Honey, I know, I know, I know times are changin’…

(“Purple Rain,” Prince)

When I first arrived in Minnesota, I did not know which was the greater loss—the pain of remembering or the pain of forgetting. My memory walk in Kazakhstan had once shown me faces of Russians and Kazakhs offering flowers to their heroes’ monument, tears falling as the eternal flame burnt in the park.

Years later, standing in the Minnesota Veterans’ Park, I felt the same solemnity. Rows of names carved in stone—each representing a life once vibrant, now eternal—reminded me that wars never truly end. They leave behind silence, grief, and monuments. Behind every hero’s name lies a story of struggle, frustration, and unfinished dreams.

At that moment, I remembered being young and asking, “Where is Vietnam, and why did so many soldiers die there?” Years later, I would find myself walking its streets, tracing the echoes of those names.

A farewell and a welcome

That reflection deepened during the retirement rites of Ms. Ginger Hedstrom, honoured by the Minnesota governor for her lifelong work in social justice. Her parting words—“Thank you all for what you are, for what you bring, and for what you do”—felt like both a farewell to her generation of changemakers and a quiet welcome to mine.

The gift of being a visiting fellow in Minnesota was access to a tapestry of lives—meeting senators and social workers, community organisers and artists—each one treated as equal. Every Sunday, I joined a different congregation: Lebanese, Mexican, African, Karen, Hmong, and Syrian. I watched how faith, in its many tongues, carries the same longing for belonging.

Prince once sang, “You say you want a leader, but you can’t seem to make up your mind.” I realised then that leadership is not about power—it is about compassion.

The mirror of aging

Visiting a home for the aged in St. Paul reminded me of my mother in the Philippines. The residents were tenderly cared for—hair styled, nails painted, rooms decorated like home—but still, something was missing: family.

Their loneliness echoed the ache my mother feels when I am away. Ageing, I saw, is not merely frailty—it is longing. Longing for time, attention, and love. I began to dream of an extension programme where students visit older persons like my mother, not to perform charity but to offer companionship. Because many elderly people do not need grand programmes—they simply need to be noticed, hugged, and heard.

How can you just leave me standing, alone in a world so cold?

(“When Doves Cry,” Prince)

Living in Minnesota also meant confronting its contradictions. On bus rides across Minneapolis, I noticed silent lines of separation—white passengers hesitant to sit beside Black passengers, and vice versa.

America, I realised, still wrestles with the ghosts of racism.

At a Lutheran church’s Circle of Peace, I listened as Black Americans shared stories of inherited pain—traumas carried like heirlooms across generations. Racism, I learnt, is not a closed chapter of history but a living story still being written.

As a brown Asian woman, I felt both an outsider and an ally. The idea of white supremacy must end, because healing requires all of us. To respect people’s histories is to honour their survival. When doves cry, the world must listen.

A song of home

At a Christmas gathering with the Philippine Study Group of Minnesota, we sang Lupang Hinirang—our national anthem. Singing it abroad felt different; every line carried weight and memory. It was sung not out of routine, but out of love.

That night, laughter mingled with nostalgia as Filipinos from different islands shared food and stories. I met my foster family because of Tita Elsa and Tito Addi, whom I have met during the Humphrey opening fellowship programme. Many Filipinos I met in America confessed that though they were thriving, they still longed for home.

Prince once sang, “Nothing compares, nothing compares to you.” And I realised that though I had travelled far, nothing compared to the warmth of my own country.

The coldest night

Not every day was kind. For a time, I rented a room from a woman who had been divorced three times and struggled with mental illness. One night, a small misunderstanding spiralled into hours of shouting and fear. I stayed awake, silent, waiting for morning.

It was then I learnt from fellow volunteers that many Americans live quietly with mental health struggles. That night taught me empathy in its most uncomfortable form. Sometimes, compassion is not spoken—it is chosen in silence.

The river and the rain

Joy returned in unexpected places. I chanted “Let’s Go Wild!” at my first hockey game, feeling the crowd’s energy pulse through me. On weekends, I wandered through the Minnesota Zoo, where animals moved freely—a living metaphor for care and freedom. These things are possible because I have met a Canadian friend who was also visiting Minnesota, and he was a professor in Canada. He was very generous to me and most of the time he invited me to visit the jazz bar and treat me with red wine while listening to the music of Minnesota.

At the Mississippi River, I watched the water flow beneath the bridges of Minneapolis. Its rhythm—sometimes calm, sometimes wild—mirrored life itself.

At Lake Superior in Duluth, the icy wind brushed my face as waves crashed against rocks. Standing before that endless horizon, I realised that peace is not the absence of struggle—it is the understanding of it.

The wisdom of the first people

During a Native American cultural festival, I witnessed a sacred ceremony of drumming, chanting, and dancing. One Indigenous woman told me, “Modern society is too busy to feel. We compartmentalise our lives until we forget our connection to the earth.”

Her words became a lesson. To heal the world, we must first learn to listen to the land, to each other, and to the stories we inherit. Social work, I realised, begins with that kind of listening.

Since you’ve been gone I can do whatever I want… but nothing compares to you.

(“Nothing Compares 2 U,” Prince)

Teaching was another transformative part of my stay. I gave lectures at St. Catherine University, the University of Minnesota Duluth, and the University of Wisconsin–Superior.

In a Brown Bag Lecture on Gender and Displacement in Mindanao, I shared the stories of families displaced by conflict in the Philippines. Education, I learnt, is a bridge of empathy that connects voices across borders.

Working with WISE (Women’s Initiative for Self-Empowerment) was equally profound. Refugee girls and foreign-trained doctors shared their dreams and struggles. Many of the doctors—Somali, Egyptian, Iraqi, and Burmese—drove taxis or worked in stores to survive.

“We just want to serve,” one Ethiopian doctor said. Together, they made a pact to call each other “Doctor”—not as a title of privilege but as an act of self-affirmation and hope.

Finding light in the Purple City

Minnesota was not only reflection—it was rhythm. One night, I sat in a jazz bar in downtown Minneapolis, the trumpet’s golden notes melting into the dark. Another evening, laughter filled a comedy club—proof that humour, too, heals.

And yet, one regret lingered: Prince had already left this world before I arrived. As I walked past murals of his purple silhouette, I imagined the city when Purple Rain still echoed in every corner. Though I never saw him perform, his spirit was alive in the streets—a reminder that art, like social work, transcends time.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.

(“Let’s Go Crazy,” Prince)

As my fellowship ended, I carried both joy and sorrow—the death of my best friend Joel (he passed away the day I left my country for the USA), the ache of leaving home, and the warmth of new friendships.

Minnesota taught me that life is both privilege and purpose. The people I met—refugees, elders, students, dreamers—showed me that home is not always a place. Sometimes it is a connection, a shared humanity, a song sung under the same purple sky.

There will always be losses and gains, pain and healing, crises and kairos moments. But if we breathe, we can still choose compassion.

And for that, I remain deeply grateful—to life, to people, and to the journey itself.

Note: The article is dedicated to all Community Solutions Fellows under the International Research Exchange Program, which ended this year.