We Have Everything But God: Why Africa Broke My Heart

They say sometimes you don’t realize how dark the room is until someone opens a window. Well, being in Africa felt like being dropped outside a dark room, standing in the sun for the first time, and suddenly wondering how I’d lived so long in the dimness. And even more urgently: how do I help others find the way out too?

Joy That Doesn't Make Sense

In Uganda, I was surrounded by people whose joy was so infectious and so embodied. This kind of joy does not come from circumstances. On the surface, the community I visited would be considered impoverished by Western standards. But what I felt in them, a deep sense of security, peace, and gratitude, is something I have rarely seen, even in the wealthiest people I’ve met in the States.

How is it that people who have so little (by our standards) can be so secure, yet people who have so much can feel so scarce and insecure on the inside?

The kind of peace and joy I felt from the majority of the people I encountered in Africa comes from one place and one place only: God. As a spiritual mentor and priestess, I’ve come to a place where I don’t need signs and wonders to recognize it; it’s just something I feel. And now I can relay to you that, unmistakably, that infectious energy that everybody from the West reports encountering when they go to Africa is, very simply: spiritual health.

I should start by saying that I did not go to Africa on a religious or spiritual mission. I was there for a community-oriented service trip, but not to build a church or even talk about God. Spirituality was not on the agenda, but it was everywhere. What struck me wasn’t religious language, rules, or performance. It’s not that every person I met wanted to share their beliefs. It’s that nearly every person spoke about gratitude.

Even when I spoke to people who I knew were facing serious challenges, I sensed peace. There was a steadiness inside them. Even if they didn’t name it, I could feel it. It was embodied and natural, not something that required five yoga classes a week to maintain. It wasn’t curated or fragile. It was a deep, quiet confidence that their lives were built on something unshakable.

The Myth of Self-Made Peace

Existing in an atmosphere where this kind of rooted faith was the norm revealed such a contrast to what I experience in my everyday life in America that for the couple weeks I was there, I found myself weeping every day.

As a mentor, I work with people who are doing all the "right" things: journaling, meditating, going to therapy, staying healthy. But so often, they still feel hollow inside. We’re exhausted, anxious, and disconnected. Our culture is built on a faulty premise: that if you can just optimize enough, love yourself enough, achieve enough, you’ll finally feel whole. Coaching people who seem to “have it all” has only confirmed that suspicion. You can’t curate your way into peace. You can’t self-improve your way into joy. And you cannot make enough money to feel safe.

This even applies to the spiritual seekers. You will never manifest enough, burn enough sage, or attend enough retreats to finally repair the fracture. Why? Because if the foundation is you, it’s already unstable.

It's time we just say the quiet part out loud: we’re doing everything, except God.

Here in the West, we are raised on the myth of self-sufficiency. “No one’s coming to save you.” “If you want it done right, do it yourself.” We wear over-functioning like a badge of honor. We start businesses alone, heal alone, and collapse alone. 

Even our spiritual paths reflect this: fix yourself, heal yourself, find your truth. But this culture of solo mastery has left us carrying more than we were ever meant to hold.

The Lost Art of Community 

Western travelers will often remark that visiting Africa, and many cultures outside the West, feels profoundly different. I’m not the first person to point out the contrast between our isolated, individualistic way of living and the deeply communal, interwoven lives found in other parts of the world. In African communities, there’s a natural sense of closeness, a togetherness. People are present. Life is lived in proximity. You can feel it.

The presence of community isn’t just symbolic. It’s literal. People are always together, walking side by side, holding hands, cooking, laughing, resting in each other’s company. Children don’t belong to just one mother. Everyone looks out for everyone.

I watched "The Mamas" cook for over 100 people each day without hesitation. And it struck me: they don’t blink at it, not because it’s easy, but because they know they’re not doing it alone. It’s understood, spiritually and practically, that what’s needed will be provided, and that the work is shared.

Here, we’re praised for being able to do it all. There, I saw the sacred beauty of not having to.

And yes, I agree with what so many travelers say: that the joy people often experience in Africa comes from a deep sense of community. But I also believe that if we stop there, we’re missing something essential. 

Here, we’re praised for being able to do it all. There, I saw the sacred beauty of not having to.

Because it’s not just that the weight is shared among people. It’s that the entire community is yoked to God, not as a religious idea, but as a living relationship.

In the West, especially in pop culture and academia, we’ve become so afraid to offend anyone that we refuse to talk about God altogether. We’ve watered down the language until nothing is left but vague energy and personal development. But we are facing a crisis. A crisis of the soul. And that’s what broke my heart.

Sitting outside in the light, literally and metaphorically, in Uganda, I felt the heartbreak of America. The ache of people stuck inside, so tired of striving, of doing it all alone, of pretending they’re okay. And even if I were to set aside my faith for a moment, even if I were to take off my priestess robe and put on my anthropologist hat, the data still speaks. 

What They Have That We Don't

I had to ask myself: what do they have that we don’t? Why does the spirit of the people I encountered feel so significantly healthier than what I see in the States?

The answer is God.

Their world doesn’t rest on their shoulders, or even on the shoulders of their neighbor. It rests on God. They know themselves to be loved by God, so they struggle far less with trying to prove they are lovable. They have confidence, not based on their own works, but on their faith in God. 

Their relationship with God wasn’t self-righteous or loud or forced. It was integrated. It was just there. Woven into the rhythm of daily life. They praised God casually in conversation. They sang while they worked, prayed without spectacle, affirmed again and again: God will provide. And it wasn’t for show. It wasn’t for social media. It was the natural overflow of people who live in alignment with something greater than themselves, but not in the vague, depersonalized way the New Age often misunderstands.

And that, I believe, is the difference.

Because when your life is built on a foundation of real, abiding trust in God, when your soul knows it's held, you don’t have to manufacture peace. You simply carry it. In America, we believe we have to carry it all. There, I felt what it’s like to be carried.

A Spiritual Crisis, A Call for God 

I could say so much about the beauty I experienced in Africa, but really, I didn’t write this to report on what I found there. I wrote it to report on what it revealed to me about here.

I wrote it because I believe we’re in a spiritual emergency, and many of us don’t even know it. We are overextended and under-anchored, endlessly striving and still feeling empty. But what if the ache we carry isn’t a flaw in us, what if it’s just the absence of God?

We were never meant to do life alone. Not without people, and not without God.

This isn’t about adopting someone else’s customs. It’s about remembering what’s always been true: there is a way to live that is rooted, peaceful, connected, and free. And it doesn’t begin with a self-help plan. It begins with building your life on the only foundation strong enough to hold you.

We have everything but God. And that’s why we’re still hungry. Maybe what we need isn’t another wellness hack or Eat, Pray, Love adventure, maybe we just need to believe again.