My “aha” moment never came as a single, sudden realization. From the very first bus ride from the airport to the hotel, I kept telling myself, “You’re in Senegal.” “You’re on a different continent.” “This is not Philadelphia.” But it didn’t quite land. After all, the sky looked the same. The unfinished construction sites looked the same. The cars looked the same. The streets were just as busy, the honking sounded familiar, and people were still just people. They were walking, talking, laughing, moving through their day.

The 8-hour flight seemed to have dropped me off not so far from home. After all, despite not being fluent in French or Wolof, I found warmth in every interaction with neighbors, shopkeepers, and strangers. I found comfort in the rhythm of bartering, the smiles, and the openness. I didn’t mind that we stuck out like a sore thumb as tourists. I’ve moved 14 times in my life, and one thing I’ve learned is how to find “home” wherever my two feet are. For that month, Senegal was home. Peter and Papadi became my brothers. Margot became my mother. Allie, my roommate, became my sister.

Even when I got into a minor car accident with some friends and we all ended up in a chaotic car chase with a taxi driver speaking an unfamiliar local language, it still didn’t fully hit me. But maybe that’s the lesson: being in a different country doesn’t always mean feeling foreign. The “wow” wasn’t in how different everything was. It was in how familiar it started to feel.

This slow-burning realization taught me that cultural difference isn’t always loud or obvious. It’s subtle and softened by shared humanity. That’s a lesson I’ll carry forward in healthcare, in travel, and in life.