I knew all of this, and had made peace with missing it. But to see how much grief my mom had been wrestling with, while I had been taking trips to the beach, made moving to Spain feel selfish.

Advice is someone speaking from their own experiences, on what would be / has been best for them. My roommate in the fall was miserable in Spain, and all of us told her to stay. Stick it out, it will get better. She ultimately decided to leave, and is now happily living in Seattle. Why did I think I knew more about what she needed than her?

For twenty two years I’ve lived in the black and white, drawing a hard and fast line surrounding activism. And I recognize my own privilege for being able to peacefully live in the gray. But seeing what a culture looks like when it’s not nearly as polarised as my communities in the US, a space where cancel culture is rarely applied, has made me realize how narrow I’ve allowed my perspective to become. Madrid has forced me out of my echo chamber and into some incredibly uncomfortable situations, leaving me more confused than when I moved here.

We wear neon yellow jerseys with faces on them, and our cheer goes “Win, Win, Winions!!”. Some members of the team began playing this year, and some have played the majority of their lives. For me, practices are a mix of being completely lost in the Spanish of it all, and being made fun of for how red I turn. Our coach calls me Fresa. But I couldn’t love this team more.

All of this to say that this subject has been on my heart this past week. All of the friends out there that have confided in me their own experiences, I’ve been thinking of you. Because we’re conditioned to feel solely responsible for our safety. We’re presented with “decisions”, what to wear, who to talk to, what job to take, as if we have any control over the outcome. I wanted to write a reminder that it’s not your fault.

I struggled more this year than I ever have, and I felt like I was the only one experiencing these awful moments. I don’t want anyone else to ever feel like they’re drowning in a sea of happy Instagram posts while their own life goes up in flames. 

I’m forced to connect with men that have grown up not only on the other side of the world from me, but men that are from drastically different economic, political, and cultural backgrounds. While a good portion of the time I completely disagree with their thoughts and opinions, they act in a way that I can't help but respect.

The students are lined up against the walls, waiting for the classrooms to be opened. We wade through the halls, hundreds of men staring at us as we walk by. I feel them leering at me. We meet one of the teachers, and I know I must look as petrified as I feel when she says “Don’t be intimidated. They’re only cheeky sometimes”.

Carol Wickhorst was a complete badass. She often felt like a fictional character, that simply walked off the page to fulfill her duties as the worlds best grandma. She was prideful, stubborn, and one of the kindest people I’ve known. To be her grandchild was to be completely and unconditionally loved.

We’re socialized to think we need answers to all of the questions about our futures: to know exactly what we want and just how we’re going to get it. But if you’ve ever rafted, you know half the fun is not knowing exactly what’s going to happen. Knowing that you’re capable of handling a situation when something goes wrong is what opens up endless opportunities.

So here I am, in my tiny little apartment in Madrid. By day I work at a vocational school, where I teach primarily adult men, English. By night, I’m a confused twenty two year old trying to figure out how the hell all the Expats on TikTok make living abroad look so effortless, and 24/7 fun.