I live here for 3 more days. 3 days. That’s all. It’s unreal. But I know it’s true because my bags are mostly packed. I just did my last load of laundry. The reality is looming overhead.
Today someone asked me if I was excited. I said, “Yeah. Sometimes. But I’m also sad. Going back is harder than coming.” I’ve shared that with a few of our volunteers. Some have said, “I like it here. I’m really glad I get to spend 11 days here. But I’m going to be so ready to go home. I don’t know how you’ve done it…”
I understand that. I really really do. But when you come to LIVE it’s such a different mentality. And I didn’t know how long it would be. A year. 3 years. 5 years. Life. I just LIVED here. It became home. I adapted. I learned. I changed. It ended up only being 13 months.
And now… How strange is it that going back to my own country feels like a RISK?!
A lot of things have changed while I was gone. People got married, had kids, changed jobs, moved… Apparently there are lots of new TV shows that I have no clue about. And lots of other stupid things that don’t matter.
I have changed. I’ve always been “the odd one” but that’s going to be more true than ever now. I’m hoping I’m not socially awkward, but that’ll probably happen sometimes.
Then there’s all the STUFF I’ll have to deal with… I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t have a car. I don’t have a bed. I don’t think I own a single piece of furniture anymore, although I honestly can’t remember exactly what’s sitting in my family’s garage. I don’t know what I’ll be doing or where I’ll be living a month from now.
And that’s okay.
I might have moments of panic (or tear fests) occasionally, but it really is okay.