The In Between

The In Between

Over the many weeks of being here, there have been so many stories I have wanted to share—each one unique, and some in nature very humorous.

Some of them are small. Some of them stay with you longer than you expect.

This is one of those.

I expected 30 Wilson B&B and Restaurant to have some activity, but that I would mostly be removed from it.

Instead, it has been anything but quiet.

One day you’re in a cottage by yourself, and the next you’re sharing space with a German couple, an NGO director, a woman from Tanzania, and a businesswoman visiting from the U.S.—meals shared, conversations overlapping, and the space constantly shifting. You’re never quite sure who you’ll wake up to the next morning.

It has been a mix of people, perspectives, and unexpected moments—including being woken up at 2 a.m. Things don’t really stop on Uganda time, especially when part of your life is still operating on U.S. time.

That rhythm doesn’t stay at home—it follows you into the day.

When I get up in the morning, there is a rhythm—a time to arrive at Imprint Hope, a point in the evening when the day ends, and duties that repeat throughout the week.

Everything in between can shift quickly.

On several occasions, my boda boda driver has changed routes mid-journey—deciding that on that particular day, the highway might be less muddy, or simply the safer option. And then we’re off—before you’ve quite settled yourself.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve learned how to sit on a boda without holding on for dear life. My posture—and honestly my mindset—has shifted from “dear God, please don’t let me fall” to sitting still, hands in my lap.

You learn quickly that tension doesn’t help—you either settle or you don’t last long.

I’ve never been so thankful for being taught how to sit on a horse before. I never knew that experience then would help me now. They are not the same, but the brain works in unique ways, and I’ve found I can use similar posture and muscles to steady myself through sharp turns and sudden speed.

You don’t realize how aware you are of falling until you see someone wipe out on the main road, or a young boda driver takes a turn like he’s in a NASCAR race.

Movement here has its own way of working.

One thing that is different here is that most local transit is done by boda boda—if you don’t own a car—or by public taxi, which is essentially a work van fitted with tightly packed rows of seats, meant to fit as many people as possible. You don’t really sit—you find whatever space is left and make it work.

The taxis, however, have a very low door. On numerous occasions, I have managed to hit the top of my head on the frame more than once. Crouching low has never been a strong gift of mine, and getting into your seat requires more of a lunge than a step.

One of the taxi handlers—because there is always at least one besides the driver—will insist that yes, you can scoot over and make room. More than once, I’ve looked at the gentleman and said plainly, “this is my seat, I’m not moving anymore.”

In other words, I can be a little stubborn—usually at the most inconvenient times.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little, because my poor neighbor had already been pressed up against the side of the van like a soft loaf of bread. I felt so bad.

On one occasion, I climbed into the front of a taxi where there was just enough space left. A mother was holding her child facing the opposite direction, and the moment the little one turned and saw me, she screamed as if I had startled her.

Her mother quickly turned her away, gently saying, “okay, it’s okay, don’t look.”

I was both stunned and trying not to laugh.

In reality, it was likely the first time she had seen someone who looked like me. The mother explained this with a lot of grace. We ended up sharing a small smile. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her.

Somewhere in all of this, I’ve also been learning Luganda.

During my time here, I was able to meet and befriend someone who has since become my Luganda teacher. She is an amazing individual—patient, and full of humor in the way she teaches.

Her method starts with vocabulary, slowly building understanding through the basics. Often I hear her say, “No talking, Tiffany—let your brain do the work.”

She says this because I tend to try and memorize everything too quickly—whether it’s new words, or ones I’ve already forgotten. I’ll repeat them out loud, trying to match the same intonation, and sometimes—when I really miss it—I butcher them pretty severely.

And when that happens—whether it’s a forgotten word, a completely wrong one, or just my brain working overtime—there is always laughter to follow.

No mistake comes without it, and somehow that makes the learning all the more enjoyable.

Eventually, all of that movement settles into a different kind of pace.

In Uganda, an estimated 13% of the population lives with a disability. That reality isn’t abstract here—it’s something you begin to understand through daily life.

Every time I arrive at Imprint, the pace feels different. It’s less about showing up and immediately getting to work, and more about greeting one another first. People take their time—getting tea or coffee, settling in—before the busyness of the day begins. You don’t step into the work immediately; you arrive first, and you feel it.

This rhythm brings a presence of calm to the day—something I have not experienced in a very long time.

There’s space to arrive before the work begins.

In the U.S., it often feels different—you’re told to come early, sometimes even expected to begin before you can clock in, and then move quickly the moment the day starts. I’ve always found that frustrating, and it can feel like the structure is valued more than the person within it.

The reality of serving with Imprint is that there are multiple layers of advocacy.

It’s not just about therapy, time in the field, or collaboration with other organizations—it’s something more constant, running underneath it all.

There is an intentionality to the way care is given. It is not rushed or forced. It is unhurried, unadulterated, and deeply present.

This is not new to me, but it is something I see lived out daily. The goal is not simply to respond, but to protect dignity along the way.

I don’t think I’ve seen a group of people work this diligently to provide a cultivated response like this outside of ministry contexts.

In less than six weeks I’ll be back on a plane home, which is both beautiful and saddening for me.

In many ways, I’ve been praying about coming back soon. With many of the friends I’ve made here, the language has already shifted from “if” to “when.”

There is something beautiful about being here and taking part in the daily living that has been Uganda.

I’ve had opportunities to build connections with churches, missionary communities, Bible studies, and just real, authentic people—my kind of people.

I’m sure I’ve made cultural phopas, and I’m sure that the duties I’ve performed could be improved upon.

And I have a deep feeling I will be returning to Jinja.

In the meantime, I look forward to participating fully in the community I have here—being present for those small moments, and accepting the challenges that arise.

I’ll probably have two more posts before I arrive back in the U.S. Who knows what stories I’ll have.

Ultimately, God moves in mysterious ways, and over the years I’ve come to trust that it’s a journey you want to show up for.