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.