For over ten years, my shop in Granada, Spain, has been a slice of Morocco amidst the Spanish stone. Originally from Marrakech, I brought pieces of my homeland here—handcrafted lamps, intricate ceramics, woven rugs—and arranged them on my shelves, usually waiting for tourists who flock here in the warmer months. Winter, however, turns my store into a quiet gallery of untouched wares. Yet, yesterday broke the lull in an unexpected way.

They look at me, my students and even my colleagues, as if I’m about to crack open Pandora’s box every time I raise this topic. Living here in San José, in the heart of Silicon Valley, I’ve come to expect these raised eyebrows and the occasional awkward pause. At seventy-four, it doesn't deter me; in fact, it gives me momentum. My research focuses on masculinity and the behaviors we’ve so long tolerated that now define the world’s crises—economic inequality, oppression, war, violence.

I grew up in a gray suburb outside Glasgow, Scotland, where life feels like it's stuck in a loop. My dad’s raucous laughter, louder than the football on telly, fills the flat most nights, with my mum joining in, glass raised like she’s in on some cosmic joke. For as long as I can remember, the clink of bottles and the bitter scent of whisky have been as much a part of home as the damp walls. My older brother’s no different—he’s 23, already hardened by drink, quick to anger, quicker with a fist.

When I first arrived in Tyumen, Russia, it felt like stepping into a world made of concrete and noise. The horizon was blurred by buildings and roads, and the wide rivers and lakes I knew back home felt distant, tucked away at the city’s edges. Back home, 500 kilometers north, we were used to space—miles of nothing but pines, water, and earth as solid as the people who lived on it. We didn’t have much, but we knew how to live with what we had.

People call me the “model of integration” sometimes. At 35, I suppose I understand why they say it, but the phrase always sits uncomfortably with me. My journey began in Syria, where I’d trained as a nurse. But when the war broke out, I left everything behind to come to Germany. I arrived here with no German, no job, and a qualification that didn’t count.

The rush of the slope has always felt like home to me. Growing up in a village near Salzburg, Austria, my father taught my siblings and me to ski before we could even read. He was a passionate ski instructor, dedicated to turning each of us into champions. By the time I hit my teens, I'd won my first competitions, and before long, I was representing Austria on the Olympic stage.

I wake each day with the feeling that I’ve somehow cheated death. At 24, that feeling has become my normal. Growing up in South Sudan, a place marred by war and fractured dreams, I learned early that survival was more than just staying alive—it was about resisting the emptiness around me. I wanted an education, a life that could somehow mean something, but as civil unrest continued and schools shuttered, I watched that hope slip away.

The Amazon, Brazil, has been my life’s work and love, a legacy passed down from my mother, an indigenous woman from a village near Manaus, and my father, a scientist from São Paulo. They moved us to the city when I was young, but I never forgot the rainforest’s rhythm, the timeless cycles of life that seemed as steady as the flow of the river itself.

The streets of Johannesburg, South Africa, breathe an energy you won’t find anywhere else. I know most corners and alleys; each sound tells a story, from distant laughter to the sudden, nerve-tingling crack of gunfire. It’s been that way my whole life, this pulse of tension and familiarity. Working as a police officer here is like trying to hold back an ocean, the tide strong and unforgiving. I’m 34, and I’ve watched friends fall in this job—colleagues who became family, their names now etched into walls and memories.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, just after the monsoon rains had given way to the soft sun of Kerala, India. The air was fragrant with jasmine and damp earth, and I had a brief moment to sip chai before my next session. A couple had arrived the previous day, wealthy enough that their presence in our resort wasn’t surprising, but something about them felt... different.

In Port-au-Prince, Haiti, the streets buzz with life in a way that often makes it hard to hear your own thoughts. It’s why I started visiting the houngan in the first place, years ago. The noise outside felt like chaos, but within his shrine, everything had its place. Candles flickered like whispers, and the air hummed with ancient power. At first, his guidance was what I needed. I felt stronger, as if he was opening doors inside me that I hadn’t known existed.

The rain came down harder this morning, and with it, the anxiety I’ve learned to live with. My husband was frying tempeh in the back, and the sizzle blended with the distant sound of rushing water. We run a snack bar out of our small house in Luar Batang, the part of Jakarta where you can hear the ocean from your kitchen. If you stretch your arm out the back window, you can almost touch the sea.

Most people see me as the kind of person who never had to worry about anything—good school, good connections, and no limits on what I could do. They’re not entirely wrong, but there’s a catch. My father’s company, which started with a small factory and a lot of sweat, is now a massive operation producing cordless drills and other tools that keep tradespeople in business.

Ever since I was a child, I've loved being on the move. Back then, it was hours outside with friends or riding my bike through the hills near Oslo, Norway. That feeling of freedom stayed with me, but life eventually caught up—university, work, responsibilities. Sports were out of the question for a while. But when I specialized in sports medicine and opened my own practice three years ago, I found time for myself again. I rediscovered my passion, but this time, I wanted to push further.

The briefing room was quiet, but my thoughts were louder than any of the chatter that came before. I’ve been here before, leading a team, reviewing strategy, and readying myself for what lies ahead. It wasn’t so long ago, at least it doesn’t feel that way, when I stood in Kabul with the same sense of uncertainty and responsibility. The difference is, back then, I had to lead men through chaos and watch some of them never make it home.

I often hear about what I should want, what my future should look like. There’s this silent expectation in the air, unspoken but heavy, that every woman’s path should lead to motherhood. For a long time, I didn’t see that as my road. Maybe it was because I watched so many around me, brilliant women, give up their careers, their identities almost, once they had children. It felt like a trap.

It was a quiet evening, just like any other. Thirty years ago, I was driving home from work outside San Diego. I worked as a technician in a pressing plant, pulling late shifts that ended at 9 p.m. It was 9:30 when everything changed. I know what this sounds like. Crazy. But I’ve never needed to exaggerate or seek attention with this story—if anything, I avoid telling it, knowing most people think I’m delusional.

Walking down the street in Amsterdam, I often think about how far I've come from where my life started. My parents fled with me and my two siblings from a refugee camp in Kenya when I was just a baby, escaping to the Netherlands. Growing up in Rotterdam, I never thought I’d end up modeling in one of the world's most international cities, but here I am.

I sit at my desk in Riyadh, Saudi-Arabia, staring at my thesis draft. The Al-Safi dairy farm, deep in the Rub al-Khali desert, seemed like a miracle at first. Fifty thousand cows, milked by robots, producing 800,000 liters of milk per day. It felt like a triumph—agriculture thriving in the harshest of deserts. But now, after months of research and a visit to the farm, I feel differently.

My grandson died six months ago. A boy full of life, full of questions—until the questions turned inward and silent. It’s strange to think of his life folding in on itself in a place like this, where mountains reach so high they almost seem to hold the sky. Bhutan is known for its happiness, for the way we measure well-being over wealth. But what people don't talk about is how happiness can feel like a burden, especially when you can’t seem to find it.