We landed in the United Kingdom today, around noon, arriving at Edgeware Road. The transition from Rome to London has been intense—physically, mentally, even emotionally. Immigration was… strange. One of the officers—transgender, I believe—asked where we were coming from and, at one point, half-joked, “If you don’t answer correctly, we’ll send you back where you came from.” It might have been meant lightly, but it didn’t land that way. It felt unnecessarily harsh, and I couldn’t help but feel a little shaken.

From there, the journey continued: trains, platforms, and suitcases. We got on the Victoria Line, transferring from train to train until we finally reached the Tube headed toward Edgeware. By then, we were drained.

And then something troubling happened.

On the Tube from Euston on the black line, I placed my six-year-old daughter next to a woman who, I now realize, may have been experiencing mental health challenges. We’re brown, and at first, I thought she was commenting kindly about my daughter. But her words began to twist—ramblings about ancestors, a strange, disjointed monologue that turned dark and unnerving. My daughter was visibly scared. And so was I, honestly—not just by her, but by what the moment represented.

A weird welcome from the so-called “mother country.” I’m Canadian, after all—taught to believe that Britain was the source of civility, history, and reason. But this felt like a strange inversion of that ideal. A moment where my child was made to feel unsafe simply for being who she is, where she is.

Yesterday, the UK was still just a plan. Today, it’s a place layered with emotion.

Last night in Rome, we sat with Francesca and Anteona—one of those late-night conversations that flows from tomatoes (which, yes, originated in the Americas) to the journey of pasta from China to Italy. Funny how global foods become national symbols. Pasta and pizza: migrants in their own right.

I’ll miss Rome. It was strange, beautiful, and deeply memorable. We woke early—3 a.m.—to return the car and start the day. Gas tank full, heads half-empty.

Then this morning, another piece of heavy news dropped: Israel reportedly attacked Iran. My heart sank. It feels like we’re on the edge of something massive. A war not just of missiles, but of myths. One between truth and fear. And fear has a way of showing up even on the quietest train ride, sitting right beside your daughter, whispering something your heart knows isn’t right.

So I pray.

For the world. For peace. For understanding. For light to shine brighter than fear. And for my daughter to grow up in a world where she doesn’t have to brace herself for being different.