Kindness Doesn’t Have A Border

UNFILTERED MUSING 06

It’s hard to shake the heaviness I’ve been feeling after reading the headlines announcing massive deportations and new travel bans. The current administration is restricting visitors from certain countries, limiting others, all in the name of “protecting Americans from foreigners.”

I’m not here to give you the full political breakdown. You’ve probably already read about it, or could with a quick search. But what’s harder to escape are the images and stories: mass deportations, families torn apart, people being displaced from the only homes they’ve known.

It breaks my heart. And what I can’t stop thinking is this:
I was once a foreigner.

From 2017 to 2020, I lived overseas. First in Uganda, then in China. I’ve now traveled to over 25 countries, and in all but one of them, I was the outsider.

What I’m seeing in the news now paints a dangerous picture. That difference is something to fear. That diversity is a threat. That non-white foreigners are somehow less welcome, less safe, less worthy. Even Chinese students are being denied visas simply for wanting to study here.

I recently listened to a commencement speech by Harvard graduate Yurong “Luanna” Jiang, and she said something that’s stayed with me:

“We’re starting to believe those who think differently, vote differently, or pray differently, whether they’re across the ocean or sitting right next to us, are not just wrong. We mistakenly see them as evil. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”

And she’s right. It really doesn’t.

When I moved to Beijing, I didn’t know a single person. One of the biggest cities in the world and I was just this American trying to figure it all out. I remember my first birthday there. It landed during summer school. Devanny wasn’t with me yet. I was missing home. Missing the people who usually make birthdays feel special.

I walked into school like it was any other day, feeling a little sad, missing the comfort of home. But when the students left after their half-day summer session, something beautiful happened. My Chinese coworkers brought out a cake and a paper crown. They sang Happy Birthday in Mandarin. They clapped, hugged me, took pictures. They made me feel seen.

They made me feel like I belonged.

They made the foreigner feel at home.

My birthday surprise in Beijing with my friends and colleagues. 🩵

And it wasn’t just in China. In Uganda, I celebrated another birthday with a family that took me in like their own. I became close with their son — he was six years old and quickly became my little best friend. We shared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We sat together in church. At soccer matches. We were always side by side.

His family lived in a red clay home with a grass roof. Every time they invited me for dinner, they served their finest meal. Always insisted on giving me the first plate, even when I asked them not to. That kind of hospitality — it still makes me emotional.

They taught me that hospitality isn’t giving someone your leftovers. It’s giving them your best.

My little bestie and I celebrating his 6th birthday with his family.

The more countries I visit, the more this truth becomes clear: kindness doesn’t have a border.

I’ve learned so much from people across this world. Not just about culture or food or language, but about what it means to care for one another.

In Vietnam, a woman at a corner shop greeted me by name every single morning. She didn’t have to. But she did. And it made me feel seen.

In Thailand, when I came down with an infection, a local doctor used the flashlight on his phone to examine my throat. No fancy tools. Just knowledge, heart, and help.

In Uganda, joy looked like generosity. People didn’t hoard because they had little. They shared.

In China, elders were honored. Community came first.

And through it all, I have a deep awareness of my own privilege. How my skin, my passport, my American accent protect me in ways many others will never experience. I’ve never been pulled aside at customs. I’ve never had someone question whether I belong. People tend to assume the best of me, not the worst.

The only time I get looked at sideways is when someone realizes I’m queer.
And even that often stays invisible until I say something.

But I know many who don’t get that luxury. Many who are judged before they speak. Whose mere presence is seen as a threat.

And I think that’s why this hurts so deeply.

Because I’ve had the safety, the welcome, the freedom to travel the world and be embraced in places I didn’t call home. And now I’m watching my own country turn people away. People who have built lives here. Raised children here. Contributed here.

A few months ago, I was getting my nails done. The nail tech told me he was from Taiwan. I shared that I’d lived in China and now have family in Taiwan. His eyes lit up. You could feel the shift in energy. He felt seen.

A customer beside us asked a question. He stumbled over the English. And without hesitation, he turned to me. Like he just knew I’d help. Like I was safe.

That’s happened before, especially with folks still learning English. And I get it. I’ve been the one searching for words at the market. The one trying to read signs I couldn’t understand.

I remember what that felt like. How grateful I was for even one person who made things easier. One person who treated me with patience and respect. One person who didn’t make me feel like a burden. To just want one person to help, without making you feel small.

And I never want anyone to feel like that around me.

My parents were both teachers, and they taught me from a young age to treat the custodian like you would the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Respect doesn’t depend on status. It depends on seeing someone’s humanity.

That’s what Yurong Jiang meant when she said:

“We are bound by something deeper than belief: a shared humanity.”

She’s right.

And I’ve seen it. In the way kids laugh the same in China as they do in Uganda as they do here in the U.S. Different languages. Different cultures. Same silliness. Same need for love and belonging.

That’s what makes what’s happening now so painful. We’re turning away from one another when we could be leaning in. We’re forgetting that our differences can be our teachers.

So here’s what I know.

We can learn from one another.
We can create safety, not just for ourselves but for those who’ve traveled far from home, who are doing their best to belong.
We can treat immigrants as neighbors, not threats.
Because we’ve all longed to feel like we belong.

And if you’ve ever been the outsider, you know how much that kindness matters.

I honor the privilege I have to travel, to connect, and to welcome. And I just really, deeply hope we all start choosing to do the same.

Me truly immersed in Hoi An, Vietnam. I went on a week long solo trip here and loved every minute of it. One of my favorite places I’ve ever visited. One day, I’d love to take Devanny there.