Sacrifice is a word that carries weight, often evoking images of great acts of heroism or loss. For me, sacrifice is quieter but no less profound. It’s the undercurrent of the life I’ve chosen—a life of service in Sierra Leone, far from the people and places that shaped me.

When I think of all I’ve given up, it’s not with bitterness or regret but with an honest acknowledgment of what it costs to follow a calling. It’s the birthdays I miss, the milestones I see only through a screen. My nieces and nephew are growing up in snapshots, their little faces changing faster than I can keep track. Friends’ children—the ones I imagined holding, playing with, and watching grow—are becoming strangers to me.

Then there are the weddings. Each invitation that finds its way to me feels like a love letter from the life I could have lived. I imagine the joy, the tears, the chance to stand beside dear friends on the biggest day of their lives. Instead, I send gifts and heartfelt messages, knowing it’s not the same as being there. I know I’m missing something irreplaceable.

Society often measures success by certain milestones: getting married, buying a house, climbing the career ladder. These norms don’t fit neatly into the life I’ve chosen. My life doesn’t look like settling down; it looks like uprooting. It’s not about building equity in a home; it’s about building relationships in a place that often feels far from everything familiar. My career progression isn’t linear; it’s messy, unpredictable, and deeply fulfilling in ways a traditional path might never have been.

But even as I’ve let go of these societal markers, there are moments when I feel their absence acutely. Being at home for the past 5 weeks has amplified this. Seeing my peers settle into lives of stability and comfort, I sometimes wonder: What would it feel like to have that? To know that I’m exactly where society expects me to be?

I often share the moments I do get to have—like coming home to attend my graduation or celebrate my friends’ wedding. These are joyful occasions that remind me I’m still part of my loved ones’ lives. But what I don’t share are the moments I don’t get to have. The baby’s first steps I missed, the late-night talks that could have deepened friendships, or the quiet family dinners where bonds are strengthened. Those are the absences that linger, even as I celebrate the milestones I’ve been lucky enough to attend.

Still, there’s another side to sacrifice—one that’s about what I’ve gained. In Sierra Leone, I’ve discovered a life rich in purpose and connection. My days are spent working on programs that transform healthcare, mentoring nurses whose courage humbles me, and finding joy in the smiles of children on the paediatric ward. My friendships here run deep, forged in shared struggles and triumphs. I’ve learned to see beauty in the ordinary: a sunrise over the Atlantic, the laughter of a colleague, the satisfaction of a good day’s work.

The life I’ve chosen is not easy, but it is good. It’s a life that constantly reminds me of what truly matters—not the accumulation of things or the ticking off of boxes but the impact we have on others and the ways we grow in love and resilience.

And yet, sacrifice is not a one-time decision. It’s something I carry with me, something I live with daily. It’s the tension between what I’ve left behind and what I’ve embraced. It’s knowing that while I love this life, it’s okay to grieve the parts of another life I’ll never know.

I don’t share this to garner sympathy or admiration. I share it because it’s real. I share it to say that choosing a different path—one less travelled, one that veers away from the expectations of society—is both beautiful and hard. And I’ve come to believe that the hardest things often yield the greatest rewards.