“I love those connections that make this big old world feel like a little village.“ -Gina Bellman

Traveling is often described as a quest to “find yourself.” While I didn’t necessarily set out with that cliché in mind, I’ve realized that learning about myself and others was an inevitable part of the journey. Navigation, growth, and reflection have been consistent themes in my writing, and they weighed heavily on my mind as I sat on a plane headed back to the U.S., three months before my program was set to end due to the escalating situation in the Middle East.

In this post, I’m reflecting on how my time in Egypt challenged the “finding yourself” idea and replaced it with something more profound: the realization that when we travel the world, we don’t find a finished product, we find the tools to build a more expansive version of who we are meant to be.

Between the rhythmic calls to prayer, the intricate dance of Cairo’s traffic, and the quiet weight of millennia-old monuments, the “you” that existed at home begins to shift.

It isn’t just about seeing new sights; it’s about navigating the vulnerability of a new language.

It isn’t just about sharing knowledge with students; it’s about the humility of being a guest in an ancient culture and learning from them.

And it isn’t simply about reflecting on past opportunities; it is about the unexpected clarity that comes from being far removed from your usual professional and personal orbits.

Proximity and Relationships

There is a strange phenomenon that happens when you move five thousand miles away: the people in your life suddenly come into much sharper focus. Back home, relationships are often sustained by the “gravity of convenience.” You see people because you work in the same building, live in the same neighborhood, or frequent the same coffee shops. In Cairo, that gravity disappears.

Distance acts as a high-contrast filter. You discover the people who don’t just “like” a photo, but who reach out to ask how your Arabic lessons are going, who sit with you virtually to hear about your experiences, or who send texts simply to maintain a connection. These are the anchors, the people whose support isn’t tied to proximity or a contrived association, but to a genuine investment and interest in your growth. They make the world feel smaller, even when you’re navigating the bustling streets of Cairo.

On the flip side, travel can be a brutal editor of your social circle. Distance highlights connections that are merely superficial, the “friends” who are actually professional acquaintances tied to a shared location. Upon reflection, you realize who never stopped by your office or accepted an invitation to grab lunch. You see the gaps where communication used to be and realize some connections were held together by nothing more than habit and geography. It’s a stinging realization, but an essential one: some people are only meant to be part of a specific chapter, not the whole book.

By stepping away, I haven’t just found out who I am; I’ve found out who my “village” actually is. As it turns out, that village extends far beyond the borders of home, reaching into the dental clinics of Cairo and the busy street corners where strangers become guides.

The Contrast of Care During Conflict

If travel clarifies friendships, it puts institutions under the microscope. Living in Egypt as a Fulbright Scholar during a period of regional crisis provided a specific, and sometimes stinging, kind of clarity.

I must state that as the crisis escalated, I never felt afraid; Egypt felt very safe and was well removed from the conflict. I remained in constant communication with my mother, who checked in daily. For the first few days, there was no urgency to leave, but then the message surfaced that Americans should leave the Middle East. I reached out to friends in government agencies whom I know from my time at VFMC. The push to return came from colleagues with inside information indicating that travel would become difficult and that escalation could spill into neighboring countries. That, coupled with the State Department announcement, was the tipping point.

Even before that point, as headlines flashed back home, many people reached out—friends and colleagues from around the world. Some sent messages just to say they were thinking of me; others shared news in case I hadn’t seen it. Some even made me smile by telling me they had more than enough work for me should I return, although they were sad to see the opportunity cut short. A few colleagues from work reached out, and for them, I am very thankful: one was in constant communication as he had recently been in Egypt himself; another offered to connect me with a second dentist if needed; and another was eager to hear about my pursuit of a new language.

However, what truly struck me was the relative silence from my “home” institution, which stood in stark contrast to the experiences of those around me. As things escalated, I sat with two fellow scholars as they shared messages they had received from their respective universities, large institutions with far more staff and students than mine; places where “we’re family” is not their standard mantra. Yet their inboxes were filled with genuine reach-outs: “We are thinking of you.” We see the news and hope you are safe. Seeing their institutions act as a “home base” made the silence from mine resonate even louder.

Contact was made – but unfortunately, the first person to bridge that gap for me wasn’t a dean or a department head; it was my mother, calling them to ask what they knew and whether they had any additional information.  She was being a mother. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not someone who sits around looking for empathy, nor was I “waiting” for permission to act. I was working every avenue available to make an “adult decision” when adulting was the last thing I preferred to do. However, in reflecting on the process, the lack of outreach didn’t sit well with me.

When official institutional outreach finally arrived, it was a series of questions for me, asking what information I had for them. It didn’t carry the warmth of my colleagues’ messages. Instead, it sounded like a document written after a long consultation with a legal team to determine potential liability. It then occurred to me that the only contact from my assigned department came from students who had been in touch about an upcoming conference. When they found out my program was ending, their immediate response was, “Ah, that’s too bad—BUT do you want to go to Disney with us?” Again, a smile.

It is a strange irony: in Cairo, strangers walked me blocks out of their way to ensure I wasn’t lost; yet, from the place I’ve dedicated years of my professional life, the silence was deafening until my mother prompted a response. This is the difficult part of “finding out” about people and institutions from a distance. It hurts, but it also frees you. It realigns your loyalty toward the people and places that actually show up.

Walking the Walk and Talking the Talk

This clarity doesn’t just change how I view the past; it dictates how I will walk the walk in the future. When I return to the halls of my home institution, I won’t be the same educator who left. The silence I experienced has fundamentally recalibrated my approach to leadership, mentorship, and friendship.

While I have always tried to remember people in my world by sending a card, dropping a note, or checking in on a birthday, I will now make a more concerted effort to do so. Not because it is required, but because people in a village support each other.

Moving forward, “talking the talk” will mean speaking truth to the bureaucracy when it loses its way. It means being collegial where necessary, but knowing the profound difference between friends and acquaintances. I will be the one who calls, the one who checks in, and the one who values the people in my village by saying thank you.

To begin that process, I’d like to thank the following people/groups who truly supported me in the pursuit of this Fulbright and throughout this abbreviated but life-changing opportunity:

• Dr. Abeer: For becoming my “sister” in Egypt before we even met and for being a friend from my first day there. I look forward to staying in touch and taking those trips to Alexandria in the future.
• Dr. Jielan, Dr. Marwa, Dr. Sally, and Dr. Zeinab: For your professional expertise and for creating such a welcoming environment. Thank you for sharing your classes, your lessons, and your students with me; you truly are amazing educators.
• Dr. Safaa: For not just hosting me, but for actively integrating me into the university culture and trusting me to work with your students.
• The Fulbright Staff: For your incredible support before my arrival, upon my arrival, and throughout the entire experience. You helped me settle in and hit the ground running.
• Saudi: For the patience it takes to help me navigate the nuances of the Egyptian dialect—from the complexities of verb conjugation to the practicality of explaining which floor my apartment is on. Thank you to you and your family for your friendship; I look forward to my next trip and the chance to see you all again.
• My Fellow Fulbrighters: In a short time, we built what I know will be lifelong connections.
• My Students in Egypt: For being such inspiring future educators. Thank you for your interest in STEM education and for your efforts to teach me “street Arabic” while sharing your own stories with me.
• My Students Here: For continuing to be you and connecting even when your world of student teaching kept you busy.
• Dr. Cory: For ensuring I had a connection “just in case” and introducing me to your colleague and friend, Dr. Abdul (“Abs”). Though we haven’t met, I appreciate him being the bridge between home and Cairo. His quick action and direct referral for my emergency dental work provided comfort and trust that is hard to find when you’re thousands of miles away.
• Dr. Hussam: The endodontist who took care of me during a vulnerable moment. Your professional skill and care are a testament to the high-quality support found in Egypt. If you ever find yourself in the States, remember that you have a friend here.
• The “Walking Guides”: The unnamed strangers who saw I needed assistance and personally walked me to my destination or provided directions. You embody the spirit of Egyptian hospitality, making a foreign city feel like a community.
• Richard: For lunch and the chance to find a new friend in the middle of an accreditation meeting.
• The Intentional Ones: To the friends and family who kept the conversation going, proving that distance is no match for genuine connection. Thank you to those who moved beyond the “like” button to check on my progress, my Arabic hurdles, and my transition to life in Cairo. You kept my “home” orbit stable while I expanded my horizons. Whether you texted, Zoomed, played NYT games, or just checked in, your contact meant the world.
• My Family: For supporting my wild ideas and travels, ensuring my cats were loved and cared for, and checking in on me every step of the way.
• Shaun: For the airport runs and for taking care of my car while I was away.
• Shippensburg University: For the sabbatical that enabled me to pursue this opportunity, and for the support of the gift I shared with my host university in Egypt.
• VFMC: For the texts, emails, and the simple things that made me smile while I was heading home. A special thanks to the experts who provided critical information on the best course of action during the crisis.
• My Qatar Connections: For checking in, sharing your stories, and teaching me so much about living in the MENA region long before I arrived. And also continuing to check in even though your world was even more chaotic.
• My Support System in Newburg: Thank you for collecting my mail, watering my plants, and even handling a water line break in my absence. Opportunities like this truly require a village—thank you for being mine.
• Letter Writers and Reviewers: To those who wrote recommendations and provided feedback on my application—your support strengthened this journey from the very beginning.