Avila Hills, Caracas, Venezuela, June 2025

It’s already July — somehow — and I find myself needing to pause for a moment and take stock. Life in Caracas continues at its intense pace. Between professional responsibilities, writing projects, and half-formed travel plans, the days slip by quickly, sometimes too quickly.

Work has been demanding lately. The recent floods in the western part of the country have kept our team fully occupied — coordinating with partners, assessing needs, and pushing forward on response efforts despite all the usual constraints. It’s the kind of work that consumes you — urgent, necessary, sometimes exhausting, but always worth showing up for.

In parallel, I’ve made quiet but steady progress on the book project. It’s a different kind of labour — slow, reflective, emotional. Digging through memory, sorting photos, revisiting stories I’ve carried for years. Writing is teaching me to slow down and listen again — to voices, to places, to versions of myself I hadn’t heard from in a while. It’s not fast work, but it’s honest, and I feel like something meaningful is finally taking shape.

On the travel front, there are a few ideas floating around — nothing confirmed yet, but I might head to Portugal in August. A little time to breathe, reconnect with places and people that bring peace. Let’s see if the stars (and flights) align.

And if all goes very favourably — and I mean very — I might even manage a long-dreamed-of visit to Canada in November, just before our regional humanitarian seminar in Panama. The idea would be to see Tahir’s family and reconnect with other dear friends scattered across that vast and generous country. I’m not getting ahead of myself just yet, but the thought is a comforting one.

As for Panama in November — it promises to be intense, no doubt, but also a chance to reconnect with colleagues from across Latin America and reflect together on the challenges we’re facing — and the opportunities we still have, if we keep our heads and hearts open.

So yes, it’s a full season. Demanding and unpredictable — but also rich in ways that matter. And in the middle of it all, I’m grateful. For work that has purpose. For writing that helps me stay grounded. For friends who keep me laughing. For people who still believe in decency, even when the world makes that belief feel fragile.

More soon — and hopefully from somewhere with a breeze off the Atlantic.