"You're so brave" might be one of my least favorite and most awkward sentences to receive. And in the ramp up and beginning to my moving over to Seville, Spain for eight months, I can say this with complete certainty:
The feeling of bravery sucks.
I've been in Spain for a little over two weeks now. I've put off writing this post because, quite frankly, I haven't had the brain space to allow myself to be honest in writing about what the past two to three weeks has looked like or felt like. A mentor once said to me that "vulnerability without boundaries isn't vulnerability." I didn't have the extra gas to figure out where to put those boundaries up as a start to write again. I have more in the tank now.
I'll preface all of this by saying that I am fine. This is not a cry for help, but rather a cry to honesty. To rawness. To realness. I re-posted a picture of me with a running group the other day and so many people reached out saying I looked so happy. And I am. That happiness though only tells one part of the story. I'm committing to holding it and sharing it all.
HOW DID I GET HERE (teaching and living in Seville, Spain):
Last January, a friend from college was posting about her experience with a teaching program in Spain. The North American Language and Culture Assistants Program (NALCAP) is run by the government in Spain. Participants get placed at a school to work as a language and culture assistant for eight months and receive a temporary visa and monthly stipend in return. I was looking for a program that lasted for less than a year where I could practice my Spanish to become more fluent while putting something on my resume that would enhance my chances of getting into graduate school for the fall 2025 semester.
I also was looking for a way to better understand the immigration process. After spending so much time (and wanting to return to) working with people immigrating to the United States, I felt called to enter into parts of that experience on my own. It is not lost on me that I am immigrating to a country in an incredibly privileged way. I am not running for my life, I have a home and family I will return to at the end of these eight months, and I have an economic safety net. Yet, this experience is asking me to enter into what it is like to be a stranger in a strange land, needing to set up housing, transport, paperwork, etc. in a language that I do not completely know.
Now that I am here:
This move has shown me that I am one of the biggest "fakers" that I know. For months leading up to Spain, I channeled every single bit of optimism and excitement I have ever had to convince everyone that I was excited for this opportunity. Over and over, when people heard I was moving to Spain, I got a response similar to: "Wow! So brave! What a cool experience!"
Inside, I was practically screaming. I wasn't going to have housing figured out until I got over to Sevilla. I didn't have any sort of schedule for work yet. I did not know a single person in the entirety of the city. I was leaving almost everyone I love on the other side of the Atlantic with a 6, 7, 8, or 9 hour time difference. Did I say any of that? Of course not! Instead, I consistently responded with: "Yup! It'll be an adventure!" Only those closest to me caught that there was a little bit more happening beneath my optimistic response.
I've been familiar with anxiety for a long time now. And while I have been able to befriend fear, fear was nowhere to be found from the Thursday before I left straight through every day that week. Instead, anxiety and bravery played the biggest game of internal tug of war I have ever witnessed...let alone experienced.
You see, bravery looked like packing, getting on a flight, figuring out paperwork, meeting new people, trying new food, and finding an apartment. It looked adventurous and (dare I say) a little bit cool. That's not what bravery felt like at all that week.
Bravery felt like white hot tears that started falling for one reason and kept falling for a million more.
It felt like lava rocks stuck in my throat, making it almost impossible to swallow or breathe.
It felt like sobs and snot and holding on for dear life.
It felt like racing thoughts that something terrible would happen to me or to someone I loved while I am away.
It felt like wanting to give up. To not go. To abandon this adventure and not look back.
It felt like heartbreak. Like a physically painful type of chest cracking heartbreak.
The feeling of bravery - the type of bravery that only shows up in the face of anxiety - sucked. There's no string of pretty words that I can weave around it to make it look any better. And honestly, it was scary. Both for me and the people closest to me that saw it happen and were powerless to do anything to stop it.
All of this is true. And so is this:
This season of bravery is teaching me about hope. Not the pretty kind of hope that perches on the soul, but the raw hope that you hold onto so tightly that your knuckles are white and your fingers hurt. The hope that honesty, time, and grace will make this bravery feel less nauseating and that anxiety will take a back seat. The hope that missing will not just be painful. The hope that I am exacly where I am meant to be and that this will continue to teach me.
The hope that I have everything I need that that having people to share new things with will make the bravery easier to hold and maintain.
I'll keep being brave and holding onto hope. This is only where the adventure begins! Stay tuned for the next eight months of bravery, newness, hope, surprises, and learning! Vamos!
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