Guatemala, for me, has been a series of yeses I wasn't quite expecting — but now can't imagine my life without.

I had this dream of creating a company that served women artisans somewhere in a developing area, but here's the thing — I didn't actually know anyone in a place like that. Not one person. It took me talking to a friend, who had a cousin… you know how those stories go.

That's how I was connected to Karlie. She was working with two women in rural Guatemala making leather bags as a fundraiser for Casa Tabito, the clinic she runs that saves severely malnourished babies. When we first talked, she was at one of those crossroads — a new mom herself, juggling two little ones, trying to source zippers wholesale, and running a clinic for mothers in desperation. Something had to give.

She was so glad to hand the bag project over to me. And somewhere along the way, we became dear friends.

The first time I went to Guatemala — with a mission group, to pick up my order of totes and messenger bags and purses — I got my first real look at what Guatemalan mothers carry. Not fully. I don't think you can ever fully understand it from the outside. But I saw enough to be changed.

We spent days filling bags of food and bringing them to meeting places where families would walk for their portion — rice, beans, corn flour, a few fresh vegetables, eggs, a tub of soap, a box of dried milk. They'd bundle it all up and balance it on their heads for the walk home. Miles, probably. Completely worth it for a month of food.

Most of them were wearing shoes, but the soles were paper-thin. Every woman had a child with her — one tied to her back in a sling, sometimes another big enough to walk alongside. And the songs before prayer? Heavy. Somber. Soaked in sorrow, but carried by a faith so strong I could feel it in my bones.

Back at the clinic where we slept, I'd sit alone on the floor of my room. Sometimes I'd find myself on my knees without meaning to be — just pulled there by this deep, tragic knowing. Before the trip, I'd signed a document asking everyone to wait until they were home before sharing suggestions or judgments — to journal first, sit with our thoughts, let them settle. I loved that. It's such a good reminder for all of us.

There were no judgments anyway. Only discernment.

This is the thing I've wrestled with my whole life — how there can be a God, and at the same time, children starving to death, mothers left unseen and untended. Why do I have so much, when others don't have the most basic things? I've been on the other side of that question too, which makes it even harder to hold.

A few nights ago, I was talking with my kids during a hard moment for them, and I told them something I believe down to my core — every single moment of my life, the trauma, the hunger, the mistakes, all of it, it was there for a reason. Not always one I could see at the time. But now I know how to meet people where they are. I know how to sit with a friend. I know how to speak to someone in deep pain. I assured them that every hard moment in their lives is for a reason, it's up to them how they choose to perceive it. 

I don't always get it right. I know that for sure. But I can hold space without trying to fix or save anyone. I understand my mission isn't something others should or could take on — and at the same time, I want to invite you in.

I can give you the statistics. Guatemala has the highest rate of chronic child malnutrition — stunting — in all of Latin America. Globally, it ranks 5th or 6th in overall malnutrition, but among non-conflict countries, it's number one. Fifty percent of children are malnourished. In rural areas, that number jumps to 70–80 percent. Infant mortality is staggering, and the truth is, many of those babies are never counted at all.

But here's what the statistics can't tell you. Mothers are having children with no way to survive — sometimes single, sometimes in two-parent homes, but either way without the resources to make it work. Women are living without front doors on their houses. Without clean water. Without any way to provide. A medical emergency, or a desperate decision to leave so they can send money back, leaves children behind — raised by grandmothers, aunts, or in orphanages.

I can tell you stories of loss and grief and sorrow that would sit on your chest for days, and as we get to know each other, you'll find I'm not afraid of the hard conversations. I feel honored to hold the trust of these women. I hold their stories the way I'd hold their babies — and my own.

But more than the statistics, I want us all to know the hope and I want them to know dignity. 

I want you to see the steadfast fortitude I see when these women meet your eyes. Their strength. Their dignity. Their faith. Women who once believed God didn't see them — I want the whole world to see them. Their art. Their skill. The colors of their work. The designs that bring them joy. Art worth celebrating. 

That's what I hope for all of us, really. To see both. To acknowledge the pain and celebrate the love.