Always Another Window to See Through

Montenegro – Albania border crossing, June 2025

The three-hour bus ride through Montenegro was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever taken—if not the most beautiful. We began along the seaside, winding around various bays before climbing into the mountains. I stared out the windows at vast green-covered peaks rising and falling on both sides of us.

At the same time, I figured I might as well use up the last of my Montenegro cellular data before leaving the country. What better opportunity to catch up on world events—things I haven’t taken even a moment to think about lately?

I read about immigration raids and protests in Los Angeles. Then I scrolled through the latest updates from Gaza.

It was a stark contrast: idyllic mountain villages outside my window, the epitome of peace and calm—while on my phone screen, I saw cars on fire and people starving in refugee camps.

And just like that, I was struck by another existential gut-punch. A quiet, gnawing question: Who am I to be here—safe, relaxed, marveling at beauty—when others are fighting for the right to simply exist?

Why do I get to be surrounded by beauty and immersed in exploration, while someone else faces immediate deportation—or the fear of not having a home tomorrow?

I believe it’s part of my purpose to highlight small glimpses of beauty in a broken world. But I also know we cannot ignore the brokenness. I won’t stop celebrating the joy I experience as I travel and learn and witness—because I still believe this world holds wonder, kindness, and breathtaking grace—but I also won’t turn away from the pain that so many people are forced to live inside every single day.

I don’t yet know how to reconcile these things. I acknowledge my privilege. I sit in solidarity with those who don’t have the luxury of comfort or distance. I honor you. And I hope you can forgive me for not doing more—because I know I could be doing more.

I will keep looking for ways to have a greater impact. But for now, in this moment, I will do what I can: I’ll talk about it in a story. It’s not enough, but it’s what I have to give—sitting here, too far gone in my comfort on this trans-Balkan bus.

Maybe sharing it helps someone else feel the same tension. Maybe it stirs something. Maybe it keeps the pain from being invisible. And maybe that’s the beginning of doing more—not just witnessing the beauty, but using it to stay awake to the brokenness, too.