Monrovia, Liberia Our green-and-white house in Gaye Town—"way inside, behind Joe's Bar," we told the taxi drivers—was where my mind began collecting my earliest memories. The first place my heart set down. You know, that place where you run freely, wander without worry, and live somewhere between innocence and discovery. Back then, this little corner of Gaye Town, set between a Bassa community and a swamp, was home. I can still see my six-year-old self, barefoot, balancing on top of the whitewashed fence surrounding our house and playing “Blade” in the sand with brothers Benjamin and Saturday. Their world was only a hop over that fence—though hopping the fence was very much forbidden. Gaye Town, Monrovia, Liberia, 2010 Thirty-three years later, on a visit to Liberia, I found my way back to Gaye Town, eager to see if the house was still standing. It was. The porch remained green, and the whitewashed fence still held its ground. My two older sisters and I stood there, quietly taking it in. Suddenly, I was a child again. I hadn't realized how much of that little corner of Gaye Town I still carried within me. Gaye Town, Monrovia, Liberia, 2024 I asked the woman who lived there if we could go inside. The tenant was gracious. I stood in the living room, looking first to the corner where our Christmas tree once stood, then down the long hallway that led to our childhood bedrooms. I left happy knowing the old house was still being cared for. Fourteen years later, I returned to Gaye Town. This time, I brought my son, who was eager to see the childhood playground he’d heard so much about. I sighed as we pulled up beside the house. It looked weathered and broken, the green and white paint chipped and faded. What remained of the old fence leaned tiredly against the walls. Clothes hung drying on a blue line stretched between the porch and a section of stone still standing—unmistakable evidence that squatters now called it home. What was left of the fence & front gate My son walked beside me along the familiar path outside the gate. I found the old well, still in its usual place. As a child, I used to lean over its edge and lower a metal bucket on a rope, trying my best to draw water. Most times, after all that work, the bucket came back up with only a few inches sloshing around in the bottom. Of course, I couldn't just stand there. I peered down into the well, feeling like the girl I used to be. Then I turned to my son and pointed toward the swamp. That had been forbidden, too. On Saturdays, when Mom and Dad ran errands in town, I followed the brothers into the swamp. Sometimes I rode on their backs, my feet dangling inches above the mud as we crossed from one dry patch to another. The boys collected “kissmees”—long snails—in the murky water while I waited on a sandy patch nearby. Later, we cooked them in a rusted vegetable can over a small fire, sucking the meat from the shells with a sharp kissing sound. Then we would throw back our heads and laugh, shouting, "Kiss me, kiss me!" Those days felt as though they would go on forever. Today, they live only in my memory—though I would gladly step back into that world, if only for a single day. That longing to return to the way things once were isn't mine alone. I've heard it in the voices of others who, like me, were raised in a culture different from their parents'—only to have life carry them back to the country their parents once called home. But truly, anyone who has ever longed to step back into the world they knew as a child understands this ache. You can return to the town you left, the city, or even the country. You can walk the old paths. You can even stand in front of the house. But you cannot return to the way it felt to live there. The people have changed. We have changed. Only in our minds can we find home exactly as we left it. Perhaps memory itself is a gift—God's way of keeping those experiences alive within us. I can never go back to the childhood I remember, but how fortunate I was to have lived it. Those years became a permanent part of who I am: the way I see people, the way I understand differences, and the ease I feel connecting across cultures. For that, I am deeply grateful. If you are lucky enough to have grown up somewhere that became a part of who you are, you know the quiet pull that still reaches for that beginning—where your mind first collected its earliest memories. Where your heart first set down. Maybe, like me, you would love one more moment inside that world. Where is that place for you? The one you would give almost anything to step back into, and find exactly as you left it? —Georgie

Leaving a country isn't always the hardest part. Sometimes the biggest challenge is learning to live as though the place that raised you no longer matters. For years, I didn’t want to talk about Africa. I never actually said those words out loud. But that's exactly how I felt. At seventeen, I arrived in America—my parents' passport country—with two suitcases and a lifetime of memories that no one around me seemed to understand. I had left behind my family, my friends, my school, and the only home I had ever known. Everything about my new life felt exciting. But much of it felt wrong. People wanted to know where I was from. "You grew up in Africa?" Or the question that almost always followed: "What was it like?" I usually answered with a sentence or two—probably not the stories they were hoping to hear. "I don't know... it was just home." How do you explain a childhood when you have nothing else to compare it to? I didn't tell them I didn't understand their jokes. I smiled anyway. I laughed when everyone else laughed. I knew they would not get my jokes, so I kept mine to myself. When they asked about my home, I brushed them off. I did what many people do when they're desperate to fit in. I tucked those memories away where they no longer seemed relevant. Why had I stopped talking about Africa? I wasn't ashamed of Liberia. I was just trying to belong. Every new friendship, every conversation required me to learn something new. Later, when my children were older, and I was teaching them at home, I studied American history—its founders, its wars, its heroes and villains. As I learned more stories, I quietly stopped telling the others. Little by little, I copied the clothes, the expressions, and even developed a Southern drawl. My childhood photographs went to the attic. Then, forty years later, I picked up a pen. I began writing about Liberia. About my childhood—and the memories came back. It wasn't until I began writing that I realized what had seemed ordinary to me was extraordinary to almost everyone else. Spending forty years talking less about Liberia hadn't made me more American. It had simply left me disconnected from part of the person I already was. Maybe you've done the same. Maybe it wasn't another country. Maybe it was another town, another season of life, or another version of yourself. We all have memories we've quietly packed away because moving forward seemed more important than looking back. Now I want to talk about Africa. About Liberia. About the home I once thought I had lost. —Georgie

Two years. That's how long it's been since I last wrote here. If you've wondered where I've been, I've been immersed in a different story. I had the privilege of co-authoring Chosen Warrior with my Liberian sister, Rosana Schaack. What began as looking over her manuscript became far more than either of us expected. Last month, Chosen Warrior was finally published. Seeing readers connect with Rosana's story has been one of the greatest joys of this entire experience. Celebrating the launch of Chosen Warrior. The more I wrote about our shared childhood, the more I found myself thinking about my own. Many of the same people and places shaped us both, yet we experienced them through very different eyes. So now, I'm returning to the memoir that first led me down this writing path. Growing up in Liberia, then leaving at seventeen for the country that was supposed to feel like home, left me with a question that I think many people ask at some point in their lives: Where do I belong? You'll notice a new working title: White Girl Run. It's a big change from Sisters of the Sun, but I think it better captures the story I'm trying to tell. Over the coming months, I'll be sharing new excerpts, photographs, memories, and behind-the-scenes glimpses as the story takes shape. And if you're still here after two years, thank you. Leave a comment or send me a quick reply. Even if it's just, "I'm still here." I'd love to hear from you. — Georgie