We Didn't Move Abroad to Escape Hardship, We Moved to Face It
I read a lot about how people move abroad because they are unhappy with what their lives look like in the States. They are tired of the grind, the fast pace, the consumer culture, the lack of community, the commute, the debt, the politics, etc., etc., etc. Or they’re cramped in a little apartment in LA, life outside going at a breakneck pace, wondering if this is really what life has to look like [https://leaveittoanna.substack.com/p/coffee-talk-bluebells-bureaucracy?utm_source=cross-post&publication_id=1494486&post_id=194589821&utm_campaign=5498808&isFreemail=true&r=8wq1h&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email].
I respect people who make the bold move to make life better. And uprooting the family and moving across oceans to do that? Damn. It’s not for the faint of heart. Any time I see articles coming through about people moving internationally, especially to a place where they don’t speak the language, it’s like clickbait for me. I love reading about people’s stories and motivations and inspirations and even hardships. It’s life-giving and fascinating.
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Part of the fascination is that each story carries with it its own nuances. Everyone moves for slightly different reasons. And, I suppose, that’s why I’m sitting down to write my story. It seems quite different from the others, but who knows — maybe there are people like me out there (granted with their own nuances) who didn’t move away from a difficult situation, but moved into one instead.
I am originally from California. I grew up there, and it shaped much of who I am today. I still say with pride “I’m a California driver,” and I still assume people will stop for me at crosswalks. I grew up near the mountains and the beach. The weather was mild and absolutely lovely. Mosquitos and insects were not an issue (an upside of a chronic lack of water, I guess). My friends and I wouldn’t choose if we wanted to go downtown, we’d choose which downtown to go to on any given weekend — Los Gatos, Saratoga, Los Altos, Palo Alto, or even San Francisco. It was a beautiful life.
In my twenties, marriage and graduate school took me to Michigan. I spent four years there, and though the winters were long and gray, summer and especially fall were unmatched. Pumpkin patches, apple cider, spiced doughnuts, and the fiery oranges, reds, and yellows of the leaves — they all came together for an absolutely unforgettable experience.
Then real life kicked in, and we moved to Florida for teaching jobs. My husband and I taught at the same school. We bought a house two streets down from the school. We biked to work. When I started having babies, I could bike home to nurse instead of stay at school to pump. We had the most amazing nanny who is now basically a part of our family. My best friend taught in the classroom next to me. (We shared a door!) We made enough money. We saved. We invested. We drew up plans to retire early.
Everything was going according to plan, and we were happy. Three kids, two dogs, a great house, a big yard, a pirate ship playground that my husband built in the backyard, a dreamy screened-in porch, tons of fruit trees. We biked to work, we biked to church, we biked to the grocery store.
Life was so, so good.
My husband, Steve, and I have always maintained the philosophy to never stop learning. We talk about it constantly, and we say we’ll always keep each other accountable. I remember taking the dogs on a walk one night, and Steve brought up the idea of moving to Spain. I kept a cool demeanor and said, “yeah, maybe,” but I knew that I would never move to Spain. No way would I learn to speak Spanish as an adult with three kids in tow. No way would I uproot my easy life here. No way. (En absoluto, as I would say now.)
But as we continued to sail through the relatively smooth waters of life in Florida, we started feeling a little twang of something — we couldn’t quite put our finger on it. Looking back, I think we knew that we had sorta reached the point where learning was declining. We had our routine. We had things figured out.
Life was easy.
And that’s not what we wanted. We knew that to become fully realized human beings, we needed challenges and change. So Steve started applying for international teaching jobs.
As we pulled away from our Florida home after sleeping in it one last night, we felt sadness for the beautiful life we were leaving behind. We had planted so many fruit trees and berries and veggies and herbs and all the delicious and beautiful things, only to uproot ourselves as they stayed rooted, the likelihood of them being cared for by future tenants low. (Typing this now is making me emotional!)
Our first move took us to Quito, Ecuador for Steve to teach on a 3-year contract. We then moved to Spain, the idea being we’d stay in Spain for good.
Here we are in our precious little pueblo, three years later. Every day brings with it difficulty in communicating, learning how to do life and paperwork and visas and library cards and all the things, and the challenges that come with building a community when you’re still learning the language.
Yes, we are in year six of living in a Spanish-speaking country, and I am still working hard every day to improve my Spanish. Some days I feel confident and competent and other days (well, this morning, for instance, when I had a nightmare of a time understanding my physical therapist) I feel like an idiot. But I’d rather the difficulty than the stagnation. The newness and the challenges make me feel alive in a way I never would have felt living in the comfort of the States.
Things are definitely harder living in Spain. But I love my life so, so much, and I’m doing my best to embrace the difficulties — I know they are making me a better person.
So what about you? What’s your story? Did you move abroad to escape something, or to find something? Both? Neither? Let me know — I’d love to read your story!
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