Personal

I’ve been carrying a heavy mix of emotions lately. Back home, in the streets where I grew up, innocent and hardworking Mexican immigrants are being taken into big unmarked trucks — disappeared under the cover of night. Families are left wondering where their loved one is and if they will ever see them again. Dreams are erased. People who have built lives among people they thought were friends are treated like they don’t belong anymore. Watching those videos makes something in

Thanksgiving used to be one of the most intentional days of my year. Not because of patriotism or tradition—actually the opposite. For a decade, I opened my home to anyone who wanted a place to land. My table wasn’t about turkey or spectacle; it was an annual practice in truth-telling and community. I cooked Indigenous foods, played PBS’s We Shall Remain , and held space for conversation about the real history of the holiday. It was part education, part ritual, and part quiet

There was a time when my voice was loud. In my younger years, my confidence filled rooms. I carried my opinions like torches that were bright, sharp, imposing. I confidently asserted my limited knowledge, often reinforcing ideas that make me cringe today. But life has a way of tempering us. Not diminishing, but refining. Over time, my fire settled into something steadier and more grounded. Quiet, but far more powerful. These days, I don’t need to announce my direction. I simp

Autumn in Transylvania is breathtaking — golden forests draped across the Carpathians, mist curling through medieval towers, markets spilling over with apples, chestnuts, and mushrooms. It is the kind of beauty that feels ancient, rooted, and solemn. And yet, as the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I find myself aching for another kind of autumn — the one lingering on the streets of New Castle, Pennsylvania, US. I miss the small rituals of my American fall. The way gro