I spent two weeks in Arusha, Tanzania working with Zoe Empowers, and I came home fundamentally changed.
Not in the Instagram-caption kind of way.
In the everything I thought I understood feels incomplete now kind of way.
Zoe Empowers works with underprivileged youth—young people who, by most Western standards, have very little. Limited resources. Limited safety nets. Limited choices. And yet, day after day, I watched kids and young adults who were resilient, creative, determined, joyful, and deeply connected to one another.
It forced me to confront how narrow my definition of happiness—and success—had been.
Happiness Looks Different When Survival Is the Baseline
In the U.S., we often equate happiness with comfort. With ease. With options. With “more.”
In Arusha, happiness looked like community. It looked like shared meals, laughter that came easily, and pride in building something from nothing. These young people weren’t chasing perfection or abundance—they were chasing sustainability, dignity, and agency.
And they were grateful in a way that wasn’t performative or forced. It was rooted. Real.
I realized how much of my own stress, dissatisfaction, and striving comes not from lack—but from excess. Too many options. Too many expectations. Too much noise.
Entrepreneurship as Survival, Not Status
One of the most powerful lessons came from watching entrepreneurship in its purest form.
This wasn’t hustle culture. There were no pitch decks, no buzzwords, no “build your brand” nonsense. Entrepreneurship here was about survival—creating income to support siblings, grandparents, entire households. It was about solving real problems with limited tools and unshakable determination.
It reframed everything I thought I knew about privilege.
In the U.S., failure is often cushioned. Here, success is necessity.
And still—there was creativity, pride, and hope.
Privilege Isn’t Just What You Have—It’s What You Don’t Worry About
I became acutely aware of the invisible privileges I carry. Not just money or opportunity, but safety. Predictability. The assumption that systems will catch me if I fall.
These young people don’t have that assumption.
And yet, they carry themselves with a sense of purpose that humbled me.
It made me question how often I complain about inconvenience while being surrounded by abundance.
Faith, Without the Judgment I Expected
Before this trip, I probably would have labeled myself an atheist. Not in an angry way—more in a this doesn’t fit for me way. I’ve long associated religion and faith with judgment, exclusion, and certainty that leaves no room for humanity. Too often, faith felt like a measuring stick instead of a source of compassion. And frankly, I wasn’t interested in being told who I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to believe.
So I arrived in Africa with my guard up.
But being in Arusha, working with youth through Zoe Empowers, complicated that narrative in ways I didn’t expect.
I watched faith show up not as judgment—but as grounding. As hope. As a quiet, steady presence in the lives of kids who had every reason to feel forgotten. For many of them, faith wasn’t about rules or righteousness. It was about believing that their lives mattered. That their suffering wasn’t meaningless. That they weren’t alone—even when circumstances told them otherwise.
And that’s when the conflict started for me.
Because I could see it clearly: these kids didn’t necessarily need doctrine. They needed belief. Someone—or something—to believe in them when they couldn’t yet do it themselves.
That realization unsettled me.
A Conversation That Gave Me Language
At one point, I shared this discomfort with our pastor Gaston, the Director of Zoe North America. I told him plainly that religion had always felt synonymous with judgment to me. That I didn’t know where I fit—if I fit at all.
His response was immediate and disarmingly honest:
“God is great. Christians can be assholes.”
It stopped me in my tracks.
Not because it was shocking—but because it separated something I had always lumped together. For the first time, someone in a leadership role acknowledged the harm done in the name of faith without defending it, minimizing it, or spiritualizing it away.
That sentence gave me permission to untangle belief from behavior.
It helped me see that my resistance wasn’t necessarily to God—but to how humans so often misuse Him. To the way faith can become performative, exclusionary, or moralizing instead of compassionate.
Church in Arusha: Belonging Without Labels
One of the most unexpectedly moving experiences of my time in Arusha was going to church.
I couldn’t tell you what denomination it was. I couldn’t explain the doctrine or the theology. And honestly—that didn’t matter at all.
What I can tell you is what it felt like.
The congregation existed in a near-constant state of rejoicing. There was singing, movement, laughter, call-and-response, and an unmistakable sense of community. This wasn’t quiet or restrained. It was embodied. Faith lived in their bodies, in their voices, in the way they interacted with one another.
Our group of Americans were the only white people in the church.
And we were welcomed—literally—with open arms.
There was no hesitation. No side-eye curiosity. No subtle separation. Just warmth. Smiles. Handshakes. Hugs. A clear message that we belonged simply because we were there.
That alone challenged so many of the assumptions I had carried about religious spaces.
Leadership That Transcends Language
And then there was Pastor Trice.
I am certain she is one of the most impactful leaders I will ever encounter in my life.
I watched her preach alongside her interpreter, the two of them weaving seamlessly between English and Swahili. It wasn’t rigid or scripted—it was fluid, relational, alive. The pauses, the rhythm, the shared understanding between them spoke volumes about trust and partnership.
It wasn’t about performance.
It wasn’t about authority.
It was about connection.
She led with joy, strength, humor, and presence. And whatever faith tradition this was, it felt expansive—not exclusive. It wasn’t asking who you were or what you believed before welcoming you in.
It simply said: You are welcome here.
What I witnessed wasn’t belief being enforced—it was humanity being celebrated. Faith wasn’t a barrier; it was a bridge. It didn’t demand certainty. It offered belonging.
Defining Faith on My Own Terms
I didn’t come home religious.
I didn’t come home converted.
What I came home with was permission.
Permission to believe—or not—without judgment. Permission to define my relationship with God, if I choose to have one, on my own terms. Quiet. Questioning. Personal.
My relationship with God is my own.
Africa didn’t give me answers about faith.
But it softened the space where faith might live.
And it reminded me that sometimes, belief isn’t about being right—it’s about helping someone know they matter.
That lesson will stay with me far longer than two weeks ever should.
Hakuna Matata, my friends.