A Week of Dinos, Dancing, and Distant Reflections

Hey everyone! Before we dive into this week’s blog, I want to give a little heads-up. Further down, I’ll be sharing some thoughts about recent events in the United States. Nothing heavy, just some honest reflections. I love you all, and enjoy!

This has probably been the most relaxed week I’ve had since being here. Even though I spent a few days sick and am still fighting a stubborn stuffy nose, I finally felt like I had a moment to breathe. Classes carried on as usual—this week I gave another Spanish speech, this time on Jimmy Buffett (parrotheads unite!). My Spanish has started to flow more naturally, and I am proud of how much I can understand different accents now. There’s something so human, almost healing, about discovering new ways to connect with people through language.

Even though not many wild adventures happened, I felt myself settling into a rhythm. My days had a comfortable flow. I had the chance to talk with my best friend Rachel—something I didn’t realize how much I needed until her voice filled my ears. I also had another “side quest” moment, also in the spirit of sisterhood, when I visited the Franciscan Sisters of Mary Immaculate, or Las Hermanas Franciscanas de Maria Inmaculada.

If you remember, I’ve been on a journey to return to a Church that, for a time, I felt had no space for me. As unfamiliar as it feels, there has always been one part of Catholicism that never failed me and always made me feel safe: the Franciscan sisters. On my mom’s side, I was blessed with not one, but three women who were once part of this order— brilliant, witty, and fiercely kind. When middle school left me reeling from harsh teachings at my Catholic school, I called them. When someone told me animals don’t go to Heaven—or worse, that I might not go to Heaven—I called them. They steadied my faith when it wavered. So it only felt right to go looking for that same guidance now.

I stood outside their door for longer than I’d like to admit before knocking. What was I even going to say? I was a total stranger to these women. But then, a kind-faced sister opened the door, wearing a brown habit and the same Franciscan cross that swings from my car’s rear-view mirror. I knew what to expect, but it still felt like a sign. We sat in their garden, where I spoke, and she listened. When she spoke, I leaned in as if each word carried water for my parched soul. I didn’t walk away brand new, but I walked away lighter—and that was enough. In their presence, I felt the echoes of my three heroes, as if they were hugging me across time and distance.

Friday brought something I think colleges desperately need more of: field trips. My class visited the Museo de los Niños in San José, and it was the most fun I’ve had in a while. Every exhibit was hands-on, every corner alive with laughter. One minute I was a dinosaur hatching from an egg, the next a news anchor in a mock newsroom. The staff smiled as they taught us fun facts, joining in the play like kids themselves. No one had more fun in this museum than I did; I left with a camera roll full of goofy pictures and a heart buzzing with joy.

That night, two girlfriends and I took to the city—and we didn’t waste a second. I discovered I might be a secret cumbia champion, and yes, this was confirmed by the locals. Shots were poured, music shook the walls, and not one square inch of the dance floor was left untouched by us. We laughed until our sides hurt, sang until our throats burned, and lived a night that felt like pure freedom. Special shoutout to our Uber driver, Jovanny, who turned the ride home into a highlight of its own. Hats off to you, Jovanny.

But in quieter moments, conversations circled back to home. As a journalism student specializing in politics, I couldn’t help but reflect on what I was hearing about the U.S. this week. My heart broke for the lives lost, the families grieving, and the spirals of violence that have taken place this week. Here in Costa Rica, the streets were swelling with parades, festivals, and fireworks for Independence Day—a celebration of unity, freedom, and the people who carried this country forward. The air itself seemed alive with pride. Watching all of that, I thought about my own country. And when someone here asked me about the fatal shooting, I didn’t know what to say.

From where I am sitting, things in the United States look different. The distance makes it clearer, sharper, like holding up a mirror from across the room. Our freedoms, our resources, our voices—there are so many around the world who could only dream of them. And yet, I watch as our nation tears at itself from the inside out, forgetting that these things are privileges, not guarantees. It has nothing to do with politics —it is so much bigger than that, heavier, far more fragile. It is the sound of fireworks in one country celebrating peace, while in another, the reckless and heinous acts of violence take lives. It is the image of children waving flags in joy, while elsewhere parents and wives are burying theirs in grief. To see it from here makes me nervous, because it forces me to ask: if this is what we do with the immense freedom we’ve been given, what are we really saying to the world about who we are?

So I urge you: go outside and meet a stranger. Really talk to them. Ask them who they are, what they love, what makes them laugh. Share a story and listen to theirs with patience. And talk to God—not just with words, but with your heart. We have the chance to make freedom look like laughter on a dance floor, like children running in parades, like neighbors tending roses side by side. Freedom can be light, healing, and full of joy if we choose to make it so. I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: there is hope. There is a connection waiting for us, a certain beauty that multiplies when we lean toward one another and not away. If we live that way—eyes open, hands outstretched, hearts soft—we will not only honor the gift of freedom, but I think we will become the kind of people who remind the world what it was meant to be all along.

This week was filled with moments that grounded me: laughing with friends on the dance floor, learning like a kid again at the museum, sitting in a rose garden with a sister whose kindness mirrored the faith of my own family, and even finding comfort in a long-distance call with someone who knows me best. These are the small, wholesome pieces of life that remind me of what really matters: joy, curiosity, and love. My observations about home are not meant to spread anything other than what I see from here, and to hold onto the hope that things can turn upward. If this week taught me anything, it is that even in the middle of heaviness, there is light to be found, and maybe that light is exactly what can help us move forward.

Pray for me, and wish me luck!

I would normally end here, but if you would, take a moment to read my poem The Ninety-Nine (in the creative writing page), which I wrote just last week before these events unfolded. The thoughts I expressed there have been grounding for me, and maybe they might be for you, too.