River Roots Redevelopment: Where Burden and Beauty Coexist

By Rachel Brosnahan

This is a bit of a part two to the story I shared last week about my time in Europe. After the Intensive, I spent the second week of my trip traveling through parts of Serbia, Hungary, and Croatia. Some of it was to reconnect with family roots. Some of it was simply to experience new places. But all of it gave me a deeper sense of what people carry—and what places can carry, too.

My first stop was Belgrade, Serbia. It’s a city with an incredibly long and layered history. And to be honest, it felt heavy. The first person I spoke with was a taxi driver who was talkative and friendly—and clearly frustrated. He talked about income inequality, the cost of living, and working multiple jobs just to stay afloat. I heard similar sentiments from my local tour guide the next day. She was young, passionate about her country, and honest about her discouragement. She pointed out the numerous times Belgrade has been destroyed and rebuilt, how little trust people have in their government, and how the pain of war still lingers in visible and invisible ways.

As we walked, we passed buildings still damaged from bombings and bullets and protests that have been going on for months. Some were protesting injustice; others were protesting the protestors. One park was entirely fenced off because of political encampments. Tension hung in the air, and with it, a kind of sadness I could feel but couldn’t fully name. My tour guide later messaged me with videos of more arrests and told me to stay away from the active protest areas. It was a lot to take in.

And yet, there was also beauty. When I stepped into a botanical garden, it felt like the weight lifted just a little. The quiet of that space, the simplicity of green things growing—it reminded me that even in places that carry so much burden, there is still space for life. In other parts of the city, I noticed the striking architecture of Orthodox churches and historic buildings—many of which take years, even decades, to complete. There’s certain beauty in that kind of commitment and endurance. It reminded me that even in places shaped by hardship, people still choose to create something lasting, something beautiful, something that points to hope.

After the city, I traveled out to see Serbia’s national parks. Tara National Park, on the Bosnian border, took my breath away. The soft green grass and trees, misty ridgelines, and sharp cliffs gave way to sweeping views of the Drina River valley below. It felt untouched in a way that invited you to pause and be still. The contrast between the city and the mountains was stark: from gray buildings and heavy history to open skies and solid, peaceful beauty. That contrast stuck with me. Not just because of what I saw, but because of what it made me think about. Places carry weight. Sometimes it’s the visible kind—crumbled walls, overgrown lots, closed-up shops. But often, it’s less obvious. It’s the quiet tension in the air, the stories people have stopped telling, the dreams they’ve let go of. The history of a place is never just in a museum or a textbook. It’s in the faces of the people, in the way they speak, in what they no longer believe is possible. When hope is thin, it shows.

I couldn’t help but think about our own towns back home. We have some places where sadness has settled in so long it starts to feel normal, where bitterness has crept in, and people have grown jaded by disappointment. Places where people feel unheard or unseen. Where buildings are falling down and people stop looking up. We might not have protest encampments, but we still have that weight—that heaviness. And yet, you can see a contrast here too. There is a vast beauty in the place we live, and there are still people who want to believe something better is possible, even if they’re not sure where to start.

The burdens our communities carry come from history, hardship, and hard choices. But there’s beauty too and we need to name it, protect it, and celebrate it. What I saw in Serbia didn’t leave me with answers. But it did leave me more committed to listening—to both people and places. To being someone who notices. Someone who doesn’t rush past what feels too hard or too heavy. Because sometimes just noticing, just naming what’s there, is part of the work. And sometimes, noticing leads to hope. And maybe, by holding that beauty alongside the burden, we begin to shift what’s possible for the future.

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Rachel Brosnahan is the Community Engagement Coordinator for River Roots Redevelopment. Want to help us rethink what redevelopment can look like—together? Follow the conversation and share your thoughts with us on Facebook and LinkedIn, or reach out directly to rachel@riverrootsredevelopment.org. We’d love to hear from you!