Re-entering life in the UK after three years in Bangladesh feels like stepping into a strange, beautiful, and deeply unsettling limbo. The transition isn’t just geographical; it is an emotional recalibration of purpose, pace, and presence. For thirty-six months, my world was defined by the high-stakes rhythm of global midwifery—improving outcomes for women and babies, surrounded by a warm expat community, our local choir, and the Dhaka International Christian Church. I miss the ease of that life, but far more than that, I miss the people. I miss the warmth and resilience of my Bangladeshi colleagues, the beauty of the Bengali language, and the incredible richness of the local community we were so blessed to be a part of. Yet, despite the sudden shift, this season has brought a deep joy in reconnecting with person and place—a journey I certainly haven't walked alone. I am so grateful for the unwavering support of my husband, Stephen. From following me to Bangladesh to encouraging my newest "crazy" sourdough baking venture, he remains my strongest advocate and biggest fan. Back in my home kitchen, I’ve been watching a sourdough starter I carefully carried all the way from Bangladesh bubble on the counter. I recently posted on our village page to gauge interest in sourdough baking classes and fresh loaves, and the response was overwhelming. Along with foraging for blackberries and making jam—which a local café is already selling—these small, tactile acts are helping me rediscover a sense of home that I know will carry us through whatever and wherever comes next.

The truth is, I’m living in a space defined by waiting. On the work front, I am weighing full-time roles abroad or in the UK against a portfolio career of consultancies, university lectures, and textbook writing. But more than anything, my heart and presence are needed right here for family. My mum is in the early, tender stages of dementia. While she is coping remarkably well—still active in her church and machine-sewing clothes—she needs more support now. Yet, her generous spirit endures: she still knits blanket squares for a maternity clinic in Kampala, Uganda, an extraordinary community effort where local charity shops save yarn, neighbours stitch the pieces together, and friends transport them abroad. Watching Mum navigate memory loss is painful, but I was deeply moved by a quote in a paper by Robin Thomson (Dementia and the response of churches). He reminds us that although our memories may fail us, we are held in God's memory. God does not forget us, even when we ourselves may have forgotten everything—including God. Walking the local footpaths, passing the streams where our beloved dog Cracker used to paddle, I process a complex mix of grief, joy, uncertainty, and love. I don't know what the future holds for my career or Mum’s care, but I take comfort in knowing who holds the future. For today, there is peace in a warm loaf of bread in my bag, the beauty of the countryside, and the patience to let the future unfold in its own time.