My New Adventure

Tomorrow, June 29th, starts a new adventure.  At least, the part that starts tomorrow is that I’m technically moving into my parents’ house for the next few months. I’ll be back in NoVa—staying in guest rooms and maybe an Incredibles bed a time or two, but my home is not really my own starting tomorrow.  Someone else is living in my condo, my little sanctuary, my cozy, used-to-be-filled with books and mugs 700 foot castle. 

It’s not for nothing that I’ve given away furniture, packed up clothes, books, and makeup. That’s the adventure part.  Instructional coaches in Fairfax County go back to work the end of July.  I won’t be. 

Starting October 1, I’m going to be a language and cultural assistant in a high school. 

In Spain.  Malaga, Spain.  Well, Velez-Malaga if you want to get really specific.  

Empty living room...

In case you were wondering, Velez is in the Andalusia region of Spain (the southern part), is one of the traditional ‘white cities,’ and is about ten miles off the beach of the Costa del Sol, but not a super touristy area.  In pictures of the city, when you see water, it’s the Mediterranean Sea.  (Side note—if you’re curious about any of the logistics of how I’m pulling this off/how nervous you need to be about this decision, you can read the companion piece to this.)  Come visit.  For real. 

I’m planning to make this blog a travel adventure touch-base over the next year.  If I tell enough people about it, it’ll keep me accountable.  I’m going to post pictures.  And make everyone jealous about this adventure. 

It’s a big deal.  And it’s also something I’ve been considering for a year and actively working to achieve since January.  I cried when I told my principal. I thought I was going to throw up when I told my program coordinator. I worried I was letting people down or leaving people in the lurch or making people disappointed or angry or lonely. 

But I still did it.  I don’t actively choose to not do things I want in order to make other people happy.  But this is one of the first times I actively didn’t care as much about anyone else as about myself.  That sounds, and feels selfish—but this decision is also one of the healthiest decisions I could make.  If I can be incredibly vulnerable for a minute, let me say that other people around me, who I love dearly, are having traditional 30-something adventures—marriage, kids, promotions, in-laws.  And the technically lateral career move/promotion I got wasn’t enough to carry the day for me. I’m not having the traditional adventure and that’s okay (okay, it’s only sometimes okay, but that’s a totally different story), but it means I can be open to other adventures.  

And this past year, it meant I needed another adventure. 

It's strangely empty without pictures on the shelves.

I’ve never been to Europe.  I’ve only used my passport to visit various Caribbean countries.  I want to see castles. I want to eat actual Italian pasta. I want to hear everyone around me speaking in an accent that is charming and sexy.  As I lay on my living room floor—because legit, I have zero furniture in my living room—the desires, the ache, for these adventures is what’s making me feel excited rather than sad. 

I’ve been blessed by incredible people in my life.  Without fail, everyone I’ve talked to has been excited for me and unbelievably supportive.  The funny thing is that many people have also made some sort of comment about how they couldn’t do this, or wouldn’t be brave enough, or someday they would let go of the fear enough to do something like this.  It’s funny to me because that seems to imply that I’m not terrified.  

Let me be clear.  I’m terrified. 

When I talk about it—I’m totally calm and great and excited.  I’ve been giving away/selling things/packing like I’ll get a prize for efficiency.  I’ve made lists of what to do, sometimes for the pure pleasure of checking the box when I finish.  Especially when I sit down with a book and some coffee (or wine, depending on the time of day), I can convince myself I’m totally calm about this. 

But I’ve been obsessively comfort-watching DVR’d UNC games since I’ll give the DVR back to Fios tomorrow and lose the 2017 Championship run.  I’m not kidding.  The Elite 8 Kentucky game is playing in the background, one last time. 

A few nights ago, I woke up at 3 in the morning.  This is not terribly odd lately.  I also woke up with both of my middle fingers sore.  This also has not been terribly odd.  I’ve noticed this soreness almost every time I’ve woken up in the middle of the night.  They never hurt during the day, so I’ve usually forgotten about it by the time I’m not fuzzy with sleep.  But for some reason, that night, I was positive that both of my middle fingers being sore meant I was developing a terrible disease. Yup, it’s true.  At three in the morning, I was sure this could only be an early symptom of an ailment I (clearly) know little about, but could not be more terrified of.  The path to get there made sense at the time, but basically ended with debilitation for the rest of my life.  This trip to Spain would be my last hurrah.  

I fell back asleep, but was aware enough to realize this was probably only a middle of the night fear.

Untrue. I woke up at seven, just as convinced and just as preoccupied with this diagnosis.  I allowed myself a quick Google search.  Even WebMD did not list this as a potential sign of anything more serious than arthritis.  Which opened enough space in my brain to realize this was not the only time my hands had ever felt like this. 

A few months ago, an old roommate and I had done aerial yoga/circus training classes.  She was much better at it than I was, primarily because the entire first class had me too afraid to actually let go of the silks. I was gripping that fabric like my life depended on it.  It didn’t matter that I was inches above the floor.  I couldn’t let go.  And my hands were sore for days.  My middle fingers were sore for over a week.  

This is Velez-Malaga.

It was not joint stiffness I was feeling in the middle of the night.  It was muscle pain. Apparently, I’ve been clenching my fists tightly in my sleep.  Tightly enough that it causes muscle soreness at night, which dissipates by day when I realize what I’m doing. 

Is it clear—this is huge, and terrifying, and stressful, activating my anxiety in a very real way?  And it’s 100% worth it.  I would’t back out now if I could. Part of what I wanted out of this adventure was to go outside of my comfort zone.  To not be quite so close to a safety net.  Not because I’m some sort of masochist, but because I know growth happens mostly outside of our comfort zones.  Travel grows you, changes you, and it’s working on me even as I sit on my living room floor. 

I could quote a lot of cheesy things about courage and fear, the kind of thing you hear in The Princess Diaries for instance.  Instead, what’s been ringing most true for me is a set of lyrics—do you know Bethel Music? (I’m obsessed—their worship songs are unparalleled.) They have a song where the chorus says, “Take courage, my heart, stay steadfast my soul, He’s in the waiting.  He’s in the waiting.  Hold on to your hope as your triumph unfolds, He’s never failing.  He’s never failing.  And You, who hold the stars, who call them each by name, will surely keep Your promise to me, that I will rise in your victory.” 

I’m trying to take courage, loosen my hands, and live in the promise—because alone it’s just scary.  But, the scary can maybe help me grow into the woman I was intended to be.