This year, I walked through more grief than I thought I could handle. There were many moments when I was sure I would break. Sometimes I still feel like I might. This was not a year of gentle transition or peaceful endings. It was a year that felt cruel. I willingly left an ecosystem I loved more dearly than I had ever loved anything. I left a life that had grown thick with meaning and texture. I miss my dog and my old cat Hector with an ache that doesn’t leave. I miss feedin

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? (Should old friends be forgotten and never remembered?) Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? (Should old relationships be forgotten, and the time we shared long ago?) For auld lang syne, my jo, For auld lang syne, (For the sake of old times, my dear, for the sake of what has been,) We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. (we’ll still share a drink of goodwill for the sake of old tim

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

This message is an invitation to stay awake. The world is shifting quickly, and people are beginning to feel it — the tightening of systems, the quiet disappearances of benefits, the growing unease about what happens next. While no official order says “you can’t leave,” the truth is that exit windows rarely close with a public announcement. They close through small, invisible steps that make leaving harder and harder  until the option is gone in practice. The question keeps s

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

There’s something unsettling about the idea of leaving your home in minutes. None of us want to imagine it, and yet history shows us how...

A hearth doesn’t disappear just because the walls around it are temporary. Sometimes the fire burns in borrowed spaces — a short-term rental, a friend’s spare room, a hotel, even a place that doesn’t feel like “yours” at all. In these in-between moments, the hearth is less about permanence and more about imagination. I’ve learned that even when life feels transient, I can still kindle that sense of home. Sometimes it is as simple as brewing coffee the way I love, letting the

When people imagine moving to Europe, they often picture fairy-tale streets, slow mornings with espresso, and endless time to enjoy art,...