Resilience in Business Part 2
The pain of searching for my daughter was so immense that five years later, I had no choice but to write it down, initially for personal healing and later as a testimony of what God can do. That’s how In the Arms of a Stranger was born. It wasn’t just a book—it was a cry, a scar turned into words.
That period was the lowest chapter of my life. The kind of pain that makes you forget your own name. The kind of nights where you wonder if morning will really come. And yet—I knew I would get my baby back, no matter what it cost me. Yes, even if I had to steal her. The desperation of a mother is something the world rarely understands.
I remember seeing a post where a woman asked, almost bitterly: “Why is it always the mother fighting for the children? Shouldn’t the father step up too?” I didn’t reply. My heart was too raw, my wounds too open.
But I remembered a lesson from my grandmother—the woman I was named after. One afternoon, as we sat outside her house, animals wandering around as usual, she pointed at a hen scratching the ground, followed closely by seven tiny chicks.
“Who are they following?” she asked.
“The mother,” I answered.
She smiled. “Do you think the father has any idea where those chicks are?”
Then she pointed at her cow, Kairu. “Look at the calf—who does it follow? The mother. That is the way God made it. Children belong to the mother.”
Now, in Meru culture, where I come from, children traditionally “belonged” to the father. If a couple split, the child was not considered the mother’s. For her to say those words, with the weight of 60 years behind her—it was like someone reached into my chest and pressed balm into an open wound. For the first time, I didn’t feel crazy. For the first time, I felt seen.
After I finally regained my daughter, life demanded something I wasn’t prepared for: to start over. At the time, I didn’t know how many times I would need to master the art of beginning again—but this was the first.
January 2006. My father, the man who sired me, did something that still undoes me when I think of it. He pressed 5,000 shillings into my hand—about $50, though for him it was everything—and he said:
“I will take care of my grandchildren. Take them to school. Go back to Nairobi and start again. Even if you have to live in Kibera slums until you find a job—do it. I believe in you. You can take your life back again.”
Even as I write this, my eyes blur. Because in that moment, he believed in me more than I believed in myself. That belief became the seed I clung to.
I moved in with my younger brother. Seven of us packed into a two-bedroom house. Every night, I lay awake, ashamed of being cared for when I wanted to be the one caring. Every morning, I dropped to my knees, whispering the same desperate prayer: “Lord, please. Open a door.”
Four weeks later, He did. I landed a job with one of Kenya’s top exporters. Not just auditing this time, but implementing standards. And for the first time in years, I felt purpose stir inside me again.
I worked with farmers, auditors, systems. I built training programs that didn’t just demand memorization but instilled understanding. And slowly, I fell in love—with coaching, with teaching, with helping others rise. It felt like destiny, like the pain had been preparing me all along.
But just two years later, life shook me again. And once more, it was motherhood that pulled me in a new direction.
That part of the story—I’ll save for the next post.
Also Read Part 1
#Resilience #Entrepreneurship #WomenInBusiness #OvercomingAdversity #FaithAndStrength #LifeStories
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