To Make Known To Others The World's Beauty

A reflection on meaning and the purpose of this blog

I recently wrote in my journal:

“My job is to make known to others the world’s beauty.”

It was one of the few times in my life where I can say I’ve felt a true lightning strike of inspiration. I was sitting at my desk at work, a day after returning from a trip to Africa, reflecting on the contrast between those adventures and the seemingly mundane concerns of everyday life—and it was like the hand of God had actually parted the fabric for half a second and planted a thought directly into my mind. And I guess that’s why I immediately wrote it down.

What does it mean to “make known to others the world’s beauty”? And how arrogant am I to assume I’ll be able to do so in a way that the millions of writers who came before me have failed to do? Let me explain.

In 2023, I saved up $10,000 and embarked on a nine-month, solo backpacking trip that took me through Europe, Southeast Asia, India, and Sri Lanka. I didn’t stay in the Hilton Marriotts or plan my days with TripAdvisor—I slept, ate, and lived like the locals.

During this trip, I experienced life in a new way. Not only did I learn a tremendous amount about the history and cultures of the rest of the world, but every other day, it seemed, I came face to face with some new emotion I’d never felt in quite that way before: wonder, awe, surprise, longing, grief, joy, love, loss, and countless others. It was like living life with the saturation turned up to 200%.

I returned home, only to feel that same ache in my chest again after a few short months. I set out again, this time for Tanzania, Africa, where I spent four months working with a non-profit to provide clean water to a remote Maasai village.

This trip was similar to the last one, but even better in some ways. I was anchored to the same small town the whole time, and even stayed with a local family in their spare bedroom. I became intimately acquainted with the Tanzanian way of life, learned conversational Swahili, and made so many friends that my WhatsApp inbox is still crowded as I write this.

But then I came back home to the USA. I missed my family and my childhood friends, and to be honest with you, it felt like the right time to return home. I wrote this in my journal from the plane:

“I listened to Lonely Cowboy by KALEO as we took off. I was going to pause it so I could take in the emotions of leaving Africa unmarred by additional context—but I left it on because it felt right and, in a serendipitous way, magical. It’s time for the next chapter: the good ol’ United States of America.”

So I did the America thing. The normal stuff that everyone does: found a good job, found a place to rent, and started my “real” life—which brings us to now, November 2025, a year and a half later. And don’t get me wrong: I’m exquisitely aware of just how privileged I am to be able to live such a mundane, peaceful life. I don’t live in a war-torn country where survival is contested, I’m not desperate for food, and I’m building up my IRA every month.

But as I sit here writing this now, I’m astonished to say that being home for this long made me forget. I mean, I remembered the places I’d been to, the people I’d met, most of the adventures I’d had—but in a deeper sense, I forgot was it was really like to be there in the midst of it all. I had convinced myself I was fulfilled by the ordinary, when in reality, I had simply forgotten the extraordinary.

That is, until I agreed to go back to Africa at the end of October 2025. It was just a short, week-long trip, to commemorate the opening of a new library built by the same non-profit I’d volunteered for in the past.

And then I remembered. I experienced anew all of that old magic I’d forgotten over this last year and a half, and I remembered.

I remembered what it’s like to explore a new country for the first time; what it’s like to make old friends in less than two weeks; what the wind feels like on my face from the back of a motorcycle taxi; what it’s like to feel real love for people with whom I’d expect to have no common ground; to know the world, and in turn to be known by it.

And so there I was, sitting at my desk, listening to a song called “Between Us And The Dying Starlight,” eyes staring at the spreadsheets in front of me but heart thousands of miles away, feeling once more, vowing never to forget again, and strangely alone in my crowded office. Because unless you’ve been there like me—out in the madness of the beautiful and terrible world, with your home on your back and each day a truly blank canvas stretched out before you—you just don’t get it. How could you?

And if you’re rolling your eyes as you read this post, dismissing it as overly dramatic, I have something to tell you: You are the reason for this blog. You don’t get it, and I want to make you get it. I want you to know and to be known.

In the posts that follow, I’ll be going into depth on the places I’ve been, the crazy stories I’ve made, and most importantly, the beautiful people I’ve met. Some posts might be a copy and paste from my travel journal—others might be just a snippet, with extensive rumination from me now in the present.

And because I’m feeling that ache in my chest—because I refuse to forget again—I might even set out again on some brand new adventures in the near future, which I plan share with you in real time.

I guess we’ll just see what happens.