Changing the Story through Reflection

Most people who step into service do so because they want to make a difference. They want to help, uplift, and bring light to the lives of others. I was no different. For years, I poured myself into service—driven by a deep belief that this was my purpose. But over time, I began to notice a painful pattern.

I watched colleagues, mentors, and even myself become disillusioned—burnt out by the unrealistic expectation that to serve others, we must somehow be perfect ourselves. The constant pressure, the fear of making mistakes, the silence around our own pain—it all began to chip away at the joy and clarity that first brought me into this work.

There were moments when I seriously considered walking away. Sometimes it was because I was disappointed by others. Other times, it was because I was disappointed in myself. Those experiences left deep marks—but they also taught me something valuable: we do not need to be flawless to be faithful to our calling. In fact, it’s our humanity—our scars, our resilience, our willingness to keep going—that makes us effective, compassionate healers and helpers.

In my own search for healing, I discovered Somatic Core Centering—a practice that reconnects us to the wisdom of our bodies, grounds us in the present moment, and supports authentic, integrated healing. That training was a turning point. It helped me reclaim parts of myself I had buried under shame, burnout, and self-doubt.

It also gave birth to Holistic Community Healing—a space where healing doesn’t require perfection. A space that honors the full human experience: the joy and the pain, the triumphs and the mistakes.

Here, I’ll share parts of my journey—stories of growth, failure, resilience, and healing. Some of these moments were blessings. Others felt like curses at the time. But all of them brought me here, to a deeper understanding of what it means to serve from a place of wholeness.

Whether you’re a healer, a helper, or simply someone seeking to reconnect with yourself, Holistic Community Healing is a space for you. Together, we can create a more compassionate, sustainable approach to care—starting with ourselves.

A Regret That Guides Me

I've written about regret before, and it struck a chord with some—maybe because regret has become something of a taboo. We’re taught to refuse it, push away the pain, shift the responsibility. But I’ve learned that regret, when we listen, can provide a lesson. And some regrets need to stay with us—not to punish us, but to guide us.

As some of you know, I began working with communities in Russia in the early 1990s. That journey later took me to Ukraine on a couple of occasions. Being where we are now feels sobering. Most people I know are focused on what the conflict means for Western countries. I think about the children I met in Russia and Ukraine, who are now adults.

One face stands out.

There’s a drive in the nonprofit world to send foreigners to do work they shouldn’t be doing. I’ve written about this before: investing in local people to drive their initiatives is always best. But in the early 2000s, I made a decision that still weighs on me.

I agreed to partner with an organization that believed it was investing in locals through community-led initiatives. I was told the group I was bringing that summer would either be training or working alongside Ukrainian nationals to reach out to children living on the streets. The premise was to better equip the locals and support them in their programs.

I’ve always been uncomfortable with foreigners forming deep attachments with children in orphanages—because we leave. And no matter how well-intentioned we are, leaving becomes another wound for a child who has already been let down so many times.

When I arrived in Ukraine, I realized we—the foreigners—would have the most direct contact with the kids, especially those in a juvenile detention center.

My concerns began causing friction with the organization, but I went along anyway. Had I known the full ramifications, I would have put my foot down.

One boy in particular—I called him Little Chase—captured my heart.

Like every child there, he needed love. And that was something I could give. He followed me constantly, always finding his way to my side. He didn’t need words to communicate how much he craved connection. For that month, I became a mother figure to him—and he clung to that.

The day before I left, I noticed something was wrong. He was pale, silent, and visibly depressed. I asked his friends if something had happened to him the night before. They said, without hesitation, “He is sad because you are leaving.”

I sat down next to him. He was holding a small gift I had given him and turning it slowly in his hands, eyes downcast. He wasn’t angry. Just very sad. I knew he had been crying from his puffy eyes, and now he was too exhausted to do even that. I tried to say all the right words. None changed his mood.

It wasn’t until years later that I could sit with what I had done. I had become another person who abandoned him. People tell me I shouldn’t carry that load. They say I have no idea what kind of positive impact I may have made.

But I was there. I saw and felt what happened.

And I need this regret.

I don’t beat myself up. But I carry the weight of what I did. It’s one of the reasons I stepped away from opportunities that would have advanced my career in the humanitarian world. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve spent the last decades investing in Community Driven Development.

Whether Little Chase remembers me or not doesn’t matter. I pray for him regularly. And I let that experience inform the way I show up now—especially when I feel tempted to compromise by succumbing to a savior mentality.

For me, everything boils down to the state of our communities.

Had the capable Ukrainian people been my primary focus, Little Chase would not have felt my abandonment. Instead, he might have experienced the consistent love and support of his own community—people who weren’t going anywhere.

To be clear, I do not regret going to Ukraine or forming connections with the children. But if I could do it over again, I would have insisted that my role be to equip and uplift local leaders, not to stand in their place. If I had stood firm, the picture in this post wouldn’t just show an adult foreign face with Ukrainian children. It would show Ukrainian adults—parents, mentors, youth workers—being supported, empowered, and invested in to serve their communities long after we left.

Lesson received.