Every morning in Nairobi, I take a deep breath and remind myself of how far I've come. Originally from South Sudan, my family and I fled the war and lived in Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya for many years.

Every morning, the effects of our water crisis are visible from my apartment window. The park across the street, once green and lively, is now a dusty, brown expanse. As a 34-year-old geologist, I never imagined witnessing such a dramatic shift in Barcelona.

The rain started early this morning, casting a familiar gray over the London streets. I stood in the doorway of my gallery, looking out at the scattered umbrellas.

Waking up to another grey morning in Moscow, Russia, I dragged myself out of bed, my mind heavy with the usual thoughts. At 26, the weight of my future and the state of our country feels like an anchor tied to my legs.

As the morning light filters through the lace curtains, I take a moment to savor the quiet before the day begins. The aroma of freshly baked Kanelbullar fills the kitchen, a scent that never fails to bring me joy.

Last week was one of those days that made me truly appreciate the twists and turns of life on the road. At 69 years old, I've been driving a cab in Kingston, Jamaica for 40 years, and the city can be a wild place, full of unpredictable moments.

This morning, I strolled through the streets of San Jose, Costa Rica, making my way to the university for the final semester of my studies in English literature and history.

A few years back, I won the lottery in a syndicate. And I wish it had never happened.

I slump into my chair, staring blankly at the charts and data on my screen. The temperature anomalies, the sea level rise, the accelerating CO2 emissions—all point to a grim reality.

The night we fled will stay with me forever. We lost almost everything we had—our animals, our house, our orange trees. We could only take the bare essentials with us.

Every morning I get up before the sun rises, the soft breathing of my children in the next room gives me strength for the day. The memories of my life in Afghanistan are never far away.

As I walk home from school, the streets of Vilnius, Lithuania, bustle with activity. It's late spring, and the air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers.

I've been retired for a few years now, enjoying the slower pace of life in Auckland, New Zealand. With the extra time on my hands, I've delved into something I've always felt drawn to: my psychic abilities.

Last Tuesday was one of those days that etched itself into my memory. The hospital was already buzzing with activity when I arrived, the hustle and bustle of Washington DC in full swing outside.

As I cycled to work this morning, the crisp air and clear skies reminded me why I love living in Copenhagen, Denmark. Passing by the city's iconic bike lanes, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride.

All my life, we had no money. We were constantly short of everything. But we always stuck together as a family, and that made us strong. We survived all the crises.

Sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am. The sun rises over the ocean every morning, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, and I get to witness this from my beautiful house overlooking the sea.

Every morning, I open the doors of my coffee shop in Maastricht, greeted by the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and the familiar hum of early customers. Seven years I've been running this place, through all the ups and downs.

Life has been kind to me, and I am very grateful for that. I have always loved sewing clothes, and for years I have run a small store in Praia, Cap Verde Islands. It gives me joy to create something beautiful and useful, and it has been my passion throughout my life.

It's strange how you can get used to living in a cage. For a long time, the only law I knew was the law of the jungle on the streets of León, Mexico. Violence, drugs, weapons, and criminal gangs—this was my world.