My Beginning

I grew up knowing villages as places of warmth—where everyone knows your name, where greetings are exchanged freely, and where community feels like family. But I also learned, quietly, that some struggles are not meant to be spoken about. Especially the ones that live in the mind.

In the villages of Kenya, I have watched people suffer in silence. I have seen women wake up before dawn, carry water, cook, farm, care for everyone else, all while carrying grief, fear, and exhaustion that no one asks about. I have seen men sit quietly, staring into the distance, burdened by the pressure to provide, ashamed to admit they are overwhelmed. We say they are “strong,” but often they are just unsupported.

When someone begins to break, the words are softened. Amechoka. Anafikiria sana. We rename pain so we don’t have to face it. Mental health is rarely called by its name. To speak of it feels like exposing weakness, like inviting judgment in a place where privacy barely exists.

Help is far away. The nearest counselor might be hours away, if one exists at all. Most people turn to prayer, to elders, to tradition seeking comfort wherever they can find it. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t, the person is left alone with their thoughts, believing something is wrong with them as a person, not understanding that they are unwell.

But I have also seen hope. I have seen women open up while sitting together under trees, sharing stories that sound painfully familiar. I have seen young people ask questions our parents never dared to ask. I have seen community volunteers knock on doors and listen not to judge, but to understand.

This is why mental health matters to me. Because I have seen what silence does. And I have seen what one honest conversation can heal.

Our villages deserve more than survival. They deserve care, understanding, and spaces where it is safe to say, “I am not okay.” Healing should not be a privilege of cities. It should begin right where we live