AYLA IN AFRICA

Tag: mental-health

  • Radical Individualism

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

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

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

    I think it comes down to radical individualism.

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

    We see it every day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Hard Days

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

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

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

    But Connaught… it’s different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    So I’m giving myself permission now.

    To ask for help.

    To lean on others.

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

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

    It comes from letting someone else hold it with you.

  • Coming Back to the Ship

    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.