The hum of a gelato machine rumbles behind me as I squint and wait for my eyes to adjust to the airport’s dim lighting. Across the expansive back wall is a life size mural of the rolling hills of Rwanda, complete with coffee plantations and caricatures of generously hipped African women carrying wicker baskets on their heads. I sip my cappuccino and watch well-dressed people file through the front door and load their luggage onto a whining belt. As I wait for the announcement that will allow me to check in for my Kenyan Airways flight to Nairobi, tightness inches up my esophagus, like the rising mercury in a thermometer, and I have to look down at the floor to hide my tears.

As I steel myself to say goodbye to a country of people who are more gracious, welcoming, and kind than most I’ve ever seen, numbness finally sets in. I am still processing stories and images from people who have survived worse atrocities than most of us will ever know in our most horrific nightmares. People who, in spite of coming face to face with the devil, have a deep and abiding faith in the Power of God to help them endure anything.

Today, the combination of my recent heartbreak and all of the stories of struggle and adversity I have witnessed since I left Canada on January 10th have finally caught up with me. As I stare blankly into the hazy heat outside the airport doors, I can feel my heart become wooden, my throat tighten, and my limbs slump against the cool metal of the chair.

I will carry these stories with me forever. Stories like the woman in her 50s who survived cancer over 20 years ago, but has not had one single medical check-up since then because she can’t afford to see a doctor, let alone afford to pay for any of the required medical treatment. She told me she must rely on her faith in God to keep her alive because that is all she has. Then, she asked me what the unexplained pain in her bones and abdomen might mean and I had no words for her. How can I live in a world where I received genetic screening for 10 years and then the best possible medical treatment, including reconstructive surgery after my double mastectomy, while this wonderful, bright eyed woman in Africa may or may not be living with metastatic breast cancer? A world where people in Rwanda would rather get HIV than cancer because if you get diagnosed with cancer and you’re poor, doctors send you home to die.

Or there is the story from a new friend my age who watched both her parents and her four siblings die during the Genocide and then was nearly killed in a refugee camp. Who somehow managed to come back from all of this with a willingness to reach out to other people and help them find peace. How can I live in a world where we complain about “needing” a new pair of jeans or a dye job because our grey hairs have started to show (yes, I’m talking about me), while other people have to live with the loss of almost everyone they have ever loved?

I have never been great with emotional boundaries and all of the stories have begun to take a toll on my heart. Although I continue to be grateful for all of the connections I’ve made and all of the places I have seen so far on this Adventure of Hope, there are days on the road when the injustices in the world feel too heavy and incomprehensible to bear.

As I head to Zanzibar to meet with the team of African Impact and check out their projects on Tuesday (who wouldn’t want to volunteer in a place like Zanzibar?), I am beyond grateful I decided to dip into my dwindling retirement savings to book a few days at a budget hotel on the beach.

Maybe a few days of silence is exactly what I need to fortify me for the three months I have left on the road. A few days to NOT THINK about how to raise the final $11.5k to pay for the balance of this trip; or how to build a not for profit from the ground up; or how to find the money to help the cancer patients I meet in the developing world get access to appropriate medical care. A few days of silence to find a little peace…

For those of you reading this who also feel emotionally, spiritually, and physically depleted, why don’t you join me? I wish you could join me in Zanzibar because man could I use a big hug and to see a friendly face. But, maybe you can join me in carving out just a few moments of silence for yourself. Turn off the TV, close your laptop, put down your iPhone and think about what small thing you could do that might bring you joy. For me, it’s going to be a long walk by the ocean or an afternoon in a hammock.

So, I’ll see you next Saturday because once I get my energy back, I have an inspiring story I want to share with you about African ambulances, all-nighters, and my new Rwandan brother…

Until then, Lala Salama (good night – sleep in peace).