The Travelers

I pull up the calendar.

Another trip. Another city. Another set of families who need to hear what we’ve learned the hard way.

I start making the calls, my voice steady even though my heart never is.

I send the texts—quick confirmations, little check-ins—because every moving piece has to fall into place.

The schedule takes shape.

We book the flights.

We book the hotel.

We pack our bags, each item folded with quiet purpose.

Then comes the part I dread and cherish all at once—

We say goodbye to our families.

We hug our children really, really tight. We smell their hair. We memorize their warmth. We let them roll their eyes when we kiss them twice, because they don’t know that’s how we store courage.

We drive to the airport. The world outside the window blurs by, but inside, the air is heavy. We don’t talk much. We’re already thinking ahead.

We get on the plane.

We buckle in.

The engines roar, and we rise through the clouds. Every mile takes us further from our own children and closer to someone else’s.

When we land, we head straight to the families who have been waiting.

We hug them—long, strong hugs that say, We know. We’ve been where you are.

We hug their children, feeling their little arms squeeze us back, a reminder of why we’re here.

We sit with them at kitchen tables. We walk through their homes, pointing to what is safe, what is not safe.

We answer questions they didn’t even know how to ask.

We give them the words for what they’ve been living through.

We spend hours like this—listening, showing, comforting, warning.

And then, the part I wish never came—

We tell them goodbye.

Back to the airport.

Back through the security lines.

Back on the plane.

Back up through the clouds.

Back down to the ground.

Back in the car.

Back home.

We hug our families again, holding them a little longer this time.

And all of this—every mile, every conversation, every goodbye—is because we hope that one day, we can save somebody else’s children…

like we couldn’t save ours.