Coming back to the ship felt like returning home, though finding the right words to capture that feeling seems almost impossible. It wasn’t just familiarity, it was something deeper, something that reached into the core of who I was. A comfort I had never known before, as if I had finally stepped into a space that had been waiting for me. It wasn’t the walls of the ship or the people aboard that created this feeling, though they played their part. It was something unshakable, an inner certainty, a sense of belonging that I had spent my whole life searching for without even realizing it.
Every step I had taken, every detour, every heartbreak, every moment that had left me feeling lost, somehow, impossibly, they had all led me here. To this moment. To this place. It should have felt foreign, like stepping into someone else’s life, but instead, it was as if I had been walking toward this all along, even when I thought I was running away.
And yet, even as that peace settled over me, as sure as the rising tide, I still resisted. A part of me clung to the old narratives, the old fears, the belief that I wasn’t worthy of this kind of belonging. That I was still the same restless soul, too damaged, too undeserving. I had spent years longing for a place to anchor, and now that I had found it, a quiet voice inside whispered: What if this isn’t real? What if it doesn’t last?
The ship welcomed me without question. The people, the purpose, the pull of something greater than myself, it was all there, waiting for me to embrace it. The Christian community onboard once again wrapped around me like a warm embrace, their faith not just spoken but lived, woven into their laughter, their kindness, their unwavering belief in something greater. It was undeniable, an undercurrent running through every conversation, every shared meal, every moment of service. I had managed to keep God at arm’s length while I was traveling, convincing myself that I could carve out my own path, that I could admire faith from a distance without ever fully surrendering to it. I had told myself I was free, unbound by expectation, and yet I had spent so much of that time feeling unanchored, as if I were constantly searching for something I couldn’t name. But here, back on the ship, there was no escaping Him. His presence wove itself into the prayers whispered in the quiet of the morning, in the voices raised in worship. He was in the hands that reached out to serve, in the stillness of reflection when the world seemed to pause. I felt Him pressing into the spaces I had kept closed off, gently unravelling the walls I had built.
I was once again only supposed to stay for three months, a brief return before I set off again, but something deep within me stirred. It was more than a passing thought, more than the simple comfort of routine or familiarity. It was a whisper, soft but insistent, that maybe this wasn’t temporary. Maybe I wasn’t just here to revisit old memories or reconnect with familiar faces. Maybe I was being drawn back for something bigger than myself, something I had spent my whole life unknowingly resisting. I had spent so long running, searching, longing. But what if the journey had always been leading me here? What if, after all the detours, all the moments of doubt, I was finally standing in the place where I was meant to surrender? Maybe, just maybe, God had brought me back so I could stop looking for Him and finally, truly, know Him.
Still, I resisted. Even as I felt the pull of something greater than myself, even as I caught glimpses of the peace I had been unknowingly searching for, I held back. My heart had been locked away for so long, reinforced by walls of fear and shame, each brick laid by past mistakes, disappointments, and wounds that never fully healed. To open it now,to let faith seep in, to allow myself to believe, felt dangerous. It was easier to keep it guarded, to convince myself that I could stand at the edge of faith without ever fully stepping in. Because it wasn’t just about believing. It was about surrender. And surrender meant change. It meant facing every truth I had buried, every painful memory I had pushed aside. It meant admitting that the way I had lived my life, chasing things that never fulfilled me, clinging to relationships that broke me, trying to outrun my own emptiness, was sinful. And more than that, it meant facing the pain of my past, the wounds I had carried like invisible scars, the voices that had whispered lies for so long that they had begun to sound like truth.
The deepest of them all: You don’t deserve to be loved.
That belief had wrapped itself around my soul like ivy, twisting, tightening, suffocating any hope that I could ever be forgiven. It wasn’t just a passing thought, it had shaped my choices, my relationships, the way I saw myself. I had spent years running from love, rejecting it before it could reject me, convinced that I was beyond redemption. How could I suddenly believe that God, this all-knowing, all-seeing Creator, would want someone like me? And yet, despite every excuse I made, despite every wall I tried to rebuild, I could feel something shifting. A quiet, relentless knocking at the door of my heart, asking me to let go. Asking me to believe that love, real, unconditional love, was not something I had to earn. It was something that had been waiting for me all along. But was I brave enough to open the door?
And then about a month into being back on the ship, I attended a Sunday service. I don’t remember who was preaching, whether it was a man or a woman, whether their voice was soft or commanding. But I remember the words. Not in the way you remember sentences or speeches, but in the way you remember moments that change you. The message hit me like waves crashing against the shore, relentless and undeniable, breaking through the walls I had spent years fortifying. They spoke about being part of God’s family, about being loved, about being forgiven. Simple words. Familiar words. Words I had heard before but never truly let in. I had always kept them at a safe distance, nodding along while secretly believing they weren’t meant for me. But this time, something shifted.
Something inside me cracked open.
It wasn’t a sudden, dramatic moment, not like lightning from the sky or an earth-shattering realization. It was quieter than that, deeper. It was as if the truth had finally slipped past my defences, settling into the places I had tried so hard to keep hidden. For the first time, I actually listened. I didn’t just hear the words, I felt them. A warmth spread through my body, not like a fleeting emotion, but like something steady, something real. It was as if a voice beyond my own, gentle, patient, unyielding, was speaking straight into my soul. You are loved. You belong. You are forgiven. I had spent so much of my life convincing myself otherwise, believing that love had to be earned, that belonging was conditional, that forgiveness was for people less broken than me. But in that moment, those lies lost their grip. I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t know how to let go of the past, how to unlearn the shame I had carried for so long. But I knew this: for the first time in my life, I believed that maybe, just maybe, God’s love was meant for me too.
That night during worship, Goodness of God played, and as the lyrics filled the room, they filled something inside me too, something hollow, something I hadn’t even realized was empty until that very moment. The first few notes washed over me, and before I could stop it, the dam inside me broke. I started crying, no, sobbing. Big, ugly, uncontrollable sobs that racked my entire body. Tears poured from a place so deep within me that I hadn’t even known it existed, a place that had been locked away for years. I wasn’t just crying over a song. I was weeping over every lie I had ever believed about myself, every wound I had ignored, every moment I had spent running from the truth.
Because in that moment, I knew.
Knew that I had been wrong, so terribly wrong, about everything I had ever believed about myself and the world. Every whispered voice that told me I wasn’t enough, that I was unworthy, that I was beyond redemption none of it was true. I knew that God was real, that He had always been real, and that He had been pursuing me all along, even when I had refused to see it. Even when I had turned away, when I had chosen my own way, when I had convinced myself, I didn’t need Him, He had never let me go. And He loved me. Despite everything.
It was terrifying.
Terrifying to realize that the life I had been living was not the life I was meant for. That every excuse I had made, ever decision I had made that hurt me, every reason I had given myself to resist, had been nothing more than fear. Fear of change. Fear of surrender. Fear that I wasn’t enough. But in the same breath, it was freeing. Because I knew I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t keep up the facade that I was fine, that I was happy, that I had everything under control. The truth was right in front of me, and for the first time, I wasn’t running from it.
And somehow, even with all the fear, even with all the uncertainty about what would come next, I felt comforted. Because I knew, I knew, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.
God was there.
He had always been there.
A week later, after countless sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, after internal battles that felt like they would tear me apart, I reached a breaking point. My mind was a battlefield, arguments waging inside me, logic and fear clawing at my newfound faith, trying to pull me back into the safety of doubt. I tried to talk myself out of believing, convincing myself that this was just a passing phase, that I was caught up in the emotions of the moment, that I could walk away and pretend none of it had ever happened.
But the truth was relentless. It wouldn’t let me go. And the terror of it, the sheer weight of what it meant to truly surrender, to face my past without running, to let go of the identity I had clung to for so long, almost dragged me back into old patterns. The familiar numbness beckoned. The temptation to bury it all, to push it down, to drown it out with distractions, was strong. But something inside me had shifted. I couldn’t un-know what I now knew. And so, in the quiet of my room, with no one watching, no script to follow, no idea if I was even doing it “right,” I did something I had never done before.
I prayed.
It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t the kind of prayer I had heard others say with such certainty. It was raw. Messy. Desperate. The words stumbled out of me in broken whispers, heavy with exhaustion and longing. I didn’t know what to say, only that I needed to say something. And in that moment, in that messy, unpolished, vulnerable surrender, I found something I had never known before.
Clarity.
Not the kind that answers every question or erases every doubt, but the kind that settles deep in your bones, quiet and steady. The kind that tells you, This is real. This is right. You are exactly where you are meant to be.
A few days later, I walked into my manager’s office, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. A part of me still couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but I knew, I knew, this was the next step. There was no more running, no more resisting. I sat down, took a deep breath, and met her eyes. My hands trembled slightly in my lap, but my resolve was firm. I told her everything. How God had been revealing Himself to me in ways I could no longer deny. How every wall I had built to keep Him at a distance had come crumbling down. How I felt drawn to stay, not just to continue volunteering, not just to be part of a mission bigger than myself, but to truly know Him. To give my life to something greater.
I had spent so much of my time on the ship thinking it was just another chapter, another experience to add to my story. But this wasn’t about gaining experience anymore. It wasn’t about adventure, or travel, or even service. This was about transformation. About surrender. About stepping into something that had been waiting for me all along.
As I spoke, my voice trembled, emotion rising to the surface. But I didn’t hold back. I let the words spill out, raw and unfiltered, like a confession and a declaration all at once. And then, as I finished, I saw the tears well up in her eyes. She didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me, and in that silence, something passed between us, understanding, encouragement, maybe even a kind of shared awe at what was unfolding. And then, just like that, we were both crying. Sitting there together, in the middle of an office that had once felt so separate from matters of the heart and soul, we let the weight of the moment sink in. Because this wasn’t just a decision about staying. That day, I committed to two years on the ship. But more than that, I committed to God. To this new life. To faith.
AYLA IN AFRICA 