Recently, someone asked me what it’s like to live out in Freetown rather than on the ship – like the 99% of people serving with Mercy Ships here in Sierra Leone.

My surface-level answer was trying to explain both the chaos and the joy that life in the city brings. The noise, the energy, the beauty in the relationships, and the way the days are never quite predictable. But if I’m being really honest, the deeper truth is this: life here doesn’t come naturally to me.

This isn’t the kind of place where I just fit. It’s not an easy, natural rhythm for me to fall into. I’m not swept along by the culture like a leaf in a stream – I’m swimming upstream, every single day. And that’s not because I don’t love the people or believe in the work – I deeply do. It’s because this place, as vibrant and rich as it is, sits outside of my comfort zone in almost every way.

One of the hardest things is the tone – that ever-present undercurrent of what feels like aggression. Conversations that sound heated to me are, more often than not, just normal exchanges between people here. Voices rise quickly, expressions are intense, and there’s a sort of emotional urgency behind even the simplest requests. My brain registers it as conflict, and my body reacts – shoulders tense, heart rate ticks up, a little voice inside me says, Are we okay?

But we are okay. That’s the thing. No one is upset with me. No one is angry. It’s just the rhythm of communication here, and I’m the one out of sync. I remind myself of that again and again, especially when I feel myself pulling away, shutting down, or getting defensive. It’s not personal – it’s cultural. And unlearning the instinct to take it personally? That’s work.

Then there’s the physical touch. Sierra Leoneans are incredibly physically expressive – men will casually drape an arm over you, women link arms or rest a hand on your back mid-conversation. Even casual acquaintances may touch your arm or stand closer than feels comfortable to me. It’s warm and connective, a natural part of how connection is shown here.

But for me, it’s challenging. I’m not someone who instinctively leans into physical touch, especially with people I don’t know well. So when someone unexpectedly reaches out or lingers close, my whole body reacts before my mind can catch up. I have to consciously remind myself: This is kindness, not intrusion. It’s warmth. It’s presence. It’s a cultural expression of care—and I want to receive it that way, even if it takes practice.

And then there’s the relational nature of daily life – maybe the most profound adjustment of all. In Sierra Leone, everything is about relationship. You don’t just walk up and ask a question. You greet. You inquire. You acknowledge the other person as a whole human before getting to your point. It’s not transactional, it’s deeply personal -and I love that in theory.

But in practice, when I’m tired, overwhelmed, or just focused on the task at hand – it takes real effort. I have to slow myself down, breathe, and remember: People before tasks. Always. It’s counterintuitive to how I was raised, where productivity and efficiency were praised above all else. But here, if I rush, if I skip the greeting, I’ve not just been impolite- I’ve damaged the connection.

It’s not that I don’t want to be relational – it’s that I forget. My brain is wired differently. So I remind myself. With every conversation, every errand, every interaction, I tell myself: Slow down. Be present. Connect first.

Living in Freetown, outside the bubble of the ship, means I don’t always have a built-in support structure around me 24/7. I don’t have the comfort of routine meals, a quiet cabin, or constant access to others from my own culture. I live among the noise, the traffic, the smells, the unpredictability of the city – and also, the relationships, the laughter, the spontaneous moments of kindness that I might otherwise miss.

I get the full picture. And while that full picture can feel overwhelming, it’s also incredibly rich.

It would be easy to romanticize it – to pretend that I’ve adapted beautifully, that I love every second, that I’m thriving. But the truth is, I’m often stretched. I’m often uncomfortable. And I’m often choosing to stay even when it would be easier to retreat.

Because I believe in this work. I believe in showing up in the hard places, in sitting with discomfort, and in allowing my worldview to be reshaped by people and cultures different from my own. I believe there’s value in choosing a life that doesn’t feel natural – because sometimes the most important growth happens outside what comes easily.

So no, living here doesn’t come naturally. But I still get up each morning and choose it.

In all its noise and nuance, closeness and chaos, challenge and beauty –
I’m choosing life in Sierra Leone.

Every single day.