These photos were taken when I was about 27 years old. I am 43 today.
When my mother became very sick in Ghana, I returned to care for her, and that chapter of my life lasted about seven years. During those years, even while living in the city, something in me was always drawn toward places where real nature still shaped daily life. I found myself seeking out spaces untouched by excess, places where people lived closely with the land. That pull eventually led me to the northern part of Ghana, to Tamale.
In the north, I worked alongside the community, helping to build and repair roofing using straw gathered from the land. It was simple work, hands on and shared, and it was honestly so fun. There was laughter, movement, and a sense of everyone working together. It never felt heavy. It felt alive.
The huts themselves were incredible. Walking into them felt grounding. They were built from straw and mud taken directly from the land. No concrete. No excess. Just nature shaping shelter. That simplicity spoke to something deep in me.
Even the way people cooked stayed with me. Small fire pits formed from clay, meals prepared slowly, surrounded by conversation and movement. The scenes were quiet and beautiful. There was not much, but there was enough. And that sense of humility settled in me in a way I did not expect.
The clay pots filled with clean water. The water was boiled, poured in, covered, and kept there, and somehow it stayed cool. When you scooped it with a calabash and drank it, it was the purest water I have ever tasted. There was a faint smell of the clay as you drank, and the simplicity of it felt whole. It was a kind of purity I still long for, especially the taste of that water.
I have always been drawn to nature and to people who live in rhythm with it, using what the land provides rather than forcing it to become something else. Being in those communities felt familiar to my spirit. I enjoyed my time there deeply, not as a visitor passing through, but as someone learning how little is actually needed to feel whole.
I never wanted to arrive in a way that created distance. I rode bicycles instead of driving. I stayed among the people. I listened more than I spoke. I learned how daily life worked not through explanation, but through experience.
At the time, I also had a small kids foundation, so whenever I traveled north, I brought what I could and spent time with families and children. It was never about grand gestures. It was about returning, being consistent, and showing care in simple, steady ways.
Those communities shaped me. They taught me patience, generosity without excess, and the quiet strength that comes from living simply. The welcome was sincere and steady.
I am sharing this now because it remains part of who I am. I think about those places often, and I know I want to return. This time not as a younger version of myself, but as someone older, wiser, and more grounded. Someone who understands better how to help without disrupting, how to support without imposing.
This is part of my journey. Not something left behind, but something carried forward.