When I was younger, I told myself I would study abroad in college. I liked traveling, trying new things and reading more than a few books about other people studying abroad. It seemed like it would be up my alley.
Then, the pandemic happened and the world shut down including traveling — much less moving to another country — seemed impossible. I placed my goal on the back burner. Fortunately, I was able to go to college. I had a freshman year in the dorms and on campus. I was able to enjoy moving out from home, meeting new people and living in a way that didn’t feel like I had my life on pause.
Second year rolled around, and I moved into my apartment, experimented with new hobbies and slowly became more comfortable in my own skin. I told people I wanted to study abroad, but I didn’t exactly put all the work in.
Then, my second year ended. It was May. The deadline to apply to study abroad was in two days.
I would’ve missed it too, except my friend texted, asking if I was still planning on applying and if I knew when the deadline was. Reader, I didn’t. For the next 48 hours, I frantically researched programs and the application requirements.
When I went home, I told my parents that I was going to study abroad and that I had picked Spain and submitted my application. It was abrupt — but they were mostly supportive, although they wanted to know why, as an English major, I was picking Spain and not England. I didn’t exactly have a satisfactory answer, but my application was already in so I couldn’t change my mind.
Over the summer, I was accepted into my program. I put money from my job into my savings account and started thinking about my third year in two parts, the first in Berkeley and the second in Madrid.
My fall semester in Berkeley was amazing, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Yet in the back of my head, I knew I would be uprooting my life by moving to Spain. The semester sped on and even as I completed my financial aid, picked my classes and applied for my visa, none of it seemed real. I couldn’t picture what my life would be like, let alone where I would be living, where I would be studying, who I would spend time with or what I would be doing.
Winter break, I panicked, what had I been thinking? Sure I wanted to be this adventurous, exciting, interesting person who could pack everything up and move to another country where I barely spoke the language and knew almost no one, but could I really do it? Was it really possible?
But the truth was that whether or not I was that person, I was doing it. I packed my belongings and said goodbye to my apartment, my friends and my family.
Thursday, Jan. 18, I was at San Francisco International Airport saying one final goodbye to my dad and threading my way through security.
I landed at 6 p.m. the following day and proceeded to sleep for the next 12 or so hours.
Saturday, I woke up, left my apartment to be immediately questioned by an elderly Spanish woman on the streets — to this day, I don’t know what she wanted — and promptly locked myself out of my building.
I wandered around the streets feeling dazed and jetlagged, waiting to be let back into my building and trying to remind myself that the first few days would be hard. And probably the first few weeks. If I was honest, maybe even the first few months.
When I called my dad, he told me that I was brave. I told him that maybe I’d done something that was braver than I actually was. Maybe moving abroad when I didn’t know anyone in my program and living in an apartment with people from Spain was a terrible idea.
At this point, it’s too late to change anything, and honestly I would be disappointed to not follow through with my semester plan. So in the meantime, I’ve been pondering on this idea of doing something braver than I actually am. In my head, it feels kind of like when you’re not sure if you’ll grow more — so you buy a bigger pair of shoes, jacket or pants — and hope that you grow into them.
I haven’t had to worry about buying a bigger shoe size in a while. To be honest, I think my feet stopped growing when I was still in elementary school, so this practice of awaiting growth has felt a little unfamiliar — even a little uncomfortable.
I don’t feel all that brave. Most days I feel anxious. Lonely. In Berkeley, I lived with my friends, and the ones I don’t live with are usually a five-minute walk away. Here, that is definitely not the case. Although, I hope my Spanish roommates and I will be friends by the end of the semester.
But I’m determined to see this through. I’m wearing this bravery, a size too big, tromping around the city feeling like I’m wearing a pair of clown shoes. I have faith that in time they’ll eventually fit.