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

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

Before the word “vampire” ever reached Western Europe and long before Bram Stoker turned Transylvania into a gothic legend, Romanians were already telling stories about the strigoi — spirits that slipped between the worlds of the living and the dead. These were not imagined monsters from distant castles but familiar faces: neighbors, relatives, and townspeople whose souls could not find rest. In traditional belief, a strigoi was not born from evil so much as imbalance. It was

There comes a point in every great transition when the horizon disappears. The plans that once gave you direction crumble. The numbers stop making sense. The people who promised to stay fade into their own uncertainty. And suddenly, you’re left standing in the ashes of what used to feel solid, with no clear path ahead. It’s a hollow place. But it’s also where something sacred begins. Because when everything else is stripped away, hope isn’t just an idea anymore. It becomes an

For those who have lost almost everything and are still daring to begin again. When you choose to move—truly move, not as a tourist or an adventurer, but as someone rebuilding from the ashes—you step into a life that demands trust. Not the easy kind of trust that comes with clear plans and safety nets, but the raw, trembling kind that asks you to keep walking even when the ground disappears beneath your feet. For some of us, relocation was not a luxury. It was a necessity. We

Black-feathered keeper of secrets, you perch at the edge of the world, eyes bright with knowing, wings heavy with story. You are neither omen nor shadow, but a watcher — the one who remembers when others forget. Your call splits the silence, reminding us that grief and wisdom often fly together. Raven, you are not afraid of ruins. You circle what has burned, you settle where the ground is charred, and still you find sustenance, still you live. In your wings, there is survival

The image we conjure of the hearth is solid —it's a stone fireplace, a warm table, a circle of chairs where people gather. But what happens when the hearthkeeper herself has no home? When life is in transition, when the house is sold, when exile or migration means everything familiar is left behind — does the hearth go out? The truth is, the hearth has never only been brick and mortar. It has always been carried in the hands and hearts of those who tend it. History is full of