Peace Corps, Hardcore 2016-2018

In 2016, I began my service as a Peace Corps volunteer in Timor-Leste, a formerly colonized nation located near eastern Indonesia. I was placed in a mountainous region, Letefoho (which translates to "mountain top"), and, at the time, was the most remote volunteer in the country. There was no clearly defined partner organization, no pre-built project waiting for me, which is supposed to be the case in Peace Corps programming. The only question my program manager asked before site assignment was, “Do you like hiking?”

You better believe I did, and still do. That question excited me, but also held a weight for what I knew was to come.

But I wanted difficulty. I wanted remoteness. I wanted to see what remained when structure fell away. I wanted to strip myself of the gilded comfort of the more developed world. I think this was heavily enforced by my short stint of work in China for a wealth management company, but that story is told over drinks.

What I found was ambiguity, and room to shape my service around what I observed rather than what was prescribed.

Without a partner organization, I spent the first year walking.

I met people across hamlets and valleys. I traveled miles to sit, drink coffee or liquor, attend ceremonies, build gardens with children, and listen. Often, I wasn’t sure what my use was. At times, I felt useless.

But I came to see this wandering as foundation-building. Influence would come through relationships. It was like throwing a hundred darts and needing only one to land.

The wandering also fed something deeper. Moving through remote mountain paths (or sometimes just bush-wacking), sometimes needlessly dangerous, strengthened my confidence, and fed my soul. It felt analogous to exploring parts of myself that hadn’t yet been mapped.

Just me and my dog, Toba, always on an adventure

I began spending more time with my host father’s extended family, whose farm lay several miles away near a spring, making the trip there and back almost daily. I had met them during the funeral festivities.

What began as collaboration became my anchor, my grounding, the thing I looked forward to every day.

We built complex compost systems. Dug a fish pond. Saved seeds. Increased vegetable production significantly. The farm became a place of education, humor, shared labor, and connection. It felt like meaning, family, shared wins and losses. I was not needed, but I was deeply appreciated.

It was there that food security became real to me,  not abstract policy, but hunger, dignity, and continuity. I had experienced hunger myself during service, enough that Peace Corps doctors were concerned about my weight (though I felt, as I would describe, "lean and mean"). The farm restored my health and deepened my direction.

But grief had sharpened me. I began to despise waste. I grew frustrated watching men drink away money while children went hungry. I became more confrontational. More vigilant. Less playful. My service shifted from curiosity to intensity. I wanted to solve their lives.

The moment that corrected me was small.

Biggest regret was not smuggling some of these cucurbit seeds home

Over time, I became known across several miles of mountainous region. That visibility brought connection but also risk. I navigated harassment, intimidation, attempted extortion, and moments that nearly escalated physically, especially in defense of female volunteers (they sure had it tough).

De-escalation became a skill forged under pressure, across language and cultural difference. I learned to read posture, tone, escalation patterns. I learned when presence alone could calm a situation, and when it required deliberate firmness.

At the same time, fellow volunteers trusted me. I helped develop our program’s Peer Support Network. Eventually, I stepped away from it. My community had become my priority, and I recognized I did not have the capacity to support others well while managing growing challenges at site. It was relieving to admit that limit.

When I left, I felt pride and grief in equal measure. Leaving the farm felt like leaving a piece of art we had created together.

I did not leave believing I had saved anyone. I left knowing I had been shaped.

The direction toward food security, education, and systems-level work became clearer. What began as remoteness and curiosity became responsibility and purpose.