By Lillian Williams
Our first day in Senegal did not go as planned, but in hindsight, that felt fitting. Travel has a way of humbling even the most carefully crafted itineraries. While we stepped off the plane into warm air and bright sunlight, Alter and the rest of the Richmond crew were stranded in New York thanks to Delta Air Lines. As much as I joked about him ignoring my very important request to bring me a metro rat, I couldn’t ignore the contrast: we were arriving in a sunny paradise while they were stuck in 20-degree weather, refreshing flight updates and waiting for a way out. But enough about New York. What truly mattered was where we were.
This was my second time in Senegal, yet nothing about it felt repetitive. If anything, returning made me more aware of how much I still didn’t know. Being named the first leader of the day immediately triggered my usual sarcasm: “Really, Alter? Again?” I had also been the first leader in Guatemala. Part of me felt singled out. But when EP handed me the “papers of truth”(a collection of Wolof proverbs) my mindset shifted.
The role wasn’t about having the right answers. It was about embracing the moment. The proverb I received read: To not know is bad, but to not ask is worse. That line would quietly follow me for the rest of the day.
Arriving at Hakuna Lodge felt like exhaling after holding my breath for weeks. I had just come off two intense weeks of exam preparation, followed by exams that, to put it gently, did not go as planned (my apologies to Dr. O’Grady). The rhythm of the waves against the shore and the chorus of birds in the trees created a kind of therapy no classroom could offer. The architecture stood just as proudly as it had the year before, and the staff welcomed us with the same warmth that makes you feel less like a guest and more like family.
I assumed that returning meant I would naturally step into leadership. I had walked these paths before. I knew the layout. I remembered the boat rides, the food, the rhythm of island life. But familiarity can create a false sense of mastery. When I reread the proverb: To not know is bad, but to not ask is worse, I realized something uncomfortable: I had been silencing my curiosity.
Because I had been here before, I felt pressure to be the one answering questions not asking them. Every time a thought surfaced: Why does the tide shift so quickly here? How do the locals maintain the mangroves? What changed since last year? I swallowed it. I convinced myself those questions were for first-timers. I told myself leaders shouldn’t need clarification. That habit isn’t new. In school, I’ve often hesitated to raise my hand, worried that my question might sound obvious or “dumb.” Somewhere along the way, I internalized the idea that asking questions revealed weakness rather than engagement.
And standing there on that island, I realized I was carrying that same fear into Senegal. One of the defining features of Hakuna Lodge is the ring of mangroves surrounding the island. When we began our walk through them, mud pulling at our shoes, shallow water weaving between roots, I was asked to explain why mangroves exist and why they matter. I froze. I had learned this before. I had stood in this exact place last year listening to the same explanations. And yet, in that moment, my mind was blank. I felt exposed, like I had failed some invisible test of credibility.
Then Mr. Steve stepped in and patiently explained again: mangroves protect coastlines from erosion, act as nurseries for fish, filter salt and pollutants, and create a buffer against storms. They are not just plants, they are infrastructure. They are livelihood. They are protection. For coastal communities in Senegal, mangroves are intertwined with fishing, food security, and environmental stability. As he spoke, the information resurfaced piece by piece. Memory returned, but this time it came with deeper understanding.
Last year I memorized facts. This year, I saw systems. I saw how the roots stabilized not only soil but also communities. I began sharing what I remembered with the group, not from a place of pretending to know everything, but from a place of rediscovery.
We moved through the mangroves together, sometimes slipping in the mud, sometimes laughing as we tried to navigate the shallow channels. The air smelled of salt and earth. Somewhere in the distance, a donkey brayed, its sound blending with the wind and water. I looked around and felt something close to home, not because it was familiar, but because I was present. And yet, even in that peace, I was still holding back.
I was still curating my words, still trying to embody the version of myself I thought a “leader” should be. Then EP jumped into the water. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t ceremonial. It was simply spontaneous.
The water I had been avoiding, too cold, too deep, too uncertain, suddenly became an invitation. Without overthinking it, I followed. Surrounded by thick mangroves and muddy currents, we laughed, splashed, and abandoned the need to look composed. In that moment, the proverb clicked. To not know is bad, but to not ask is worse.
It isn’t just about raising your hand in class. It’s about stepping into the water even when you’re unsure. It’s about admitting you forgot. It’s about choosing curiosity over ego. It’s about understanding that leadership is not defined by certainty, but by vulnerability. Senegal reminded me that growth does not come from performing competence. It comes from embracing humility. From asking the question. From taking the leap.
This trip is not about proving that I’ve been here before. It’s about allowing myself to experience it fully, again and for the first time.
From here on out, I plan to live that proverb. I will ask the “silly” question. I will step into the water. I will let myself not know. And in doing so, I think I’ll finally begin to understand.
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