Volunteering for FIFA: The Joy, the Chaos, and My Very Confused "Why"

 

When I learned Seattle had been selected as one of the host cities for the FIFA Club World Cup, I was ecstatic.

Growing up in Uganda, the World Cup was the event. Every four years the world seemed to pause. Flags everywhere. Dreams everywhere. Stories everywhere. One universal language: cheering for whoever managed to get the ball into the net.

So, when the tournament came to my backyard, I wanted to be part of it. Not just as a spectator, but as someone helping make the magic happen.

Then I saw the ticket prices.

An arm, a leg, and possibly a kidney.

Volunteering suddenly seemed like the perfect solution.

The Long Road to Becoming a Volunteer

The application process was anything but glamorous. There was paperwork, an in-person interview, multiple trips to Seattle for training and uniform pickup, and one memorable day that ended with a $40 parking ticket after what I thought would be a quick stop.

Before the matches even began, though, something else was bothering me.

I'd hoped the tournament would be a celebration where fans and players from every corner of the world could participate freely. Instead, stories about visa problems kept surfacing.

Swiss striker Embolo joined his team late after his visa was reviewed. An Iraqi player was detained for hours upon arrival. Iranian team members faced visa denials and restrictions that meant some could only enter on match days.

I volunteered the day Iran played. After my shift, I learned the players had to leave the country immediately after the match. Anyone who has traveled internationally knows how exhausting that is. After playing 90 minutes of elite football, they were heading straight back to the airport.

That didn't feel like the spirit of the game.

Match Day Reality

Our volunteer shifts started five hours before kickoff.

Coming from Tacoma meant catching a 6 a.m. bus to make it to the stadium by 7 for a noon match. Thankfully, FIFA provided us with an ORCA transit card, which saved my wallet.

I was assigned to the pre-ceremony team, which meant carrying and rolling out the giant FIFA flag before the national anthems.

Walking onto the pitch was incredible.

Unfortunately, the excitement lasted about ten minutes.

Once the ceremony ended, volunteers were sent home because FIFA's policy is clear: volunteering does not include access to the matches.

Standing around for hours before those ten glorious minutes gave me plenty of time to rethink my "why."

Most of us had signed up because we genuinely loved football. Secretly, many of us also hoped we'd get to experience the biggest sporting event in the world from the inside.

Instead, there were long shifts, strict rules, and some truly puzzling decisions. My favorite was learning during one of the training sessions that each volunteer was entitled to just one bottle of water. Water. At an all-day outdoor event sponsored by  the makers of Dasani bottled water.

That one nearly took me out.

Walking off the field after using eight hours of paid time off for ten minutes on the pitch left me wondering if I'd misunderstood the assignment.

Finding My Way Back

Thankfully, I wasn't doing it alone.

One of my friends ended up on the same volunteer team. After the first match, I unloaded all my frustrations onto her. As a sports fanatic, She listened... and looked completely unbothered.

It honestly felt like I was speaking Mandarin.

She was simply thrilled to be there, and nothing I said was going to change that.

Slowly, her attitude rubbed off on me.

I challenged myself to return to one of my favorite mantras: count the blessings.

By the final match in Seattle on July 6, I found myself doing exactly that.

I appreciated the wonderful people I met, the surprisingly effective upper-body workout from rolling giant flags, and the privilege of standing on a FIFA pitch, even if only briefly.

Then, after our final shift, I asked if she was going to the volunteer appreciation party.

Without missing a beat, she said:

"Bus ride hustle, sandwiches, burning Kasana, treating us like kids, freebies... I'm tired. Sitting there watching women's soccer isn't bad, but I'm not wasting my Sunday doing that."

I burst out laughing and teased her wondering what had happened to enthusiasm of the MVP volunteer..

Then it hit me, the thank you party had come a little too late because more than the freebies like a beach towel, the real prize would have been to be a spectator of at least one  FIFA tournament.

My Final Reflection

Would I volunteer again?

Probably not.

The long shifts, expensive commute, limited access, and overall volunteer experience left a lot to be desired. I also couldn't ignore how many fans were priced out of attending, or how visa issues kept people from fully participating in what should have been a global celebration.

There were moments when it felt like football had become more about business than belonging.

But life has taught me that we don't get to choose every experience. We do get to choose what we take from it.

I'm choosing to remember the friendships, the laughter, the giant flag, the once-in-a-lifetime experience of stepping onto that field, and the reminder that gratitude is sometimes a choice we have to make intentionally.

So yes, I'm retiring my FIFA volunteer badge.

But I'm keeping the blessings.

 

You’ve Come Too Far to Undersell Yourself

 

There’s a feeling I don’t quite have a name for, that moment when you know you’ve outgrown a place, but comfort convinces you to stay. That has been me at my job for the last two years. The political climate didn’t help, so I chose to keep my head down, count my blessings, and make it work.

But today, that old urge to apply for jobs came back. Loudly.

If you’re an immigrant, you know the script. Many of us run to the health sector, tier one, tier two, entry-level roles that feel “safe” because they’re more accepting of people like us. I’ve done my share of that. My resume even reads Communication and Human Services Specialist because, honestly, I can talk my way into a human services job faster than I can explain my actual skill set to someone who doesn’t understand immigrant experience.

But when I pause, really pause and tell the truth, the core of who I am is a communicator. Writing, editing, storytelling, connecting people and ideas. That’s the work that lights me up.

And when I look back, I see the pattern clearly. Even in the most unexpected roles, I found my way back to communication. When I worked as a direct support professional for adults with developmental disabilities, I would stop in the middle of the day to write about the small, beautiful moments of their lives for our organization’s newsletter. It wasn’t in my job description, but it was in my DNA.

That took resilience. And wit. And a quiet insistence that my voice or in this case, my written words deserved to be at the table.

Now, as I gather the courage to apply for the communications roles I actually want, I’m realizing something important: I have always moved toward work involving communication, coordination, advocacy, systems, and people. That’s not accidental. That’s alignment.

And I’m praying and reminding myself that ‘I have got it ‘ and  that this time, alignment meets opportunity.

To anyone who feels like they’re in the same place, especially fellow immigrants, I want to say this: Sometimes you need to step back and look at how far you’ve come. Don’t undersell your experience. All of it counts. The good, the bad, the confusing, the “I can’t believe I survived that” seasons. Every job you took while rebuilding your life in a new country is evidence of adaptability, grit, and brilliance.

We are not meant to only survive here. Even after we finally find stability like I have, we’re allowed to keep reaching for the work we truly want. We can  and have it to rebuild our credibility and confidence inside a hiring culture that often doesn’t know what to do with us.

And if you need company on that journey, my debut book Sojourning in America is right there with you. A reminder that your story is valid, your voice is needed, and you’ve got this.

The Journey After the Journey: Life After Publishing

 

When I published my first book last November, I couldn’t wait to get back to my life and reclaim some “me time.” I had big plans mostly involving catching up on Matlock like the world hadn’t moved on without me. But it didn’t take long to realize that publishing the book was the easy part. Nobody warned me that marketing would feel like a second full‑time job, one that requires sociability (this one hoho), consistency, and a level of digital stamina I simply do not possess.

Everyone suddenly had advice.
“Use social media!”
“Do videos!”
“People want to see your face!”

Meanwhile, I am the kind that thrives in the background, minding my business, and avoiding cameras unless I’m curating personal moments. I enjoy watching other people’s videos, but I do not want a camera in my face, nor do I enjoy hearing my own voice played back to me. Still, I took some of the advice with a grain of salt and a prayer. I dusted off Facebook, opened an Instagram account, and discovered Substack, which has been surprisingly wholesome.

Back in the day, Twitter (or X, depending on who you ask) used to be my go‑to, but after a certain somebody took over… well, that’s a story for another day. So yes, I’ve been using my big three Facebook, Instagram, and Substack to mention the book. I’m still not sure which one works best. Some days I’m posting, texting, smiling, and pretending I know what “engagement strategy” means. But honestly, word of mouth and the occasional WhatsApp status have been the easiest and most effective.

Three months after publishing, rather than obsess over analytics, I decided to let the numbers speak for themselves. I have to hand it to Amazon, their brand recognition makes people comfortable, and for self‑publishers, their print‑on‑demand system is a blessing. The royalties won’t make me quit my day job, but I’m genuinely grateful for the 65 orders that have come through Amazon so far, with 27 in November alone when I published (thank you friends and family).

I also ordered author copies and have sold a good number through direct sales. Shoutout to my friend Diana, who has taken me to two vending events where I sold 10 copies and to my people who sell the book on my behalf and to those who have carried this book all the way to Uganda, proudly shoving it into the hands of everyone in their circles. What love!

I’ve also pushed myself out of my comfort zone and approached people when the moment felt right. One such moment was at a church event. After the service, I approached an acquaintance, someone I know will grow into a friend, and handed her a copy with the promise she’d pay me the $20 whenever she was ready. Almost a week later, I got a Cash App notification. She didn’t send $20. She sent $30, with the note: “for excellent book.” When I texted to clarify the price, she simply said it was worth $30.

Moments like that remind me that this little project has a life of its own carried by community, kindness, and people who believe in the story more loudly than I ever could. Even when I’m worn out from filling my timeline with sojourning moments, even when the yields feel small by industry standards, the wins have been big in their own gentle way.

And if Sojourning in America has found its way into your hands, or if you’ve shared it with someone on their own journey, thank you. If you’ve been meaning to get a copy or pass one along, consider this your gentle nudge and my heartfelt gratitude for helping this story keep moving.

Seriously though… when does one stop marketing a book?

 

The Super Bowl: America’s Most Faithful Gathering

 

Football season is wrapping up with the grand finale this Sunday, and Seattle is buzzing. Our very own Seahawks are heading to the Super Bowl to face the New England Patriots on February 8 at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California.

Super Bowl Sunday is basically a national holiday here. Over 100 million people tune in every year. It’s the second-largest food consumption day after Thanksgiving. And Americans will wager more than $15 million on a single game which is wild, considering I still can’t figure out why they stop the clock every 12 seconds.

But I’ve learned this:
The Super Bowl is less about football and more about community

People gather with friends, wear their team jerseys, and serve food that should come with a warning label. Even the commercials get their own fan base. It’s a whole cultural moment.

Meanwhile, as an immigrant…

Football, real football is soccer. I have tried, truly tried, to understand this American version but between the helmets, the tackling, and the endless timeouts, I remain a respectful outsider.

Still, I admire the passion.

During my brief spell in Boston, Fridays at work looked like a uniform inspection. Everyone even the people who normally avoided eye contact suddenly became friendly. A simple “Go Pats!” could thaw the iciest coworker. It was like watching community form in real time.

Then I moved to Seattle in 2015, and it was déjà vu. On Sundays, the whole city was dressed in blue and green. Church services felt… expedited. People were ready to sprint to their TVs. I kept seeing jerseys with the number 12 and wondered if everyone had accidentally bought the same one. Turns out the fans are the “12th player.” I think this is genuinely sweet.

My ongoing confusion (and reluctant fandom)

Over the years, coworkers have huddled during football season, passionately explaining plays I still don’t understand. The game feels rough, long, and slightly chaotic to me. I’ve never attended a Super Bowl party and now that I think about it, I’ve also never been invited to one. But that’s a different story!

Still, in the spirit of the place that has become home, I own some Seahawks gear. I love the way this game brings people together, how loyalty survives both heartbreak and victory, and how a city can move in unison for something bigger than itself.

So even though I won’t be watching the game, I’ll be cheering on and for the love of dear Washington state with all limbs crossed hoping the Seahawks bring the trophy home.

A Sojourner’s Reflection

Moments like this remind me why I wrote my debut book Sojourning in America. I may not fully understand the game, but I understand belonging. I understand watching a community rally around something they love. I understand the beauty of being shaped by a place even when you still feel like you’re learning its language.

And maybe that’s the real Super Bowl story for me not the touchdowns, but the togetherness.

Sister Wives, Social Media, and the Sovereignty of God

 

Every once in a while, as you wander through the streets of social media, you stumble upon a meme that either makes you laugh out loud, shake your head in disbelief, or sit there completely shook.

Today I found one of those. My first reaction was laughter, the kind that comes from recognizing the strange paradoxes of life.

The meme joked about the night Jacob spent with Leah, thinking she was Rachel. One person blamed Jacob (“Men are wicked!”), and another replied, “Fear women,” as if Leah had masterminded the whole thing. The absurdity made me laugh, but it also made me pause.

Because if you’ve read the story, you know the real architect of that chaos wasn’t Jacob or Leah, it was Laban.

And as I sat with it, I felt that familiar tug: everything in Scripture is there for a reason, and usually for a lesson. So, I let my mind wander into that ancient household to see what it might teach us in our 21st‑century lives.

Deception Complicates Everything

Laban’s lie set off a chain reaction of hurt, rivalry, and years of unrequited longing. His deception was rooted in cultural pressure, greed, and the desire to appease people, not so different from the curated performances we see on social media today.

A “small” lie can grow legs.
A “white lie” can reshape someone’s entire story.
And sometimes the people who suffer most aren’t the ones who lied.

Love Isn’t Always Instant, Sometimes It’s Learned

Jacob loved Rachel from the start. Leah, on the other hand, lived in the shadow of comparison. Yet over time, Jacob learned to appreciate her. Together they had ten of the twelve sons who became the tribes of Israel.

That doesn’t erase the pain, but it reminds me that love, healing, and acceptance often require effort, patience, and time. Life rarely gives us perfect beginnings, but grace can rewrite the middle.

God’s Plan Still Unfolds Through Imperfect People

Despite the deception, jealousy, favoritism, and heartbreak, God still fulfilled His promise to Abraham. The twelve tribes came from this messy, complicated family.

It’s a reminder that God’s sovereignty isn’t threatened by human mistakes.
Our circumstances don’t cancel His plan.
Our detours don’t derail His purpose.

 My Own Quiet Bearing

As life unfolds for me, I’ve known betrayal, dishonesty, loneliness, and the ache of distance. I’ve also known deep love, joy, and the kind of connection that doesn’t require explanation.

The hard moments feel sharper because of the miles between me and the people who “get” me without effort. From the outside, someone might ask, Why stay far from home when you could live close to those who love you?

I don’t have a perfect answer.
Life isn’t always simple.
And sometimes obedience (LOL in my case the need to survive) looks like wandering.

This is the heart of Sojourning in America, learning to carry both the beauty and the ache of living between worlds. Like Leah, like Jacob, like Rachel, I’m navigating imperfect circumstances, unexpected turns, and the quiet work of trusting God’s higher plan.

I’m learning that bearing life quietly doesn’t mean bearing it alone.
It means trusting that even in the mess, God is weaving something purposeful.
It means believing that distance, disappointment, and detours can still lead to destiny.

And it means remembering that the God who brought order out of Jacob’s household can bring clarity, peace, and direction to mine.

When the Internet Goes Silent: A Wanderer’s Morning in America

 I don’t know how people lived before mobile phones. It’s embarrassing to admit, but when mine isn’t with me, I feel like something essential is missing. It’s not just a device for calls anymore; it’s my journal, my news source, my Bible, my music, my entertainment, my little portal to the world I love but no longer live in.

Because I know this attachment isn’t entirely healthy, I’ve spent years pruning the things that keep me glued to the screen. Some social media apps had to go. I didn’t like the version of myself that reached for the phone before my eyelids were fully open.

These days, my mornings look different. I silence the alarm, whisper a small selah of gratitude to God, and sit quietly with my thoughts before the rhythm of work begins. Working from home gives me that luxury or temptation, depending on the day. And because I’m not a morning person, breakfast rarely happens before noon. The term brunch was probably coined for people like me.

But this isn’t a food post. It’s about my love‑hate relationship with the phone and how that relationship was tested today.

Every night, I put my phone on airplane mode. With loved ones scattered across time zones, it’s the only way to sleep without being startled awake. So, each morning, once I confirm nothing urgent is happening at work, I switch it back on and scan through WhatsApp. That app is a lifeline for those of us whose families live oceans away. Without it, staying connected would not only be inconsistent but cost an arm and a leg.

This morning, January 13th, the messages from my people in the pearl of Africa were to the tune of   “Keep safe.” “See you soon.” “Pray for us.” Short, urgent, unfinished sentences like people were speaking from the edge of something.

Uganda is heading into national elections on January 15th. And in the name of “free and fair elections,” the government shut down the internet. I’m not here to write a political analysis; this is still a phone post but the impact was immediate. By the time I read the messages at 7:20 a.m. PST, it was already evening in Uganda. All the messages I sent back were single ticked, they had crossed back to analog before I could respond.

The silence felt eerie. Not because of what might unfold in the coming days, but because of the sudden, heavy aloneness. Not lonely but alone. A word that doesn’t quite capture the feeling of being cut off from the people who make you feel tethered to the world.

I’m not on the phone with my loved ones all day. But knowing I can reach them matters. Knowing I can laugh with them, hear their voices, catch the small jokes and daily chaos that matters too. When the internet went off the silence was so loud, the suddenly the distance seems wider. The miles feel heavier.

And this, I suppose, is part of my ongoing journey, my sojourning in America. Living here while my heart beats in two places. Learning how fragile connection can be, learning to trust the process in the places I cannot control learning that even when the lines go quiet, God is not quiet. And neither is hope.

I don’t know if the living between worlds ever stops, the distance on days like this is even more real, but so is the grace that carries me through it.

 PS

Woke up to Uganda’s internet shut off and felt the weight of distance in a new way. 

Full Circle: The Hands That Held Me, Then and Now

 Twelve years ago, I took the leap and came to America.

On the train from Coventry to Heathrow, my big sister Ann stopped at the cashpoint, what we called the ATM here withdrew £100. She pressed it into my hand to add to the $100 I already carried. Together, that became £100 and $100, about $220 to start a new life in the unknown.

I had left some money in my Ugandan account, but I couldn’t count on it. Within the first week, I bought running shoes, and with time my small stash dwindled quickly. I chose not to get a phone line, reasoning that I lived with the only people I knew in America and could reach others through WhatsApp and Skype, which was the hit back then.

One month in, my friend Charlotte called from London via Skype. She asked if I still used my HSBC account. I said yes, though it held little. Charlotte, being who she is, sent £100 to that account. After living off just $200 for a month, her gift felt like a million dollars, unexpected, thoughtful, and deeply sustaining.

Fast forward to this year. After years of blogging, I finally took the advice of friends and family and plunged into writing a book. With dedication and a few helping hands, Sojourning in America became a reality this November. On a minimal budget, I researched self-publishing, designed the cover, and wrestled with formatting that nearly had me pulling out my hair.

I learned it was wise to publish first with an independent press before Amazon, so I chose Book Vault in the UK. Once I had the link, I shared it with friends and family there. And who were my first buyers? Ann and Charlotte, the same two who had blessed me with the money that carried me through my first months in America.

The coincidence was not lost on me. Their generosity had once helped me begin a life in a new land. Now, it helped me begin a new chapter as an author.

What began with £100 and $100 has come full circle. Ann and Charlotte’s gifts remind me that journeys are sustained not only by courage, but by the quiet generosity of others. Sojourning in America is more than my book, it is a testament to the circles of care that make belonging possible.

PS

Before I published this story, I asked Charlotte if she could send me a photo. She isn’t even on social media, but she still agreed cheerfully to take one during her train commute. When I asked who took the picture, she simply said, “Oh, I asked a stranger.” And that is Charlotte in one sentence: an introverted, quietly generous soul willing to step outside her comfort zone just to make her friends happy.