“Can we have an IKEA ice cream cone, Mama?”
What a loaded question.
I blink. Time stands still as two cosmic worlds collide.
Here, wild convenience and rampant abundance in the developed world explode like confetti before me, while I hold in my body the memory of inconvenience and lack back in East Africa.
The cone is effortless. It represents systems that work invisibly — supply chains, refrigeration, logistics. It gives us permission to indulge without calculating consequences.
But for those who have lived where availability is uncertain, access is fragile and desire must be rationed, the cone becomes a symbol of two worlds colliding.
I sink my teeth into the cold expecting joy.
Instead, I’m hijacked by grief.
My body remembers another world while I’m now in this one.
The question lands hard— not as delight, but as ache.
A quiet, aching dissonance.
How do you begin to wrap your head around aisles devoted to cereal, when back in Africa a single box of Cheerios costs eight times more and is treated like a prized import?
How do you explain that something as ordinary as a cushion— comforting and forgettable—can be hairtearingly difficult to get, while they appear in every shape and size here?
What a strange sorrow to be surrounded by everything required for a “normal life,” all within a single store, and then realizing you cannot bring it back with you—because life must fit into suitcases, weight limits, and narrow allowances.
How do you hold yourself back with restraint amidst comforts you’d dreamed of for months, knowing it’ll slide away shortly?
Don’t get me wrong—
Most days, I am struck with gratitude.
That I get to live in a small town in East Africa where mail nor shipping can reach—a place that has taught me simplicity and humility.
And that I also get to straddle continents where choice and options abound—something a friend once reminded me— carries its own perils too.
But perhaps what I’m most grateful for are my children.
They embody the best of what a globally mobile family can be—
one that exults in every situation—
with or without running water,
with or without power,
with or without the things we insist are necessary to live.
They remind me that joy is not manufactured by abundance,
and contentment does not require convenience.
They remind me it’s OK to have an IKEA ice cream and eat it, even if no one knows what finding a crunchy cone means to us now- a grand privilege.
Sometimes, my girls are the clearest proof that it is possible to live faithfully in tension— without letting it harden our hearts.
If you live between worlds,
surrounded by surfeit yet hungering for meaning,
busy celebrating while quietly grieving,
you’re not alone.
Maybe today is your reminder- that it’s possible to live tenderly in a loud world.
PS: If you’re someone who lives between worlds — culturally, emotionally, spiritually — please know you’re not alone.
