I didn’t expect a team-building trip to feel like a turning point in my life. Honestly, I almost didn’t want to go. My chest had been heavy with quiet anxiety, the kind that creeps in unannounced, tiny panic attacks stealing my breath when I least expect it. My birthday had passed not too long before, and with it, the sting of unmet expectations, the sadness of realizing once again that sometimes the people you wish would celebrate you simply don’t.
So I carried all that weight with me to Kitonga Garden Resort. At first, I thought I’d just go through the motions, check the “fun” box, come back, and sink back into my routine of smiling while secretly feeling like I was drowning.
But nature has a way of softening even the hardest knots inside you. The hills were alive and green, the air fresh, the view stretching out like a painting only God Himself could have made. It was the kind of beauty that doesn’t just sit in front of you, it enters you, forces you to breathe deeper, to notice, to pause. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a sliver of stillness.
And then came the zip line.
Let me tell you, I am terrified of heights. My body tenses at the thought of being up too high. And yet, there I was, climbing uphill on a steep slope, my legs aching, my breath short, my heart beating like a drum. It was on my bucket list for years, but I always thought I’d do it “one day.” Suddenly, one day was here.
I surprised myself by being among the first to try. Fear was screaming in my ears, but something louder whispered: you need this. So I strapped in, held on, and let go.
The rush of air against my skin, the ground racing below me, my fear melting into a strange mixture of terror and freedom. And then it hit me: I wasn’t falling. I was flying.
And in that moment, something cracked open in me. Because the zip line wasn’t just about height. It was about all the things I’d been afraid to let go of: relationships that drained me, people who only remembered me when I was useful to them, the fear of saying no, the guilt of choosing myself. Hanging in the air, rushing forward, I realized fear doesn’t have to mean stop. Sometimes fear is the doorway to freedom.
But the healing didn’t stop there.
Afterward, I let myself play. I bounced on a castle, I jumped on a trampoline, I laughed until I could almost hear my inner child clapping in delight. It wasn’t just fun, it was medicine. It was reclaiming the pieces of me I’d neglected while trying to be “strong,” “useful,” “the one who always holds it together.” On that trampoline, I wasn’t anyone’s employee, anyone’s partner, anyone’s problem-solver. I was just me; free, light and unapologetic.
That trip came right on time. At a point when my heart was tired of waiting to be chosen and supported, tired of forcing love from people who couldn’t or wouldn’t give it, tired of working in spaces that drained me more than they nourished me. The hills, the zip line, the play, they all reminded me that joy is not something you have to earn. It is your birthright.
I came back different. Not magically healed, not suddenly without problems. But braver, clearer and more willing to say no. More willing to cut off what no longer aligns. More willing to believe that I deserve a life that doesn’t constantly deplete me.
Sometimes, healing looks like standing on the edge of a cliff, heart pounding, legs shaking, and still saying: Strap me in. Sometimes it looks like screaming your lungs out while flying across a line you thought you’d never cross. Sometimes it looks like choosing to play, to laugh, to bounce, even when life has made you feel heavier than stone.
I went to Kitonga Garden Resort with a heavy heart.
I left with wings.
And maybe that’s the lesson I’ll carry forward:
That joy is not frivolous; it’s survival.
That saying no is a kind of yes, to myself.
That fear can be the path, not the wall.
That even when sadness lingers, beauty and play can crack open the light again.
I didn’t fall.
I flew.
I Let Go and Flew
I carried my sadness up the hill,
the kind that sits in the chest like stone,
the kind that whispers, you are forgotten,
you are too much, not enough,
you are alone.
But the wind met me anyway.
The harness held me anyway.
And when I let go,
I did not fall.
I flew.
Fear became a bridge,
joy became medicine,
play became prayer.
And in that air, mid-flight,
I remembered:
I am allowed to choose myself.
I am allowed to laugh again.
I am allowed to heal in ways
that do not need permission.
So when the world grows heavy,
when love feels far,
when the noise of not-enough
tries to cage me again,
I will remember the wings.
I will remember the child who bounced.
I will remember the woman who climbed.
I will remember the moment
I chose freedom over fear.
And I will not forget
that I can always, always
fly again.
