I’ve always been a lover of nature—now it practically sits at my doorstep. What once took planning, traffic, and intention now meets me effortlessly. There’s a kind of healing I’m experiencing in this shift. The quiet here settles in a different way. In other places quiet was something I’d go looking for—here, in Kenya, the quiet finds you.

Contrasting this to the last place I lived—New York City—where nature felt negotiated. Central Park and Bryant Park were two of my nature chill spots.  But one cannot escape the reality that they are framed by steel and concrete, that silence is interjected by sirens, and the sky is viewed through the framing of high rise buildings. The city made every effort to ensure nature had its place, but it was contained. You visited it. You scheduled it. You left it behind.

Here in Kenya you’re surrounded by nature. I live in the city, Nairobi, yet nature is not on the sidelines I only need look beyond my patio to cows grazing in a meadow.

Nature stretches wide across the land, unbothered, uncontained. From the vastness of the savannah to the bespoke authority of the mountains, nature just IS.  And somewhere in this transition from the city that never sleeps to one that lulls your senses into calm, something in me loosens, unclenches, exhales.

A weekend drive can take you into the heart of Maasai Mara, the horizon seems to stretch on endlessly. Or to Amboseli National Park, where gentle giant elephants roam and playful lion cubs romp  beneath the shadow of Kilimanjaro. And you feel present in nature.

But Kenya isn’t only nature, it’s what I’d also describe as being “layered”.

Nairobi has its own city qualms but moves to a different kind of energy. The art scene is alive—galleries, street art, design studios—and fashion tells stories in bold color, texture, and form.

There’s a confidence in the creativity I’m seeing here meaning it’s not an imitation, it knows intuitively what it is.

The pace of life also demands something different. Or maybe it offers it.

Work is still work—I still work hard and work long hours but it doesn’t consume in the same way. There’s an unspoken insistence on balance. You feel it in how people gather, how they pause, how they step away. It forces me to let go the grind mentality and to recalibrate what urgency really means and what’s to be prioritized. 

And then there’s the contrast that keeps surprising me—the topography itself. Vast savannahs that stretch into forever, then a shift, and suddenly you’re met with coastline—warm waters and soft sand along the Indian Ocean. I’m slowly coming to learn that this country doesn’t settle into one identity, it’s too vast and diverse for that.

What I didn’t expect, though, was the familiarity.

I find when I say I’m from Jamaica, Kenyas light up. Almost immediately they go to reggae. The rhythm of reggae floats easily here. It’s not unusual to hear it in the gym as I work out or it’s beats blaring out of matatus (minibuses) zipping by on the roadways.

And Jamaica is well known and embraced. It’s the music, the culture, the energy—it lives here in a way that feels genuine. And for me, that lands deeper than I anticipated. There’s something about hearing those sounds, seeing that appreciation, that makes me feel at home in a place that is still new. 

Wanted.

Recognized.

Connected. 

That’s a feeling that can’t be beat. 

Moving to Kenya was first a change in geography and since I’ve been here it continues to be a shift in how I experience space, time, and even myself. 

Even now as I write this piece, I can hear birds outside my window serenading the break of dawn, ushering in the new day with nature’s tweets. It feels like the wild outside has found its way inward—quietly restoring, gently rebalancing. 

And I’m learning to meet it there.

Karibu Kenya!

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In creative solidarity, Dee