When I set out on a three-month sabbatical that ultimately spanned five continents and eight countries, I didn’t realize how desperately my spirit needed it. Like many founders and non-profit leaders, my work has always been anchored in a deep love for community, storytelling, and youth development. For over twenty years, I poured myself into curating creative programs for young people, always driven by the belief that the arts are a vital vehicle for transformation. But when you spend decades carrying the hopes, stories, and challenges of a community, you slowly deplete your own well without even noticing.

We often view rest as a luxury, or worse, a reward to be earned only after the work is completely done. But in the non-profit sector — where the work is never truly finished and the stakes are deeply human — burnout is a personal risk, and an organizational liability.

Reflecting on my journey, from roaring mist of Victoria Falls, to the bustling markets of Morocco and finally to the quiet, light-filled sanctuary of the Baha’i Temple in the heights of Chile, I’ve come to understand that an extended break isn’t an escape from leadership. It is a prerequisite for it.

Here are the essential takeaways from my three-month journey on why leaders must make time to pause, step away, and choose self-care.

Disconnection Breeds Reconnection

When you operate a non-profit, your mind is constantly tethered to the logistics of impact — funding, programming, staffing, and strategy. Stepping away forces a hard reset.

By removing myself from the daily execution of my work, I unlocked space to reconnect with parts of myself that had been pushed aside by a heavy workload. I spent three months hiking, walking, writing, photographing and engaging in spontaneous, soulful conversations with old friends I hadn’t seen in decades, as well as total strangers who quickly became friends.

When we give ourselves permission to disconnect from our professional identities, we remember who we are outside of our achievements. We return to our organizations not just with new ideas, but with a restored sense of self.

Restoring the Capacity for Wonder and Creativity

Leading a creative, community-facing organization requires a constant flow of imagination. But creativity requires an intake of new stimuli, beauty, and perspective. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and you certainly cannot innovate from a place of exhaustion.

My sabbatical was a tapestry of pure wonder: dancing, swimming alongside giant nurse sharks, and witnessing the architectural genius of human hands built into the slopes of the Andes. Sitting in silence inside the Baha’i Temple in Santiago, bathed in the warm, filtered light of translucent marble, a profound feeling of absolute peace and gratitude washed over me.

That space invited a reverence that words alone could never capture. Experiencing the world’s beauty and diversity re-sensitizes a leader to the magic of the human experience. It fills the creative well, ensuring that when you return to design programs and tell stories, you are doing so from a place of abundant inspiration.

The Power of Vulnerability and Community Care

Non-profit leaders are notorious for trying to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. We mistakenly believe that our constant presence is the only thing keeping the mission alive.

Stepping away requires a beautiful exercise in trust. It forces us to lean on our teams, trust the structures we’ve built, and modeling the healthy boundaries we wish for our staff and the people we serve.

Furthermore, traveling the world reminded me of the universal nature of community. Whether sharing an evening celebrating a holy day with a community in Italy where I didn’t speak the language, or joining the temple staff on their service day to deep-clean the sanctuary in Chile, I was reminded that we are all interconnected. Service and community care are reciprocal. Sometimes, the most profound act of leadership is allowing yourself to be welcomed, hosted, and renewed by the community.

The Return

I returned from my three-month journey deeply energized, carrying a heart full of unexpected wisdom and a profound spirit of gratitude. Most importantly, I returned with a little more clarity for the next stage of my life and work.

To my fellow non-profit leaders and changemakers: self-care is not selfish, and a break is not a luxury. It is an act of stewardship over your greatest asset — your own mind, health, and spirit. Make the time to pause. The world needs your vision, but more than that, it needs you whole.

Thank you for reading. Please share your thoughts and subscribe. Coming soon is a new website ridvanidara.com in the meantime you can find me at ridvanfoxhall.com and Substack.

It has been a lifelong dream to travel the West Coast, tracing the edge of the continent from Seattle to San Diego. I’d heard stories of Route 101: the winding roads where mountains meet the ocean, the towering majesty of the redwood forests, and the quiet beauty of coastal towns. When the opportunity for a sabbatical arrived, I knew a West Coast drive had to be part of my journey. After a week in Seattle visiting the Mona Foundation, Eric and I set off on a breathtaking journey south. We knew our destination, but our daily itinerary was unwritten; we planned as we went, often booking hotels only a few hours before we needed a place to rest our heads.

Our first stop was Cannon Beach. We found a hotel by the shore, a mile’s walk from the famous, towering rock stack that defines the coastline. From there, we made our way to Crescent City, just a few miles from Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. Walking and driving through those ancient groves, the feeling of intense awe and wonder overcomes you. You are small, moving through a stillness of giants that has existed for centuries, in a section rightfully called the Avenue of the Titans. These trees tower over us, reaching heights of 367 feet, some as old as 2,000 years. Many adjectives describe the redwoods, but two that come to my mind are steadfast and patient. I am faced with the thought that time is fleeting, yet these trees have stood in silence for centuries, witnessing change after change while faithfully cleansing the air we breathe. Tragically, only 5% of the original, old-growth coast redwood forest remains today, primarily because humans have cut them down over time. As I stand there and read those words, my heart aches.

Among their many benefits, redwoods are the best trees for carbon sequestration; they combat climate change more effectively than any other ecosystem on Earth. They provide vital benefits to human life and regional survival, such as pulling moisture from the air to feed local streams and providing a microclimate for hundreds of species of plants and animals. The benefits are far more than I can pen down, yet we humans may very well be the cause of our own demise. By harming these trees, we harm ourselves. Fortunately, the remaining redwoods are protected under the National Parks system-like museums that we visit in droves to take selfies and admire. I hope as people read the stories placed on the placards, we leave moved to be mindful of the choices we make and the causes we choose to stand for.

From the silence of the trees, we traveled toward the vibrant energy of San Francisco. There, I reunited with my dear friend Nehal, whom I had not seen in thirty years. We attended high school in Panchgani together, youths with big dreams, and here we were, picking up exactly where we left off, silly and loving each other. We hiked together just as we did in our youth; it was a feeling that time had stood still, waiting for us to reunite. I also met with Badi, another dear friend from the same school, and experienced a similar feeling. He was kind enough to share his love for the area by showing us the hidden corners of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge from secret vantage points that tourists rarely find. While Nehal showed me the mountains and protected green spaces just outside the city, Badi shared the beautiful urban spaces he loved within it.

After bidding my friends goodbye and promising not to let another thirty years slip away, we made our way further south. We wound through the 17-Mile Drive, where the Lone Cypress stands patented and perched above the Pacific. I couldn’t help but wonder how a tree, a gift from nature, could be patented. We passed Carmel and drove through Big Sur, where the mountains drop straight into the sea. The feeling of awe was overwhelming; what a beautiful planet we live on. Somewhere along that stretch of road, I became emotional. It felt as if this journey, though curated by myself, had been gifted to me for a deeper purpose. Seeing America this way felt like a final frontier of sorts.

We made our way to Carpinteria to rest for the night, a quaint Southern California beach town tucked off Highway 101 between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara. It is a place where time seems to slow down, defined by a laid-back surf culture and beautiful coastal landscapes. On our morning walk, tea and coffee in hand, we noticed how everyone smiled and wished us good morning.

We drove through LA, stopping to reunite with another friend for lunch in Santa Monica, before arriving in San Diego in the early evening. I marveled at the six lane highways filled with cars moving bumper to bumper, a journey that should have taken an hour and half, took three hours. Our final days was spent just outside the city in La Jolla. We visited with two friends I hadn’t seen in years and their young, growing families. We explored the Sunday farmer’s market in Encinitas and walked through the Self-Realization Fellowship Meditation Gardens. Perched on a cliff with winding paths and exotic flora, the gardens are designed to facilitate deep contemplation. I sat there looking at the ocean, breathing the clean air, and was once again overcome with gratitude for this gift of self-reflection.

The beauty of the landscape throughout this drive was often met with the sharp reality of the injustices our systems have perpetuated. I saw quaint towns in Oregon that felt deserted, followed by areas so pristine and lavish they caused a pang of pain. In a country where homes are worth tens of millions of dollars, there is a growing population of homelessness at their very doorsteps. This disparity is alarming and very obvious on the West Coast. My friends whom we visited in the area, joked about how a house that looked like a chicken coop and needed a complete remodel was asking 1.3 million dollars. We talked about how challenging it will be for our children to afford anything. If one isn’t born into wealth, how are they supposed to make it when the cost of university is beyond affordability and home prices rise far faster than wages? It is a sad realization that felt more jarring on the West Coast.

The drive was a dream come true, yet between the plight of the redwoods and the growing population of homeless people, it was also a source of grief. In San Fransisco we witnessed the despair of the people reflected on the walls in the Mission District. Strikingly beautiful murals calling us to pay attention. The answers seem complex, yet I believe we have it within us to examine these problems and look for solutions, but only if we recognize each other’s humanity and how all life is connected. I am reminded of a quote by Baha’u’llah as I drive past the unhoused:

“O Ye Rich Ones On Earth! The poor in your midst are My trust; guard ye My trust, and be not intent only on your own ease.”

I wonder what it would look like if we took those words to heart, or if we heeded the words of author Michelle Alexander in The New Jim Crow:

“We must learn to care for one another across all boundaries and borders and build a movement of movements rooted in a love so fierce that when a Mexican child is ripped from the arms of his mother at the border, and when a black child is ripped from the arms of her mother as she’s arrested on the streets of New York, and when a white child is ripped from the arms of her mother in a courtroom in Oklahoma, we feel the same pain, the same agony, as though it were our own children.”

I am reminded of the common thread across the countries I have visited during this sabbatical: there are people who care, who are taking these words to heart, and who are doing the work in their communities. Here too, in America, people are noticing and enacting change through the protection of the remaining redwoods, the intentional creation of green spaces in San Francisco, and the work of friends I’ve met on this drive. From the Mona Foundation’s mission to eradicate poverty through education, to my friend Nehal seeking solutions for the planet through space technology. Jake and his organization, Sown for Good, using film to bring funding to community-led solutions, and Nava, a journalist and producer highlighting the injustices we must address through her podcasts and writing. The tides are shifting and this gives me hope.

I boarded the plane from San Diego to Chile hopeful, with a conviction and understanding of what comes next for me. As I move toward the sixth decade of my life, I am ready to begin writing a new chapter, feeling finally that I have the building blocks to do so.

Thank you for reading. Follow me for the final chapters of this sabbatical and the beginning of a new era. You can also find me at ridvanfoxhall.com and Substack. Share, comment and subscribe.

All photographs by Ridvan Idara

Originally published at https://www.ridvanfoxhall.com on May 24, 2026.

My trip from Dublin to Seattle was a long journey, punctuated by a three-hour layover in Philadelphia where I spent the time writing. At some point, I sent a text to Laura Baerwolf, who was supposed to pick me up at the airport, to let her know I’d made it to Philadelphia and would see her that evening. It turns out I had sent her the wrong date; she was expecting me the following day and had arranged for me to be hosted by a friend. She kindly checked with her friend, and they were gracious enough to accommodate my early arrival.

One of my lifelong dreams has been to drive along the Pacific coast, from Seattle, taking in sites like the famous Oregon Coast, the Redwood forests, the Avenue of Giants, past San Francisco, all the way down to San Diego.

The Mona Foundation is one of our funding partners, and their headquarter is in Bellevue, Washington, just outside of Seattle. When I informed Laura, their Managing Director, that I would be in the area, she invited me to speak at a Mona event. Mona hosts these gatherings to share their mission with potential as well as current supporters, and I felt honored to be invited to share my work. As a grantee, it was a powerful opportunity to share firsthand the impact of their investment and the work we do at New Era Creative Space.

The Mona Foundation does incredible work globally. In 2025 alone, they reached 1.47 million students across 18 countries through 24 grassroots partners. Their mission is simple yet profound: to root out poverty through education. They do this by finding ethically minded, justice-driven organizations to support, and as a result, their impact is multiplied. In 2021, Mona decided to take on my organization, New Era Creative Space (NECS), as one of only three organizations they support in the United States, specifically funding our girls’ empowerment program.

What struck me most about the weekend was the immediate hospitality. My hosts met me for the first time and embraced me as if I were family. The next few days, I found myself walking in the morning with my host and her friend in Kirkland, a beautiful town by the lake, straddled with vibrant floral landscaping, and unique sculptures. We walked and commiserated over our shared love for food, the kind of cooking that appeals to all the senses. The weather was perfect and mirrored the warmth of my new friends.

The day of the event, the room was filled with friends of the host, Mona supporters and curious newcomers. Laura told a story about a young woman with a disability whom Mona supported. This woman eventually started a school for young people with disabilities in her own community and became deeply respected. It was a beautiful illustration of how a simple act of helping one individual can transform an entire community.

This is Mona’s legacy. They are intentional about picking partners who are building capacity so that they eventually become self-sustaining. Their commitment isn’t the traditional one-year grant; it is a long-term accompaniment through growth.

When I visited their office, I had the opportunity to meet the staff led by Laura and supported by a powerhouse team of three young individuals: Hope, Sophia, and Emma. They are a small but formidable group, backed by a strong Board and a worldwide network of supporters. Mona’s founder, Mahnaz Javid, joined us for lunch where the theme of hope dominated our conversation. We even joked about how Mona is lucky enough to have its very own Hope on the team.

The office was filled with beautiful photos of the organizations Mona supports, showing the faces of children from every corner of the world. Seeing a large, framed photo of two of our own NECS youth warmed my heart, but what moved me even more was a framed napkin. On that napkin were the words Mona, nonprofit, equality, service, and global; the scribbled etchings of a dream cooked up in a restaurant by Mahnaz and her friends twenty-seven years ago. It was a vision born from people dedicated to rooting out global poverty through a shared belief that universal education, gender equality, and community building are essential for lasting change. It struck me how a vision of hope, backed by volition and action, can turn into a driving force for change. Mona Foundation’s name honors Mona, a young woman who loved working with children and was committed to education, service, and social justice. She was martyred in Iran simply for being a member of the Baha’i faith, but her spirit lives on in this mission.

Once again, I’ve been reminded of the power of individuals who aren’t waiting for permission to act. They are reading the reality of their communities and taking action. That is inspiring.

The event itself was captivating, conversations were stimulating and the food was visually stunning, aromatic, and delicious. You could tell that it was prepared with love. I count myself fortunate to have new friends added to my growing worldwide family.

The rest of my trip involved exploring Seattle, the famous Pike Place Market, and the picturesque boardwalk. We made our way to Fremont, the self-proclaimed ‘Center of the Universe,’ a colorful lakeside community where the streets are lined with eclectic shops and unexpected outdoor sculptures, including the massive, stone-carved troll peering out from under the Aurora Bridge. We met up with a dear friend, whom I hadn’t seen in years and had a delightful walk in the Arboretum, catching up and sharing my adventures. A delicious Vietnamese meal and a walk around Capitol Hill completed the visit.

On our last day in Seattle, we took the ferry to Bainbridge Island, enjoying a breezy ride with stunning skyline views before arriving at an island filled with charming boutiques and inviting restaurants. We brought our rental car, which allowed us to drive through the lush, wooded interior, but we spent most of our time exploring on foot. We even found another giant troll, Pia the Peacekeeper, tucked away in the woods.

My husband, Eric, had flown in the day after my presentation, two days before we were set for our road trip and met a few of my new friends who instantly made him feel welcomed. On our last evening in Seattle, we enjoyed dinner with our new friends and watched as the sun set, bringing our visit to an end.

I am reminded once again of the kindness of the human spirit, both in the work Mona is doing and the hospitality shown to me. It echoes the lessons I’ve gathered throughout this journey: when we lead with care and collaboration, the world opens up.

The next leg of my journey is down the Pacific coast. I am excited to explore and visit friends along the way. A dream that will finally be realized. What wonders await.

Thank you for reading. Please comment, share, and subscribe. You can find more of my reflections on ridvanfoxhall.com and Substack.

To learn more about the Mona Foundation, visit their website at monafoundation.org, and New Era Creative Space, visit necspace.org. Your support is an investment in a better world for all of us.

Originally published at https://www.ridvanfoxhall.com on May 17, 2026.

This Mother’s Day, I find myself reflecting on the two soulful human beings I have been honored to raise. My son and daughter are now adventurous, resilient, and hardworking adults with a wonderful sense of humor. They remain my constant source of inspiration. But as I look back on the journey of raising them, I’ve come to a conclusion that our society often overlooks: motherhood is the most intensive leadership training available.

We live in a culture that consistently undervalues the work of a mother. When I left the workplace to raise my children, some might have seen it as detrimental to my career. Yet, when I returned and founded a non-profit organization, I didn’t start from scratch. I came to the table with a toolkit of leadership skills that I hadn’t learned in a boardroom, but in my living room.

When my son was born, I was hit with the weight of a monumental question: How do I raise a spiritual, emotionally intelligent, and physically healthy individual who will contribute to the betterment of the world? I soon realized that to raise a whole being, I had to begin with my own transformation. Children have a way of holding up a mirror to our most glaring imperfections. Leading them required me to work on myself first. I had to develop the skills to lead and accompany them through their life journey. In my work as an executive, I see this same truth: we cannot lead others effectively until we have done the inner work required to be a conscientious leader.

What we don’t speak about enough is how motherhood naturally develops the exact qualities we admire in strong leaders, often in their most practical, high-stakes forms. These are the skills I use every day to grow a reputable organization that I first learned as a mother.

Vision and values-setting allows mothers to shape the spiritual and ethical culture of a home and guide children toward purpose, just as an executive shapes the culture of their organization. This is paired with Emotional Intelligence, which involves reading emotions, responding with empathy, and helping others feel seen and safe. Adaptability and decision-making under pressure are equally vital; plans change constantly in parenting, teaching mothers to pivot quickly and make judgment calls often with limited rest or information.

Conflict Resolution is another essential skill in action, whether mediating sibling disagreements or teaching accountability. This requires patience and long-term thinking, as leadership in motherhood is rarely about immediate results; it is about nurturing growth over years. Similarly, as leaders of organizations, we are tasked with the long-term sustainability of our missions. This growth is sustained by communication, the art of explaining, listening, negotiating, and repeating clearly and consistently.

Resilience is something every mother and leader can attest to, the ability to continue through exhaustion, uncertainty, and setbacks with perseverance. This is managed through delegation and coordination, where managing the moving parts of a household resembles organizational leadership more than many realize. Mothers often manage the finances of the families, making sure resources are allocated with wisdom and foresight to meet both immediate needs and future goals. Through teaching and mentoring, mothers serve as the first coaches and role models their children encounter, while boundary-setting provides the necessary clarity on when to nurture and when to hold limits, a kind and firm approach.

Ultimately, motherhood is a masterclass in Servant Leadership and crisis management. It requires leading with care and presence, becoming the calm center during illness or emotional upheaval. By encouraging potential, mothers do what great leaders do every day, they help people become who they are capable of becoming.

Motherhood is one of the most demanding leadership roles because it asks you to lead not through title or power, but through example, consistency, and unconditional love. These lessons from parenting have translated directly to how I lead my team. Parenting is a challenging but noble deed; it is the art of guiding human beings and shaping culture with both compassion and accountability. Whether you are leading a family or an organization, remember that people thrive when they feel both a sense of belonging and significance.

I pray for a future where organizations will recognize motherhood as an asset to their companies and to the world.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there. Remember, you are a leader, and the world needs the skills that motherhood has taught you. I give thanks to my mother, my first leader, and all the women in my life who have guided and modeled for me what motherhood should look like.

I’d love to hear from you. How has motherhood or parenting shaped the leader you are today? Please feel free to share your thoughts below.

Originally published at https://www.ridvanfoxhall.com on May 10, 2026.

I arrived in Northern Ireland with a heart full of anticipation, ready to reunite with a friend I had not seen in forty years. I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland, as I have heard so much of the country’s beauty, and was looking forward to the trip. Reuniting with Veronica was instantaneous. When we saw each other, those four decades of separation vanished. We picked up exactly where we left off, a testament to the special phenomenon of New Era, the school we attended in India. As children sent far from our families, we forged a sisterhood that transcended racial and religious lines. We were family then, and seeing her now was like seeing a sister I had stayed in touch with only through messages and video chats. Meeting Veronica’s family and spending time with her grandson, Gabriel, a soulful four-year-old, completed the circle; her family became mine. Today, we have grown children older than we were when we parted in high school.

On my first evening, we went to downtown Belfast for authentic Ethiopian food. Surrounded by the aroma of injera and spices, I noticed an influx of immigrants in the area. Veronica shared that many are experiencing discrimination, a heartbreaking irony in a land that knows the weight of oppression so well.

The first lesson Ireland taught me was practical: Northern and Southern Ireland are two different nations. I realized only a day before leaving Italy that flying into Belfast meant entering the UK, requiring an Electronic Travel Authorization (ETA). Belfast is a city where history is worn on its face. Driving to the restaurant that first evening, the city felt grim at first, marked by its muscular, Victorian seriousness and the visible scars of industrial decline and what they refer to as “The Troubles” — the 30-year-long conflict from long-standing disputes over discrimination against Catholics. That conflict left the city divided by towering barriers and marked by political murals: vivid, sometimes haunting depictions of paramilitary figures, hunger strikers, and historical and current grievances. In the neighborhoods of Belfast, stories of trauma, conquest, and segregation continue to haunt the nation, written on the dark walls of buildings in a stark contrast to the colors I had just experienced in Italy.

The following day, the sun came out, and I was told that I had brought the sunshine. I appreciated the warmth, because the night I arrived was much colder than I had anticipated. I had not packed well for Ireland’s weather. We immediately drove to a store on the way to Veronica’s home to purchase a warm “jumper,” the Irish term for a thick sweater.

With my new jumper in tow, the following day we drove along the Glens of Antrim. The landscape offered a sharp contrast to the city. Along the Glens of Antrim, the countryside is a moving painting of hills and valleys — emerald green fields divided by stone walls and floral bush hedges, where one could imagine fairies living in the mosses. Sheep were scattered like white brushstrokes across the slopes. As we began our journey where the Irish Sea meets the Atlantic in a spectacular collision of grey, blue, and green, the car became a vessel for our shared stories of four decades past. We stopped at Cushendall beach, where we spent an hour walking along the shoreline. Gabriel rolled up his pants and risked his feet in the bracing, cold water, throwing rocks and walking barefoot, reminding me so much of my own son in the New England summers.

I asked Veronica why the hills were so barren of trees, save for the occasional pine plantation, and learned that Ireland was once covered in oak and hazel, but centuries of clearing for farming, shipbuilding, and grazing have left the land open. The emerald beauty we admire is actually a landscape of deforestation. It felt like a metaphor for the land itself, a landscape of long-term exhaustion that mirrors the scars of the people.

Our final destination for the day was the Giant’s Causeway, a geological phenomenon that defies simple description. Stepping onto those 40,000 interlocking black basalt columns felt like walking onto the playground of the gods. The geometry is so precise, hexagonal pillars formed by ancient volcanic activity rising at varying heights, that it feels as if the gods were playing a game of stones. The sight was stunning as we arrived in the late afternoon, as the sun illuminated the salt spray that coats the dark stone.

On our way back to her home, we talked about our past and laughed, remembering the songs we sang as hopeful teens in the hills of Panchgani, India. The Irish countryside so mirrored those hills that the songs of our youth felt perfectly suited for the moment. As little Gabriel eventually succumbed to the swaying of the road and fell fast asleep in the back, Veronica and I broke into song, singing one song after another of our youth. In that quiet, with only the sound of the wind, our voices, still carrying the spark of our youth, filled the car: “So turn that wall into a bridge, take your brothers by the hand, and walk across that bridge to the world God promised man. We are building bridges over the walls that keep us apart.” So appropriate for Ireland.

The following day we visited Belfast, where Veronica drove me through both sides of the sectarian divide. The Peace Walls stand in stark contrast to the beauty of the Glens, reflecting a long history of inequality. Yet, amidst the brick terraces, a cry for hope persists in the words of peace plastered across the concrete blocks, marks left by people from all over the world. I found myself wondering about the efforts to bridge these divides, which led me to the Integrated Education movement in Northern Ireland. This vital initiative brings Catholic and Protestant children together in the same classrooms, teaching them to be agents of their own change. It reminded me so much of the grassroots project that Veronica is working on to empower her community toward oneness through art and community building, much like the work I am doing in Peekskill. Change does not involve doing for people, but giving them the tools to be agents of their own destiny.

The rest of my stay included daily walks in the Antrim Castle Gardens, a magical place where 400 years of history are preserved. I marveled at the “Living Tree” sculptures — intricate carvings of woodland creatures and spirits directly into the bark of the trees. I walked through the vibrant Parterre garden, where tulips bloomed in precise, colorful patterns, down to the shores of Lough Neagh, where I beheld the statue of the Protector of the Lough, the giant Finn McCool. Legend has it that Finn scooped up a piece of the earth to throw at a rival in Scotland; the hole he left became Lough Neagh, and the lump of earth he threw became the Isle of Man. On my last day in Antrim County, we visited the Glenariff Forest Park, where the Queen of the Glens revealed her waterfalls. We walked the path, watching the white water of the Ess-na-Laragh and Ess-na-Crub falls tumble over ancient rocks, the mist cooling us down.

We celebrated Gabriel’s 4th birthday with Veronica’s family with a feast of Persian food and a cake Gabriel helped bake. The realization that one of the family cats was named Ziggy — the same as my daughter’s cat at home — gave us chills. We marveled at the strange little connections I had experienced throughout this journey. During my visit, I had the pleasure of meeting with Veronica’s friends, and our topics always returned to how we must intentionally work towards healing our communities. It struck me that I am fortunate to have friends throughout the world who are inspiring change.

The day before my departure from Ireland, I journeyed by train to Dublin, watching the whitewashed cottages, stone homes, and beautiful countryside. Dublin felt different: a nation expressing itself rather than history still being negotiated. I only had one afternoon in Dublin, so as recommended by Veronica, I visited the Book of Kells at Trinity College. It was breathtaking! Seeing thousands of ancient books in the Long Room preserved with such care brought me a quiet joy. In an age of digital noise, I still treasure the physical act of turning a page. It felt like a small victory in the battle to slow down.

The next day, I boarded a plane to Seattle, Washington, back to the United States after a two-month hiatus traveling the world. Eight countries, 15 cities/towns/villages, and a heart filled with hope.

I left Ireland unsure of many things, but certain of one: the human race is still just one race struggling to find itself. Whether in the hills of India or the glens of Antrim, many of us are all just trying to find our way back to each other, building bridges out of the walls that keep us apart. My trip to Ireland, like much of this sabbatical journey, was a reminder that while walls are built by history, bridges are built by shared humanity.

Thanks for reading. Subscribe, comment, and share. You can find me on Substack, LinkedIn and RidvanFoxhall.com

My journey from the ancient marbles of Athens to the lush rolling hills of Tuscany felt like a continuation of a theme. If Greece was a masterclass in reorienting towards hope, Lucca became a living laboratory for its cultivation. My journey from Greece was meant to be a tightly orchestrated trip including a flight to Rome, a quick dash to the train station, and a connection to Pisa by late evening. But the universe had other plans and a flight delay blew my schedule apart, leaving me stranded in the heart of Rome at night. With the next train departing in the morning, I turned on my data and found a hotel to sleep in for the night. As fate would have it, I checked into the Hotel California and while I was happy to leave the next morning, I first took a sunrise walk through the streets of the neighborhood around the train station. I stumbled upon grand basilicas with towering spires and paved piazzas where ancient ruins merged with modern innovation like stone ghosts. I even found myself succumbing to the charm of a local street market, purchasing a few shirts and heading back to the station with an extra bag in tow. It was a brief taste of Rome that made me promise to return.

The train ride towards Lucca passing through the station at Florence was a shift as the landscape transformed into the Tuscany of the movies. I saw rows of cypress trees standing like sentinels and vineyards clinging to the hillsides. I noticed a recurring palette in the small towns we passed where homes were painted in hues of terracotta, ochre yellow, olive green, and warm gold. The weather that greeted me in Lucca as I got off the train was a perfect Spring warmth and near the station the familiar sounds of West African Pidgin English caught my ear, acting as a surprising and soulful reminder of how small our world truly is. I felt instantly at home.

I was met by my dear friend Moneshia whom I have known for decades, since our days in New York when our young children went to Sunday school together. She and her husband Johannes moved to Lucca two years ago from Germany once their children moved out of the home, walking away from the corporate grind to find a more profound way to give back.

We drove in her tiny car designed for the narrow roads through town and up toward the hills to their villa in the woods. Their home is a classic Tuscan sanctuary where two fragrant lemon trees stand guard in front of the main house, currently under renovation. A few lemons were later transformed by Moneshia’s mother, Joban, into the most delicious lemon curd I have ever tasted. Beyond the villa, the city of Lucca itself is a jewel held within massive Renaissance walls that have been converted into a wide, tree-lined promenade. Within those walls, the city feels like a medieval dream of narrow cobblestone lanes, hidden piazzas, and church towers reaching toward the blue sky. Lucca was once known as the city of 100 churches. I walked those streets and found warmth in the local Italians I met. It was here that I tasted the most incredible gelato, adventurous and delicate flavors like mango kefir and a fragrant saffron, pistachio, and rose.

They acquired the villa for the land that surrounds it and then purchased acres of forest with a mission of earth stewardship through their organization, Forest4Future. They are transforming a property that was dying, taken over by invasive ivy and brambles choking out the native trees. I spent some of my time there rolling up my sleeves to help clean the yard and work in the forest, finding myself happily transformed from a guest into a participant. I learned from Johannes about the oak varieties they are planting to replace the aggressive vines. When I asked why they chose oak, he gave me a lesson in their resilience, their ability to sequester carbon, and their sheer longevity. These trees will not reach maturity for another forty years or so, but they are taking to heart the quote of Oliver Wendell Holmes, “When we plant a tree, we are doing what we can to make our planet a more wholesome and happier dwelling-place for those who come after us if not for ourselves”. This reminds us that we plant for the prosperity of the planet and future generations. Two years ago they bought a hill full of weeds but today that hill has been terraced and five hundred oak trees now lace the landscape. To date, through collaboration with other like minded partners, their global mission has seen the planting of twenty thousand trees across Italy, Germany, Canada, and India.

Beyond the labor there was a beautiful daily rhythm defined by living off the land and the incredible freshness of the food. We spent time cutting fresh herbs from the garden for meals, making mulberry syrup from the flowers foraged during a hike, and gathering eggs from their five chickens daily. Every meal was anchored by daily fresh baked bread and local cheeses that carried the rich flavors of the Tuscan soil. Moneshia shared that they are creating meaningful connections with the local community, including plans for a summer camp for children on their property involving forest school, foraging, water play and more. She explained that she is letting the space be shaped by the land and the people who interact with it, detaching herself from a rigid final outcome to remain present in the laboratory of the moment.

My stay also included a drive to a nature reserve bird sanctuary and a visit to the coastal town of Viareggio. With its Art Nouveau pavilions and fishing port, it felt like a down to earth version of Venice Beach without the tents of homelessness. We passed through Forte dei Marmi, the fort of marble quarries, where marble sculptures adorn every roundabout, and visited the picturesque hill town of Pietrasanta, which was full of galleries and restaurants. We even visited a foundry, Fonderia d’Arte Del Chiaro, to see how they turn copper into sculptural art in the old ways, though Alberto, our guide, told us sadly that this is a dying art.

The eve of my departure, we found ourselves laughing at the absurdity that people refer to stage of their life as retirement, yet they aren’t working less, just differently, while finding a new kind of balance. The word retirement simply did not fit the energy of this life, so we spent our time jokingly brainstorming names for this specific phase and settled on the BigEnding — a play on ending of one phase that is actually a beginning of a phase leading up to the end of one’s fleeting life. Unless we stumble upon a better term we are sticking with it. What will my BigEnding look like?

On the way to the airport in Pisa, we stopped by the famous leaning tower. We road leading down to the town was a windy path with umbrella pines forming a beautiful pathway along the road as we descended into Pisa. The tower, smaller than I imagined from photos, was still a site to behold with its white marble and famous tilt, serving as a great ending to a short but impactful journey. A fitting way to conclude my sort stay in Italy.

As I travel, I am seeing a pattern that is gaining momentum — people taking charge and pouring their time and money into action rather than waiting for the world to give them permission. It is an inspiring example of how individuals are resisting apathy and acting on what they know is right to make this narrow window of time count. While spending these days with my dear friends, I realized they are a perfect example of this reorientation toward hope, creating a blueprint for how one can influence their own community. I left feeling like I had found another piece of the story of those who are planting seeds of hope and taking action now.

You can learn more about this endeavor at Forest4Future.eu. Consider supporting this incredible effort.

Thank you for reading. Please share, follow, and subscribe. You can find me on Substack and at ridvanfoxhall.com

Photos by Ridvan Idara, except photo of me taken by Johannes Zu Eltz

We arrived in Athens in the quiet, hours of the early morning, weary from a long trek through Morocco. As has been the theme of my sabbatical, I haven’t paid much attention to the finer details, choosing instead to lean into the current of the journey and let it carry me where I need to go. Our Airbnb was in the Charilaou Trikoupi neighborhood. At 2:00 AM, the city was a blur of shadows, but even through my exhaustion, I noticed the heavy presence of riot police stationed next door to our apartment. The walls were thick with graffiti, not the artistic murals of a gentrified district, but the jagged, urgent scrawl of a neighborhood that has something to say.

Athens has a long history of youth rebellion, rooted in high unemployment and a feeling of being abandoned by the “Old World” systems. For a moment, as a tourist staying in an Airbnb, I felt the sting of being part of the problem they were protesting. I looked at the walls and saw a profound loss of hope, a generation that feels the future has been sold off to the highest bidder. Yet, even in this rebellious atmosphere, we found a lovely little cafe serving pastries and thick Greek yogurt. As the holiday ended and the shops opened, the neighborhood transformed. We saw the real Athens: an endless sea of cafes, bookstores, pharmacies, and eyeglass shops. Eric noted that the coffee was consistently awesome, and I finally treated myself to authentic spanakopita and classic Greek salad. The intensity of the neighborhood began to feel less like a threat and more like authentic energy. It was a reminder that the most upscale path isn’t always the most honest one.

Looming literally above our apartment was Mount Lycabettus. We walked the uphill path two nights in a row because once simply wasn’t enough to take it all in. Standing at the peak, it was a breathtaking experience to see how dense the city truly is, building after building packed together like a mosaic of concrete and history. We stayed for dinner on the mountain, watching as the sun dipped and the Acropolis began to light up across the way. From that height, the pain on the walls below was invisible, replaced by a magnificent, glowing silhouette of human achievement. It offered a necessary perspective: the city is both its struggle and its beauty, existing simultaneously.

We eventually made our way to the Acropolis itself. Standing in the shadow of the Parthenon, one cannot help but feel the crushing weight of time. It is a masterpiece of man’s ingenuity, yet I found myself thinking of the hands that built it. While history often credits the statesman Pericles and the architect Phidias, these monuments were erected by thousands of laborers, including enslaved people and low-status craftsmen. It is a striking paradox. The hierarchy of rank and the massive egos of ancient rulers who created something of eternal beauty on the backs of those they deemed lesser. Looking from the ancient ruins back down toward the graffiti-covered streets of Charilaou Trikoupi, I realized that the struggle between the rulers and the rest hasn’t changed much in three millennia.

Three days later, we transitioned from the gritty rebellion of Athens to the serene waters of Loutraki. As we drove uphill and away from the dense, bustling heart of the city, the landscape began to shift, trading concrete for the vast, open blues of the Gulf of Corinth. We arrived at the Ramada by Wyndham Loutraki Poseidon Resort, a beautiful sanctuary tucked away between the sea and the mountains. The resort felt almost purposely secluded, far from the distractions of any town. It was a peaceful place designed for reflection, keeping us focused entirely on the conference and the deep connections being made.

I was there to attend the ebbf (Ethical Business Building the Future) conference. I had been invited by a dear friend who, in another twist of fate, couldn’t make it. But as this trip has taught me, I was exactly where I was meant to be. The theme of the conference was Reorienting Towards Hope. In its root, to reorient means to look toward the East, the direction of the rising sun and the birthplace of light. The contrast was jarring but necessary. In Athens, I saw the shadow, the hopelessness and the anger of the youth. In Loutraki, I found the light. I met people from all over — Portugal, Haiti, Rwanda, and the US — leaders, creatives, and youth who are intentionally building new systems.

Unlike rigid, lecture-heavy conferences I’ve attended in the past, this was a community of people turning to the light, actively driving the narrative forward by transforming their communities. Through Knowledge Cafés and Future Salons, we didn’t just ask “What can we fix?” but “Who must we become?” and “How do be become protagonist for change?” I met researchers, business professionals, and creatives. I shared my work with educators dedicated to changing the world through children. Every meal was a seamless continuation of a deep, spiritual conversation. I realized that the rebellion I saw on the walls in Athens and the reorientation I felt in Loutraki are two sides of the same coin. The young people in the city are screaming because they care; they are rebelling against a world that feels incoherent. Our job, as a global community, is to provide the shepherding and the ethical blueprints to turn that rebellion into constructive change.

I left Greece with a renewed sense of belonging. I am part of a global network of people who refuse to succumb to apathy. As I prepared for my next stop in Lucca, Italy, I carried with me the lessons of the Athenian walls and the Loutraki shore: that we must choose, again and again, to face the light, to act, and to become the change we seek. As Václav Havel once said, “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”

I don’t have the answers for the hopeless, but I know that I must impact my sphere of influence. We must guard against the despair of the walls by becoming the lighthouses of the future.

Thank you for reading. Please like, share, subscribe and comment. Follow me on Substack and ridvanfoxhall.com

To learn more about EBBF, visit https://www.ebbf.org/. ebbf is a Baha’i-inspired global learning community that accompanies mindful individuals and groups through daily work and discourse to transform business and the economy thereby contributing to a prosperous, just and sustainable civilization.

April 21st marks the first day of Ridván, and Bahá’ís all over the world are celebrating what is, to Bahá’ís, the most holy of festivals. This sacred period continues through May 1st, a time of profound joy and reflection. I love this season because it is Spring, April is my birthday month, and my parents named me after this “most great festival.” I often joke when I meet other Bahá’ís a few days before the festival begins that “Ridván has arrived early!”

The meaning of the name Ridván is Paradise. As a young child, I always felt like I had to live up to the name and it kind of irritated me. Also, Bahá’ís always made a big deal of my name when I introduced myself and that, too, irritated me. The name is written Ridván but pronounced Rizwan or Rezwan by Persians, though in Arabic it is pronounced the way it is written. However, because my parents named me based on the Bahá’í transliteration, it meant I had to explain to every teacher and individual I met that it is “Ridván but pronounced Rezwan.” So that irritated me as well.

But here is the thing: I have grown to love the name — its sound, its weight, and even the act of explaining it. Ridván means Paradise, a state of absolute bliss and perfection that I strive for daily. To complete this, I’ve recently reclaimed my middle name, Idara, which means Joy in Efik (Nigerian). Together, Ridván Idara serves as the perfect combination and a constant reminder of the state of being I hope to embody.

Ridván marks the twelve-day period in 1863 when Bahá’u’lláh, the founder of the Bahá’í Faith, resided in a garden in Baghdad. It was here that He publicly declared His station as a Manifestation of God, transforming a time of exile into a “Most Great Festival.” Today, Bahá’ís throughout the world celebrate these 12 days to commemorate that declaration of unity and renewal.

The first day is particularly significant because it is when Bahá’ís elect their local representatives. Since there is no priesthood in the Bahá’í Faith, the community is guided by elected bodies known as Spiritual Assemblies. It is a truly unique electoral process: there is no electioneering, no nominations, and no campaigning. Instead, members vote through silent prayer and reflection, electing individuals based on their spiritual qualities and selfless devotion to service.

I spent the first evening with an Italian community in Lucca, Italy. What a delightful evening! The program involved beautiful prayers and the sacred act of voting, followed by some delicious dessert. I did not understand much because the event was mostly in Italian and sadly, my Italian is limited to Ciao and Grazie, but I understood the love and joy that this group of people had for one another and their faith. I loved sitting by and enjoying their conversation which, in pure Italian style, was so full of energy; I loved the cadence of the language itself. I felt welcomed, and every time I introduced myself as Ridván, their faces lit up. They would say something in Italian with a bright smile, kiss me on both cheeks and I somehow felt acceptance.

As the festival continues, I am looking forward to the next chapter of this journey with Bahá’í friends in Ireland.

Happy Ridván to all. May you find joy and paradise in your life. Wishing that we continually strive to bring forth Bahá’u’lláh’s vision of the oneness of humanity.

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The journey to Morocco began with a crossing, not just of borders, but of states of being. I arrived in Casablanca a day ahead of my family, carrying the dust of Kenya and a weariness that had settled deep in my bones. Under the weather and craving stillness, I retreated into the sanctuary of my hotel. There, a hot shower, a quiet meal of soul-warming Moroccan spices, and a heavy dose of vitamin C served as my initiation. I crashed into a deep sleep, waking the next morning refreshed, the air of North Africa finally beginning to feel like home.

When my husband, Eric, arrived the following morning, we had a few precious hours before the children landed in the late afternoon. We took a ride into the heart of Casablanca to witness the Hassan II Mosque, a structure that defies the boundaries between the earthly and the divine. Perched proudly over the Atlantic Ocean, as if the building itself were an extension of the sea, it was commissioned by King Hassan II, who wished for the “throne of God to be built upon the water.”

The artistry is staggering. I found myself tracing the Zellige tilework with my eyes, mesmerized by the hand-chiseled geometric mosaics that draped the walls like ceramic lace. Every inch, a striking impression of bold Moroccan art. We ended our afternoon at Dar Dada, a local recommendation where I had my first true “taste” of the country: a succulent lamb tagine with plums. The sweetness of the fruit against the savory, slow-cooked meat was absolutely delicious, a perfect introduction to a land that thrives on the harmony of extremes.

By the time we gathered the children and headed toward Fes, we were exhausted and fell into a collective slumber in the van, waking only when we reached Riad Salam Fes. We were all entranced, as it was easily the most exquisite sanctuary we have ever inhabited. The riad, with its lush indoor gardens and towering ceilings, felt less like a hotel and more like a preserved dream from the 17th century.

The next day, we entered Medina, the ancient, walled city. Our guide, a man of quick wit and profound knowledge, led us through a labyrinth where time seems to have stood still. In the West, we have largely lost the visceral connection to how things are made, but in Fes, the maallem (master craftsman) is still the heartbeat of the streets. We watched artisans hammering brass, weaving vibrant textiles, and working leather with techniques passed down through millennia. It felt as though we were walking through a living museum, yet it was pulsing with modern life.

Our journey then turned southeast, led by our driver, a man whose kindness was a constant comfort. He didn’t just drive, he looked after the road, stopping to check on stranded drivers as if they were kin. We passed through Ifrane, the “Switzerland of Morocco,” and the ancient cedar forests where Barbary apes stood guard, before the landscape began to shed its greenery for the scorched gold of the desert.

Arriving at the Sahara, we traded our van for camels. As we rode into the sunset toward our luxury camp, I felt a shift in my spirit. The word Morocco itself finds its roots in the Berber Mur N Akush meaning The Land of God. Standing atop a massive dune as the wind whipped sand against my skin and into my eyes, looking at the camels silhouetted against a setting sun, I felt transported to biblical times.

In that vastness, I felt small, yet profoundly connected. Like the “sands of time” we so often speak of, I was reminded that we, too, are fleeting. I looked at my family, my husband and children by my side, and felt immense gratitude. The desert, which has stood for millennia, reminded me of my mortality. What legacy will I leave? What stories am I crafting today? In that moment, the answer was clear: I choose to spend my “now” deepening these ties, experiencing life as if today is all I have.

Morocco is a land of startling contrasts. We moved from the sun-scorched Sahara to the Todra Gorges, where towering limestone canyon walls rose like cathedrals around us. We followed the “Road of a Thousand Kasbahs,” passing through the Dades Valley and the fortified village of Aït Benhaddou. I was struck by how the architecture mirrors the earth. The homes, built of clay reds and dusty pinks, seem to grow out of the mountainsides. These are the oases of Morocco, ribbons of emerald green fed by ancient springs that cut through the barrens. It is a layered ecosystem where date palms, olives, and figs thrive in the shade, a testament to a culture that has learned to bloom in the mouth of the desert.

As we climbed the High Atlas Mountains toward Marrakech, the landscape shifted once more, proving its reputation for extremes. We ascended the majestic Tizi n’Tichka Pass, reaching heights of over 2,200 meters. The desert heat was a distant memory as sleet and rain began to lash against the van. We stopped at the summit, stepping out into the biting, freezing cold to take in this breathtaking scene. Shivering, we looked out over the rugged peaks, the clouds obscuring the Berber villages built into the rock. It was a stark, magnificent reminder of the mountain’s beauty and power, standing there in the chill before descending toward the valley.

Our final stop was Marrakech, the “Red City.” Our guide, shared a perspective that shifted my understanding of the land. He spoke of his people, the indigenous Amazigh — a name meaning “free people.” He explained how the term “Berber” was a foreign label, often used pejoratively by occupiers, and how they are now reclaiming their rightful name and heritage.

Walking through the Marrakech souks, I felt the “ghosts” of the past. The craftsmanship here, the intricate metalwork lanterns and the scent of vegetable-tanned leather, felt like a silent rebellion against colonization. Morocco does not merely absorb foreign influence; it “Moroccanizes” it, wrapping it in its own ancient traditions until it becomes something entirely unique.

We ended our journey with a sense of awe. Six days was merely a glimpse, a “taste,” of a country where the past is so seamlessly woven into the present. It was an ‘epic’ road trip, as proclaimed by my children. A week of card games during breaks, feasts of olives and fresh bread, and quiet reflections overlooking vast valleys.

I am writing this now from Athens, where a new story unfolds, but a piece of my heart remains in the Land of the Gods. I miss my children, who are now safely back in New York, but I know we carry the same stories home. We tasted the tagine, we felt the desert wind, and we saw the hand of the craftsman in every stone. There is so much more to see and learn from Morocco and six days is not nearly enough.

Inshah-Allah (God willing,) We will return.

Footnote: The tour company that we used for our private tour of Morocco is called Deep Morocco. We were extremely pleased with the service we received and the hospitality of our guides and driver.

Thank you for reading! Please comment, share and clap. Would love your feedback.

Today I turn 56. As I sit at a resort in Greece, midway through a three-month sabbatical, my heart is filled with gratitude. Here is what this trip is teaching me:

The World is a Gift: I am falling deeper in love with this blue planet. Every new landscape is a reminder of the “awe and wonder” we often forget in our busy daily lives.

The Divine is in the Details: My faith hasn’t just stayed steady; it has grown. I feel an ever-guiding presence of God in the strangers I meet and the paths I take.

Rest is Productive: This time is for self-discovery, fun, and genuine rest. Through writing and new interactions, I’m uncovering layers of myself.

Health is Wealth: I don’t take my health for granted. To be 56 and traveling the world is a blessing I carry with immense thanks.

Family is my Anchor: While I am miles away in distance, I feel closer to my family than ever. Their love provides the secure base that allows me to fly this far, and their presence in my heart turns every beautiful sight into a shared blessing.

To my readers: When was the last time you let yourself be truly “in awe” of something? I’d love to hear in the comments.