Burnout and Renewal: A Journey Through Peace Work

Beginnings in Peace Work

Burnout is not something that happens overnight. It builds slowly, almost invisibly, as one pours heart and energy into work that feels too important to step away from. Looking back, I now see how my own journey into peacebuilding began with both promise and peril.

In 1995, I joined the National Council of Churches of Kenya (NCCK) as a support officer in Eldoret. At first, my duties were simple: handling logistics, finance, and data management. But peace work in Kenya during the 1990s was no ordinary assignment. Almost immediately, I found myself accompanying staff into volatile regions—places scarred by political violence, cattle raids, and community strife.

Our field trips took us to the Uasin Gishu and Kisumu/Nandi border areas, Turkana, West Pokot, Marakwet, and Laikipia. My role quickly shifted from office-based support to the frontline distribution of relief food for communities devastated by conflict and drought.

Those early days were eye-opening. I witnessed how easily ordinary lives could be upended—farmers abandoning their fields, children missing school, families displaced by violence. Yet I also saw resilience: communities that, despite hardship, came together in small but powerful ways to care for one another.

It was in these moments that I learned one of my first important lessons in peace work: true service goes beyond distributing food or managing logistics. It requires treating people with respect and dignity, even in the most desperate of circumstances.

At the time, I was still young, inexperienced, and unprepared for the physical and emotional weight of this work. But those first steps set me on a path that would shape the rest of my career. They also sowed the seeds of something I did not yet have the words for—burnout.

Kerio Valley – Baptism by Fire

If my early days in peace work were an introduction, the events of 1997 were a baptism by fire. That year, El Niño rains and a prolonged drought combined to create a perfect storm of famine and conflict in the Kerio Valley. Communities already struggling with scarcity were now thrust into survival mode, and old tensions between the Marakwet and Pokot communities erupted into violence.

The road between Tot and Chesongoch became a deadly stretch. It was nicknamed “Kosovo,” after the war in the Balkans, because ambushes and killings happened almost daily. Schools closed. Markets shut down. Families fled their villages in fear. Many found temporary refuge in towns like Eldoret, leaving behind homesteads they might never return to.

For me, the work was both urgent and terrifying. I accompanied teams to deliver food to families caught between hunger and hostility. Each trip carried risk. Once, during a distribution in Chesetan, raiders struck unexpectedly. The attack sent us scrambling for safety, and for a moment I thought I might not make it out alive.

The violence did not spare even the most vulnerable. One of the most haunting memories I carry is of children being killed at Tot Health Centre during a vaccination drive. The senselessness of it all—innocent lives cut short—remains etched in my mind. Around the same time, we lost a colleague from World Vision who was caught in gunfire. And then came the Murkutwo massacre, a wave of killings that devastated families and deepened the cycle of revenge.

These experiences were a brutal awakening. I had entered peace work with a sense of optimism, but Kerio Valley taught me that this work demanded more than compassion—it demanded courage, resilience, and a willingness to face trauma head-on.

Yet, even amid despair, there were moments of humanity that gave me strength. I met mothers who, despite losing children, pleaded for an end to the bloodshed. I saw young men set aside weapons to help distribute food. These flickers of hope reminded me why the work mattered, even when the dangers were overwhelming.

Kerio Valley marked the beginning of my deeper struggle with burnout. I did not recognize it then, but every gunshot, every displacement, and every loss left an invisible scar. The weight of it would only grow heavier in the years ahead.

On the Frontlines of Ethnic Tensions

After the turmoil in Kerio Valley, my journey in peace work led me into other hotbeds of ethnic conflict. Each new assignment came with its own complexities, risks, and lessons that shaped my understanding of how fragile peace can be. 

In 1998, I was transferred to Tinderet-Muhoroni, an area still reeling from the aftermath of the 1997 elections. Here, ethnic violence between the Nandi and Luo communities was a daily reality. Fields that once produced sugarcane and maize became battlegrounds, and displacement camps sprang up as families sought safety. My role was to support the Area Peace and Development Committee (APDC), a local structure designed to mediate disputes and encourage dialogue.

The work was exhausting but necessary. Days were spent moving between meetings, distributing relief food, and accompanying families back to their villages in tentative resettlement efforts. At night, I often lay awake, listening to distant gunfire or worrying whether the peace agreements we facilitated would hold beyond the next dawn.

In 2000, I was posted further north to Southern Turkana, where the Turkana and Pokot communities clashed repeatedly over cattle and grazing land. Here, I witnessed firsthand how climate, culture, and survival intertwined. Waterholes became flashpoints, and livestock were both livelihood and weapon. Negotiating peace in such a context meant more than mediating disputes—it meant addressing the very roots of scarcity and mistrust.

Even in Laikipia, where I later worked with pastoralist communities, conflict was never far. Yet, amid these challenges, I found inspiration in unexpected places. The Laikipia West Women for Peace network stood out as a beacon of resilience. These women, often overlooked in traditional leadership structures, organized dialogues and peace marches, and challenged men to put down weapons in favor of dialogue. Their courage taught me that peace is not only negotiated in boardrooms but also nurtured in kitchens, markets, and community gatherings.

These years on the frontlines were, no doubt, some of the most formative in my career. I navigated complexity of ethnic tensions—how history, politics, and resources collided to tear communities apart. These experiences also showed me the power of local initiatives and the indispensable role of women in healing fractured societies.

But beneath the surface, the toll was mounting. Each new assignment meant carrying more stories of suffering, more unresolved disputes, and more unhealed wounds. I did not yet realize it, but these experiences were slowly draining my emotional reserves, setting the stage for the burnout that was to come.

The Hidden Costs of Burnout

By the early 2000s, the weight of peace work had begun to catch up with me. On the outside, I was moving from one assignment to the next—facilitating dialogues, distributing relief, supporting reconciliation. But inside, I was running on empty.

Physically, I was exhausted. Long journeys through insecure regions, endless community meetings, and the constant uncertainty about safety left my body worn down. Emotionally, I was drained from witnessing loss after loss—families torn apart, colleagues endangered, children growing up surrounded by fear.

Even within the organization, things were far from easy. Our advocacy efforts often put us at odds with government authorities, adding a layer of political pressure to an already stressful environment. Ethnic tensions that played out in the communities we served sometimes seeped into our own team. Colleagues tended to align with “their own people,” whether Kikuyu, Kalenjin, or Luo, and this subtle bias crept into how food aid was distributed or how meetings were conducted. It fractured the unity we desperately needed.

Funding was another constant worry. Our project operated under unpredictable donor cycles, and we never knew whether we’d still have jobs when the money ran out. With little professional training or formal education at that time, I feared what the future might hold if the project ended. The insecurity only deepened my stress.

What I didn’t realize then was that I was also suffering from secondary trauma—the emotional toll of carrying other people’s pain. Each story of displacement, every funeral I attended, and every unresolved dispute weighed heavily on me. Without space to process it, the trauma accumulated quietly, eroding my resilience from the inside out.

NCCK eventually recognized the strain our team was under and brought in a counselor to offer support. I was also sent to a trauma healing course at the Kenya School of Monetary Studies, sponsored by USAID. Retreats in Arusha, Ngorongoro, and Kampala provided short-lived relief, moments where I could catch my breath. But what I truly needed was more than a pause—I needed a chance to step back, heal, and rediscover myself.

This realization marked a turning point. Burnout was no longer something I could ignore. It had become clear that if I didn’t find a way to renew myself, I would be consumed by the very work I had once embraced with passion.

Finding Healing in Zambia

By 2002, I had reached a breaking point. The years of working in volatile regions, witnessing violence, and carrying the unspoken weight of trauma had left me depleted. The retreats and counseling sessions had helped temporarily, but what I truly needed was distance—time to step away, breathe, and reflect.

That lifeline came in the form of a scholarship to study at the Mindolo Ecumenical Foundation (MEF) in Kitwe, Zambia. More than just an academic opportunity, MEF became a sanctuary where I could begin to heal and rediscover my purpose.

Kitwe, nestled in Zambia’s Copperbelt Province, was a refreshing change from the conflict zones I had grown used to. MEF itself was a hub of learning and community. The campus hosted a vibrant mix of institutions—the Africa Literature Centre, the YWCA, and The United Church of Zambia Theological College—drawing students from across Africa and beyond. The diversity created an environment that was not only intellectually stimulating but also culturally rich, offering me fresh perspectives on peacebuilding.

One of the first transformative experiences was participating in the Africa Peacebuilding Institute (API), which MEF hosted annually. The program brought together participants from conflict-affected countries such as Burundi, Rwanda, DR Congo, Somalia, and South Sudan, alongside representatives from NGOs, churches, and governments. Listening to their stories of war, displacement, and resilience was both humbling and healing. For the first time, I realized that I was not alone in grappling with the hidden scars of peace work.

The Trauma Awareness class, led by Krista Rigalo and Barry Hart, gave me the language and tools to confront my own struggles. What I had carried silently for years finally began to make sense—I was living with the effects of secondary trauma. Acknowledging it was the first step toward releasing it.

MEF also provided moments that grounded me deeply in the meaning of peace work. Through the Dag Hammarskjöld Messengers of Peace Program, I visited the Ndola crash site where the UN Secretary-General had died in 1961. Standing there, I reflected on the sacrifices made by those who dedicate their lives to peace. It was a sobering reminder of the risks but also of the higher purpose guiding this work.

Another profound experience was my visit to the Maheba Refugee Settlement, home to tens of thousands of people displaced from across the region. Training refugees in conflict resolution and watching them use creative methods—including art—to address tensions was inspiring. Even in displacement, they were building peace in small but meaningful ways.

Life at MEF wasn’t limited to academics and fieldwork. I immersed myself in student leadership, eventually serving as President of the Student Council. Leading initiatives to improve student welfare, I learned the complexities of balancing community needs with institutional values. One project I championed—making condoms available at the dispensary to address HIV/AIDS and unwanted pregnancies—sparked resistance from the administration. The debate was difficult, but it taught me the importance of navigating the delicate space between health, morality, and organizational culture.

In Zambia, I found more than knowledge. I found clarity, healing, and the strength to reimagine my role in peacebuilding. For the first time in years, I felt the fog of burnout lifting. The journey was not over, but I had rediscovered the hope and purpose that had once driven me.

Internships in Uganda and Tanzania

My time at MEF also opened doors to new experiences beyond Zambia. As part of my program, I completed internships in both Uganda and Tanzania, each offering a different perspective on peacebuilding and justice.

In Uganda, I worked with the Center for Conflict Resolution (CECORE) in Kampala. My research focused on the role of media in the conflict in northern Uganda, where the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) had waged a brutal insurgency. It was eye-opening to see how media could be both a tool for incitement and a platform for peace. This experience deepened my understanding of how narratives shape conflicts and how carefully they must be managed in peacebuilding.

In Tanzania, I spent six weeks at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) in Arusha. There, I assisted judicial staff as they prepared cases related to the 1994 Rwandan Genocide. Watching international justice unfold up close was sobering. It broadened my perspective, reminding me that reconciliation is not only about dialogue in villages but also about accountability at the highest levels. Justice, I learned, is a critical partner to peace.

These internships reinforced my belief that peace work operates at many levels—local, national, regional, and international. And while the challenges vary, the human cost of conflict is always the same.

Dreaming of a Peace Resource Centre

Returning to Kenya, I carried with me the lessons, networks, and renewed energy from Zambia. I wanted to channel them into something meaningful at home.

One of my first ideas was to establish a Peace Resource Centre, a hub that could document experiences and lessons from the field—something I had found lacking at NCCK. I even drafted a proposal to set up a peacebuilding institute, working with the Reformed Institute for Theological Training (RITT) in Eldoret and Malkia College in Lubumbashi, DRC. With advice from colleagues at Mindolo, I imagined a space where future peace workers could be trained and supported. Sadly, the project never materialized due to lack of funding.

As part of an evaluation assignment, I also revisited Muhoroni, where I had previously worked. I was tasked with assessing youth and women’s groups that had received support for income-generating activities. To my dismay, many of these groups had collapsed. Looking closely, I realized that the heavy involvement of NCCK had overshadowed local ownership. Without strong community participation, the initiatives had withered away. It was a painful but important lesson: peacebuilding and development must be community-driven to last.

In 2003, NCCK restructured and I was relocated to Mombasa to coordinate peace efforts in the coastal region. This marked the beginning of my transition out of NCCK, as the organization scaled down its work in peacebuilding.

Lessons on Burnout and Renewal

Looking back, the years between 1995 and 2003 were some of the most challenging yet formative of my life. I had been to conflict zones across Kenya, faced near-death experiences, and carried the invisible scars of trauma. Burnout had nearly broken me.

But those same years also gave me lessons I carry to this day. I learned that a toxic work environment, heavy workloads, insecurity, and witnessing trauma can harm even the most committed peace workers. Burnout is not a weakness—it is a reality that must be recognized and addressed.

Healing came slowly. Through counseling, retreats, education, and most importantly, faith, I began to rebuild. Since joining MCC in 2014, I have been fortunate to attend annual family retreats that renew not only my spirit but also my family’s. These times away have been transformative, reminding me that rest and reflection are as essential as hard work.

At the heart of my recovery was the realization that faith is an anchor in the storm. The words of Matthew 11:28—“Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”—became a guiding light. They reminded me that true healing comes not only from professional help but also from spiritual renewal.

Burnout taught me that peace work is not only about others—it is also about caring for ourselves. Without self-care, we cannot sustain the mission. Without renewal, we cannot inspire hope.

As I reflect today, I see my journey not just as a story of struggle, but as one of resilience, learning, and grace. Burnout is real, but so is recovery. And with faith, community, and self-awareness, it is possible to find our way back to peace and purpose.