The Life I Left Behind

When I wrote The People We Leave In People, I wrote about the legacy my father left in the people whose lives he touched.

This story is about the life I was living before I knew I was about to lose him.

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There is a version of me that still lives in those spring days in Hungary.

She was twenty-three years old, full of ambition, and convinced that the world was opening its doors one by one.

I had just completed one of the best academic semesters of my university journey. When my results were released, my GPA had improved, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to pause and celebrate. Behind those grades were months of discipline, countless late nights, and the quiet determination to prove to myself that leaving home to study abroad had been worth it.

Soon afterwards, something unexpected happened.

Because of my academic performance, I was assigned a thesis supervisor without having to search for one myself. It felt like a quiet affirmation that my hard work had not gone unnoticed. As an international student living thousands of kilometres away from home, moments like that meant everything.

Then the opportunities kept coming.

I was offered a summer internship with GGIS, where I would gain practical experience while earning university credits. Not long afterwards, another opportunity arrived, an internship in Italy. Around the same time, I received interest from another institution. Each email felt like another door opening, another reminder that dreams often grow quietly before they become reality.

Summer had never meant rest to me.

I had carefully planned those months because I wanted to make the most of them. I wanted to learn, to grow professionally, to build my career, to meet new people, and to prepare myself for the future I had spent years praying for. My plan was simple: spend May and June pursuing these opportunities, then fly home to Kenya in August to celebrate everything I had accomplished with the people who had believed in me long before anyone else did.

Looking back now, I smile at how confidently I believed in tomorrow.

Life felt full of promise.

University was going well. Church had become a place where I could serve and grow. I loved helping people, and somewhere along the way I had become the person my friends turned to whenever they needed help with applications. Whether it was writing CVs, polishing résumés, preparing motivation letters or applying for opportunities, I genuinely enjoyed helping others believe in themselves. Every acceptance letter they received felt like a victory we celebrated together.

That Sunday, I even stood before my church family to give a testimony.I spoke about God's faithfulness and the many opportunities He had placed before me. Looking back, I realise I was standing there, thanking God for the doors that had opened, completely unaware that another door, one I never wanted to walk through, was already beginning to open.

Only a few days earlier, I had spoken with my father. It was one of those ordinary conversations that never feel ordinary until they become memories.

He was proud.

Proud of my grades.

Proud of the internships I wanted to apply to and the ones I was to start.

Proud of the woman I was becoming.

He listened as I told him about my plans for the summer, and he responded the way he always had, with encouragement, wisdom, and the quiet confidence of a father who delighted in seeing his daughter flourish. He reminded me to stay humble, to keep working hard, and to remember that every opportunity was a gift from God.

His words settled deeply within me. I carried them without knowing they would become some of the last fatherly advice I would ever receive.

Then my birthday arrived. Birthdays in my family had always been filled with noise. There were phone calls, songs sung off-key, laughter echoing through the receiver, and the certainty that no matter how far away I was, home would always find me.

This year was different. My friends surprised me with a beautiful birthday celebration. Their kindness wrapped itself around me, and for a few hours I allowed myself to laugh, take photographs, and enjoy the moment. But even in the middle of the celebration, I kept reaching for my phone.

I was waiting for my family.

Especially my father.

The hours passed.

No call.

No message.

I called home.

No answer.

I called again.

Nothing.

I tried other family members.

Silence.

At first, I convinced myself they were planning a surprise. As the day faded into night, that explanation became harder to believe. There is a silence that speaks before words ever do.I didn't know why my heart felt uneasy. I only knew that it did.

Late that night, my phone finally rang. It was my mother. I answered immediately, relieved to finally hear her voice. Instead of wishing me a happy birthday, she spoke words that quietly divided my life into two chapters.

"Nicole... if you can come home, please come."

In a single moment, everything I had spent months building, the internships, the university plans, the carefully organised summer, the dreams that had seemed so close became secondary. I didn't know exactly what awaited me in Kenya. I only knew that I needed to go home.

I didn't know what was waiting for me in Kenya. I only knew that my family needed me.

So I packed my suitcases.

And I boarded a flight believing I was going home to be with my father and family.

I had no idea I was also beginning the hardest journey of my life.

And without realising it, I had just said goodbye to the life I thought I would return to.