This is what real looks like

~ the ache that keeps me coming back

What follows isn’t polished. It’s not curated. It’s just where I found myself this morning in Northern Malawi… aching, and grateful for the ache.

No need to say anything. There's really nothing that can be said, I suppose …

I’m a feeler. A deep feeler. For myself, and for others. Some call it sensitive. Too sensitive, even. That’s ok - I’ll carry what they don’t. Enough to cover the lack.

Today … after a morning of trainings in the villages, I had to walk away.

Not because of the content of the training itself, but because of the conversation that followed.

Staples becoming luxuries

Over lunch, the talk turned real - too real.

Rising costs.

Staples becoming luxuries.

Sugar has tripled in price. Maize too. Other basic items have quadrupled.

And I stood there, the Canadian whose basic needs are always met, listening to their groans, their despair.

Over the state of their country.

Over their futures.

Over what it feels like to run out of basic necessities and options.

It was too heavy for my heart and impossible for my shoulders to carry. I couldn’t stay standing in it.

The tears came. My nose running. The hem of my Chitenje carefully lifted, so as not to expose my legs, but to wipe them both.

I sit now on a tree stump.

Children giggling behind.

Chickens clucking.

Wind rustling through dry stalks of maize.

Grass bending in the breeze.

Sun soaking deep into my skin.

And I ache.

Right now, I could use a long hug. Just to sit. Quietly. Until the ache dulls.

Wishful thinking. It never really dulls.

But maybe I don’t want it to.

Maybe the ache is exactly where I’m meant to stay - for those who struggle unnecessarily at the hands of those who could change things.

Maybe the ache is exactly where I'm meant to stay.

How do I explain this?

How do I describe it?

How the hell is this ok?

I’m angry that the world can’t see what I see. That they don’t know what I know. That they don’t do more - because they could.

It’s not just because some of those around me are my friends whom I care about, but because they’re all people.

Human beings whose dignity is already fragile - worn thin by systems and silence, by a world that mostly looks the other way.

I choose to live in Malawi for months each year because I need to be reminded - again and again - what reality really is.

I’m exhausted by fake.

I crave real.

The kind of real where luxury means lights, water (HOT water), fuel, butter, sugar.

I want to sit with the person deciding whether to buy sugar or fertilizer. Sugar to make mandazi (small donuts) to sell for today’s cash, or fertilizer to grow food that will feed their family months from now.

I want the truth in my face: that the same people working the fields - sowing and reaping - go home to nothing.

And when there’s nothing, they eat the wild grass around them.

In my Malawian cinder block home, I want to wait an hour and a half for hot water.

I want to work by twinkle lights when the power’s out.

... strike a match to boil water for coffee - IF there’s coffee.

... warm my bread in an old fry pan with cooking oil.

... charge my laptop in the car.

... wait days for fuel.

I want to feel it.

Because my other life’s version of reality? It isn’t real.

Feeling what others feel - it keeps the world real.

Feeling what others feel - it keeps the world real. It keeps me grounded.

Not in the bubble Canada lives in, where “reality” is self-advancement wrapped in convenience.

This ache I carry with me?

I’m glad I feel it.

Glad I don’t get to look away.

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If you're reading this, thank you for sitting in the ache with me - even just for a moment. Some stories aren't meant to be solved. Just seen. Felt. Heard. Held. And that kind of presence? It matters more than you know.