A Beautiful Place for Hell

A Mountain Wrapped in Silence: Confronting the Lessons of Struthof

“Ceux qui admireront la beauté naturelle de ce sommet ne pourront croire que cette montagne est maudite parce qu’elle a abrité l’enfer des hommes libres.” — Léon Boutbien, résistant, déporté à Natzweiler Struthof

The Vosges mountains are achingly beautiful. You look out and see nothing but sweeping hills, endless trees, and golden brush. It feels peaceful. Timeless. But that’s the first cruelty of Struthof—how beauty was used to mask barbarity.

High in this quiet mountain range, the Nazis built a place meant to disappear people. The Natzweiler-Struthof concentration camp wasn’t just about forced labor or death. It was about erasure. Of names. Of identities. Of dignity.

And it wasn’t just Jews. Struthof housed resistance fighters labeled NN—Nacht und Nebel, or Night and Fog—people condemned from the beginning, whose names weren’t even meant to survive. Homosexuals were branded with pink triangles. Jehovah’s Witnesses with purple. “Asocials” and Roma with black. Political prisoners with red. Criminals with green. Jews with yellow. Some uniforms bore two triangles combined, forming a Star of David. Others had literal targets sewn to their backs so guards knew who to torment more brutally.

These weren’t just markers. They were tools of dehumanization. Symbols that said: you are no longer a person. You are something to be controlled, worked, and ultimately destroyed.

Roll calls lasted hours—no matter the weather. Snow, hail, blistering sun. If a prisoner collapsed, they were beaten. Or worse. The gallows stood in plain view of the square, and public executions were carried out during these roll calls. It wasn’t just punishment—it was terror, designed to remind every person there that their life could be taken at any moment, without reason or mercy.

Forced labor was unending, and rarely for anything outside of building their own prisons. Tasks were meant to humiliate and exhaust. Every part of the system was designed to grind down the human spirit.

Escape wasn’t an option. If someone tried and failed—or took their own life—the rest of the block paid for it. No one was safe. Despair was collective. Survival, uncertain.

The medical “experiments” haunt me. Sterilizations. Injections. Incisions. Death by infection, by torture, by cold calculation. This wasn’t medicine. It was mutilation under the mask of science. The most horrifying part? How calmly it was carried out.

Even the showers were a lie. A gas chamber disguised as hygiene. Prisoners were told to undress, to wash. Instead, they were locked inside and suffocated—death delivered under the pretense of cleanliness. The cruelty wasn’t only in the killing, but in the deception. The gas wasn’t just a method of execution—it was an experiment. They wanted to observe how the human body reacted to it. Death was inevitable, but the suffering beforehand was part of the spectacle. These monsters didn’t just witness the pain—they reveled in it.

Then there’s the crematorium. I stood there longer than I expected. Imagining bodies on the slat, slid into the chamber and rotated—like meat—so they’d burn evenly. This wasn’t metaphor. This was reality. A place where efficiency met inhumanity. And if the victim happened to be German—because not all Germans were Nazis, and many resisted or were imprisoned for being gay or politically defiant—their ashes were sometimes placed in jars and sold to their families, as if that final cruelty could be packaged and priced.

Even now, flowers bloom outside that building. Birds sing. The sky is the deepest blue. And I stood there thinking: How does the earth keep turning after something like this?

Outside the museum is a sculpture of a skeletal body—skin sagging, arms thin as reeds. At first, I thought it abstract. Then I realized: no. That was someone’s body. That is what starvation looks like when it’s policy.

That image never left me. Not when I sat in the car after. Not when I lay in bed later that night. And not now, when I see photos coming out of Gaza—of children with the same hollowed-out limbs, the same vacant stare. It’s the same dangerous idea: that some lives are worth less. That some people don’t deserve a trial, dignity, food, or air.

It’s the same idea that allows the U.S. to quietly send immigrants to overcrowded prisons in El Salvador, with no trial, no due process—just paperwork that washes the blood from our hands. It’s the same idea that lets people joke about harming trans people. That criminalizes entire communities for existing.

It starts with fear. Then labels. Then silence.

The solitary cells at Struthof are barely large enough for a dog crate. Yet people were stuffed inside them for days. Weeks. Left to sit in their own waste. To go mad. To break.

And above it all stands a sculpture in the courtyard—an enormous figure hanging mid-air, limp, lifeless. It rises high like a scream caught in stone. A reminder of what happens when cruelty becomes normal. When it’s no longer shocking. When the world looks away.

I felt sick. But more than that—I felt responsible. Because the warning signs aren’t in the past. They’re here.

Propaganda still tells people who to hate. Neighbors still turn against each other. Dignity is still denied, not just in war zones, but in policy, in headlines, in comments left on the internet.

I came here to learn. But I left changed. Struthof doesn’t whisper. It demands. It says: Look again. Look closer. Do you see it now?

This mountain remembers. And I will too.

Not Just Politics: The Quiet Grief of an American Abroad

A Seat at the Table: Bearing Witness at the European Parliament

I wasn’t expecting to feel so much.

It was supposed to be a simple afternoon—an exciting one, no doubt, but still, just a glimpse into the workings of the European Parliament. As someone with a background in political science and a life steeped in travel, being granted access to a live debate session felt like the kind of moment you note quietly in your memory, file under “professional wins,” and carry on.

But then I sat down and listened.

The session was focused on retaliatory tariffs against the United States. More specifically, in response to decisions made by a political figure I won’t name here—because, much like Voldemort, his name feels like a platform, and I’d rather not give him one.

And suddenly, it was no longer just an academic moment. It was personal. My heart rate quickened. My hands trembled slightly. I realized, in real time, that I was watching some of the world’s most influential voices debate the global fallout of my home country’s actions. It wasn’t hypothetical. It wasn’t distant. It was here, now, and deeply real.

The Weight of the Mirror 

It’s a strange thing to feel so disconnected from a place, and yet so affected by how it’s perceived. I’ve spent the past few years intentionally putting space between myself and the United States—not just physically, but emotionally, philosophically. I’ve done the inner work, questioned my allegiance, unpacked my privilege. I’ve learned to speak about the U.S. from a place of nuance, not nationalism.

But watching that debate, I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to hear my country laid bare in such stark terms. I agreed with the criticisms—I’ve voiced them myself countless times. But hearing them echoed in this grand chamber by people with the power to act on them… it was like watching your house catch fire, from outside the window, knowing your family is still inside.

The proposed measures made sense. Still, I wondered how they would ripple. How would they touch the people I love? How would they impact me, even if I’m only briefly returning? There was no clean answer. Only the heaviness of being caught between identities—branded by the place you came from, even when your heart has found home elsewhere.

A Global Reckoning

There was an eerie familiarity to it all. As the speakers raised their voices—not in anger, but in solemn urgency—I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching history repeat itself. A debate before the storm. An attempt to reason with rising authoritarianism. It felt like the kind of moment we read about decades later, wondering how people missed the signs. Only this time, I was in the room.

And I kept thinking about the duality that defines my life now. I live in a space between worlds: American by passport, global by practice. I’m always translating—language, culture, intention, implication. And in moments like this, the weight of that responsibility feels especially heavy.

What Will My Travelers Feel? 

Soon, I’ll be guiding students and travelers through these same halls. They’ll sit in these seats. They’ll look down at the same chamber floor where I watched the debate unfold. And I wonder—will they feel it?

Will they understand the privilege of being here, in this moment in time? Will they grasp the power of seeing themselves reflected in the eyes of the world—not through headlines or echo chambers, but through dialogue, diplomacy, and consequence?

I don’t want them to come here just to check a box. I want them to listen. To question. To let their perspectives stretch, even uncomfortably. Maybe they’ll leave changed. Maybe they’ll begin to understand what it means to be both of a place and beyond it.

Carrying the Echo

This experience has stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect. It reminded me why I left. But it also reminded me of what I carry. I’m not running from something—I’m running toward something. Toward understanding, connection, responsibility. Toward the hope that we can still shape the future by showing up fully, even when the path feels uncertain.

I left the parliament building that day without any answers. But with a renewed sense of why I do this work. Why I write. Why I guide. Why I believe in the power of bearing witness—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially then.

Because the truth is, silence writes its own story. And I’d rather speak—even if my voice shakes.

Laïcité: What It Is, What It Isn’t, and Why It Surprised Me

Being in France has taught me many things—how to slow down, how to savor a moment, how to pronounce rillettes without embarrassing myself—but one of the deeper cultural lessons I’m still wrapping my head around is laïcité.

At first glance, laïcité might seem like France’s version of the American separation of church and state. And sure, in theory, they’re cousins. But in practice, they couldn’t be more different.

In the U.S., we often talk about “freedom of religion”—the right to practice any faith, or none at all. But religion still lives loudly in public life. It's printed on our money, echoed in campaign speeches, woven into our court proceedings. In many places, it’s not unusual for prayer to open a school board meeting or for politicians to wear their faith like a badge.

France, on the other hand, leans more toward what you might call freedom from religion—at least in public life. That doesn’t mean you can’t believe. Quite the opposite. In France, you're completely free to follow any religion you choose—or to follow none at all. What’s different is that no religion can be imposed on you, especially in spaces run by the state. Public life is meant to be completely neutral—a space where everyone can show up as just a citizen, without any religious marker taking center stage.

It’s not anti-religion. It’s anti-imposition.

That distinction runs deep. In French public schools, for example, students and teachers are not allowed to wear visible religious symbols. It’s not just Muslim students who can’t wear a hijab. Christian students can’t wear a big cross. Jewish students can’t wear a yarmulke. The goal—at least in theory—is to protect the shared civic space from religious pressure, influence, or division. The public sphere, in this sense, is treated as a common good that must remain unmarked by belief.

This applies beyond schools, too. In France, when public officials take office, there’s no swearing in on a Bible—or on any religious text. It’s a civil ceremony, a civic commitment, not a religious one. The same goes for courtrooms. Witnesses are asked to swear to tell the truth, but not on a holy book. There’s no “so help me God” at the end of the oath. The idea is that justice, like governance, must remain secular—accessible and fair for everyone, regardless of belief.

And yet, France remains a deeply cultural place—and that includes religion. Many of the national holidays are rooted in the Catholic calendar: Christmas, Easter Monday, Ascension, All Saints’ Day. They’re observed nationwide, regardless of whether you’re practicing Catholicism, another religion, or none at all. The irony isn’t lost on anyone: the country that guards its secularism so fiercely still gives you time off for saints' days.

But maybe that’s just France in a nutshell—contradictory, layered, complex. A place where tradition and modernity constantly collide and rearrange themselves.

It’s also one of the reasons I find it so fascinating to live here.

France is home to the largest populations of both Jews and Muslims in Europe. And while laïcité aims to keep religion out of the public sphere, that hasn’t erased the deep cultural presence of these communities. For someone like me, who’s curious about the way belief shapes identity, history, and daily life, it’s actually created a beautiful space to explore. I’ve found myself learning more about Jewish traditions, listening to Muslim calls to prayer in certain neighborhoods, and having conversations with people who practice quietly, privately, but with profound conviction.

And here’s a small but memorable example of the culture clash I’ve felt: in the U.S., or even when traveling abroad with Americans, people will often bow their heads and pray aloud before a meal—at home, at restaurants, anywhere—without really checking if everyone at the table is comfortable with that. It’s assumed. Expected, even. I’ve always felt a little uneasy in those moments, as if someone else’s belief system is being draped over the entire table. But the first time that happened here in France—when a group of visiting Americans bowed their heads and prayed out loud at a restaurant—I nearly died of discomfort. Not just for myself, but for the people around us. For the waiter, who paused awkwardly. For the French diners, who visibly tensed. In that moment, I understood viscerally how different the relationship between religion and public space is here. It’s not about suppressing belief. It’s about protecting a shared social space where no one belief dominates or assumes itself as the default.

Another thing I’ve noticed: there’s no culture of evangelism here. No one approaches you on the street to ask if you’ve found salvation. No one strikes up casual conversation with the intent of steering it toward their religion. That kind of thing would be considered wildly inappropriate in France. It’s not because people aren’t spiritual—but because belief is seen as deeply personal, and no one has the right to impose theirs on someone else.

Coming from the U.S., where these encounters are almost normalized—especially in certain regions or subcultures—it’s honestly a relief. There’s a quiet respect here for each person’s internal world. You’re not expected to defend it, explain it, or share it. You’re just allowed to have it. Or not. And that permission, that privacy, creates space for curiosity. For growth. For personal, meaningful exploration that isn’t entangled in performance or persuasion.

I’ll admit, it took me a while to understand this approach. As someone raised in a culture that often celebrates pluralism by displaying it—where interfaith dialogue is on public display, and religion in politics is almost expected—France’s quiet, almost stoic neutrality felt strange at first. But it comes from a deep-rooted history: centuries of religious wars, monarchy-church entanglement, revolution, and eventually, a collective decision that peace required a clean line between faith and the Republic.

Laïcité isn’t always easy to apply. And it hasn’t always been applied fairly. But its intention, at least in its purest form, is equality. One rule for everyone. The state doesn’t care what god you worship, or if you worship at all. But when you step into a government space, a classroom, or a courtroom, you leave religion at the door—not because it’s shameful, but because it’s personal.

There’s something oddly freeing about that. Because in a place where belief isn’t constantly debated or politicized, you get to explore it on your own terms. Quietly. Freely.

Of course, neither the French nor the American approach is perfect. They both come with challenges. But living between these two worlds has made me realize that freedom can look very different depending on where you stand. And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe the most important thing is that we each remain free to question, to believe, to doubt, and to grow—and that no one gets to decide that path for us.

This Is How I Come Back To Life

In Bloom: A Quiet Return to Myself 

There are seasons that pass outside of us and seasons that unfold within us. This spring, I find myself living in both.

After a long, heavy winter—one not just of weather, but of weight—I’ve started to feel something stir. Not all at once, and not with fanfare. But softly. Slowly. As if the quiet corners of my soul have begun to stretch again. And oddly enough, it wasn’t some grand epiphany that brought me here. It was a series of small, beautiful things—moments I might’ve missed if I hadn’t slowed down enough to notice them.

Back in Strasbourg, I’ve begun walking with no real agenda. No itinerary, no expectation. Just presence. And in that space, beauty found me.

I saw it in the blooming trees lining empty streets, their petals falling like soft confetti in the wind. In the tulips erupting in vivid color at the park, where the sound of children’s laughter mixed with the rhythm of fountains splashing. I found it in the silence of a stork’s nest high above the tree line—a moment I’ve waited years to witness, and one that arrived not with a spotlight, but with patience.

And maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe some things come only when we’re ready to receive them. Maybe this is how life teaches us to listen again.

These days, my camera has become more than just a tool for documentation. It’s a way of learning to see again—really see. Not for the sake of content or productivity, but for the quiet whisper of truth that lives in overlooked things. A shadow across a canal. A splash of golden light at dusk. The first wisteria buds pressing out into the world as if unsure whether it’s safe to bloom. I know that feeling. I’ve lived it.

There’s something beautifully defiant about spring. It doesn’t ask permission to grow. It simply does. Whether anyone’s watching or not.

I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to move like that—gently, with intention, grounded in the small overlooked moments of each day. I haven’t written much, because truthfully, I haven’t had much to say. Not in the big, public way I’ve grown used to. But I’ve started to understand that it’s okay to pause. To go quiet. To let yourself lie dormant for a while. There’s wisdom in waiting. There’s healing in hibernation. 

And when you’re ready, the world will wait for you to bloom again.

This return to Strasbourg feels different than those before. Less like a reset, more like a re-rooting. I feel myself growing toward the light, even if I’m not yet sure what shape that will take. There’s comfort in not knowing. In learning to trust the process, the seasons, the self.

I share these photos not to impress, but to remember. These are the small anchors of joy that pulled me gently back toward myself. They remind me that life doesn’t always ask for big moves. Sometimes, it just asks you to show up—to notice. To soften. To begin again, in the quietest way possible.

Spring doesn’t arrive all at once. Neither do we.

As a final note…

I know the world feels heavy for many right now. It can feel strange—even selfish—to notice beauty while so much is unraveling. But I’ve come to believe that finding peace in small, quiet things isn’t a betrayal of the world’s suffering—it’s a way to survive it. A way to remember what’s worth protecting. If you’re in a season of uncertainty, grief, or exhaustion, I hope you still find something—however small—that allows your own buds to bloom. Even in a storm, we’re allowed to lean toward the light.

The Sea Still Speaks: Lessons from the Shores of Normandy

Normandy: A Landscape of Memory and Defiance

As a travel professional, I’ve stood in many places shaped by history—but few have arrested my spirit the way Normandy did. Walking along the wind-brushed shores and staring up at the cliffs at Pointe du Hoc, I wasn’t simply a visitor; I was a witness. A witness to what humanity is capable of—both in destruction and in the unwavering pursuit of freedom.

Standing in the craters left by artillery, large enough to swallow me whole, I felt the weight of sacrifice in my bones. I wasn’t there to reenact or romanticize. I was there to listen—to the silence, to the wind, to the faint echo of a generation that ran headfirst into death because they believed in something larger than themselves. The idea of freedom. The idea of shared humanity. The idea that evil can and must be stopped, even when it costs everything.

But this trip was more than reflection. It was resistance.

A Moment at the Cliffs

When I arrived at the cliffs where those soldiers had once climbed, I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. I had seen the photos. I had read the history. But standing there—wind whipping at my coat, the sound of crashing waves below—it was like the ghosts themselves had gathered to remind me what courage looks like. Real courage. Not the kind that posts slogans online or argues in the safety of hindsight, but the kind that climbs a cliff under relentless fire, knowing full well it may be your last act on earth.

I sat there for an hour. I watched the sky, listened to the sea, and imagined the battle unfolding—men climbing, one after another, some falling before they ever reached the top, and the man behind them still climbing. What drives a person to do that? To face that level of horror and keep going?

I’ve always considered myself a pacifist. I’ve always leaned toward peace. But that day, something shifted in me. I realized that their sacrifice wasn’t about glorifying war—it was about choosing to stand for something when the world was falling apart. I began to ask myself: Would I be willing to give everything to protect the vulnerable? Would I climb the cliff for someone else’s freedom?

And then the bigger questions came. Do I really believe in freedom—not just for myself, but for others? Am I willing to stand for it when it’s not easy, when the cost is high? Do I stand against oppression only when it's far away, or do I hold my ground when it moves into my own neighborhood? 

There’s no longer room for apathy. To choose silence is to surrender. And surrender doesn’t guarantee safety—it simply delays the moment when the fire reaches your doorstep. The cliffs of Normandy reminded me that the torch of courage must be carried forward—not just for the memory of the past, but for the promise of the future.

Normandy is a sacred space, and yet, the world it helped build is under siege—not by bombs, but by apathy. By division. By the steady unraveling of the very values those soldiers died defending. As I moved from one site to the next—from Omaha Beach to the American Cemetery to the lesser-known corners where memory still clings like sea mist—I couldn’t shake a single question:

What have we done with their sacrifice?

Scattered across the land, British, American, Canadian, and French cemeteries tell a quiet story of alliance—a reminder that they fought and fell together beneath the banner of freedom.  It was internationalism in its purest form. No borders, no flags more important than the mission. And now, watching the United States turn its back on those long-standing partnerships—on the very unity that brought the world back from the brink—feels like a betrayal carved into history. I found myself mourning not just the past, but the future we’re letting slip away.

This wasn’t my first time facing grief through travel. But it may have been the first time I truly understood how a place can become defiance. Normandy, for all its calm and quiet, roared with a message: Remember. Resist.

I carry that with me now. In a world unraveling at the seams, where ideology divides neighbors and power is bartered in fear, I find myself returning to those cliffs. To the footsteps of those who knew they might not make it, but went anyway. And I ask myself: Am I doing enough with the freedom they died for? Am I holding the line—not with a weapon, but with courage, compassion, and clarity?

In my line of work, I often speak about meaningful travel. Normandy is not a destination to simply be “seen.” It’s a place that sees you. It holds a mirror to your values, your comfort, and your courage. And in doing so, it reminds us that we are still writing history—not with grand battles, but with everyday choices.

This is not just a travel story. This is a call to memory, to humanity, to action. We cannot forget what happened here. We cannot be silent while the world forgets itself. Not while the tide still reaches the shore that once ran red with the price of our privilege. 

Return to Stillness: Finding My Voice in a Shifting World

J-0.. american consulates in Strasbourg are closing. The quiet but unmistakable shift in how the world views Americans is happening in real time. Countries that once welcomed us with open arms now hesitate, their gazes heavy with doubt, measured caution replacing what was once unspoken camaraderie. I feel the weight of this changing tide, and I wonder—what will my experience be like as an American abroad in this new world?

I have never carried the burden of American exceptionalism. Maybe that’s why the very idea of “home” in the U.S. has always felt suffocating, why the constant hum of nationalism never resonated with me. I have never been the kind of traveler who clings to my birthplace as a badge of honor. No journey has ever stirred in me the belief that America is the greatest country on Earth. In fact, I have spent years softening my accent, distilling it into something less recognizable, a quiet rebellion against the place that raised me.

But now, there is no escaping it. In this moment, I am an American abroad, and I know what that means. I will be asked to explain the inexplicable, to answer for choices I did not make and ideologies I do not share. I will be expected to give reason to the unreasonable, to stand in the shadow of a nation I do not claim. And yet, the hardest part is not the questions themselves—it is the knowing that I, too, have no answers.

I hope these next three months stretch themselves out like a lifeline, long and slow. I hope I can breathe again, that I can shed the weight of panic that clenches my chest, that I will rediscover the safety that life in the U.S. has long denied me. I hope I continue to make connections, to root myself in the people and places that remind me of who I am beneath the fear.

Most of all, I hope I find myself again—not in the shadows of the past, but in the quiet light of what’s still possible.

And I am reminded that while I have been weathering the storm, the magnolias in Strasbourg have been waiting for me. Silently, patiently, they have held their buds tight against the cold, their bloom postponed but inevitable. They do not rush the process. They do not fear the waiting.

For a year, I have dreamed of their arrival, marking them as a milestone, a quiet promise to myself that I would be here to witness them. But now, they mean something more. They are no longer just a sign of spring—they are a lesson in endurance, a whisper from nature that all beauty must die, but that rebirth is possible for those willing to sit in the in-between.

The petals will unfurl, fragile and fleeting, a momentary brilliance before they fall. And yet, I will not mourn their passing. I will stand beneath them, knowing that just as they have returned, so too can I. That the waiting, the stillness, the unseen growth—it was never emptiness. It was transformation.

*These photos were not taken by me. Photo credit to Olivier Hannauer*

A Traveler’s Dilemma: Sharing Beauty in a World on Fire

Reconciling Privilege: Writing My Way Through

When I began writing this blog, it was on the advice of my therapist. At the time, I was drowning in grief and struggling to find meaning. She encouraged me to focus on beauty, to document the moments of joy I encountered, no matter how fleeting, as a way to remind myself that life still had something to offer. What started as a lifeline has grown into something much larger—a way to connect not only with myself but with the world around me.

Yet lately, I’ve found myself questioning whether I should even share these stories. Does posting about sunsets and far-off places feel tone-deaf in a world so visibly hurting? Is sharing my joy unintentionally dismissing the struggles of others? These are questions I’ve wrestled with, not just in my writing but in how I navigate the privilege of my life.

My therapist reminded me of something crucial: writing doesn’t just document joy—it creates space for it, even in the darkest times. It’s not about ignoring the pain of the world but about finding and sharing the moments that make it bearable. These stories of beauty, kindness, and connection are not about bragging; they are acts of resistance against despair. They remind me—and maybe others—that there’s still light to be found.

And light, for me, has often come from the people I’ve connected with around the globe. Since returning to the U.S., I’ve been overwhelmed by the love and support I’ve received from friends abroad. They’ve sent messages of encouragement, shared ways to organize and act, and reminded me that we not alone in this struggle. Their words have felt like lifelines, bridging the gap between where I am and where I want to be. Knowing that people thousands of miles away care about what happens here has given me a sense of belonging I never expected.

These connections have also given me hope. Many of these friends have faced their own struggles, in systems and circumstances as broken as ours, and yet they’ve managed to rise above them with courage and resilience. Their stories remind me of why I started this blog in the first place—not just to document the beauty of travel but to share the humanity within it. To write is to resist—to resist the cynicism, the apathy, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness that threatens to consume us.

The Weight of Writing in Difficult Times

Lately, I’ve found it harder to write. I sit with my thoughts, searching for inspiration, but it feels like it’s hiding beneath the weight of everything happening around me. Even when I encounter something beautiful— a vivid sunset, a kind gesture, a moment of calm— I hesitate to share it. My heart is heavy with guilt, knowing I have the ability to escape while so many I care about are left to face struggles they never chose.

This guilt doesn’t come from a lack of gratitude. I know how fortunate I am to have had the opportunity to explore the world, to find moments of peace in places where I can simply breathe. But that knowledge doesn’t make it easier to reconcile the privilege of escape with the reality others endure daily. My words feel fragile in comparison to their battles, my photographs too fleeting to capture the depth of what so many are going through.

As I navigate this tension, I’ve been thinking about how my writing and photography may shift in the months ahead. I may begin documenting injustices I see and writing about the difficult truths that need to be heard. This isn’t to add darkness to my readers’ lives but to keep the truth known, to contribute in some small way to the collective call for justice and change. I may even start a separate blog for these stories, one that allows me to explore this side of myself more deeply. Still, I want to ensure that this new direction doesn’t drown out the light and inspiration my other writings strive to offer. Both are necessary—the truth and the beauty—and I feel called to honor them both.

Yet, in those rare moments when I do find the courage to write, I remind myself why I started. Beauty, after all, is not a denial of pain—it is a counterweight. Sharing it doesn’t erase the world’s struggles but reminds us that even in the darkest times, there are things worth holding onto. Writing has always been my way of navigating life’s complexities, and maybe now, it’s more important than ever. Resistance is not futile.