Introduction
My journey begins in Kenema, Sierra Leone, a place where life unfolded within the rhythm of community rather than the boundaries of individual households. I was raised in an environment where family extended beyond parents and siblings, where grandparents, uncles, and neighbors shared responsibility for one another. That communal way of life shaped my understanding of belonging, respect, and care from an early age. It taught me that no one stands alone and that dignity is something preserved through daily actions, not grand gestures.
Growing up, I attended Government Secondary School, Kenema, a school known for its discipline and standards. Alongside my studies, I found joy and balance through sports, especially soccer and volleyball. Football became more than a pastime; it was a way to build resilience, teamwork, and focus. I learned how discipline and teamwork could mold character from these early experiences, lessons that I carried into my career.
Life took an unexpected turn when conflict disrupted the stability of my homeland. The civil war forced many of us to leave behind everything familiar. Migration was not a choice born of ambition but of necessity. When I arrived in the United States and settled in Virginia, I encountered a world very different from the one I had known. The transition brought cultural shock, particularly in how respect and communication were expressed. Back home, lowering one’s gaze was a sign of humility. Here, looking someone directly in the eyes was expected. Learning to navigate these differences required patience and awareness, and over time, I learned to balance both worlds without losing myself.
My introduction to healthcare in the United States marked a defining chapter in my life. Visiting a nursing home for the first time deeply affected me. I came from a culture where elders are cared for within the family, where age is honored through presence and attention. Seeing older adults living in institutional settings challenged my understanding of care. It raised questions that stayed with me and eventually shaped my purpose. I realized that if elders had to live in such environments, then those environments should feel as close to home as possible.
That realization led me to begin my career as a Certified Nursing Assistant. I learned things from working with residents that I could not have learned in a classroom. I learned the importance of patience, consistency, and attentiveness. More importantly, I learned to see residents not as diagnoses or conditions, but as individuals with histories, emotions, and dignity. I eventually advanced into supervisory positions where I trained others and made sure that care was provided with accountability and respect.
“What counts in life is not the mere fact that we have lived. It is what difference we have made to the lives of others.”
Phase 1: Roots in Kenema -Where My Life Learned Its First Meaning
I was born in Kenema, Sierra Leone, in West Africa, a place where life was shaped not by walls but by people. My earliest memories are not of isolation or privacy, but of togetherness. I grew up in a communal environment where family extended far beyond a single household. Fathers, mothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and neighbors lived as one collective unit, sharing responsibilities, stories, discipline, and care. In that setting, no one truly belonged only to themselves. We belonged to one another.
My father had several wives, but I was the only son born to my mother, Mballu Turay. That position shaped my upbringing in quiet but powerful ways. She taught me responsibility, respect, and attentiveness. She believed deeply that how a person treats others defines who they are long before any title or achievement does. Her guidance was not delivered through long lectures but through lived example. She taught me that dignity must be offered even when it is not returned and that respect should never be conditional.
Our life in Kenema was grounded in simplicity, but it was rich in connection. We lived in rural surroundings where community was not a concept but a daily practice. Elders were present, visible, and central to family life. Grandfathers and grandmothers were not placed aside or removed from daily interaction. They were cared for, listened to, and honored. Watching how my family treated its elders planted something in me long before I understood its significance. Care was not delegated. It was personal.
I attended Government Secondary School, Kenema, one of the respected schools in the area. Education was taken seriously in my household, not as a means of prestige, but as a responsibility. Going to school was never separated from character. Discipline, humility, and effort were expected, not praised excessively, but quietly enforced. Alongside my studies, sports became an important part of my life. I played soccer and volleyball, and through football in particular, I learned teamwork, resilience, and focus. On the field, differences disappeared. What mattered was effort, trust, and cooperation. Those early lessons would later surface in ways I could not have predicted.
My childhood unfolded within a rhythm of shared living. We shared meals, worked together, gave each other corrections, and rejoiced together. When someone succeeded, it was felt by all. When someone struggled, the burden was shared. In that environment, individual success was never separated from collective well-being. Growing up, I didn’t consider success to be a personal accomplishment. I understood it as something that reflected back on the people who raised me.
“Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”
Phase 2 : Leaving Home - War, Displacement, and the Courage to Begin Again
There comes a moment in life when the ground beneath you shifts without warning. For me, that moment arrived when conflict entered the place I called home. Kenema, Sierra Leone, which had once been defined by community, routine, and shared life, was overtaken by the realities of war. Stability disappeared, and certainty gave way to survival. Decisions were no longer about plans or aspirations but about safety and continuity of life.
Leaving home was not an act of ambition. It was an act of necessity. When the war disrupted everything familiar, remaining was no longer an option. Migration was not a dream I carried with excitement; it was a path shaped by circumstance. I left behind the land where my identity had been formed, the people who had raised me collectively, and the way of life that had taught me what it meant to belong. Departure carried weight. It meant separation from community, culture, and the comfort of knowing where you fit.
When I arrived in the United States, I settled in Virginia, carrying little more than memory, values, and resilience. The transition was immediate and overwhelming. I moved from a society built around communal living to one structured around independence. Back home, family life unfolded openly and collectively. Here, people lived privately, often alone. The silence felt unfamiliar. The absence of shared daily life made the adjustment even more challenging.
The cultural shock extended beyond living arrangements. Communication itself followed different rules. In the world I grew up in, respect was shown by lowering one’s gaze when elders spoke. In America, honesty was often measured by eye contact. What once signified humility could now be misunderstood. Learning this difference required awareness and patience. I had to teach myself when to adapt and how to remain respectful without losing my cultural grounding.
Every conversation turned into a lesson. I learned that understanding a new system did not mean abandoning the old one. Instead, it required balance. I became conscious of where I was, who I was speaking to, and what was expected in that moment. That awareness eventually became instinctive. It was not about changing who I was but about learning how to move between worlds.
“The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.”
Phase 3 : Learning Two Worlds - Identity, Adaptation, and the Discipline of Balance
When I settled into life in Virginia, I quickly realized that adaptation was not a single moment but a continuous process. The change was not only external; it was deeply internal. I was learning how to function in a society whose values were expressed differently from the ones that had shaped me in Kenema, Sierra Leone. What I had known as respect, humility, and proper conduct did not disappear, but they required translation.
One of the most striking differences I encountered was communication itself. Back home, when an elder spoke, lowering one’s gaze was a sign of respect. Looking directly into someone’s eyes, especially someone older, could be interpreted as disrespect. In the United States, the meaning was reversed. Avoiding eye contact was often perceived as dishonesty or lack of confidence. At first, this contradiction unsettled me. I found myself instinctively responding in the way I had been taught, only to realize that my actions were being misunderstood.
This realization forced me to become more aware of my surroundings. I had to ask myself, where am I, and who am I speaking to? Respect, I learned, is not abandoned when it is expressed differently. It is reshaped to fit context. I eventually discovered how to meet people where they were without compromising my identity. That balance became a skill, one that required patience, reflection, and discipline.
Living independently also changed how I experienced daily life. In my childhood, communal living meant constant interaction. There was always someone to speak with, someone to correct you, and someone to guide you. In America, independence defined adulthood. People managed their lives individually, often without the presence of extended family. That shift required adjustment. Silence replaced constant conversation, and privacy replaced shared routine. I learned to navigate that space, even as I continued to value community deeply.
Family life was also affected by cultural differences. There were lessons to be learned from raising a child in a society different from my own. Children were instructed at home not to look directly at their parents when they were speaking. Here, children were encouraged to look their parents in the eye. When my son reminded me, “Daddy, you have to look at me in the face,” it struck me that adaptation was no longer only about me. It was about using two systems of understanding to guide the next generation. That experience strengthened my conviction that progress necessitates openness but does not eradicate tradition.
Note of Thanks
I offer my sincere gratitude to everyone who has been part of my journey, whether through guidance, support, challenge, or quiet presence. This biography reflects not only my experiences but also the influence of many individuals who shaped my understanding of service, responsibility, and purpose.
I am deeply thankful to the elders, residents, and families who entrusted me with their care. Their stories, resilience, and trust gave meaning to my work and reminded me daily why empathy must remain at the center of healthcare. I am also grateful to the colleagues and teams I worked alongside, whose dedication, professionalism, and commitment strengthened every environment we shared.
My appreciation extends to the mentors and preceptors who guided me during my formative years, teaching me not only technical knowledge but also the importance of integrity and accountability. Even moments of challenge became lessons that contributed to growth.
I am most grateful to my family for their unwavering support, tolerance, and understanding. Their presence helped me stay grounded during all of my transitions and responsibilities. This journey would not have been possible without the encouragement and values instilled in me, which continue to guide my path forward.
Thanks,
– Dr. Ishmael Koroma