The Hospital That Belongs to Peter Pan

Before we began our visit at Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH), I learned something extraordinary: this hospital, in the heart of London, belongs to Peter Pan. In 1929, J.M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, gifted all the rights to his beloved story to GOSH so that the boy who never grew up could forever help care for children who needed healing. Since then, every telling of Peter Pan has carried a donation to the hospital — a little bit of magic turned into care. Walking through its halls, I could feel that spirit. The murals, the laughter, the tenderness of the nurses and art therapists — all whispered of a place where imagination still mattered. The children here may be tethered to machines rather than pixie dust, but their courage was its own kind of flight. That morning, our Space for Art Foundation team — Nicole Stott, Ian Cion, and I and Alena with Unity Movement, whose Dreamer Suit project would one day carry the children’s artwork to space.— arrived with our toolbox, art materials, stickers and a mission to connect children to the wonder of space through creativity. We were joined virtually by ESA Astronaut Tim Peake, who appeared by video call to greet the children and share stories of his time in space. The Lion Ward buzzed with excitement. Brushes became rockets; paint palettes turned into galaxies. The children painted pieces of canvass for our Exploration Art Spacesuit and created their own interpretations of the legendary Earthrise photograph. But one little boy stood apart. He came in with his parents, arms crossed, eyes clouded with defiance, big frown! He didn’t want to paint. Nothing impressed him — not the colors, not the astronaut stories, not even the idea that his artwork could go to space. For a moment, he seemed like the most grown-up person in the room — a small Peter Pan who had forgotten how to fly. Then something shifted. He realized he could paint about space. Curiosity flickered in his eyes, and as he picked up a brush, the weight he carried began to lift. When Tim Peake began speaking to the children on the screen — smiling, encouraging them, answering their questions — the boy’s whole face lit up. Suddenly he was laughing, asking questions, showing his painting with pride. His parents sitting nearby, their expressions softening — relief washing over them like sunlight through clouds. When the session ended, they came to thank us. They didn’t need to say much; their gratitude was felt more than heard. For that afternoon, whatever hardship their family had been enduring was replaced by something else — wonder, joy, and presence. That day, surrounded by art, astronauts, and children who dreamed of stars, I thought again of Peter Pan — the eternal child who taught us that believing makes us fly. And in that London hospital, I watched a little boy remember how.

Reflection — The Light of London

Leaving London, my heart felt lighter. Great Ormond Street had shown me that healing is not only found in medicine or science, but in imagination — in the courage to dream even when reality feels heavy. Watching that little boy rediscover joy reminded me how art opens the door between fear and freedom, between being grounded and remembering how to fly.

That evening, Ian and I carried that sparkle with us as we walked through the streets of London. The city glowed softly under the lamplight, and we couldn’t stop talking about Tinker Bell — how her light only shines when people believe. It felt like a message from the day itself: that belief, imagination, and kindness are the magic that keeps the world illuminated.

From Moscow’s grandeur to London’s tenderness, our journey was gathering meaning. Each stop revealed a new truth about the power of creativity — not just to inspire,

but to restore. As we packed our toolbox for Paris — filled with brushes, colors, stickers and the spirit of play — I carried that same shimmer in my heart:

a reminder that even the smallest spark of joy can light the darkest room.