By Travis Giauque

We approached the front entry of the home, moving cautiously—unsure of what kind of connection, if any, we had with the people who lived there. We exchanged a glance and chose to follow our escort inside, ducking beneath the low entryway.

As soon as we stepped in, the roof caught our attention—thin tin, sagging and worn, punctured in several places. We kept crouching to avoid scraping our heads on its sharp, rusted edges.

The floor beneath us was made of dirt, but it had clearly been shaped with purpose—to guide out the rain that inevitably leaked through the holes above. We settled onto what remained of an old, weathered wooden bench, sitting about eight inches off the ground in a gathering space no larger than thirty square feet. Just in front of us stood a solid wall of large red clay bricks, held together by thick lines of concrete mortar spilling between the seams. It stood a mere five feet from the wall opposite it.

As we began to take in the room, our escort returned from the back, this time with a young woman—Gabriela. Her long, dark hair was neat and fell gently around her face. She wore a pale-yellow shirt, slightly stained but clearly cared for. When we were introduced, Gabriela smiled with a warmth and appreciation in her eyes that was uncommon among many others that I had known, that seemed to radiate from her entire person.

Gabriela began to share her story—her family’s history and how they came to be here. She was the second oldest of six children. Her oldest sibling was twenty-two, the youngest about six. Two years earlier, their father had walked away—overwhelmed by the weight of his addiction and the responsibility of family—and never came back. Their mother did her best to provide for another year: food, shelter, anything she could manage.

But after falling behind repeatedly on house payments, her mother left too—without saying a word. She never told her children that the home could no longer be paid for. A week later, Gabriela’s uncle came to collect. When she and her sister tried to explain the situation, there was no compassion. He told them to leave. He wanted to make room for his own home on the same property.

Not knowing what else to do, they stayed—until one early morning, the walls of the house began to shake. Their uncle was tearing it down while they were still inside. The younger children screamed, and together they ran into the darkness, watching their home collapse under his hands. He wanted the land, and he took it.

Later, they were given permission to build a small structure on a patch of land next to their uncle’s new home. That solid red brick wall I mentioned earlier? It was now an exterior wall of his house—looming just feet from where Gabriela and her siblings now lived.

Over time, cruel rumors began to spread. People in the community questioned how two girls so young could be caring for so many children. The whispers turned sharp: “They must be prostitutes,” neighbors said. “How else could they afford to survive?”

But I came to know Gabriela for who she really was. She—and her siblings—were full of light. Resilient, kind, and relentlessly hopeful. Abandoned by their parents, betrayed by family, slandered by their community—and yet still able to smile. Still able to see the good. Still full of faith that something better was coming.

There are times in my own life when I’ve thought, I have it so hard, or I don’t know if I can get through this. And then I remember Gabriela—her story, her strength, her smile. I remember how she focused on what she did have, not what she’d lost. And I remember that I, too, have much to be grateful for.

The Law of Relativity states, “Your situation is not fundamentally good or bad until you compare it to something else.” Life will hand us difficult experiences—situations we wouldn’t choose. But this law reminds us that when we pause and compare our circumstances to something harder, something heavier, we can begin to recognize the good that still exists in our own lives. That shift leads to gratitude—and that gratitude gives us the strength to move forward toward better, more fulfilling outcomes.

That was true for Gabriela—and it’s true for me every time I remember her story.

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