Our story began in the most unexpected place—an airport, the starting point of a mission trip to Ecuador. As we waited for our flight, I was focused on one pressing question: “Do you have cats?” My allergies were flaring up, and I was determined to find the culprit. During my interrogation, I met Avery. Little did I know, this was the beginning of something truly special. When we arrived in Ecuador, our conversations flowed effortlessly. Avery, as it turns out, had a bit of a reputation—he was the guy who was always talking to the ladies at these kinds of events. Though we enjoyed each other’s company, he was mindful not to make the trip about us or distract from the mission at hand. Over the course of ten days, Avery got to know me—truly know me. He learned about my broken past, my struggles with self-worth, and my journey of faith. While our conversations were often lighthearted and full of laughter, we also delved into deep and honest discussions. Vulnerability has always been important to me—I want people to see me for who I am, right from the start. If someone is going to dislike me, they should at least know exactly why. One of the most pivotal moments of our trip happened deep in the Amazon jungle. One evening, Avery and I stayed up late, creating a card game and talking about everything and nothing all at once. That was the night we both say we truly met. From that moment on, we were inseparable. The next morning, we were scheduled for a sunrise canoe ride to see freshwater dolphins. Despite the pouring rain, I got ready and headed to the common area, only to find Avery curled up on the ground, using plastic-covered couch cushions as a makeshift bed and a poncho as his blanket. He had fallen ill with food poisoning. Without hesitation, I made him hot tea, brought fresh water, and found more ponchos to keep him warm. The rain was too heavy for the canoe ride to happen, so instead, I sat on a hammock next to him and stayed there until we had to leave. In that moment, I felt a connection—an innate need to care for him. As the trip came to an end, I may or may not have taken matters into my own hands and rearranged the flight seating assignments so that Avery and I could sit together on the way home. It was on that return journey that he spoke the words that would change my perspective forever: “It’s not about where you’ve been; it’s about where you’re going.” For someone like me—someone who has struggled with making the past my identity—those words became an anchor. When you come from a broken past, it is so easy to let it define you. But Avery reminded me that as long as my heart is set on Christ, God will take care of the rest. That mission trip started as an opportunity to serve others, but it became something even greater—it became the place where I found the person who would see me, truly see me, and love me for exactly who I am and who I am striving to be.