Two years ago, I was stuck.
Stuck in fear.
Stuck in the belief that I would never leave my parents’ house.
That I would forever be dependent, that independence — whatever that even meant — just wasn’t for people like me.
But life has a funny way of shifting. I moved out. That’s a story for another day. I lived in a new place for a year. It had all I needed — accessible spaces, amenities, comfort — but it lacked something vital. Peace. The kind of peace that lets you breathe deep and feel safe. And slowly, I started suffocating in the quiet of comfort. Something in me whispered, “You’re ready for more.”
Then I got the call.
A job offer.
A new beginning.
I got a position at Motivation Charitable Trust.
And that meant I had to relocate to Nairobi — a city that once terrified me.
It wasn’t just a job. It was a life move. A chance to start over, to write a new chapter, to stretch beyond the boundaries that had boxed me in for so long.
And God, was I scared.
Guilty, too.
Because beneath the excitement, there was this gnawing question:
Do I really deserve this joy? This opportunity? This fresh start?
But I packed anyway. With the support of friends and family, I moved. It wasn’t anxiety — it was anticipation. Big change. Big feelings.
And then came my first night. I’ll never forget it. Freezing cold. Lonely in a way that felt heavy.
That first night felt like a long exhale that never quite ended. I was in a new place. A new chapter. And my body and mind were just trying to catch up.
But then Monday came. And Motivation welcomed me like a long-lost daughter returning home.
Smiles. Pride. Warmth. Like I had always been part of the family and they were just waiting for me to walk in.
In that first week, I was shown what Motivation truly does — not just the job description stuff — but the heartbeat behind the work. I was introduced to my role as Communications Assistant.
And then, I had to tell my story.
That was scary.
You know, it’s one thing to live your life. It’s another thing to lay it bare. I stood in front of a team of strangers — soon to be colleagues, soon to be friends — and I told them about my journey. The crash. The paralysis. The pain. The strength. The laughter. The healing. The days I loved my legs. The days I hated them. The days I didn’t want to be here. The days I danced anyway.
And I felt seen.
Heard.
Accepted.
Now, a month in, I’m reeling in the best way possible. I feel like a child in a candy store. There’s so much to learn. So many people to meet. So many stories to tell. I’m dreaming big again. Not just for me, but for every disabled person who has ever felt left out of the conversation.
I want to tell ethical stories.
I want to amplify unheard voices.
I want to showcase the power of assistive technology.
I want to address the real barriers — not just ramps and stairs, but mindsets and systems.
This is just the beginning.
There’s so much I could say, but for now, let me leave it here:
I’m grateful.
I’m still scared sometimes.
I still have cold nights.
But I’m here.
I showed up for myself.
And I found people who are showing up with me.
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