{"id":1004,"date":"2025-10-01T20:47:34","date_gmt":"2025-10-01T20:47:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/carolinebongo.com\/blog\/?p=1004"},"modified":"2025-10-01T20:47:36","modified_gmt":"2025-10-01T20:47:36","slug":"the-hen-the-calf-and-my-first-restart","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/carolinebongo.com\/blog\/the-hen-the-calf-and-my-first-restart\/","title":{"rendered":"The Hen, the Calf, and My First Restart"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Resilience in Business Part 2<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s how In the Arms of a Stranger<\/em> was born. It wasn\u2019t just a book\u2014it was a cry, a scar turned into words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014I 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember seeing a post where a woman asked, almost bitterly: \u201cWhy is it always the mother fighting for the children? Shouldn\u2019t the father step up too?\u201d<\/em> I didn\u2019t reply. My heart was too raw, my wounds too open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I remembered a lesson from my grandmother\u2014the 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are they following?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe mother,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled. \u201cDo you think the father has any idea where those chicks are?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she pointed at her cow, Kairu. \u201cLook at the calf\u2014who does it follow? The mother. That is the way God made it. Children belong to the mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, in Meru culture, where I come from, children traditionally \u201cbelonged\u201d to the father. If a couple split, the child was not considered the mother\u2019s. For her to say those words, with the weight of 60 years behind her\u2014it was like someone reached into my chest and pressed balm into an open wound. For the first time, I didn\u2019t feel crazy. For the first time, I felt seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After I finally regained my daughter, life demanded something I wasn\u2019t prepared for: to start over. At the time, I didn\u2019t know how many times I would need to master the art of beginning again\u2014but this was the first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014about $50, though for him it was everything\u2014and he said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

\u201cI 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\u2014do it. I believe in you. You can take your life back again.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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: \u201cLord, please. Open a door.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four weeks later, He did. I landed a job with one of Kenya\u2019s top exporters. Not just auditing this time, but implementing standards. And for the first time in years, I felt purpose stir inside me again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I worked with farmers, auditors, systems. I built training programs that didn\u2019t just demand memorization but instilled understanding. And slowly, I fell in love\u2014with coaching, with teaching, with helping others rise. It felt like destiny, like the pain had been preparing me all along.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But just two years later, life shook me again. And once more, it was motherhood that pulled me in a new direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That part of the story\u2014I\u2019ll save for the next post.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Also Read Part 1<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

#Resilience #Entrepreneurship #WomenInBusiness #OvercomingAdversity #FaithAndStrength #LifeStories<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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