When I traveled to Japan, I was rushing from Osaka to Hiroshima — checking off the next itinerary item. I hadn't braced myself for what I'd see.
Inside the museum, I was disarmed. The pain was overwhelming. I read a note that said, "I wish I could turn off my feelings." It made me realize how easily we protect ourselves by looking away.
Across Japan, I'd noticed the care — the details, the gentleness — but Hiroshima showed me why it matters. It revealed what happens when people become abstract.
I learned it's not enough to feel moved by history. You have a responsibility to live differently because of it.
Now I try to live that way — listening before I speak, choosing kindness deliberately.
That's the legacy I want to build: one that honors people, their stories, and the quiet work of care.