As the sun beat down on the dusty roads of Nkhoma, our team stepped off the plane in August 2011. As the plane descended towards Lilongwe, Malawi, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Thirty hours of travel had left me weary and jetlagged, but more than that, I was overwhelmed by the uncertainty of what lay ahead. I had left behind the familiarity of my home country and my comfortable life to embark on a mission that felt both noble and reckless at the same time.

In the frenzy of feeling lost post-graduation from Saint Mary’s College of CA, I impulsively signed up for my first mission trip in the summer of 2011. Sitting in my parents' church, I heard someone announce a two-week mission trip to Malawi. My ears perked up as I listened to the details - we would have to adopt a child from World Vision as part of the trip. 

In a moment of what some might call divine insanity, I nudged my parents and exclaimed "Yes!" My dad looked at me with surprise but turned into unwavering support. As I mentioned in the intro, my family was philanthropic but had never gone on mission trips, let alone in Africa.

I stood at the Los Angeles International Airport, questioning my decision to travel. I had never done something like this.  It was daunting to trust a stranger in a foreign land, relying only on malaria medicine, sunscreen, and skirts for protection. But I had to believe that everything would be taken care of, despite my doubts and fears.
As the wheels touched down on the tarmac, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. I glanced out of the window at the unfamiliar landscape stretching out before me. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the red earth and sparse vegetation. It was beautiful, in its own way.
Stepping off the plane, I was immediately hit by the heat and humidity of the Malawian evening. I pulled my backpack tighter around my shoulders and made my way through customs with my passport and medical card, and the bustling airport, feeling a wave of disorientation wash over me. Everything seemed so different here - the sights, the sounds, the smells. Oh the smells. It was a sensory overload.
Outside the airport, I was greeted by a small group of locals holding up a sign with our name on it. They introduced themselves as members of the local community who had volunteered to help us settle in. I was grateful for their kindness, but couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place. I had spent a few months researching Malawian culture and customs, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of actually being here.
As they drove through the streets of Lilongwe, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the stark contrast between my own privileged upbringing and the poverty I saw all around me. I had come to Malawi with the noble intention of making a difference, of using my skills and resources to help those less fortunate than herself. But now that I was here, faced with the harsh realities of life in a developing country, I couldn't help but wonder if I was in over my head.
The village was a stark contrast to the bustling city we had left behind – just a small community with a hospital and primary school. But we were not deterred, ready to roll up our sleeves and make a difference.

Once we got there, our days were full of activities. We went into the villages to play games with the children who called us mzungus and spread the message of hope through preaching the Gospel. As we prayed for women while they shucked corn for nsima, a traditional dish that has a consistency between grits and mashed potatoes, I couldn't help but feel a deep connection to these strangers who welcomed us with open arms and dancing.

It was also my first time witnessing witchcraft. “Gule Wamkulu, meaning “The Great Dance” is an ancient practice of the Chewa people in Malawi. The dance traces back to at least 300 A.D. as a way for the village to communicate with their ancestors' spirits. Dancers are said to “put on” a spirit when they put on a mask and start dancing.” Essentially they are understood to be spirits of the dead. Now I am a spiritual person and accept all walks of faith but, you could sense these people from behind you even if you didn’t know they were coming. I can’t explain the feeling other than you will have to have yourself. Then from behind you would come male dancers wearing full costumes and masks made of wood and straw, expressing a great variety of spiritual and secular characters.

The stark contrast between my comfortable life back home and the struggles faced by the people in Malawi was eye-opening. Yet, amidst all the challenges and hardships, there was a sense of resilience and determination in the community. It sparked a fire within me to make a difference in the world like I wanted to do more with my life.

March 2012 was a pivotal moment, when desperation and divine intervention collided in a confusing series of events. It felt like I was on my knees, begging for guidance from the universe, and the very next day, it answered. But instead of clarity, I was thrown into uncertainty as God presented me with a chance to leave behind my despair and embark on a journey of purpose and transformation.

Lying in my childhood twin bed, I couldn't escape the harsh reality of my situation. 
Despite graduating college with a degree in Kinesiology, here I was back in my hometown with no job prospects, no direction, and a future shrouded in uncertainty like the fog rolling over the Golden Gate Bridge.

My lofty ambitions of becoming a Registered Dietitian had been shattered by one rejection after another. It turns out, testing was never my strong suit, and despite scraping by on the GMAT with a bit of luck. The essay portion proved to be my tragic downfall – leaving me questioning my own intelligence. Isn’t it ironic that you are now reading my words?

Little did I know, this journey would be filled with challenges and obstacles that would force me to confront the darkest corners of my soul. But with each passing day, I emerged stronger, wiser, and more determined than ever before.

So with trepidation mingled with hope, I took my first tentative steps towards a brighter future. As I knelt down in my childhood bedroom, I couldn't believe I was actually having a heart-to-heart with God. It had been years since we last spoke, but in that moment of desperation, “Give me a sign," I pleaded, my voice a mix of frustration and raw sincerity. "I need your guidance. Show me what you want me to do." 

We've all been there - asking for help but not wanting it bad enough to actually see it. Be careful what you wish for, right? And then came my Dad, the unexpected messenger of divine intervention. The next day, he sat me down with a hopeful look in his eyes because Lord knows I was going down the wrong path.

Apparently, someone from our church had called with an unusual proposal: move to Malawi, Africa for a year and make peanut butter. Wait, what? Peanut butter? Definitely not the grand revelation I was expecting from God, but who am I to argue?

So as fate would have it, six months later from that first trip, I found myself sitting in the law office of the man who had set this all into motion. We were discussing ending malaria deaths when he threw me a curveball – an invitation to spend a year making peanut butter in Malawi.

"Want to go make peanut butter in Malawi for a year?" he asked with determination and hope in his eyes.

He had heard about this ready to use therapeutic product on an Anderson Cooper 60 minute episode. The organization I had gone on a mission trip with the summer prior was on a mission to end all malaria deaths for children under five. However, due to malnutrition, children were dying. And we meant ALL deaths eradicated. So we discovered this product to keep true to the original mission.

My heart raced with conflicting emotions as I blurted out a second resounding YES! Was this really what I wanted? Or was it just impulsive decision-making driven by some unexplainable force? Before giving my final answer, I was reminded to go home and pray on it. And deep down, I knew that's exactly what I needed to do.

Spoiler alert: My intuition was right. That seemingly reckless yes set off a chain of events that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about life.

Fasten your seatbelts, my friends, because this is where the chapter begins the real adventure. We're talking about cramming suitcases full of kitchen aid equipment, enduring a 30-hour long journey by plane, and diving headfirst into the vast realm of the unknown.

Let's address the elephant in the room – Malawi. To someone whose knowledge of geography extended only as far as the nearest Starbucks, Malawi might as well have been a mythical land like Narnia. 

But hey, life's all about embracing the uncertain and venturing into uncharted territories, right? So I embarked on a journey that would alter my life in ways I never could have fathomed.

First order of business: peanut butter production. Now, if you had told me a year ago that I would be wearing a hairnet and creating factory-grade peanut butter from scratch, I would have laughed until tears streamed down my face. But life has a funny way of throwing unexpected curveballs, and there I was, loving every messy second of it.

A big question I got was “Haley, aren’t kids allergic to peanuts?” But according to research, early exposure lowers the risk of developing a peanut allergy in high risk infants. It helps the immune system to understand that it isn’t a threat. So no, this wasn’t a thing because peanuts were a main source of nutrition and sometimes the only source from early on.

After five hours of traveling southward to Blantyre, the formal capital, we finally arrived at our destination – the OG RUTF factory. Our destination was no ordinary factory; it was the epicenter of production, the birthplace of a life-sustaining nutritional powerhouse that nourished communities across borders. The factory stood before us in all its glory – a structure of concrete and steel, with machinery churning and producing an aroma of roasted peanuts that mingled with the sounds of production.

Stepping inside, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of this operation. It was worlds away from the comfort and familiarity of my parent’s kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of peanuts, intermingling with the mechanical hum in a symphony of industry. If you ask those who have tried it, the product tastes like the inside of a Reeses. It is sweet but nutrient dense.

Led further into the facility, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being an imposter. Surrounded by experts in their fields – scientists and engineers who had spent years perfecting their craft – I felt like a novice thrust into unfamiliar territory. Like who was I to be in this room?

But as we delved into discussions about the top-secret formula, something within me shifted. Despite my initial doubts, I realized that my understanding of nutrition and physiology brought a valuable perspective to the table. It complemented the expertise of my colleagues and together, we scrutinized every ingredient and its role in achieving that sought-after peanut butter nutrients.

As I stepped out of the car and looked around at my new surroundings, a sense of isolation washed over me.  I was thousands of miles away from home, alone in a strange and unfamiliar place. The enormity of what I had taken on hit her like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, I felt like turning around and getting back on the next plane home.
But then i remembered why i had come here in the first place. And part of that mission involved establishing a peanut butter factory here in Malawi, providing jobs and economic opportunities to the local community. It was a daunting task, to be sure, but it was also a worthy one. And I  was determined to see it through, no matter what obstacles lay in my path.
Taking a deep breath, i squared my shoulders and resolved to face whatever challenges lay ahead with courage and determination. I knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult, but i also knew that she had the passion and the drive to make a difference. And as i stepped through the door of my new home in Malawi, i felt a glimmer of hope begin to stir within me. This was just the beginning of my journey, and i was ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

With determination and a bit of DIY spirit, we built a new factory in just two weeks. It may have been small, but it was functional and provided much-needed jobs and peanut butter for the locals. And let me tell you, I never considered myself creative, but necessity has a funny way of bringing out hidden talents. And I guess I had an entrepreneurial side of me that gets stuff done. 

The first few days were a blur of meetings, introductions, and cultural misunderstandings. I struggled to communicate with the locals, my attempts at speaking Chichewa met with polite but puzzled looks. I felt like an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. As the weeks turned into months, I  threw myself into my work with a newfound sense of purpose. I worked tirelessly to establish the nonprofit organization, navigating the complex bureaucratic landscape with determination and grit. 

As I delved into the intricacies of bureaucracy, I quickly learned that progress often came at a painstakingly slow pace. Each meeting with government officials felt like wading through thick molasses – a slow, sticky process that seemed never-ending. Despite these hurdles, fueled by a fierce determination to make a difference, I refused to be deterred by the bureaucratic red tape that threatened to stifle our initiatives.

But our biggest endeavor yet was the establishment of a peanut butter factory. It held the promise of creating jobs and providing a locally sourced product to the community. However, as we waded through bureaucratic red tape, progress came to a standstill. Meeting after meeting yielded little more than empty promises and discouragement.

Yet, I refused to give up. With persistence and resourcefulness, we found creative solutions and rallied support from community leaders. And despite setbacks and roadblocks, we ultimately succeeded in laying the groundwork for the factory.

Looking back on our journey through Malawi's bureaucratic maze, I am reminded of the power of resilience and unwavering commitment in the face of adversity. Our perseverance may have been tested at every turn, but it ultimately led us to success - not just for ourselves, but for the entire community who refused to be silenced or defeated by challenges. It is this unbreakable spirit that paves the way for a brighter future where hope, opportunity, and prosperity thrive for all.

One day, an opportunity arose to establish a local co-op for farmers in need of sustainable income. Despite the complex process of registration, procurement, and logistics, I dove headfirst into the project, fueled by my unwavering belief in its potential for economic empowerment and community development. We met a nice South African man who would purchase peanuts from the locals then roast and blanch them for us. There is a carcinogenic chemical called Aflatoxin that is found in nuts and is due to moisture. A lot of Malawians would wash their nuts to make it easier to shell or weigh down their bags for more money. So this middle man made it more efficient, safer and gave back to the community. It was my first time negotiating a deal and I did a damn good job. 

We also found that families were waiting until the last minute to travel to receive food at the hospital. Sometimes it would be too late and death would be knocking. We remained committed to our original intention of ending all malaria deaths for children under five by combating malnutrition. Why wait for families to make the long and arduous journey to hospitals and skip out on days collecting water and food? We decided to bring the solution directly to them. 

Through partnerships with local health centers, distribute our ready-to-use therapeutic food.  This wasn’t always an easy journey especially during the rainy season when the roads were too impassable. We had to get creative with an innovative and powerful tool combating malnutrition and restoring health. 

And let me tell you – it worked. The impact was tangible, the results undeniable. Lives were transformed as hope was restored, spreading like wildfire across the villages. Our mission gained momentum with each successful story, creating a ripple effect of change.

Even with success and each step forward, I found myself grappling with doubt and uncertainty. Honestly, wtf had I said yes to? Was I  doing the right thing? Was I making a difference? And most importantly, was I truly prepared for leading an organization when my work experience had included managing a soccer store and whipping up lattes for regulars on a Sunday morning?

My living arrangements were simple – a humble flat with three rooms, a cozy living area, and a small kitchen. I shared this space with three fabulous German girls who quickly became like family to us. Their hearts were as warm as their laughter, and they always kept things interesting with their love for Settlers of Catan (the German version) or our hikes up to the top of Nkhoma mountain with baboons and a looming snake along the paved dirt track. I remember a big event at the local civic center when a snake had been killing livestock and lets just say this thing was huge - it took four men to hold it. I immediately got the heebie jeebies. So hiking up that trail was not for the faint of heart when something that size was hiding. 

Living in Nkhoma also came with its challenges. Electricity was scarce (sometimes with four day blackouts), and running water was non-existent. However, we were blessed to have a local hero who would bring us water from the well every day and even bake us the most delicious homemade bread this side of the equator. My sourdough baking skills do not compare to what she made for us. Or maybe I was just hungry, emotionally exhausted and craving carbs.  We would heat up that water in a water heater, put it in a bucket and attempt to bathe ourselves. Let’s just say I was blessed to have a comfy bed to sleep in at night even with mosquitoes buzzing through the night. 

As a traveler, there are moments when you find yourself in a place that feels like home, even though it's thousands of miles away from where you were born. For me, that place was Malawi - a land of beauty and warmth that captured my heart and soul.

From the moment I arrived in Malawi, I was greeted by the vibrant colors and lively energy of its people. Their warm smiles and welcoming spirit made me feel like I belonged, as if I had found a second home in the heart of Africa. Everywhere I went, strangers became friends and locals welcomed me with open arms.

One particular moment that stands out in my memory is visiting a local market in the heart of Lilongwe. As I weaved through stalls overflowing with hand-woven baskets, vibrant fabrics, and fragrant spices, I couldn't help but marvel at the creativity and resilience of the Malawian people. Each interaction with a vendor was an opportunity to learn about their craft and support their livelihood.

We also traveled to Lilongwe in a van that was overpacked with people, chicken and goats with people riding out the windows. It was a sight to be seen for sure. Or we would ride in the back of truck to town. Not our safest idea but access to cars were limited and none of us knew how to drive manual. It took three vans to town and three vans back without a clear schedule and no phone access. We had our backpacks full of goods from the one grocery store in town so we could feel a sense of normalcy. 

Someone asked me if it was safe in Malawi and my response is I always felt safe. Sure I stood out with my blonde hair and fair complexion but people only hollered at me. My RBF served me well. When there was a government change, things seemed to be more hairy with protests so I traveled with Peter who looked out for me. He wouldn’t let me travel alone. He was smart. 

Each day brought new adventures in Nkhoma – a delicate balance of chaos, creativity, and collaboration. Mornings started with each of us heading off in different directions to fulfill our roles – mine being a mix of research, government meetings, and producing peanut butter for the community. Because in Nkhoma, something as simple as peanut butter could save lives.

It wasn't just about the peanut butter – oh no, it was about the people. The faces of Malawi, each one telling a unique story of resilience and hope, lined the streets as we made our way through the village. 

I was struck by their warmth and hospitality, their willingness to welcome me into their homes and their lives. Our team was comprised of extraordinary individuals - Stanley, with his infectious grin and unwavering tenacity; Happy radiated warmth and professionalism; Peter served as my trusted guide, navigating the cultural norms with diligence and care; Ethel's calming presence and "can-do" attitude made every task seem effortless; and Jane's thirst for knowledge and eager approach to learning were apparent in all that she did. Each morning, they arrived to work with contagious enthusiasm, ready to conquer any obstacle that crossed their path. Their unwavering dedication and tireless efforts were evident in every task they completed.

Maralise was an angel. She was an older lady with a heart of gold from South Africa. She loved to help! She also welcomed me to her home with tea and cake. I quickly learned in some cultures you cannot turn it down. We went to villages together and learned that women with HIV were shunned from the community. So we built out education and support for these women. We also found that the peanut butter helped these women digest the HIV medicine. And with medicine there is a huge decrease in transfer to babies. 

I should also mention Nicole, a godsend from the Netherlands. After being in the world of fashion, she traveled to Malawi and never left. She has a better heart than I do which is dedicated to helping orphaned children. Most kids in Malawi aren’t even named before one year old because the death rate is so high. She has a whole story she can write on her own. She is the true deal. 

Now let’s get back to work. I vividly recall our initial task: traverse a few kilometers to the home of the head chief of the village. Her house stood tall and regal with a twisted staircase, a stark contrast to the humble dwellings surrounding it. To gain entry, we had to present her with offerings of goats and chickens - a customary tradition before approaching those in positions of power. Before we could begin distributing products to the villages, we needed her blessing as per tradition in the area. Despite the formalities, we were fortunate enough to find that the chief had a kind heart, especially for the children in need. Graciously, she granted us permission to proceed with our mission. 

Among them was Ephraim, a beacon of light in a world filled with darkness. His body, only 12 years old but bearing the scars of hardship, stood tall with a determination and strength beyond his years. And his mother, a fierce warrior in her own right, had traveled 20 kilometers in search of help for her child – a testament to the unwavering love and sacrifice of parents. Throughout our journey, Ephraim's smile never faded, even in the face of adversity. It was a radiant light that could pierce through the thickest clouds and bring warmth to the coldest hearts. 

And then came his audacious proposal – that I should adopt him. At 24, single, and barely able to take care of myself, the idea of parenthood was both terrifying and heartwarming. But seeing Ephraim's transformation before my eyes – his health improving by a staggering 100% thanks to our product spreading across the villages – sparked a revolutionary idea.

I remember my first trip in August 2011 going around to villages where moms were laughing at me for not having kids yet. Most women were married young as child brides because their parents hoped for a better life. However, most of the women I met had 5-6 kids and had already been divorced. It was astonishing that me at 23/24 not having kids was a big deal and something I couldn’t find common ground on. 

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