[Click here to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and Part 8]

On August 16^th, I returned to my beloved Spain after two weeks of being in my birth country. As soon as the airport-city shuttle bus spun into motion, I felt like I’d jumped into the arms of a long-lost lover.

I was home.

While I dealt with jet lag, which took me nearly two weeks to get over, I searched for an apartment in Alcala de Henares, the fourth city I’d be living and teaching in since I’d arrived to Spain six years earlier.

Meanwhile, my long-distance boyfriend was driving across Europe with everything he owned in his car: he’d quit his job so we could finally live in the same city.

If my life were a storybook, this scene would be my happy ending. My boyfriend and I would close the distance. We’d get a cute two-bedroom apartment near the historic downtown, perhaps near the house Cervantes supposedly grew up in. I’d start teaching adults again at a vocational training school. I’d start my second Master’s degree. I’d make a bunch of friends after years of being my own best friend. My Spanish would get near-native fluent. My boyfriend would propose to me on my graduation, and we’d live happily ever after.

So. That’s not exactly how it all went down.

Let’s start with the good: I was so happy to start teaching adults again. It was also nice to be in a teaching program that didn’t put as many demands on me. That, along with years of experience under my belt, let me relax for the first time in the classroom in years.

My boyfriend and I did close the distance. Being in the same city with him was wonderful—for a month. And over the next several months, I’d learn the heartbreaking lesson that sometimes, love is not enough.

Don’t get me wrong, we loved—and still love—each other very much. But love alone will not stop the guilt-tripping you’ll feel months after you got everything you wanted, and you’ll start to wonder if your partner was better off when they lived far away, and that it’s all your fault they’re unemployed and miserable.

And love alone won’t do a damn thing when your social anxiety reprises for an encore after years of laying still, like a dormant yet active volcano.

During my previous six years of Spain, I’d spent most of my time interacting with Spaniards. The classmates in my Master’s program were mostly Americans. I should have felt comfortable. But at 34, I was the oldest in my class. I didn’t understand the new slang or the pop culture references. I’d slowly adopted Spanish directness instead of American niceties.

After years of using English almost exclusively for professional purposes, speaking it leisurely—with other native speakers—felt incredibly odd. And thus, my social anxiety gleefully marched back into my life with the glitz and the glam of a showgirl, ready for center stage.

Every time I raised my hand to speak in class, and in every conversation I had with my classmates, I could feel social anxiety dance through my amygdala, living it up like Carnaval in Rio de Janiero. “Samba!” social anxiety would gleefully shout as they ejected alarming levels of cortisol into my veins. “Viva Carnaval!” social anxiety would cheer as the BOOM, BOOM, BOOM of the drums elevated the beat of my heart, the bass of this neurodivergent circus.

Anxiety is incredibly obnoxious because it has no logic. When I’m dealing with anxiety, I know that I’m not in danger. I know that I’m just having a physiological reaction that’s triggered by something harmless that my brain thinks is dangerous. I’ve learned how to use my anxiety as fuel: I’ve learned a foreign language, traveled the world, and gotten two Master’s degrees. But the anxiety has never gone away. No matter how successful I look on the outside, it’s always there. The thorn in my side.

I even got an anxiety attack after giving a speech during my graduation.

Here’s the thing: everyone’s got something. Maybe someday I’ll get over my anxiety. Maybe I won’t. But I could deal with anxiety in Michigan, a place where I was unhappy, or in Spain, a place that brings me joy.

Do I even need to tell you which I’ve chosen?

Year Seven and Beyond: Why Have I Done This to Myself?

We’re nearing the end of this nine-part series. I had never intended for this series to be nine parts, but six years of my life is a long time.

By now, you’ve read about how I left the USA only to end up broke and alone on the other side of the world in the middle of a pandemic. You’ve read about my life in four Spanish cities. You’ve read about my burnout after years of the hustle.

As I’m finishing this series, I feel like many people wonder, “Why in the world would you put yourself through all of this?”

“Why did you have to learn how to be an adult the hard way? Were you just trying to be different? Would settling in the USA really have been that bad? You could have gotten a better-paying job by now. Maybe you’d qualify for a mortgage. But instead, you’re teaching six to seven days a week in Spain and getting a new degree or diploma every year. Was it worth it?”

Years ago, I wrote a blog post called “My Biggest Travel Fear Is That One Day I’ll Regret Everything.” I wrote this post when I was 30 years old. Here’s what I wrote:

My greatest travel fear is that I’ll wake up, look outside my apartment window, and then it will hit me: I’m 35, and while I’ve been globe-trotting, collecting experiences and stories, others will have been establishing a home, a “real” home with furniture that’s not from Ikea, with family photos in picture frames, and a dog running in the backyard.

Well, I’m 35 now. I don’t have a physical home, but I have found a place that feels like home. A place I’m proud of. A place that amazes me every single day, even over six years later.

I’m proud of the life that I’ve built. Every hard day and night has been filled with something that, according to Viktor Frankl, is what the human experience is about: meaning. While there are some things I wish I’d done differently in my life, when it comes to the main trajectory of my life, I don’t regret the decisions I’ve made. I have no regrets about moving abroad and working hard to make a name for myself. Not everyone can say that.

Not everyone is going to understand the choices you make, and that’s okay. The only thing you need to worry about is your path. Are you happy with it? If not, what can you do to change it? Are you going to be brave enough to take a leap into the deep unknown? Or will you let your fear drown you in the shallow? Please don’t let that happen to you.

As someone who’s gone through social anxiety and depression, and has made it to the other side, I can tell you that life is beautiful, and for those who are brave enough to follow their dreams with all of their hearts and outwork everyone in the room for them, life eventually rewards beautifully.

That being said, it will cost you. It’s still cost me: I’m still teaching six to seven days a week. I’m still tired almost all the time. At the moment of writing this blog post, I don’t have a single friend in the city I’m living in. I still struggle with the Spanish language. I still have days where I wonder if I’ll ever feel Spanish, or if I’ll always be an outsider wherever I go.

At least I can say that I’ve left a positive impact at my schools and students’ lives. At least I can say that I’ve been a good student and that I took every chance I could to grow. And at least I can say that I was, and still am, brave enough to risk it all for a dream.

And I know eventually, I’ll have that moment where I feel like I’ve made it, and life will continue to reward me beautifully, as it does even now.