At the beginning of January, I traveled to Nicaragua and was welcomed into the lives and homes of complete strangers. These homes had dirt floors and corrugated metal walls. There was no running water. After a few days of adjusting, I found I was more compelled by observing the juxtaposition of people’s attitudes with the environments they live, work, and play in rather than with the conditions themselves.

Wherever I went, the stories were familiar. {A baby is born. A man is diagnosed with cancer. A woman wants a better education. A married couple lives apart so he can find work to provide for their family.} I saw hopes and fears, frustrations and burdens. I saw celebrations and disappointments.

Philosophically, tomorrow (mañana, in Spanish) holds hope for the reality we—collectively and individually—want to see in our lives. It’s about the disparity of what we have and what we want, and it’s about the attitude with which we approach the discrepancy. As I observed people, I saw beauty and texture in the possibilities of what they hoped mañana would bring into their lives. I saw trepidation in the uncertainties, and gratitude in the simplicity. Just as in our culture, ‘manana’ may turn out to be ‘next week’ or ‘next month’. In some cases, manana may never come.