’t been ready to see it. I was blind, lost in my own way, holding tightly to the illusion of control, believing that I alone could shape my destiny.

At the start of my time on the ship, I approached everything with an open mind, at least, that’s what I told myself. In truth, I was open but guarded, curious but sceptical. I was willing to listen, to observe, but I resisted the idea of God becoming anything more than a distant concept in my life. My understanding of Him was surface-level at best, shaped by half-truths I had picked up along the way, stories told in passing, cultural references, fleeting conversations and misconceptions that had left me more confused than enlightened.

Faith, to me, had always felt like something distant, something reserved for those who were raised in it, who understood it, who had never questioned it the way I did. I believed in kindness, in compassion, in doing good. I had always thought those things were enough, that they made me a good person. But faith? Faith felt like something elusive, something too abstract, too wrapped up in rules and expectations that didn’t quite fit into the world I had built for myself.

I realise now that my scepticism was, in many ways, a defence mechanism, a way to protect myself from the vulnerability that faith required. To truly know God meant surrendering the illusion of control I had clung to for so long. It meant letting go of the idea that I had to figure everything out on my own. And that scared me. Because if I admitted that I wasn’t in control, then I would have to face the reality that perhaps I never had been.

But despite my resistance, God was patient. He met me where I was,through the kindness of those around me, through the unshakable joy I saw in the people I worked with, through the quiet moments of awe as I witnessed healing that couldn’t be explained by medicine alone. Slowly, He was drawing me closer, revealing Himself in ways I couldn’t ignore.

In those first few weeks, I thought I was simply here to help others, to give back, to find meaning in service. But what I didn’t realise was that I was the one being changed, being drawn into something far greater than I could have ever imagined.

But God had placed me here at the right time, with the right people. I truly believe that now. Looking back, I can see His hand in every detail, orchestrating each moment with perfect timing. Had I come even a year earlier, I might not have been ready, my heart too closed, my mind too distracted, my walls too high. I might have missed the quiet lessons He was trying to teach me, too caught up in my own plans to recognise the divine appointments set before me. But God knew. He knew I needed to be here now, at this precise moment, when my soul was finally cracked open enough to receive what was being offered to me.

One of the most significant influences in my journey toward faith is the friendships I have builtfriendships that are unlike any I had experienced before. Shannon, Isi, and Nadine. We arrived on the ship at around the same time, strangers from different corners of the world, each carrying our own stories, our own doubts, our own search for meaning. And yet, somehow, God kept weaving our paths together, entwining our journeys in ways that felt too perfect to be coincidence.

There was something effortless yet profound about our friendships. It wasn’t just the shared laughter during late-night conversations in our tiny cabins or the support we gave each other during tough shifts in the hospital ward. It was something deeper, something that transcended the surface-level friendships I had known before. In them, I found a sense of belonging that went beyond circumstance. I found people who saw me, who challenged me, who held space for both my questions and my growth. Today we pray together, cry together, laugh together and encourage one another in a way that is raw and real. They have become my anchors, grounding me when I feel uncertain and lifting me when I doubted myself.

What amazes me most is how, even after those first three months passed in Senegal, God continued to weave our lives together. Despite the ebb and flow of life aboard The Global Mercy, with each of us coming and going at different times, somehow, we always found our way back, to the ship, to each other, to the calling that had brought us here in the first place. Each reunion felt like a reminder that our friendship was part of something greater, something orchestrated by a God who knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t.

These friendships weren’t just built on shared experiences or mutual interests; they were rooted in something deeper, something eternal. For the first time in my life, I experienced relationships that weren’t based on convenience or circumstance but on faith, on a shared desire to serve, to love, and to grow. They showed me what it meant to walk alongside others in faith, to support each other not just in the good times, but through the struggles, doubts, and uncertainties.

Looking back now, I see it so clearly, God didn’t just bring me here for the work; He brought me here for them. They were the living, breathing evidence of His love in my life, proof that He knew my heart’s deepest needs long before I did. And through them, I learned that faith isn’t just about belief; it’s about connection, about walking this journey hand in hand with those He places in our lives at just the right moment.

At the time, they knew I wasn’t a Christian. I had been upfront about it from the beginning, making it clear that while I respected their faith, I wasn’t ready to adopt it as my own. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I wasn’t, didn’t want to nod along to conversations about God and faith without truly understanding what it all meant. I had spent so much of my life feeling like I had to fit into molds that weren’t meant for me, and I was determined not to do that here.

And yet, they never judged me. They never made me feel like I was less-than, or that I didn’t belong. They didn’t try to convince me with arguments or pressure me into believing what they believed. Instead, they simply loved me, selflessly, unconditionally, and with a kind of grace that I had rarely encountered before. Their love wasn’t transactional; it didn’t come with expectations or ultimatums. It was patient and gentle, allowing me to show up exactly as I was, doubts and all.

It was a love that felt so different from anything I had known before. I had always thought love required something in return, effort, compromise, conditions. But what I experienced on the ship was pure, unfiltered, and unwavering. It was a love that reflected something greater than themselves, something that, even in my scepticism, I couldn’t help but be drawn to.

And it wasn’t just my friends, this love seemed to surround me everywhere I looked. It was in the kindness of the crew, who served tirelessly with a joy that didn’t make sense to me. It was in the local day workers, who radiated hope and resilience despite lives filled with hardships I could barely comprehend. It was in the patients, who trusted us with their lives and somehow, in the midst of their pain, still found ways to smile and show gratitude. It was as if I was witnessing a glimpse of something divine, something I couldn’t quite put into words but could feel stirring inside me.

Slowly, quietly, that love was opening my heart in ways I never could have imagined. It was softening the walls I had built, the ones I had thought were necessary to protect myself from disappointment and hurt. I found myself questioning, not because I was being told to, but because I wanted to. Because if this kind of love could exist in people, if it could be so abundant, so freely given, maybe there was something to it after all.

And in those moments, I started to wonder: maybe faith wasn’t about rules and rituals. Maybe it was simply about love, the kind of love I was experiencing in every corner of that ship.

Over those three months, my curiosity grew in ways I never expected. It wasn’t an overnight revelation, but a slow, steady pull, like a gentle tide drawing me closer to something I couldn’t yet define. At first, I started attending church services more out of intrigue than conviction. I wasn’t seeking God, not really. I was seeking what my friends had, a peace, a certainty, an unwavering assurance that I had never known. They navigated life’s challenges with a quiet strength, an unshakable confidence that seemed to come from somewhere deep within them. I wanted to understand it. What gave them such calm in the face of uncertainty? What made them so sure?

So I did what I always did when something didn’t make sense, I asked questions. Countless questions. Big ones, small ones, the ones that kept me up at night, and the ones that had lingered in the back of my mind for years. Why does suffering exist? How can you believe in something you can’t see? How do you know for sure it’s real? They never shied away from answering. With patience and kindness, they met me where I was, never trying to push, never trying to convince, but gently guiding me toward understanding. They didn’t have all the answers, and they didn’t pretend to. But they shared their experiences, their doubts, their own journeys of faith in ways that made me feel safe to explore without judgment.

One conversation, in particular, stands out in my memory, a day that, in many ways, marked a turning point for me. It was a rare day off the ship, spent exploring N’Gor Island, a slice of paradise just off the coast of Dakar. The sun was warm against my skin, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing soundtrack to our conversations. We lounged on beach beds, the scent of salt and grilled fish lingering in the air, and I found myself, once again, challenging Nadine on her faith.

I remember the way I posed my questions, half-curious, half-defensive, as if I was testing the strength of something I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe in. “But how can you be so sure?” I asked, my voice tinged with scepticism. “How do you know it’s not just something you believe because it makes life easier?” I expected hesitation, maybe even frustration, but Nadine simply smiled, as if she had been where I was once too. She answered with a grace that was both disarming and comforting, not in a way that tried to win me over, but in a way that made me feel understood. She spoke of faith not as something forced or blind, but as a relationship, something that grows, that evolves, that meets you in your doubts rather than silences them.

I left that conversation feeling unsettled in the best possible way. It wasn’t that I suddenly had all the answers, but rather that I was beginning to realise I didn’t need to. Faith wasn’t about having everything figured out, it was about trust, about surrender, about letting go of the need to control every outcome.

As I reflect on that time, I see it so clearly now. God was using every moment, every question, every conversation, every unexpected experience, to gently pull me closer to Him. I didn’t know it then, but those beachside conversations and late-night discussions under the ship’s starlit sky were planting seeds in my heart, ones that would eventually grow into something I could no longer ignore.

But deep down, I knew why I couldn’t fully let God in, why I kept Him at a safe, manageable distance. It wasn’t because I didn’t believe, and it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was because I wasn’t ready to face my past. Letting Him in meant opening doors I had kept locked for years, doors behind which I had buried my brokenness, my shame, and the heavy weight of my regrets. Accepting Him would mean confronting the darkest parts of myself, the choices I had made, the mistakes I had tried so hard to forget, and the pain I had carefully tucked away, hoping it would stay hidden forever.

I had spent so long avoiding those parts of me, building walls of distraction and self-reliance, convincing myself that if I just moved fast enough, travelled far enough, worked hard enough, I could outrun them. But deep down, I knew they were still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to catch up with me. And I was terrified that if I truly let God in, if I surrendered even a little, everything I had buried would come rushing to the surface, too powerful to contain.

So, I kept Him at arm’s length. I went to church, listened to sermons that stirred something in me, and asked questions that hinted at my curiosity. I participated just enough to satisfy the longing within me, the longing for something bigger, something more. But when it came to full surrender, to truly letting go of control and handing it all over to God, I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

I told myself I needed more time, that I wasn’t quite ready, that I had too much to figure out first. I justified my resistance with logic, with doubts, with the lingering fear that maybe I wasn’t good enough, that maybe God’s grace wasn’t meant for people like me, people with pasts too messy, too complicated, too stained with regret.

But the truth was, my heart knew better. My heart knew that God wasn’t waiting for me to clean myself up before coming to Him. He was waiting for me to come as I was, broken, bruised, and burdened. Yet, the idea of surrendering that control, of letting myself be vulnerable in a way I never had before, felt too overwhelming.

So, I stayed on the edges, watching from a distance, dipping my toes into faith but never diving in. And yet, even as I resisted, I could feel Him there, patient, persistent, whispering to me in the quiet moments, through the kindness of friends, through the beauty of the work we were doing. I could feel Him gently knocking on the door I wasn’t ready to open, and deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to stop running and let Him in.

My three months on the ship flew by in a blur of emotions, experiences, and growth. It felt like I had only just begun to find my footing, to truly immerse myself in the rhythms of life aboard The Global Mercy, when suddenly, it was time to leave. I had always known my time here was temporary, that I had plans beyond the ship, to travel, to explore, to continue chasing the adventures that had once defined me. But something inside me couldn’t let go.

There was a pull, a quiet but persistent knowing deep in my soul that whispered, You’re not done here. It wasn’t just a feeling of nostalgia or the natural sadness of leaving behind something meaningful; it was more than that. It was as if every moment on that ship, every conversation, every patient, every tear and triumph, had been leading me to this realisation: my journey here wasn’t finished.

I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t just walk away and pretend it hadn’t changed me. And so, before I left, I did something I hadn’t planned. I sat down with my manager, my heart pounding in my chest, and expressed my desire to return. The words felt both terrifying and freeing as they left my lips, but deep down, I knew they were right. I didn’t have all the answers, and I wasn’t sure what was drawing me back so strongly, but it felt as though it had all been orchestrated from the very beginning, as if God had been leading me here all along, carefully aligning each moment, each person, each experience to bring me to this decision.

To my surprise, and perhaps, in hindsight, not so surprising at all,it all fell into place with ease. Without hesitation, I was signed up for another three months, this time in Sierra Leone. No resistance, no obstacles, just an open door that confirmed what I already felt in my heart: this was exactly where I was meant to be. It was as if God was gently reaffirming, See? I’ve got you. Trust Me.

And so, with tearful goodbyes and a heart full of emotions I couldn’t quite articulate, I left The Global Mercy for a while. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye, to the friendships that had become lifelines, to the patients who had taught me more about resilience and grace than I could ever repay, to the quiet, sacred moments of self-discovery that had marked my time there. But even as I hugged my friends tightly, whispering promises to return, I carried something with me that I hadn’t arrived with.

It was more than just a collection of memories or experiences; it was a seed of faith, a quiet whisper of something greater than myself, and the beginning of a journey I had yet to fully embark on. I wasn’t the same person who had stepped onto that ship months ago, wide-eyed and searching. Something had shifted, and I knew that wherever my travels took me next, I wouldn’t just be wandering, I would be walking with a deeper sense of purpose, with an openness to the unknown, and with the quiet certainty that, eventually, I would find my way back.