I start writing while listening to “Esto que soy, esto te doy”, and suddenly, I find myself back there, in that little house that welcomed us for a month—Casa de Tuty, a home for all of us.

I don’t even need to close my eyes; the images flash before me as if I were still there, surrounded by the love that embraced me every single moment.

I can still feel the hands of the children in mine, their tiny fingers interlaced with mine. I see B. running towards me, hugging me tightly. B.’s gaze, M.’s smile. I can still hear Y.’s shrill little voice saying the prayer, and K. and A. singing “Amen” with me. The laughter of everyone, but especially L.’s. I see them running, playing, jumping, dancing, holding each other, wrestling—then running, jumping, dancing again, kicking, embracing, laughing.

I can still smell the scents from the kitchen, taste the plain rice mixed with kamote. I remember the frustration of coming up with activities and the joy of seeing them follow my every word—with their eyes, with their hearts. I feel the morning chill and the warmth of the candlelight at night. The care of my companions, the words that flowed freely with the right chair that always listened. I carry in my bones all the hugs, the caresses, the kisses. I feel the quiet of the night there, the exhaustion of my body—but not of my soul.

The song ends, and now my heart is racing with memories. I feel everything so vividly, as if I were watching a film. I don’t know if I can say I miss it—it was so overwhelming that I think it will take just as much time to process it all. My body is slowly readjusting to my life here, but in some way, my mind is still there. Not just my mind—my whole being. I can feel it inside me; I am still there, singing with them, cheek to cheek.

I never thought it would be so difficult to put into words what I experienced during this mission in Peru, but I’ll start from the beginning.

August 1st – The Day Before Departure From Sara’s journal:

“I’m going to the other side of the world, and I won’t see much of it. And yet, I know I will see everything I need to see. This isn’t just a trip—I’m going home.”

I didn’t know anything yet, and yet I already understood everything. I was going home.

From the very first days in Lima, I realized this would be more than just a journey. Forced to confront reality, to touch life in its purest form, with its lights and shadows, I saw the illusions of privilege fall away. I saw poverty, violence, hatred, and pain coexist with joy, hope, and above all, love.

Powerful contrasts that seem like oxymorons placed side by side—yet they are real, clear, and deeply intertwined with life itself. And there, between the mud and the laughter of the children welcoming us from afar, I was moved for the first time by the sublime beauty of life, feeling a revolutionary gratitude.

From that day forward, my eyes adjusted to catching those small, yet immense, moments that filled my heart daily, making this month the most intense of my life—emotionally and physically.

Like F., wiping my glasses with his T-shirt.
Like E., peering through my camera’s viewfinder, taking pictures of us.
Like A., holding my hand tightly and resting her cheek against mine when she saw me moved during mass.
Like L., braiding everyone’s hair.
Like B., asking for my journal to write a message inside.
Like E., dancing while Titty dries her hair.
Like L., laughing at me when I fall, but then pulling me aside to ask if I’m okay.
Like the constant “How are you?” from my fellow volunteers, always checking on me when I wasn’t feeling well.
Like Lily, making soup just for me when I was sick.
Like B., helping me set the table so we could spend more time together.
Like L., whispering what to write in her letter.
Like Y., asking me to draw with her because she thought I might be bored.
Like N., asking for a picture while climbing, and K. helping her up.
Like M., running to grab a stool for me, giving up his own chair so we could eat together and share our favorite foods.

I arrived thinking I would give, and I know I gave my whole self—even my blood, literally. But it’s nothing compared to what I feel I received.

Through our group’s reflections, Alessandro’s guidance, role models like Mary and Vanessa, but above all, through the children and young people, I learned what forgiveness, faith, resilience, gratitude, and above all, love truly are.

I could sum up everything I experienced in one word: Love.
Love with a capital L. That unconditional love that can’t be explained in words—it can only be lived.

I don’t think I was even ready to receive all the love that was given to me. But then, incredibly, I realized that there’s always room for more, and that love expands infinitely—again and again.

“Rescatamos niños, inspiramos vidas” (“We rescue children, we inspire lives”)

That’s the motto of CAEF, and they have undoubtedly inspired mine.

They taught me that scars aren’t something to erase—they make us who we are, but they don’t define us.
That every day is a new beginning, a chance to start over—with others and with ourselves.

And so, I learned to live each day in its uniqueness, to fully embrace every moment, to taste life’s bittersweetness.
To stop judging, to put things into context, to let go and breathe.

In this way, I discovered my true self, without masks. And in being perhaps too much, or perhaps too little, I felt part of something greater, surrounded by people completely different from each other, yet united by a shared purpose.

Community. Brotherhood. Family.

Through my group, I experienced true community.

It’s not easy living with 40 people, and yet, it is in sharing—even the uncomfortable parts—that you truly discover yourself and others, and understand what collective living really means—to be there, to welcome, and to be welcomed.

I, an only child, for the first time, felt like a big sister and a little sister at the same time.
I felt an indescribable affection for strangers who became family, and I found something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

I became a child again with them, marveling at life’s simple joys—a green tree, a crowded street, a piece of bread with jam.

Hope for a Better World. I want to grow alongside them. I want to dream again, like M., who wrote:

“May the world become better, may there be no more evil, and may we live happily.”

I want their faith and hope, the kind I heard in their prayers before meals, in mass, where thought goes beyond the self and always makes room for others.

They make me truly believe that change is possible, even when it seems utopian.
Because you can see it in their eyes, in their smiles, but also in their tears and screams.
In the wonderful chaos that is life—a life that, when shared, tastes different.

Here, I learned that we must always question ourselves, never be afraid to show who we truly are, even in our vulnerability.

“Eso que soy, esto te doy”—This is what I am, this is what I give to you.”

Now, I know. One day, I will return home.

Gracias, os quiero mucho. ❤️