A little girl with skin the color of cafe au lait, looks at me with tears in her eyes. In broken English, she tells me “thank you,” and kisses a new pair of socks. Something so trivial, pink and purple striped socks, made me weep. How could I be so incredibly selfish when there are those who have so little? When I was in middle school, I took a trip that would shape my soul. I traveled across an ocean to meet the people of El Progreso, Honduras. A small village and an even tinier orphanage cast a spell on me that I am still trying to work off.

A missionary came to my small Southern church with his long hair and surfer dude vibes and told us about a mystical place where the food is divine and sweating is not optional. My teenage heart could not get enough- I needed to meet these people. I begged my mom and dad for the opportunity and for them, it was a no-brainer; my mom and I would leave August 1st to land in San Pedro Sula, one of the most deadly cities in the world. Bags were packed and hugs were given through sleepy, scared goodbyes. The plane ride was excruciating; between the anticipation of arrival and the fear of the unknown, I could not even think of sleep despite my mom’s insistence. We touched down and my heart dropped. A dirt runway lined with palm trees was what welcomed us. I wanted nothing more than to get right back on the plane and fly home. It was humid and the languages floating through the summer air were everything but English. My young heart was not prepared for this. Rhonda, our mission leader, assured us all that it would get better, but all 30 of us were a little skeptical. When we got past security a tall lady with thick glasses and an accent to match greeted us with a warm “bienvenidos a la Honduras”. We had officially arrived.

The mission work that was done in Honduras was awe-inspiring, but it was not what I did that changed me- it was what others did for me. I met a woman named Karen who we helped build a house for, years after my first visit. She barely spoke English and I spoke the smallest amount of Spanish, but she taught me more than any amount of Shakespeare ever could. She was only a few years older than my meager 14 and she had a husband, a son, and was pregnant with a little girl. All though she did not live a glamorous life and had to walk miles into town to work for a small wage, she was the happiest, most giving woman. She invited me into her home and she showed me how to make tortillas and taught me that despite language barriers- people are people and loving each other does not take years of practice.

While the village changed me, the orphanage captured my heart. I have never been more loved in my life. These small sun-kissed children were mesmerizing. They spoke a hundred words a minute and the word most often heard was “ te amo”, or "I love you". The language stopped mattering and the only issue was a deflating soccer ball that couldn't quiet make it through our mango tree goal posts. The true connection from just being around these kids and dancing to Latin music is precious, but heartbreaking because these people are forgotten by the masses. The beautiful orphanage, Copprome, was phenomenal and full of love and laughter. I came home with a new perspective on humanity that I feel will follow me forever. I move forward with a heart that is discontent, not for the things I don't have but with the things I can give. I learned what real was. I learned what love was, and that maybe that goal of a 401K is not what is important; it just might be a plane ticket leading to a dirt runway lined with palm trees.