What the Fuck Was I Thinkin?

I’m trying to pack for a two-month research trip across Rwanda, Northern Ireland, and the UK, and I feel like I’m coming undone. Before we go further...

I warned you that this would get real. [Content note: Grief, loss, trauma, and post-conflict research. This post is raw. Please know that before you choose to read it.]

The part I am up against is that I. Chose. This. I created my summer project. I’m supposed to be researching reconciliation—how people heal after civil war, genocide, sectarian violence. How societies stitch themselves back together after being torn apart by division and misdirected anger that breeds hatred. It’s something I believe in deeply. If they can find ways to forgive, to co-exist, to move forward—maybe we can too, in our homes and our families, our fractured communities.

But right now? I’m stuck in grief and anxiety. I’m second-guessing everything.

I just lost both of my loves—Rumi and Diesel—on the same day. And it still doesn’t feel real. The hardest moments come when I forget they’re gone. Like the other night—I was curled up watching a movie with my guy. When it ended I thought, “Ugh, I still have to take the dogs out.” I didn’t want to move, just wanted to crawl into bed. And then the stabbing pain: they’re not here. I would give anything to be able to take them out again. To feel annoyed. To scoop poop in the rain.

And now I’m supposed to pack? Leave my home, my safe little sanctuary, to chase a dream that feels too big and too heavy for me on my best day, and even more so right now?

I keep asking myself: What the fuck was I thinking?

I know this work matters. I know I’ve fought hard to get here. I’ve been awarded funding. I’ve mapped the research. I believe in the mission. But the truth is, I’m terrified. Of the distance. Of the loneliness. Of the topic I chose and the pain it will surface in me and in others. And of the pressure to make it all worth it. To make it mean... something.

But maybe it’s okay if I don’t have it all figured out. Maybe it’s okay if I don’t go for the full two months. Maybe I’m allowed to change the plan if it means protecting my heart and my healing. Maybe that’s what reconciliation looks like too—listening to the part of you that says “this hurts,” and letting that be a guide, not a weakness. Maybe. Maybe all of this is true. But maybe, I also need to do this because it is that important to me. I don't know if I will learn anything that anyone can use or that will make any difference at all. All I know is that this is what I feel called to do just now.

I’m still going. But I’m giving myself permission to take it one week and even one day at a time.

To rest.

To grieve.

To not have any answers.

I hope that’s enough.

Thanks for joining me on this adventure while I sort this all out.