“ So …. where are you from ?”

It’s a simple question, but it’s one I’ve always found hard to answer.

Usually it comes after they’ve heard me speak. My accent isn’t easily placed - it’s distinctly international. It’s a blend of everywhere I’ve lived, nowhere in particular, and everywhere I’ve been along the way. That seems to make people curious, becuase sometimes I sound super American & then a word slips out with a slightly British accent or even weirder to them - Thai.

Then they look at me a 5’11 brown girl, and I can almost see the question forming all over again. They’re trying to piece the puzzle together. They hear one thing see another, and they’re searching for an answer that fits neatly into a box.

I don’t think I have a box.

Do I tell them where I was born ? The country of my passport ? The place I spent the longest ? Or the country that feels most like home ?

I’ve lived in eight countries, attended international schools, and been immersed in cultures that some people have only viewed on a tv screen. Home has never been one place it’s a collection of people, languages, traditions, airports, classrooms, and memories scattered across the world.

Sometimes I find the irony quite beautiful.

I am a blend of ancestries - mostly African ( East & Central), but also Asian and European. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether my childhood was, in some way, an opportunity to experience the richness and diversity that has always been a part of who I am. I didn’t grow up in every country my ancestors once called home, but I grew up surrounded by cultures that reflected different parts of my heritage, and that gave me a perspective I’ll always be grateful for.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never felt completely defined by one place.

I’ve realized that my identity is not rooted in a single country but countless, people, cultures and experiences that shaped me. Every country I’ve lived in, every international school I’ve attended and every culture I encountered shaped me. I’ve seen that there is rarely only one way of thinking, or one way of living.

This is a lifestyle that I don’t take for granted. I’m able to celebrate differences instead of fearing them, to listen before making assumptions & to appreciate that every person carries a story.

When your childhood is spent crossing borders, it becomes a baseline for your worldview.

My parents dedicated their careers to humanitarian work. Both worked for the United Nations (UN) , committing their lives to serving communities around the world. My Dad served as regional director of East Africa & my mom held the same role but in the Middle East & South East Asia. Their work meant relocating frequently, embracing unfamiliar cultures and places & following a mission far bigger than themselves - all whilst raising me and my siblings ( I wasn’t even born in either of my parents country of origin).

As a child, sometimes I didn’t fully appreciate the significance of what they were doing - because how could I especially as a baby or toddler, but it definitely had an impact on the person I’ve become. To me, moving countries, meeting people from every corner of the globe and attending international schools felt normal.

It’s only now that I’m older that I realize what an extraordinary experience it has been.

I wasn’t just collecting passport stamps I was collecting lifelong memories.

Every move challenged me to adapt. Every classroom introduced me to classmates with different languages, religions, and traditions. I can see how each place left an imprint on my character. Some taught me resilience. Others taught me compassion. Some challenged my assumptions, others deepened my appreciation for beauty & cultural diversity.

Kenya - where it all began for me.

Every journey has a beginning and mine is Kenya. (I was mostly a baby & toddler there).

What began as another humanitarian posting for my parents would become my first chapter of life, and I’m glad my first memory is Kenya - because even though I was so young, my time there is unforgettable. I think maybe one day when I have kids I’ll bring them there a lot, because as a little kid it’s the perfect place to play around & make memories.

Some of my earliest memories are woven into its landscapes, the people and its unshakable sense of community. It was a place where neighbors became family, where hospitality was not an exception but a way of life, and I feel like it is the foundations of who I am today - because I took my first steps on Kenyan soil, I said my first words in a Kenyan accent & my first taste of food was of Kenyan cuisine. I was in Kenya for almost 7 years & since leaving in around 2012 I’ve been back about 4 or 5 times, I was just there this summer as well.

If someone were to ask me, “where do you feel most at home”? I’d probably say Kenya, because I have a loyalty to it & it is also a part of my heritage - I could even speak Swahili for some time, but now I only speak it brokenly.

I realize how fortunate I was to begin life in a country so rich in culture and warmth. Even though I was too young to understand my parents’ work, I was growing up surrounded by people whose generosity, perseverance and kindness indirectly shaped me.

In many ways, Kenya didn’t just mark the beginning of my international childhood.

It marked the beginning of the person I would become.

Most of my memories are of being in playgroup & the early years of education, having barbecues, running around my compound with all my friends & just having the absolute best of times, because of my parents busy schedules we were fortunate enough to have help around the house - so there was a incredible women named Pamela who was my nanny for about 7 years in my early childhood, and she was like a second mother to me and my siblings - we would do everything with her, and I think she must have been so tolerant, because me and my siblings were very cheeky little children sometimes, but she became a part of our family & sometimes even brought her own kids to the house & we would play with them.

Pamela had a great sense of humor & to this day decades after leaving I’m still in contact with her, but she can’t believe that I’m 18 now - she remembers me as practically a new born baby, toddler, and young child.

We lived in a huge gated compound, with lots of other families. All of our parents had similar jobs so all of the kids immediately got along & most of our Nannie’s were also friends so we’d spend so much time together, I don’t even remember my parents not being around a lot - because I was constantly surrounded by people who I loved & loved me. We also had a chef sometimes & I think that’s where my love of food stems from, because we were fed so well : ).

The best part of it though, was that when my parents got breaks from work like for example at Christmas time or other holidays - we would leave Nairobi & go to the coast or on safari, which was amazing. I spent a lot of my summers as a toddler swimming in the tropical Indian Ocean, sunbathing with my mum & playing in the sand with my siblings as well as having the chance to go on epic safaris and see all the wildlife.

Leaving Kenya was tough, but it opened the door to new adventures.

I remember my parents talking to me at age 6 or 7 about how we were going to go on a plane & see somewhere new ( which I didn’t really understand). All I remember was feeling confused, but my parents and all the adults around the did the best job at comforting my siblings and I through the next move.

Part of the reason for leaving was not only my parents job requirements, but also the fact that the country was growing more and more politically unstable & just a couple of months before we left there was a major terrorist attack at one of the malls in Nairobi.

At the end of August 2012, my family and I left Kenya, and boarded a plane to Lebanon.

Lebanon - A defining & character building chapter of my life.

When I was seven years old, we packed our lives into boxes and moved to Lebanon.

My parents had relocated because of their work with the United Nations, responding to the humanitarian crisis created by the war in Syria. While they dedicated themselves to serving others, my siblings and I began another chapter of our own.

We attended an American international school, where I received an excellent education and formed friendships with people from all over the world ( including some Lebanese). Some great childhood memories were made there, with the expat community and for that I will always be grateful.

But Lebanon was also the first place where I became aware that not everyone would see me simply as a child.

As a mixed-race family with predominantly African heritage, there were moments when we struggled to feel at home or a sense of belonging . My siblings and I were sometimes picked on or excluded because of the color of our skin or the fact that we spoke differently . Those experiences were confusing as a child. You don’t yet understand prejudice-you simply wonder why you’re being treated differently.

One memory has stayed with me for years, not because it happened to me directly, but because of what it revealed.

A close friend of my mum’s is Ethiopian and married to a German man. Their children, like me, are of mixed heritage. One day, she arrived to collect her children from a birthday party. Instead of greeting her politely, one of the Lebanese children shouted at her to come and pick up his rubbish, assuming she was a domestic worker rather than another parent.

I was shocked when I heard the story. It wasn’t just an insult; it reflected how deeply assumptions about race and status can become embedded in society.

During our time in Lebanon, I also became aware of the widespread employment of migrant domestic workers, many of whom came from African and Asian countries. As a child, I didn’t fully understand the complexities of that system, but I could see that it often created unhealthy attitudes towards race and social status. Looking back now, I recognise that these experiences shaped the way I think about dignity, equality and justice.

Despite those difficult moments, Lebanon was never defined by them alone.

It was a country of incredible food, breathtaking landscapes, generous people and rich history. I met friends I’ll never forget and learned lessons that have stayed with me long after we left.

When we eventually moved on, I wasn’t the same seven-year-old who had arrived.

Lebanon challenged me. It exposed me to both the beauty and the brokenness that can exist within the same place. Most importantly, it taught me that injustice isn’t always found in history books or courtrooms. Sometimes it appears in the everyday assumptions people make about one another.

Perhaps that was one of the first moments I began to understand why justice matters so deeply to me.

Of course, Lebanon wasn’t defined solely by the difficult moments.

There were some great memories made there. We spent weekends exploring ancient ruins that seemed to bring history to life, wandered through places that had stood for thousands of years, and escaped the summer heat at water parks with friends. Those are the memories I like to hold onto-the laughter, the adventures and the feeling that every weekend offered somewhere new to discover.

Living there also meant being immersed in a completely different culture. Although I’ve forgotten most of it now, I did pick up bits of Arabic, and French as a child. Like many children growing up internationally, learning new words and phrases came naturally because I was surrounded by them every day. Sadly, I can’t speak the Arabic language today, but I’m grateful I had the opportunity to experience it at all - however my French is quite good.

Looking back, I also recognise that my family’s experience was very different from that of many people living in Lebanon. Because of my parents’ work with the United Nations, we lived in secure, gated communities and had security measures in place. We had drivers who safely took us to school, cooks who prepared meals and cleaners who helped around the house. As a child, that simply felt like normal life. Only later did I understand that these arrangements existed because my parents were working in an exceptionally high-pressure humanitarian environment.

Despite those layers of protection, the reality of the situation inevitably filtered through into our lives. There was a constant awareness that my parents were working in response to one of the world’s largest humanitarian crises, and that the region itself was facing significant political and security challenges. It wasn’t the kind of atmosphere my parents wanted their children to grow up in.

After around two years, they made the decision along with the UN that it was time for us to move on. It wasn’t because Lebanon lacked beauty or because we hadn’t built wonderful memories there. It was because they wanted us to grow up in an environment that felt more stable and peaceful, where the pressures surrounding us wouldn’t become our normal.

It makes me genuinely sad to see the difficulties Lebanon continues to face today. Beneath the headlines is a country filled with remarkable history, breathtaking landscapes and countless kind, generous people who deserve so much better. Whenever I think back to our time there, I choose to remember both sides of the story-the joy alongside the hardship, the friendships alongside the challenges. After all, places, like people, are rarely defined by just one chapter.

The UK & Ireland - very transformative.

London

I arrived in London at around ten years old, just before starting secondary school( middle school)-a stage of life that feels significant for anyone, but especially for a child who had already spent their early years moving from country to country.

This move was different.

After everything we had experienced in Lebanon, my parents deliberately chose London. They wanted somewhere that reflected the world we had grown up in—a city where cultures, languages and backgrounds blended together, where diversity wasn’t unusual but part of everyday life. As a mixed-race family with African heritage, they hoped London would be somewhere we could simply exist without constantly feeling different.

In many ways, they were right.

I fell in love with London almost immediately.

There was an energy about the city that I had never experienced before. The towering skyline, the endless movement of people from every corner of the world and the unmistakable buzz of city life fascinated me. I remember looking out across the city and feeling completely in awe. It was cosmopolitan, vibrant and endlessly exciting. Every neighbourhood seemed to tell a different story, and every day felt like there was something new waiting to be discovered.

My parents initially enrolled me in a Steiner school, something that couldn’t have been more different from the American international schools I had previously attended.

At first, it felt incredibly strange.

I had come from a structured American education system, whereas the Steiner philosophy placed much greater emphasis on creativity, imagination, community and personal development. Lessons felt different, classrooms felt different, and even the rhythm of the school day was unlike anything I had known before.

Although it took some adjusting to, I grew to appreciate the slower pace and the sense of togetherness that the school encouraged. It reminded me that education isn’t only about grades-it is also about character, kindness and learning how to live alongside other people.

Outside of school, London became my playground.

There was always something happening, whether it was museums, parks, theatres or simply exploring different parts of the city. For a young child, it felt as though opportunities were everywhere. I even joined an acting club for a while and was cast in the lead role in a theatre production of Zeus. Standing on stage was something completely outside my comfort zone, but it became another one of those unexpected experiences that helped shape my confidence.

After a couple of years, however, my parents began to feel that as my siblings and I entered our teenage years, we would benefit from a little more structure. They made the decision to enrol us in boarding school.

At first, I was genuinely excited.

It felt like an adventure-a chance to become more independent and experience something entirely new.

The reality, however, was rather different.

By this point, my parents had started working in Thailand, and boarding school meant being separated from them for long periods of time. As the weeks turned into months, the excitement slowly faded. I missed home. More than anything, I missed my parents.

I remained in boarding school for quite some time and even transferred to another one along the way. Looking back, I would describe the experience as character-building. It taught me resilience, independence and adaptability, but it also taught me something equally important: not every path is the right one simply because it works for someone else.

One of the greatest comforts during those years was knowing that the school holidays meant flying to Thailand.

Those trips became the highlight of every term. After weeks of uniforms, routines and dormitory life, I would arrive in a country filled with warmth, colour and, most importantly, my family. Eventually, I realised that boarding school simply wasn’t where I was happiest. Together, my parents and I decided it was time for a different approach.

I left boarding school, moved to Thailand to be with my family once again and began homeschooling-a decision that, for me, marked the beginning of another completely different chapter. Then COVID - 19 hit & we all moved back to the UK, which I was completely fine with - because I would continue home school.

Ireland

By the time we arrived in Ireland, the world was about to change in ways none of us could have imagined.

Much of our time there was shaped by the COVID-19 pandemic. While lockdown was a difficult experience for people across the globe, I often found myself feeling incredibly grateful that we were experiencing it in Ireland.

By this point, I was also being homeschooled & doing online school. After deciding that boarding school wasn’t the right environment for me, homeschooling gave me the freedom to learn in a way that suited me far better. It allowed me to become more independent, take ownership of my education and continue learning despite the uncertainty that surrounded the world during the pandemic.

There is something uniquely peaceful about Ireland.

Rolling green fields stretch for miles, rugged coastlines meet the Atlantic Ocean, and even the smallest villages seem to possess a warmth that makes you feel at home. After years of living in bustling cities and constantly moving between countries, Ireland offered a different pace of life. It felt calmer. Simpler. Grounded.

Looking back, I can’t imagine a better place to have spent those uncertain months.

When the world seemed to stand still, Ireland’s natural beauty became a source of comfort. Long walks through the countryside, fresh air and open spaces were a reminder that even in the middle of uncertainty, there was still so much beauty to be found.

Ireland also held a special significance for our family.

My dad has family there, so moving wasn’t just another international posting—it was also an opportunity to spend time with relatives and strengthen connections that had often been separated by distance. After a childhood spent moving from place to place, there was something comforting about living somewhere that already felt familiar in its own way.

Of course, no country is perfect, but one thing that has always stood out to me is the kindness of Irish people. Whether it was neighbours, teachers or complete strangers, I was continually struck by how welcoming and approachable people were. There is a genuine warmth to Irish culture that makes it easy to feel at home.

As the months turned into years, Ireland became much more than another place I had lived.

It became the country where I grew into adulthood. It was here, while being homeschooled, that I had the time and space to think deeply about the world around me. My curiosity about politics, current affairs and justice grew stronger, and my ambition to study law evolved from a passing interest into a genuine calling.

Looking back at my journey, I realise that every country gave me something different.

Kenya taught me community.

Lebanon taught me resilience.

London taught me confidence and independence.

And Ireland gave me the space to discover who I wanted to become.

Thailand & Malaysia - some of my favourite places.

Although London and boarding school occupied much of my teenage years, another part of my life was unfolding thousands of miles away.

By this point, my parents had moved to Thailand for work with the United Nations, responding to the humanitarian crisis in Myanmar. While they dedicated themselves to supporting humanitarian efforts across the region, for a couple of years my life was split between boarding school during term time and Southeast Asia during the holidays. Every school break meant packing another suitcase and boarding another flight, but instead of feeling exhausting, it became something I looked forward to more than anything.

Thailand quickly became one of my favourite places in the world.

To this day, Thai food is still my favourite cuisine. Whether it was wandering through bustling night markets, trying new dishes or simply sitting down for dinner as a family, food became one of the ways I fell in love with the country. Even now, certain flavours instantly transport me back to those years.

Bangkok fascinated me.

It was unlike any city I had experienced before-towering skyscrapers standing alongside ornate temples, busy streets full of life, colourful markets and an energy that never seemed to slow down. There was always somewhere to explore and something new to discover. It felt modern and traditional all at once.

Some of my happiest memories, however, were the simpler ones.

Weekends spent on beautiful beaches, travelling around Thailand as a family and making the most of every school holiday are memories I will treasure forever. Those trips became an escape from the routines of boarding school and precious opportunities to simply be together again. Whether we were watching the sunset over the sea, exploring hidden islands or wandering through local markets, there was always a sense of adventure.

Around the same time, Malaysia also became part of my story.

We regularly visited Kuala Lumpur, another remarkable city that blended cultures so effortlessly. Walking through its streets, surrounded by Malay, Chinese, Indian and countless other communities living side by side, reminded me once again how much I loved places where diversity wasn’t an exception-it was simply everyday life. Like Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur felt alive. It was modern yet deeply rooted in its own traditions, and I loved exploring everything from its towering skyline to its incredible food.

Many of my closest friends during this chapter were the children of my parents’ colleagues. We all understood what it meant to grow up internationally. Our lives revolved around airports, new schools and friendships that often spanned continents. There was an unspoken understanding between us because we were all living a childhood that, although unusual, felt completely normal to us.

I also remember with great fondness the people who made our house feel like a home. The housekeepers and household helpers who worked with our family treated us with such warmth and kindness. They were never simply employees to us-they became familiar faces in our daily lives, celebrating birthdays with us, sharing meals, laughing with us and becoming part of the wider community that surrounded our family. Looking back, I feel incredibly grateful for the care and generosity they showed us.

What made Thailand particularly special wasn’t just its beauty-it was the feeling it gave me. It was a place where family came first, where life seemed to slow down just enough to appreciate the little things, and where every school holiday felt like a gift after months away at boarding school.

Looking back, Thailand and Malaysia represent some of the happiest chapters of my childhood. Alongside Kenya, they remain my favourite places I have ever lived. They gave me friendships I’ll always cherish, memories I’ll never forget and experiences that broadened my understanding of the world in ways no classroom ever could.

Sometimes people ask me which country was my favourite.

I never find that question easy to answer.

Each place shaped me differently.

Kenya gave me my earliest memories and a sense of community.

Lebanon taught me resilience.

London gave me confidence.

Ireland gave me space to grow.

But Thailand and Malaysia reminded me that, even in the middle of a life constantly on the move, joy could always be found in the people beside you, the places you explored and the memories you created together.

Zambia - coming home to Africa

After years of living across Europe, the Middle East and Asia, life eventually brought us back to Africa.

This time, it was Zambia.

I can’t quite describe the feeling of stepping back onto African soil, but it felt familiar in a way that is difficult to put into words. Although every African country is wonderfully unique, there was something deeply comforting about being back on a continent that has always felt like such an important part of who I am.

I was genuinely happy to be back.

Africa has never simply been a place on a map to me. It is woven into my heritage, my childhood and many of the memories that shaped me. Returning felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like reconnecting with a part of myself that had always been there.

At this point, I was still completing my education online, a routine that had become second nature after homeschooling. It gave me the flexibility to continue my studies while settling into yet another new country, and by now I had learned how to adapt no matter where in the world I happened to be.

Although we didn’t stay in Zambia for very long, it left a lasting impression on me.

One of the highlights of our time there was visiting Victoria Falls. Standing before one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, watching millions of litres of water thunder over the edge every second, was an unforgettable experience. It was one of those moments that reminds you just how extraordinary our planet is and how fortunate I have been to witness places that many people only ever see in photographs.

Zambia welcomed us with its warmth.

The people were incredibly kind, life seemed to move at a gentler pace and there was a strong sense of community that reminded me so much of my earliest years in Kenya. It brought back memories of the childhood I had been so fortunate to experience and reminded me why Africa has always held such a special place in my heart.

By this stage in my life, I had already lived in so many different countries that adapting had become second nature. Yet Zambia felt different. I wasn’t simply learning about another culture-I was returning to a continent that had helped shape my identity from the very beginning.

Spain - choosing my own path

By the time Spain entered my story, something had changed.

For the first time, this move wasn’t simply about following my parents around the world. They had returned to Europe for work, travelling frequently as they continued their humanitarian careers, and after several years of homeschooling and online education, I felt ready for something different.

I wanted to be back in a classroom.

I missed learning alongside other people, having teachers in front of me every day and building friendships through school life. So, together with my parents, I made the decision to enroll in an international school in Spain-a choice that would become one of the best decisions I ever made.

It was there that I completed my exams, but I gained far more than academic qualifications.

I found another community.

From the very beginning, Spain welcomed me with open arms. I quickly made wonderful friends from all over the world, many of whom I still cherish today. Once again, I found myself surrounded by people with different cultures, languages and backgrounds, and it reminded me why international education had always felt like home.

Then there was Spain itself.

The sunshine, the relaxed pace of life, the cafés filled with conversation, the late evenings, the Mediterranean lifestyle and the warmth of the people all made it incredibly easy to fall in love with the country. There is a joyfulness to Spanish culture that is difficult to describe but impossible not to admire.

Living there also gave me the opportunity to learn another language. Although I’m definitely a little rusty now, I can still understand much of the Spanish I learned during my time there. Like Arabic, it’s one of those languages that never completely leaves you-you simply need a little practice to bring it back.

Looking back, Spain was about much more than finishing school.

It represented a new chapter of independence. For the first time, I was making decisions about my own education and beginning to think seriously about the future I wanted to build. By then, I had experienced classrooms on three continents, lived in eight countries and been shaped by cultures from across the world.

As I prepared to leave Spain, I realised something.

Every country had given me a different gift.

Together, they had given me a worldview that no single place ever could.

I have lots more photos, but to keep this short enough - I can’t take up too much space.

Growing up across eight countries gave me extraordinary opportunities, but it also exposed me to profound inequality. Alongside breathtaking landscapes and unforgettable memories, I met children whose lives looked very different from my own. While I worried about school and friendships, many were worrying about access to education, food or safety.

Because of my parents’ humanitarian work, global crises were never just headlines-they were part of our everyday conversations. Watching them dedicate their lives to serving others taught me that justice begins with recognising the dignity of every human being.

Those experiences shaped the way I see the world and ultimately led me to pursue law. For me, law is about more than a career; it’s about protecting rights, standing up for others and helping to build a fairer society. My childhood taught me that where someone is born should never determine the opportunities they have in life, and I hope to spend my future working towards that belief.

When people ask me where I’m from, I still pause before answering.

The truth is, I don’t have just one answer.

Every country I have lived in has shaped who I am, but the greatest influence has been my parents. Their commitment to humanitarian work introduced me to remarkable people, opened my eyes to different cultures and inspired my passion for justice.

It wasn’t always easy. There were constant goodbyes, new schools and the challenge of starting over more times than I can count. But every experience taught me resilience, broadened my perspective and helped me become the person I am today.

Looking back, my childhood wasn’t perfect-but it was incredibly special, and one I will always treasure.

As I prepare to study law, I carry with me the lessons I’ve learned across eight countries and the values my parents instilled in me through one extraordinary mission.

So, when people ask me where I’m from, perhaps the best answer is this:

I’m from eight countries, two parents and one mission.

For me, Kenya is not just a place on the map. It is woven into my story, my heritage, and my identity. I lived there for around 7 years & a lot of my memories are there, although years have passed since I’ve called it home, each time I return, I am reminded that home is not always defined by where you currently live. Sometimes it is a place that continues to shape your heart long after you’ve left.

This is the feeling that greets me each time I step foot on Kenyan soil - a sense of peace, familiarity and belonging that is difficult to put into words. It is the warmth of the people, the rhythm of everyday life, the vibrant culture, and the quiet reminder that some places leave an imprint on your spirit that even time cannot erase. Africa has always held a special place in my heart, and Kenya, in particular, continues to remind me of a part of myself that never truly left.

Africa is a magical continent.

Africa is a continent of extraordinary beauty and breathtaking diversity. From the endless golden dunes of the Sahara to lush rainforests, tropical coastlines, towering mountains & vast Savannah’s alive with wildlife, every landscape tells a different story. It is a continent that engages every sense - the rich colors are everywhere, the aromas of spices tingles your nose. The rhythm of music echoes through the streets, and the warmth of communities makes all visitors feel at home.

Kenya, is a nation where countless histories and cultures have met, shaping a country that is deeply rooted in its tradition, but also incredibly versatile. Home to more than 40 ethnic groups (tribes) , Kenya has also been influenced over centuries by Arab, Persian, British, Portuguese, South Asian, East Asian, and even Italian communities. Each has contributed, in different ways, to the countries language, architecture, cuisine, trade, and culture. These influences have become part of a rich history that makes Kenya uniquely Kenyan.

Every time I return, I am reminded that Kenya is a part of who I am. It has helped to shape the way I see the world & I carry a piece of it wherever I go - which I am very proud of.

On June 2nd 2026, I boarded a plane to Nairobi, knowing I was going to return to a place I love, but not fully understanding how much this journey would change me. In the summer of 2025 I spent 2 weeks there, enough to fall in love with the country all over again. This time, I stayed for a month, volunteering at a slum in Nairobi called Kibera , one of the largest informal settlements in Africa. The experience will never leave me, I expected to be shocked - but what I didn’t expect was how deeply it would challenge, inspire, and transform me.

As the plane lifted into the sky, anticipation quickly replaced any nerves I had. An adventure lay ahead, even if I didn't yet know what it would look like. Hours later, I was welcomed with a familiar word that never fails to make me smile: Karibu—welcome.

After arriving at the home of our family friends, where I would spend the next month alongside them, their children, and a group of American missionaries, exhaustion finally caught up with me. I slept for nearly ten hours straight, unaware that the following morning would mark the beginning of one of the most meaningful months of my life.

The mission centre where I volunteered is led by a longtime family friend whom my father mentored many years ago. Situated in the heart of Kibera, its vision is simple yet profound: to invest in the people of the community, raise up local leaders, and create lasting change rooted in faith. Rather than seeing the people of Kibera for their circumstances, the mission sees their potential.

Throughout the month, I became part of the team that helped bring that vision to life. Some days I helped run sports programmes or teach lessons. Other days were spent distributing food, organising supplies, handing out sanitary products to women and girls, completing administrative work, or simply playing with children whose joy seemed to outshine every challenge they faced. The mission centre was more than a building; it was a place of refuge where people could laugh, learn, rest, and be reminded that they were seen.

As the days passed, I quickly realised that my role wasn't to "save" anyone. I had come to serve, to learn, and, maybe more importantly, to listen. The people in Kibera did not need someone to tell them how to build their community—they were already doing that every single day. My role was simply to come alongside them, offering whatever help I could while allowing myself to be taught by their generosity, resilience, and unwavering sense of hope.

No two days were ever the same. Mornings often began with planning the day’s activities before the mission centre gradually filled with the sounds of laughter, conversation, and excited children racing through the gates. Whether we were organizing sports, leading lessons, preparing meals, distributing food parcels, or simply sitting and talking with members of the community, every task shared the same purpose: to remind people that they mattered and that they were seen.

There was something deeply rewarding about witnessing even the smallest moments of joy. Seeing a child beam with excitement during a football match, hearing laughter echo through the mission centre, or watching someone simply enjoy a moment of peace reminded me that hope is often found in ordinary moments. Those smiles became some of the greatest rewards of the month. Yet I wasn't there for my own sense of fulfilment. I was there because every person deserves to be treated with dignity, compassion, and love, regardless of their circumstances.

Some of the moments I treasured most weren't part of any organised programme. They were the quiet conversations I shared with women as they spoke about their families, their dreams, and the realities of everyday life. Listening to their stories was a privilege that taught me as much as any task I completed. I also loved spending time with the babies, holding them in my arms, making them laugh, or simply rocking them to sleep. There is something profoundly humbling about earning the trust of a child, even for a few moments. Those quiet interactions reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful acts of service aren't the biggest ones-they're simply about being present with another person.

It would be easy to tell this story through the lens of poverty, but that would only reveal part of the picture. Yes, Kibera faces immense challenges. But it is also a place filled with entrepreneurs, teachers, parents, students, artists, and dreamers. It is a community rich in dignity, resilience, humour, and faith. If I left only remembering the hardships, I would have missed the humanity that defines it.

Of course, not every day was spent within the walls of the mission centre. Some of my favourite memories came from the moments in between-the conversations over dinner, the long drives through Nairobi, and the laughter shared with the team after a busy day. Living alongside our hosts and the other volunteers meant that strangers quickly became friends. Coming from different backgrounds, we each brought unique experiences and perspectives, yet we were united by a common purpose. There is something special about serving alongside people that creates friendships far more quickly than ordinary life ever could.

As the weeks passed, I found myself settling into a rhythm. What had once felt unfamiliar gradually became normal. The early mornings, the drive to the mission centre, greeting everyone with a smile, hearing children call out excitedly as we arrived-it all became part of everyday life. Before long, Kenya no longer felt like somewhere I was visiting; it simply felt like where I was meant to be for that season of my life.

One of the greatest gifts of the month was the people I shared it with. Living under the same roof meant that we experienced everything together, from busy days at the mission centre to quiet evenings reflecting on everything we had seen. We laughed endlessly, encouraged one another when the work felt emotionally heavy, shared meals around the table, and created memories that I know will stay with me for years to come. By the end of the month, we no longer felt like a group of volunteers from different countries-we felt like a family.

There were also moments of adventure scattered throughout the month. Exploring Nairobi offered a different perspective on Kenya. The city is energetic, fast-paced, and full of contrasts, where modern buildings stand alongside markets overflowing with colour and life. Every corner seemed to have something new to discover.

Tying new food quickly became one of my favourite parts of the trip. There is something comforting about sharing meals with each other, and Kenyan hospitality is often expressed around the table. Whether we were enjoying nyama choma, fresh chapati, ugali, mandazi, or drinking Kenyan tea together. Some of my happiest moments were not attached to any specific event - they were just the conversations shared over tea.

One afternoon, we spent time exploring Nairobi together. It was a chance to step away from our daily routine, experience another side of the city, and, perhaps most importantly, eat. Anyone who knows me won’t be surprised that food quickly became one of my favourite parts of the trip. Whether it was perfectly grilled nyama choma, fresh chapati, mandazi, ugali, sukuma wiki, or a cup of Kenyan chai, every meal told its own story about the country’s rich cultural heritage. Food has an incredible way of bringing people together, and some of the best conversations of the month happened around a table.

The work itself was incredibly meaningful, but one of the most valuable parts of the experience was the opportunity to keep learning. During my time in Kenya, I participated in an Healing Hearts, Transforming Nations (HHTN)workshop, a programme that I found both fascinating and deeply thought-provoking. Originally developed in response to the devastating trauma left by the Rwandan genocide, the workshop has since been adapted to help communities around the world process grief, conflict, and trauma.

The sessions explored how unaddressed pain can shape individuals, families, and even entire societies for generations. It challenged me to think about forgiveness, reconciliation, and the long journey of healing after violence or injustice. Listening to these discussions while in Kenya felt especially significant, given the country’s own history of ethnic and political tensions. Although Kenya is celebrated for its diversity, it has also experienced periods of tribal conflict that have left lasting wounds within communities. The workshop reminded me that lasting peace is not achieved simply by ending conflict, but by creating opportunities for healing, understanding, and reconciliation.

As I reflect on that month now, I realize that the greatest lessons were never planned. They weren’t found in a schedule or written on an itinerary. They came through people.

The children taught me that joy is not dependent on possessions. Despite circumstances that many people would consider unimaginably difficult, they laughed wholeheartedly, played with endless energy, and found excitement in the smallest things. Their resilience wasn’t naïve; it was inspiring. They reminded me that happiness often comes from relationships, community, and hope rather than material wealth.

The women I met left an equally big impression on me. Sitting and listening to their stories was one of the greatest privileges of my time in Kenya. Every conversation revealed incredible strength, perseverance, and faith. Many carried responsibilities that would overwhelm most people, yet they continued to love their families, support their neighbours, and face each new day with remarkable courage. They reminded me that resilience is often quiet. It isn’t always found in grand acts of heroism, but in the simple decision to keep going.

Maybe one of the biggest misconceptions people have about Kibera is that it is defined solely by poverty. While the challenges are real and should never be ignored, reducing an entire community to its hardships overlooks the dignity, creativity, and humanity of the people who live there. I met business owners, teachers, students, pastors, parents, artists, and children with dreams as big as anyone else’s. They were not simply people in need-they were people with stories, talents, ambitions, and immeasurable worth.

It would be dishonest to pretend that every day was easy. Like any meaningful experience, there were challenges. There were moments of exhaustion after long days, times when the emotional weight of what I had witnessed stayed with me long after we had left the mission centre, and occasions when things didn't go according to plan. Living and working closely with others for an entire month also required patience, flexibility, and grace. But I wouldn't change any of it. Those difficult moments were not interruptions to the experience-they were part of it. They taught me resilience, humility, and the importance of relying on one another.

If there is one thing this month reaffirmed, it is how deeply I value community. I have always believed that we were created to live alongside one another, to carry each other's burdens, celebrate each other's victories, and remind one another that no one should have to walk through life alone. Throughout my time in Kenya, I saw that lived out every single day. Whether it was sharing meals around one table, praying together, encouraging someone after a difficult day, or simply laughing until our stomachs hurt, there was a beautiful sense of togetherness that I hope I never take for granted.

What surprised me most was how quickly strangers became family. The bonds I formed during that month cannot be measured by the length of time we spent together. Shared purpose has a remarkable way of bringing people together, and before long it felt impossible to imagine the month without each and every person who had become part of it. I know with complete confidence that many of these friendships will last a lifetime.

As the final days approached, there was a growing awareness that our time together was coming to an end. We tried to savour every conversation, every shared meal, every drive through Nairobi, and every last visit to the mission centre. Saying goodbye was undoubtedly the hardest part of the journey.

There were tears-more than I expected. Tears from the children, from members of the community, from our hosts, from the team, and, of course, from me. Goodbyes are never easy when people have made such a lasting impact on your life. Yet, despite the sadness, there was also hope. It didn’t feel like the end of a chapter so much as the beginning of relationships that would continue across countries and continents.

I will miss the people, the laughter, the conversations, the worship, the food, and the everyday moments that made the month so special. But I don’t see it as a permanent goodbye. Kenya has always had a way of drawing me back, and I have every intention of returning. Until then, I carry a piece of the country-and the people who welcomed me so generously-with me wherever I go.

That month also challenged me to think differently about what it means to serve. Before travelling, I imagined that service was mostly about what I could give. By the time I left, I understood that true service begins with humility. It means recognising that every person has something to teach you. It means listening before speaking, learning before leading, and understanding that dignity is never something we give another person-it is something every human being already possesses.

My faith became more tangible during those weeks. It was present not only in church services or prayers, but in ordinary acts of kindness: sharing a meal, comforting a crying child, encouraging someone who felt forgotten, or simply choosing to be present. I saw faith lived out in practical ways every day, and it reminded me that compassion is most powerful when it moves beyond words and into action.

Leaving Kenya was far more difficult than arriving. As the plane lifted off from Nairobi, I found myself looking down at a country that has shaped so much of who I am. I wasn’t only leaving behind a month of volunteering; I was leaving behind friendships, memories, laughter, and a place that has always felt like home in a way I struggle to explain.

I know I will return soon. Kenya has a way of calling me back. Until then, I will carry its lessons with me-the warmth of its people, the strength of its communities, the beauty of its culture, and the reminder that sometimes the experiences that change us most begin with nothing more than a boarding pass and an open heart.

Because in the end, the title of this article proved true.

Our final day together is one I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Before I left, everyone gathered together to pray for me. It was a simple moment, but one that meant more to me than I can adequately put into words. After the prayer, we stood in a circle, and one by one each person shared something they appreciated or loved about me. Hearing their kind words was both humbling and deeply moving. In just one month, people who had once been strangers had become like family, and to know that I had made such an impression on them was something I will always treasure.

Before I said my final goodbye, they surprised me with a beautiful traditional Kenyan Maasai blanket ( with my name on it) as a gift. More than just a souvenir, it became a symbol of the friendships I had made, the generosity I had experienced, and the month that had changed me so profoundly. Every time I see it, I’ll be reminded not only of Kenya’s incredible beauty but of the people who welcomed me with open arms and made me feel like I belonged.

They also surprised me with a video that they made of my time there.

As emotional as those final moments were, they didn’t feel like an ending. They felt like a promise that our paths would cross again. Goodbyes are never easy, especially when you’ve grown to love people so deeply, but I don’t believe this was goodbye forever. It was simply, “Until we meet again.”

I arrived for a month of volunteering. I left with a lifetime of memories, friendships, and a piece of my heart that will always belong to Kenya.

To some people, it might sound a bit dramatic that I even cared about that. But to me, it felt like loosing hours of work, creativity, and pieces of myself that I had poured into writing. I had spent so much time over months building something I was proud of, and it was suddenly gone.

At first, I saw it as failure.

But then I realized something : life is never about what happens - it’s about how you choose to react. Even something as small as this, reminded me of that.

Six months ago, I probably would have sat feeling sorry for myself, probably angry - convinced that everything was ruined. I would have treated one setback like the end of everything. But this time - I chose to not let that happen. Instead of seeing it as a big failure, I started seeing it as an opportunity & everyone knows “practice makes perfect”.

That moment made me realize how much I’ve changed, but it also made me question why I put so much pressure on myself. Why do I expect perfection from myself, yet allow other people so much room to make mistakes and grow from them ? I realized that kindness has to always start with being kind to yourself first.

Quite frankly, I do not want to be “perfect”. I want to be me.

It also got me thinking about the pressure a lot of young girls & teenagers feel.

Being real is far more meaningful than trying to fit into any impossible standard you set for yourself or that society created. Maybe breaking the mirror society built and you let yourself look in starts with allowing ourselves to see who we are - not what the world expects us to be.

We grow up in a world that constantly tells us ( even subliminally), that we need to achieve more, look better, act perfectly, and somehow hold everything together all at once.

For young girls & teenagers especially, it can feel like it’s all too much.

Social media has only intensified that pressure. We are growing up in a generation where comparison has become part of everyday life. Every time we open our phones, we are flooded with edited photos, carefully curated lives, perfect outfits, perfect skin, perfect bodies, and made to think - why can’t I be like that, even though it’s not real. Even when we know something is filtered or unrealistic, it’s hard not to compare ourselves to it.

A recent study by the Pew Research Center found that 45% of teenagers feel they spend too much time on social media, girls are lot more likely than boys to say that social media harms their confidence, sleep, and mental health.

The scary thing is that comparison becomes so normalized that many girls don’t even realize how harshly they judge themselves. We celebrate growth and mistakes in others, but when it comes to ourselves, we expect “ perfection” immediately.

Mental health is very connected to this pressure. Anxiety, burnout, low self- esteem, and feelings of never being “good enough” are so common among teenagers, especially girls. I’m happy that I’ve personally never really been too bothered, just because I really have never cared too much about people’s perceptions of me, but I have a lot of people close to me who I know for a fact have been in the thick of this. Sometimes oversimplifying the issue by blaming phones alone, is an issue itself. It is not just social media itself - it is the entire culture around it.

At the same time, there are still huge double standards between boys and girls.

Being a person of partially Asian & African heritage, I also think culture plays a huge role in how girls experience pressure.

Growing up in “The West” while still being connected to both Asian & African cultures has given me a different perspective. I have learned to appreciate the beautiful parts of those cultures - the strong sense of family, respect, discipline, ambition, resilience, and connection to tradition. Those values have shaped who I am in positive ways.

But I also think many Western people do not fully understand how strict some Asian & African households can be and the reason behind it. In many families, academic success is not just encouraged- it’s expected. There can be an enormous pressure to achieve highly in school because grades are often seen as connected to family pride, stability, sacrifice, and future success. The intention is not wrong - a lot of people who grow up as first, second or even third generation children of immigrants often face this, because the county their parents left behind was tough & they came to the west sacrificing a lot so that their kids & future generations of their families could have better.

While that pressure often comes from a place of love and wanting the best, it can still be overwhelming. I think growing up between cultures has taught me something very important : you can love your culture but still question parts of it.

Culture should not mean blindly repeating harmful cycles.

One of the things that makes me so happy is that I think I will one day raise my children with an understanding of everyone who came before me & all they did well- whilst trying to preserve culture as well as having the experience of growing up in the west. I want my children ( even though they’ll likely be very westernized) to be connected to their culture, because sometimes what happens is after a few generations that cultural richness is gone - I want them to be proud of where they come from. I want them to understand the people that came before them - discipline, respect, and ambition - but I never want them to feel like their worth depends on perfection.

I think we need more honesty.

More kindness.

More room to grow.

And maybe breaking the mirror society built starts when girls finally stop & think “I’ll just be me” - and start allowing themselves to simply be real.

Unfiltered. Imperfect. Human.

“In a time when everyone’s trying to fit into boxes, break the boxes”.

“People look at outward appearance, but God looks at the heart”.

(1 Samuel, Chapter 16, Verse 7)