Catedral Metropolitana de Santiago de Guatemala, located in Guatemala City center.

I spent my last night in a hotel room in Guatemala City. To get there, I hitchhiked for the first (and hopefully last) time into the center of town, about 25 minutes away. I only did so because the bus never showed up, and I was worried I could miss my flight. From there, the kind man who gave me a ride pointed me in the direction of the bus station. I walked to catch a chicken bus, essentially a repurposed school bus turned public transportation, with colorful lights lining the outside and bachata and reggaeton blasting inside. It costs the equivalent of $1 to get to the town closest to the airport, another 35 minutes. Then I took a tuk-tuk the rest of the way. In total, it cost me about $3 to travel an hour and a half to the small airport in Flores.

Traveling solo through a Spanish-speaking country forced me to rely on my Spanish more than ever before. In the U.S., I avoid speaking Spanish at all costs and have since I was probably five. There’s an internal pressure to speak perfectly, or not at all. But when traveling, that pressure loosens. I often found myself one of the strongest Spanish speakers in the group, becoming the translator, the negotiator, and the one asking questions. I got pretty good at sounding fluent in small talk, ordering food, hailing a cab, answering the same questions over and over about where I’m from or why my Spanish is “so good.” But anytime the conversation went deeper, my weaknesses showed. I’d slow down, search for the words, and eventually find them. And still, no one shamed me for not being perfect. That, in itself, felt healing. Toward the end of my time in Guatemala, I caught myself starting to think in Spanish. I wondered what might happen if I stayed longer, lived with a host family, or even took online lessons just to keep the practice going and build confidence. Still, I was proud of myself. I was more comfortable and confident speaking Spanish than I ever had been before.

Once in Guatemala City, I checked into my hotel and took a luxurious shower, blow-drying my hair and feeling actually refreshed for what felt like the first time the entire trip. I wandered not too far for a glass of wine and some dinner, then headed back to my king-sized bed with incredible views to do the one thing I hadn’t done all trip, doom scroll for a solid two hours. I got sucked into the usual consumerism, endless influencers trying to sell me things I never knew I needed. But this time, it felt different. I could see right through it. Nothing I buy will ever make me as happy as watching the sunset over Antigua from Pacaya Volcano, or the yoga class I took in the hills of Antigua on New Year’s Eve. I made a quiet promise to myself to think about those moments before robotically buying something stupid that I don’t actually need.

As I sat alone in my room, catching up on local news back home, it wasn’t lost on me that I had just spent two weeks traveling through Guatemala, welcomed with warmth and generosity, only to return to a country that treats immigrants from Central America as criminals and threats. I benefited from borders opening for me, from passports and privilege, while the same system criminalizes those moving in the opposite direction. I benefited from $2 beers, $1 tuk-tuk rides, and $28-a-night hostels, traveling in relative luxury made possible by a weaker economy and by people who work relentlessly just to survive and provide. We are one week into 2026, and state-sanctioned violence is already unfolding. My heart is broken for the families who will be torn apart and the communities that will be destabilized, all of it justified as policy. Collectively, we are not nearly enraged enough.

I travel often, and coming home always brings complicated emotions. On one hand, it’s home. On the other hand, it can feel like all my country represents is destruction and cruelty, both domestically and abroad. At the same time, I felt proud to meet other Americans on this trip who were thoughtful, open-minded, and genuinely interested in reflecting on the issues our country faces. Being around people willing to question, discuss, and listen, with kindness and curiosity, was comforting and reminded me that critical thinking and empathy are alive in so many of us, too.

Mural description translates to: “The moment of reunion between a migrant mother and her daughter.”

As I close this chapter, I feel deeply thankful. To Guatemala, its landscapes, its people, and the kindness that met me at every turn. To the new friends I made from all over the world, who reminded me how easy connection can be when you slow down and stay open. To my friends and family who followed along, sent messages, and encouraged me to share and reflect as I went. I’m grateful that my body took me where I needed to go, that I stayed safe, and that I returned healthy. Grateful for the rare privilege of pressing pause on my life and stepping outside my own reality, if only for a little while. And grateful to myself, for trusting the pull to do this, and for honoring it.

Last Night in Guatemala: Final Reflections

Jungle Time!