When I returned home from my military service at age 24, I found myself in a world I no longer recognized. I had matured in many ways, yet I was incapable of planning my life. In the military, everything was structured for me: when to wake up, when and what to eat, how to dress, and even who to spend time with.

Our battalion had a high-profile mission—we guarded the President, Saint Peter, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We had to be flawless, especially as corporal majors like myself were responsible for others. But in all that time, hyper-focused on routines and precision, I had never really thought about my future.

People encouraged me to take time off, travel, and recharge—to gain new experiences. I also realized I didn’t even have a job.

The perfect opportunity arose when I applied to work for a commercial airline—a job I would keep for nearly a decade. I was surrounded by people my age, traveling the world 20 days a month, and getting paid well for it.

After a few years, while my love for travel remained strong, the places we visited—South America, Africa, Asia—started to feel like second homes. I began to wonder what I was doing with all my free time.

Many of our destinations were five-star vacation paradises surrounded by extreme poverty. One place, in particular, captured my heart: Kenya.

Working in aviation, puntuality is everything. But in Mombasa, time moves differently. That was my first real lesson in cultural diversity. Kenyan cleaning crews, catering staff, and ground personnel didn’t share our urgency. While we were scrambling to prepare for boarding, the cleaning crew would move through the cabin with manual rolling brushes—chatting, laughing, unbothered by our stress.

When we tried to pressure them, their most common response was:
 “Pole, pole! Hakuna matata!”
Which means: “Slowly, slowly. No problem.”

And they were right. The check-in process in Mombasa was always slow, and our urgency was entirely self-imposed. Despite living in poverty, the Kenyan people I met seemed much happier than those of us chasing careers and deadlines.

I started asking myself:
 “Why am I trying to force my culture on someone else, assuming it’s superior? Who here is really stressed? Who is happier?”

I wanted to learn more about Kenyan culture. I wanted to help. I wanted to share the privilege I had—being born in Italy—with someone less fortunate.

One day, with a group of colleagues, we visited an orphanage funded by churches and governments around the world. It looked better than many Italian schools—solid buildings, clean surroundings, barbed wire, even perimeter cameras. There was nothing we could offer that wasn’t already being provided.

As we left, we noticed a sign for another orphanage. This one was very different.

It was run by a retired British couple, entirely self-funded. The structure needed significant repairs. Inside, beds were handmade from scrap wood, fastened with nails and ropes—those same ropes acting as bed bases. The rusted front gate bore the name:
 "Tumaini – Home of Hope."

About 15 orphan children lived there, all HIV-positive or terminally ill with AIDS.

The British couple had not only named the orphanage "Tumaini" (Swahili for hope)—they had also given the name Hope to the smallest girl there.

When I met Hope, I felt an instant connection. She was just two and a half years old—so frail her head seemed too large for her tiny body. She couldn’t stand and spent most of her time lying on a large square pillow in the main room, surrounded by other kids running and playing. All she could do was lift her head and smile—those big black eyes shining with joy, as if she were part of every game.

In that moment, I found my calling.

I began raising money to support the couple. I delivered the funds personally and felt good about it—at first. But something still felt incomplete.

The next month, we brought suitcases full of school supplies. Still, that emptiness lingered.
Then I built a website for them.
Then we collected toys.
We even brought a PlayStation and games—forgetting that their only TV was a 14” monitor locked inside a ceiling cabinet.

They were always grateful. But I wasn’t fulfilled.

Even when we took the orphanage owner to the grocery store and bought a month’s worth of food, that hollow feeling remained.

And then it hit me.

Hope showed me that what I was doing was, in some ways, selfish. Don’t get me wrong—everything we brought was needed. But my motivation was to make myself feel good thinking I was doing “the right thing,” and perhaps even to be seen as a role model.

I remember it was late August, right before malaria season. We arrived at Tumaini with more donations. The children were outside playing. Hope, as always, was lying on her pillow, trying to lift her head to peek out the window, searching for the other kids. She couldn’t see them. And for the first time, her smile was missing.

And that’s when it clicked.

They’re children.
They don’t care about school supplies.
They don’t care about toys.
They don’t care about food or money.
They want to play. They want joy.

That afternoon, I sat down and played with Hope. We laughed. We had fun. And one by one, the other children came in and joined us.

My gap was finally filled.

How strange life is. A beautiful little girl in Mombasa, Kenya taught me more with a single smile than all my years spent chasing happiness.

Hope passed away that same year.
A child to whom life gave almost nothing—yet who was always ready to give joy to everyone around her.