One year into office as the Minister for Fisheries and Aquaculture and the MP of the Shama Constituency, I have learned that leadership is not what it looks like from the outside.
From afar, titles appear heavy with power. From within, they are heavy with responsibility. This past year has slowed me down—not in action, but in reflection. It has forced me to look back at the road that brought me here, and to finally acknowledge the journey for what it was.
I was raised by a hardworking single mother who carried more than her share and never complained. Watching her taught me endurance before I understood the word. She showed me that survival is not dramatic—it is daily commitment. From her, I learned that you do not wait for ideal conditions to do your best. You do your best because it is required of you.
As a young girl, I questioned the system. I questioned authority, inequality, and traditions that excluded more than they included. I did not have the language then, but I was searching for justice. That questioning often came with isolation. But it also formed the foundation of my public life: if a system cannot be questioned, it cannot be trusted.
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My desire to represent my community in Parliament was born early. I believed then—and I still believe now—that development must be shaped by those who live its consequences. In the year 2000, I made my first attempt to enter Parliament. I was hopeful and determined, but unsuccessful. What followed was not one year of waiting, but twenty-four.
Twenty-four years of serving in other capacities. Twenty-four years of learning leadership without authority.
Twenty-four years of preparation without applause.
Looking back now, I see that what felt like delay was actually formation. What did not happen in 2000 happened in 2024, when experience had caught up with intention. When I finally entered Parliament, I understood the weight of representation in a way my younger self could not have. This year in office has also made me reflect on the private costs of public service.
Relationships were tested. Marriage required patience and sacrifice. Motherhood came later than I had planned, carrying both deep joy and deep vulnerability. I have learned that life does not unfold on one timeline. And I have learned to stop measuring myself against clocks that were never mine.
There were people who helped me along the way—some young, some old, some peers. Some offered wisdom. Some offered shelter. Some offered encouragement at moments when I was close to giving up. I carry them with me in this office, even when they are not visible.
There were also betrayals.
Trust broken quietly. Support withdrawn unexpectedly. Those experiences hurt, not because of ambition, but because I believed in shared purpose. Over time, I have learned that betrayal is not always personal—it is often a mirror of other people’s limitations. It has taught me discernment without bitterness.
Balancing family, marriage, church, motherhood, and public service has not been neat. I have stopped pretending that balance is something you achieve once and hold forever. Some days, one area requires more of me than the others. And somehow, over time, things find their place.
After one year in office, I understand this clearly: leadership is an act of stewardship, not control. You hold space for others. You make decisions knowing they will affect lives you may never meet. You carry both criticism and expectation in silence.
And yet, despite the weight, I remain grateful.
Grateful for the long road.
Grateful for the delays.
Grateful for the lessons learned the hard way.
If my journey says anything, let it be this: you are not late, forgotten, or failing—growth takes time. Sometimes it takes decades to step into what you were being prepared for.
One year into office, I am still becoming, still learning, still serving—and I carry this responsibility not as a trophy, but as a trust.