This morning I walked through the plaza in the center of Valencia and had to stop for a moment. In the middle of the square stood a massive sculpture towering above the people gathered beneath it. Some were taking photos, others were simply standing there looking up. It had the quiet pull of something that makes you pause, even if you were just passing through on an ordinary morning.

Valencia is in the middle of Las Fallas, the annual celebration where neighborhoods build enormous sculptures filled with satire, politics, and social commentary. These towering figures appear all over the city for a few days, and then on March 19th they are burned. The art is meant to be temporary, which makes the message feel even more intentional. It exists long enough for people to see it, reflect on it, and talk about it before it disappears.

The sculpture in the plaza references the anti fascist character from the film The Great Dictator by Charlie Chaplin. Chaplin made the film in 1940 as a direct satire of fascism at a moment when the world was already sliding toward war. Standing there this morning, the symbolism felt unmistakably connected to the present.

The soldier stands holding a weapon in one hand while the other hand gently holds a butterfly. On his helmet sits a small rainbow heart. On the pedestal beneath him, painted in bright colors, is one word: hope.

Seeing it made me unexpectedly emotional.

Moving our family out of the United States last year was not a decision we made lightly. Leaving meant distance from family and from a community we built over many years. It meant packing up a life that had shaped who we are. But it also meant choosing safety for Daniel in a moment when the political climate around trans youth in the United States felt like it was becoming more hostile with every passing year.

Standing in that plaza this morning, looking up at a piece of public art that openly rejects fascism and carries a rainbow heart so plainly on its helmet, I felt something settle inside of me that has been slowly forming since we arrived here. Relief.

And I feel that relief, not because the world is suddenly safe, and not because fascism is something that exists only in the past. But because there are still places where people are willing to name it, challenge it, and respond to it with art that insists on something better.

For a moment, surrounded by strangers in a Valencian plaza, I felt hopeful that Daniel might be able to breathe a little easier here. Sometimes hope appears in quiet ways, like a sculpture meant to burn, reminding everyone who walks past it that the future is still something we can shape.