Ever since I was dropped off in my host community, Yerro Bawol in The Upper River Region and the deployment team drove away, I felt something I had never experienced before. As I stood there watching them wave goodbye, a strange mix of emotions washed over me. I smiled on the outside, but deep in my heart I felt a quiet ache. At that moment, reality set in and I said “this would be my home for the next ten months”! The familiarity of my old life faded with the dust of the departing vehicle, leaving me face to face with the unknown.
I was warmly greeted by the Alkalo of the community, whose calm presence and kind words offered a small sense of reassurance. He showed me to my new room, a simple hut that would soon become my personal space. With genuine care, he helped me unpack and arrange my luggage, treating me not as a stranger but as someone already belonging. Despite his kindness, my heart remained unsettled. Everything felt new like the environment, the people, the silence of the night, and even the air I breathed.
That first night in the hut remains vivid in my memory. My roommates tried their best to make me feel comfortable, introducing themselves and sharing light conversations. They laughed, asked questions, and offered help, yet my mind was far away. As I lay there, staring into the darkness, my thoughts grew louder. How will I survive this journey I have chosen for myself? How will I cope with a life so different from what I know? How will I express myself when language, culture, and habits feel unfamiliar? These questions repeated themselves, echoing in my heart.
Doubt slowly crept in. I began to question my ability to complete my service the way it was expected of me. The weight of expectations felt heavy, my family and loved ones believed in me, and the community looked at me with hope in their eyes. I wondered if I was strong enough, patient enough, and brave enough to meet all these expectations. For the first time, I truly understood what it meant to step outside one’s comfort zone.
As days passed, I found myself trapped in a quiet inner conflict. Part of me was eager to start this new chapter, to learn, to serve, and to grow. Another part of me longed for my old life, the freedom I once had, where I could move easily, speak confidently, and feel completely in control. I missed the version of myself that felt light, carefree, and certain. It felt as though I was standing at a crossroads, torn between moving forward and turning back.
Yet, slowly, subtle changes began to happen. Each greeting from a community member, each shared meal, and each smile offered to me started to soften my fears. I realized that ambivalence was not a sign of weakness but a natural response to change. Growth, I learned, often begins with discomfort. The same place that once felt strange started to feel slightly familiar, and the silence that once frightened me began to teach me patience.
Yerro Bawol is no longer just a place I was deployed to, it is becoming a classroom, a testing ground for my resilience, and a mirror reflecting my strengths and weaknesses. I am learning that courage is not the absence of fear but the decision to move forward despite it. Though I still carry moments of doubt, I now hold onto hope and hope that by the end of these ten months, I will not only have served the community but also discovered a stronger, wiser version of myself.
This journey is just beginning, and while ambivalence still lingers, so does determination. I choose to stay, to learn, and to grow one day at a time.