[Click here to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5]

Since I renewed my teaching assignment at my school, I didn’t have to reintroduce myself. My teaching environment would be the same since I arrived in Spain three years before.

And this time, I wasn’t alone.

My school received another language assistant from Australia. It was her fourth year in Spain, like me, and also her second year in Gran Canaria, like me.

In the rare moments we were both free, we’d walk around the town we taught in and chatted about life in Spain, our heartbreaks, and culture shocks. Even though she was much younger than me, it felt good to talk to someone who understood the ups and downs of teaching abroad, visas, falling in love, and its eventual crash and burn.

It felt so good to talk to someone who understood my experiences in Spain. Like standing in the rain after years trudging through the desert. I only gave my friends and family in the USA my highlight reel.

Imagine if I’d complained about how there is no “inside voice” in Spain, or the fact that I often felt more like an entertainer than a teacher. Who would relate? No one back at home. And none of my Spanish colleagues. But now, finally, I could hang out with someone who understood what I was going through.

I also started my Master’s degree. Many years ago, when I lived in Colombia, I dreamed of getting a Master’s degree in Spain.

Somehow, my dreams were starting to come true.

My burnout was still in full force. I still worked seven days a week. I still only got five hours of sleep a night. But somehow, I was getting straight-A’s for the first time in my life.

My classmates voted me as their student leader, even though most of them were in Madrid, and I was thousands of kilometers away. My fellow countrymen, as many students enrolled in this Master’s degree were Americans. It was my first time in over two years I spoke with Americans regularly, albeit in online classes twice a week.

I even dared myself to actively participate in class. I’d rarely spoken in class, from elementary school to university. But this time was different. I was giving my blood, sweat, and tears to be able to pay for this Master’s degree. I wanted to get my full money’s worth.

My social anxiety flared up every time I rose my hand. My hands shook every time I spoke. At least in online classes, people can only see your face. They can’t see your fear and self-doubt.

After class, my thoughts would spiral for the rest of the night, wondering if I said something stupid, wondering if I sounded ignorant, wondering if people even liked me. But I didn’t let fear stop me. I kept speaking, even though I was terrified to do so.

The new boyfriend and I continued to talk every day. I didn’t trust him one bit, though. I was waiting for the day he’d tell me, “This relationship is too hard, and I don’t know how we’re going to ever be able to be in the same city together.” I held back my heart from him like a mother bear protecting her cubs from the cold, harsh world.

I also never expected him to visit me.

But he did in December, after several months of being apart. We rented a car for a few days and drove around the island.

And then a few weeks later, I visited him and his family for Christmas and the New Year.

After meeting his family, I started to open up my heart. Slowly. Because maybe he was the real deal. Maybe. I still didn’t know.

I never told him that my Australian colleague lent me the money I needed to pay for the flight and bus to his hometown.

And I never told anybody that, at one point, I thought I’d have to drop out of my Master’s program because I thought I’d have to choose between rent or school.

Somehow, the money came through in the nick of time.

Of course, all this studying and saving money for flights and tuition gave me very little time to spend with my church friends, and even less time to make new ones. I didn’t have much time to hang out with my colleague from Australia outside of school.

My solitude returned.

Except this time, I learned to live with my loneliness instead of resent it.

I partied by myself during Carnaval. Dancing alone with everyone else made me feel like I’d finally gotten invited to a party.

I went on solo dates to my favorite places on the island, like Puerto de Mogan.

One of my friends, my former roommate from Madrid, ended up visiting me for a few days. A girl from my Master’s program also visited me. I was surprised at the amount of people who’d flown to see me in the Canary Islands.

My boyfriend visited me again, this time for Semana Santa. We had a whole week together for the first time since Christmas.

And I spent many months and many hours writing my thesis at Starbucks next to the ocean. For my thesis, I designed an ESL course that taught English and personal development using TED Talks. And I felt joy. My thesis was my child, my pride and joy, my biggest creation.

And then…I almost drowned.

On the day I finished my thesis, I decided to go for a swim. I’d always wanted to swim to the barrier reef. Several people had told me that it was a simple 10-minute swim from the shore.

I took my optimistic self into the water and start to swim. I turned around every now and then for a beautiful view of the island. “I hope I don’t get a leg cramp,” I said as I swam further, the ocean floor far below my legs.

Here’s the thing: when you haven’t exercised in months, it’s not a good idea to go for a long swim alone, especially in open ocean water.

The good news is that my leg didn’t cramp.

The bad news is that my entire body did.

I realized that I was getting tired, and thought, “Maybe I should swim back to the shore, train my body, and try again another day.”

Except suddenly, no matter how much I moved my legs, I wasn’t moving forward.

And then, my lungs felt like two deflated balloons. I kicked and paddled, but breathing was so much harder. Every breath felt monumental.

I could feel my body sinking.

I kicked and paddled and did everything to stay afloat, but it was harder and harder. I wondered how much longer I could flail helplessly before my body gave out.

I looked out at the island, so beautiful, so inaccessible. I looked at the lifeguard tower. There was no way he would be able to hear me, and even if he did, I didn’t think he’d be able to rescue me on time.

“Is this how it’s going to end?” I asked myself in disbelief.

I was 33 years old, failing like a fish out of water, and I seriously thought that this may have been the end of me.

I didn’t even feel sad; I was speechless. I’d made it so far in Spain, and had struggled with the culture, the language, the bureaucracy, teaching, money, loneliness. I’d overcome so much, and wasn’t done yet. More importantly, I had finished my thesis that day, but hadn’t turned it in yet.

I couldn’t go under without at least turning in my thesis.

And so, my thesis gave me a push to fight for my life—literally.

“What do I do?” I wondered.

Scream, something inside of me implored.

I took as big of a breath as I could with my deflated balloon lungs, and screamed, “¡¡¡¡¡AYÚDAME!!!!!” Which means “HELP!!!!!” in Spanish.

When no one came to my rescue, I tried again. “¡¡¡¡¡AYÚDAAAMEEEE!!!!!” I turned around and to my right, and saw two girls, who did not look a day over twenty, look toward my direction while floating nonchalantly.

I looked to my left. A man swam a few meters away from me, albeit underwater. “¡Ayúdame! ¡Me estoy hundiendo!” Help me, I’m sinking, I said. Nothing.

And then, I saw the two young girls paddle over to me. Each girl went to my side, and they allowed my body to rise and gently float in the water like a feather.

“Thank you so much,” I said, panting. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” they assured me. Oh, but if only they knew how scared I felt moments before.

One of the girls flagged down a man who’d been swimming, and asked him to pull me to shore. I thanked the girls profusely before they handed me off to his kind man.

“Don’t worry,” he said kindly as he pulled my weak body. “You’re not that far from touching the ground.”

And just a few moments later, my feet felt the ocean floor.

“Was I that close?” I wondered.

Had I been that close to letting myself go when solid ground was only a few meters away?

I thanked the man, and then walked to the shore. My backpack and towel, which had my phone and keys, were several meters down the shore, but thankfully untouched. I walked on the sand, my legs wobbly like jelly, until I collapsed onto my towel, shaking, sweating, scared, yet grateful to be on solid ground.

I was alive.

I learned some very important lessons that day.

One, do not swim alone in open ocean water if you’re not in good shape.

Two, avoid swimming alone in open ocean water, because open ocean water can be ruthless.

Three, don’t give up, because sometimes, the solution is closer to you than you think.

And four, just for good measure, DO NOT SWIM ALONE IN OPEN OCEAN WATER.

As for my thesis, I turned it in that day. I got my grade a few days later.

My grade: 10 out of 10.

Fast forward to June. My time in the Canary Islands was coming to an end.

I was grateful I had the chance to live on an island and in my own apartment. But, two years on an island is a long time. I knew Gran Canaria from top to bottom. I wanted to see more of Spain. I missed being able to get on a train and traveling to somewhere totally different.

I’d visited Valencia a year prior. I fell in love. The city oozed joy and beauty. Not a pretentious beauty, as Madrid could, but a beauty that blooms from a zest for life. That was Valencia, and I wanted to live there.

I sent in the placement request to my coordinators. Asking for a placement kind of felt like buying a lottery ticket. Would my cooordinators honor it? If they did, would I be in Valencia the city, or a town in the outskirts, just like I had been the past two years in Gran Canaria?

My wish was granted: I was placed in a school in the heart of Valencia.

In a few months, I packed up my life and moved to Valencia. I found a room in an apartment ten minutes walking distance from my school, and also 5 minutes from the City of Arts and Sciences.

I flew to Madrid and gave a speech at my graduation, and met my classmates in person for the first time. We got tacos together, and I mourned the fact that I never got to spend more time with them, because I imagined we could have been very good friends.

I spent the summer with my boyfriend. Our relationship was built out of crisis, and we overcame it on our one-year anniversary. We’d finally be together every day for two months.

But nothing in Spain has been easy, right? And the beautiful reunion I’d expected wouldn’t be like the movies. There was no running out into the sunset while the credits start rolling.

After finishing my Master’s degree, I was completely worn out, and my burnout returned in full force. My boyfriend watched as I struggled to go outside, brush my teeth, get out of bed. I felt like I’d gotten hit by a truck every single day.

My visa also got renewed a lot faster than I’d imagined. Normally, this would be a positive thing. The problem was, I had to take care of bureaucracy for Valencia while spending time in another city.

Getting an appointment took a month of trying, as bots were stealing and selling them for upwards hundreds of euros. People called the bots “the appointment mafia.” I also had to collect the documents I’d need, which normally would be easy, had the websites been working. When I wasn’t dealing with burnout, I was anxious and on edge.

Needless to say, the summer of 2023 wasn’t one of my favorite summers of my life.

I arrived in Valencia in September 2023, the last year in my four-year teaching program. The second year I’d be long distance with my boyfriend.

I didn’t know yet what I would do after the program ended. I didn’t know where I would live. I didn’t know how I would be able to stay in Spain. And I didn’t know if my boyfriend and I would be able to live in the same city. Or if we would be doomed to late night calls and cheap 6:00am flights every few months.

I tried not to let the worry eat me alive.

At the very least, I wanted to enjoy living in the most beautiful city I’d ever seen.