To Texas (and thoughts on transitions)

To re-cap our roadtrip: two individuals with wildly different musical preferences (I’m a broadway baby and he’s a bluegrass boy) crossed the smokey mountains, survived a flash-flood in Nashville (and celebrated by eating delicious pancakes with this lovely lady), breezed through the flat farmland of Arkansas, and arrived safely in Texas 20 hours later. I’ll miss Appalachia, but it feels so good to be home. I forgot how hot the summer sun is here, but I also forgot how much I love the open skies and swift sunrises.

Being in mental transition mode since graduation last June, I keep preparing for the changes that are happening and being slightly caught off guard when they aren’t as monumental as I think they will be. Speaking to two of my friends who just got back to the U.S. after living abroad (in Turkey and Israel, respectively), both of them were surprised by how easy it was to both go and come back. They expected the transition to be more turbulent, to have longer adjustment times, to be reeling with nostalgia and culture shock.

The transition from D.C. to Texas is certainly no where near as dramatic, but as I sit at my kitchen table — having bleary eyed, lazy morning conversations over coffee — I feel like I never left. The new neighborhoods, highway construction, restaurants, and shops, however, remind me that this isn’t my town anymore. I have been absent for the changes and life has gone on without me. In fact, it has done laps around me and left me standing in a maze of streets I don’t recognize.

Humans are resilient and–as much as we may resist it–we are born to deal with change. We adapt, both physically and emotionally, to our surroundings and often don’t notice the changes until we look back and suddenly no longer recognize ourselves. In six days I leave for India, I don’t know where I will be four months afterwards, and the news that my parents want to sell our house within the next year means that this may be the last time (or second to last time) I return to this kitchen table.

I have a feeling the next few years will be like that, rife with constant changes and transitions. Psychologist Shannon Kolakowski writes on how to make the most of them.


1. Recognize that transitions are hard because they can shake your sense of identity. We naturally define ourselves in part by our surroundings. When these surroundings change, it can be disorienting. Getting married changes your identity from a single person to a partner. Having a child changes your sense of identity from wife or daughter to now include being a mother. A new job changes your identity or role at work.

2. Being in transition is a wonderful opportunity for growth. Take a look at the parts of yourself and your life that you most value– how can you bring those parts of yourself into your new role? Next, look at the areas of yourself that you’d like to make changes to. Perhaps you’ve been neglectful of some important area of your life. Transitions are an opportunity to begin practicing new habits and ways of interacting with others.

3. Remind yourself why you chose to make the change. In the midst of feeling a little lost during a transition, it can be easy to regret your decision. When doubt creeps in, review the reasons you made your decision. When you see the big picture, it helps you move from feeling overwhelmed to understanding that this is a temporary adjustment, and while it’s difficult now, you are willing to go through some uncertainty and discomfort for the long term gain.

4. Recall other times in your life when you’ve successfully dealt with transitions.What helped you get through that period in your life? Looking back, how do you feel about the past decisions you’ve made? What were you proud of, and what would you have done differently? Reflecting on your past can help you to make good decisions as you move forward.

5. When you’re in transition, it’s easy to become overly focused on yourself. One way to shift your focus is to look at others who may need your help. If you’re at work, it may be a coworker who you notice is having a bad day. If you’re in a prenatal yoga class, reach out to another mom-to-be that seems like she is having a hard time. Making an effort to support others helps you remember that everyone struggles at times, and that human connection can be a powerful aid in helping get through it.

6. Part of what helps you feel secure in transition is having a support system. Make an effort to stay connected; keep in touch with your family, call up an old friend who lives in the area you just moved to, volunteer or get involved in an organization, ask a new co-worker to join you for lunch. Find people who you can really talk to; whether it’s a trusted friend or close family member, being able to share how you’re really feeling can be a tremendous source of strength for you.


I think the reality is that most transitions happen so quickly that you can’t possibly wrap your head around the changes and what they actually mean while they are happening. I guess I will find out.

A Year

A year ago this week I started my job in Washington. We recently had our good-bye party where everyone congregated and we announced what we would be doing with our lives after Carnegie: where we would be going, what we would be doing. Several of my friends are going to graduate school, a few are working for other think tanks. One is pursuing a job that involves puppies (envious) and one is moving to Thailand. As I told everyone that I would be moving to India, I vividly flashed-back to our welcome party that had taken place in the same room twelve months ago. I recalled introducing myself for the first time. I recalled being so nervous that I forgot my boss’s last name when I said who I was going to be working with (Milan-if you ever read this, sorry). I recalled how the group of us stood awkwardly together, stiff strangers bonded by circumstance and mutual fear.
    This time we stood together calmly, comfortably. And as each of my friends said where life would be taking them in the coming weeks, I smiled at them proudly, sadly, and knowingly as I experienced the same sadness I did last June at graduation. Sometimes the hardest good-byes aren’t the ones with the people we love the most. We leave pieces of ourselves with them when we go and we miss them more when we are apart, but we will see them again because our lives are intertwined. Sometimes the hardest partings are the ones with people with which we have just barely scratched the surface: the ones we wish we had just a little bit more time with and don’t know if we will ever see again. I think I will, though. I hope I do.
    It’s rare to find a group of people who are remarkably intelligent, but not above getting a little too silly and throwing marshmallows at each other. I consider myself lucky to have gone from one community of compassionate, down-to-earth, curious kids to another. So thank you, Carleton and Carnegie.
    Never has a period of time gone by so quickly, nor have I been able to see a more profound change in myself when looking back to where I was at the same time the previous year: what I have done and what I am ready for, what I know about myself and how I see the world. Granted, transitions and life lessons are never actually neat and organized into calendar months, but looking back, there were many things I learned this year that both came to me gradually and hit me with a sudden and forceful push.


    I had lived in D.C. once before I moved here last August and—at the time—was desperate to get out of Northfield, Minnesota. For personal and professional reasons, I needed to escape the town of cows, colleges, and contentment and surround myself with more action. Carleton had a ‘study abroad’ program where students live in Washington D.C. while attending classes two days a week and working an internship for the other three. Having spent most of my life in small towns and suburbs, I threw myself into city life. And I didn’t just adopt the lifestyle of any city go-er: I was a D.C. dweller. Every weekend I was brunching (a very D.C. thing to do, I learned) and I saturated my calendar with ‘networking’ events and public lectures on various global subjects. I never stopped moving and loved every moment of it.
    The second time around was different though. I left Carleton with a heavy heart, spent my summer roaming the United States, and drove away from Texas realizing that that summer was probably the last time I would ever return home for any substantial period of time. I was an ‘adult’ now that would have to take vacation days for Christmas and no longer automatically rely on my old home as my place of refuge and return when I was transitioning. My heart had grown warm and young and slow in summer. The city—with its flashy restaurants, polished suits, and constant buzz—was too much. I was overwhelmed by the noises and people and pressures. And at work I was thrust into a world I knew nothing about, studying political histories and happenings of parties and places whose names I couldn’t pronounce. I spent my evenings playing catch up, trying to read and absorb as much as I could to appear competent at work, but no matter how hard I kicked, I felt like my head was always just barely above water.
    But after a few weeks, the political parties and acronyms no longer sounded like gibberish. A fog had lifted over my head I suddenly found myself making connections to things I previously wouldn’t have. I fell into step with those around me and didn’t come home at the end of the day exhausted by the residual hustle of the city. Lesson learned, just keep swimming.


    One of the biggest adjustments to my new life was being very aware that I was almost always alone. I sat eight feet away from people all day, but before 9am and after 5pm my life was mostly solitary. My roommate was spending ungodly hours in lab taking care of her pregnant mice or studying for the MCAT, which often made me feel like I was living alone—something I had never done. The friends I was slowly making all had their own lives and schedules and we weren’t at the level of comfort yet to just call each other on a whim and hang out. And so my time was mine. My weekends for the first several weeks fluctuated between solitary evenings in bed reading or watching X-Files and late (most likely drunken) nights with my new friends. But even when I did go out with friends, I came home alone (most often to watch Disney movies). Having all of this time to myself was foreign to me, both because I had lived five minutes away from my closest friends for four years and because I had recently gotten out of a long relationship (which had been preceded by more long relationships). I wasn’t used to the quiet. I wasn’t used to being my own source of company. As silly as it sounds, I wasn’t used to being alone with my thoughts because I had always had someone to share them with or to being the sole keeper of my time because I have always had to intimately accommodate another human’s schedule. Yet, instead of wallowing or being consumed by it, I thrived. I could choose to maintain the silence, organizing my thoughts. Or I could choose to fill the silence with music. My music. I spent so many evenings cooking and singing, playing the newest song I had fallen in love with on repeat for an hour and singing loudly in my tiny kitchen just because I could. Every decision I made was my own and that was a certain freedom I hadn’t had in a very long time. It was about time that I learned the truth that alone doesn’t have to be lonely.


    As much as I was enjoying the solitude of my new life, my best friend’s visit in October was much needed. Chantal came to D.C. for five days before leaving the country for two years with the Peace Corps. She was going to be stationed in Burkina Faso (a country I admit I knew nothing about) and I knew that—while I was intent on visiting her—I wouldn’t see her for a very, very long time. And any communication we had would be limited and probably infrequent. We explored the city a little bit, but mostly just took advantage of each other’s company. Her visit went by all too quickly and I sent her off with a teary goodbye. Shortly after she left I received some heartbreaking news. My grandma—who had just celebrated her 90th birthday—was in the hospital. I spoke to her once on the phone, but even her sharp tongue was worn. She died a few days after being admitted, surrounded by those she loved and a community of people who respected her greatly. To worsen the blow of losing a loved one, the funeral was going to take place that weekend, which meant I had to cancel a trip to Boston to see some of my closest friends from college for Halloween. There was no question that I would go to say goodbye to her and see my family, but I had been itching to see and hold my friends since June. My tears the night before I left for the funeral were for my grandma, but also for them because I missed them more than words.
    Despite the tearful goodbyes and the moments of intense missing, Chantal and I talk as frequently as we can. I got to see my friends recently for a reunion that felt like we had never been apart and I think of my grandma often. Some partings seem more permanent than others, but it’s never goodbye.


    One of the routines I had carved out almost immediately when I moved here was exercise. I have always had an on-again-off-again relationship with fitness. I know it is good for me and I do genuinely enjoy certain forms of it, but as a girl who spent her childhood in bed reading and did debate in high school, sports or any other kind of physical activity has never been a consistent part of my life. In the last two years, though, I have built up my athletic capabilities and started running, lifting weights, and dabbling in different kind of exercise. But it has never been anything particularly challenging or regular. So, it was equally as surprising to me as it was to my family and friends when I joined a boxing gym soon after moving and started going 4-5 times a week…at 5 in the morning. I somehow trained my body to wake up before the sun, run two miles to the gym, box for an hour, and run back. Lately I have been struggling to get out of bed at 7:45 and every time my alarm goes off and I groan at the clock in protest I think, how on earth did I ever get up at 5? Maybe one day I will have that kind of dedication again, but right now I am content to sleep.
    My ridiculous schedule had a wrench thrown in it when I hurt my heel. One morning on my run back from boxing, a sharp pain began to pinch at my right heel to the point where I had to stop and walk. When I got home I changed for work, but was unable to put on the shoes I normally do because any kind of pressure on my heel was too painful. For the next two months I iced my foot every evening and wore sandals to work (this look got even cooler when it was cold and I had to start wearing socks with them) to avoid any stiff surface rubbing against my swollen tendon. Having just adjusted to exercising so vigorously, I was going crazy over my inability to do so anymore. I tried yoga (a form of fitness that requires no shoes), but holding any position that strained my achilles was too painful. As the weeks went on I could feel my body changing in ways I didn’t like as a result of my idleness, and old insecurities began to bubble to the surface. I realized that most attempts to exercise were just aggravating my foot and denying it the chance to heal. What I needed to do was rest it completely and get over myself. I knew in the moment that this injury would soon be just a blip, a moment in my life that I wouldn’t remember. But that doesn’t change the fact that when unexpected things set you back, it is hard to focus on anything else. I reminded myself daily that my body was healthy, that at least I had a foot, and that my ‘problem’ paled in comparison to the challenges most people face every day. This attitude slowly permeated almost every other part of my life and I found myself responding more patiently to all frustrating situations (you know, the little things that can ruin your day if you let them). About two months later, I put on a shoe and remember skipping for joy and thinking to myself that the key to this kind of peace was to always have perspective.


    As intent as I was on being single for my year in D.C., I ended up dating someone a few months after I arrived. We met through a mutual friend and started seeing each other fairly regularly. Though I was opposed to making a commitment so quickly, he was very kind and funny and a good partner with which to explore a new city. It was a lot of fun, as most relationships are at the beginning, and full of newness and intrigue. By December, though, things felt differently. My motivation at work was lacking, as was my excitement about my relationship. The enthusiasm I had felt when I first started both my job and relationship was gone and I felt like I was going through the motions in every aspect of my life. While home for Christmas, the distance and time to reflect allowed me to start being honest with myself about things I had refused to see before, lost in the throes of a new job and romance: maybe research wasn’t for me and maybe this relationship wasn’t either. Thus ensued the classic conflict between a head that tells you that you should want what is in front of you and a heart that is saying—while everything may be perfect on paper—it isn’t what you want. This job was everything I could have asked for in my first position after college: prestigious, well-paid, full of connections. I was learning so much and my boss was fabulous. I thought it was what I wanted. And after a long turbulent relationship, I thought all I wanted was something easy with someone kind. I had lost hope (at least for the time being) of finding something more, something magical. I should have been happier, but something was missing. Having always been one to stick things out, to make the best of what is in front of me, to work things out for the benefit of others above myself, I was finally ready to admit that I was in a rut in my relationship and in my life. I needed to change something, to try something.  Most of all, I needed to listen to my gut and never settle.


    The new year brought the change I needed. I started taking Hindi at a local language school around the corner from my office and, shortly after, started a class on how to teach English to non-native speakers. Hindi was Monday nights for three hours after work and English class was Saturdays and Sundays, 8-5pm, for three weeks. I was essentially working seven days a week, in addition to taking Hindi Monday nights, tutoring Tuesday nights, and finding time to do homework on the other three. I was busy, sure, but I’ve learned that it isn’t business that burns me out. It is too much of the same thing. These classes were just what I needed: some structure, a challenge, a chance to be social, a break from an aimless routine, and a source of instant accomplishment. Flashcards are boring, but I could look at the letters and words I learned every night and know that I was more knowledgeable than I had been a few hours before. Within two weeks I was reading words in Hindi (I only knew what a handful of them meant, but that is besides the point). Doing homework every night was tedious, but I craved the progress. As much as I thought sacrificing my weekends was going to be difficult, I loved my English teaching course. I left every class with a renewed sense of motivation and direction. I hadn’t felt so excited about something in a very long time and I felt my recent suspicions confirmed: I needed to work with people. More specifically, children. Learning new teaching methods and theories, practicing activities, and reflecting on all of the jobs I have had working with tiny humans ignited something inside of me; a flame I knew I needed to follow. I was sad to see it go when the three weeks was up, but even though it was over, it had done its job. If you feel unmotivated, like something is lacking…dare to do something.


    That teaching class in January not only revitalized my drive and sense of purpose, it introduced me to someone incredibly special. I noticed a handsome brown-eyed man the first day of class, having caught my eye only a few minutes after I walked in. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room, but I quickly learned his name when we went around and introduced ourselves: Justin. Throughout the day we did exercises in groups, sometimes numbering ourselves off and jumbling the seating arrangement to sit with those of our same number so that we weren’t stuck only talking to the people to our left and right. At the very end of day one I ended up sitting next to him and stuck up a conversation. He yawned and I said, ‘Wake up’. It was genius. The following week I snagged his phone number under the guise of working on our lesson plans. Also genius. The final week of class I made a move, got a smooch (the most genius of all), and a week later we had our first date. From the very beginning I knew it was special and I knew he knew it too.
    The only problem with dating someone you meet in a class on how to teach English abroad is that odds are both of your futures will soon diverge in different directions across the globe. He was thinking about going to China or South Korea, I wanted to go to India, and neither of us had the guts to defy social norms outright and make a commitment to one another that far in advance and for that long after such a short amount of time. About six weeks went by and we were approaching two pathways. One was personal: we had reached the point in our relationship where we felt comfortable making plans with each other a few months in advance. But none of those plans went past July, which was where the second pathway came into play. We needed to start applying for teaching jobs if we wanted a start date in the fall. With uncertain eyes, but quite certain hearts, we figured that while it could end up being a huge mistake, it would be an even bigger one to throw something so amazing away. You have to take a chance on someone at some point, right? So we decided to travel together—closing our eyes and crossing our fingers—and have been kicking it ever since. I’ll spare you the mushy details (because I could write pages about this man), but this is the best relationship I have ever been in. The first few weeks seemed like a dream and sometimes I needed to shut my eyes, take a breath and think: Yes, you can be this happy.


    When the weather started getting a little warmer, I realized that my time in D.C. was already two thirds of the way up and panicked a little. Despite the fact that my plate was full with Hindi, tutoring, work, studying for the GRE, and life, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough: exercising enough, studying enough, reading enough, exploring enough, spending enough time with my friends, etc. In trying to do everything extraordinarily, I was doing nothing sufficiently. No matter how much I read at work, I felt as though I was always still behind. I grew frustrated with myself when I couldn’t recall details about the things I had worked on the week before, but instead of attributing this to the fact that the constant inundation of new information was jumbling the facts and figures in my head, I told myself that I should have been better than that. When a tutoring session went poorly, I questioned my ability as a teacher instead of reminding myself that teaching is difficult and requires constant practice and then moving on to plan the next lesson plan and make it better than the week before. Whenever I stared at my Hindi homework and only saw gibberish, I told myself that I should have mastered more by now instead of thinking about the fact that I had never studied a language with a different script before and the fact that I knew what I did in a matter of weeks was an accomplishment itself. And then on top of all of this, I felt guilty that I hadn’t been spending enough time with my friends, running the miles I told myself I would, plowing through the stack of books on my bed-side table, or blogging as frequently as I wanted to. I felt like I was doing something every hour of every day, but still seemingly unable to finish anything.
    During a particularly stressful term at Carleton, in the midst of final papers, a senior thesis, and job interviews, a professor asked me how much time I spent organizing my to-do list. I hadn’t ever thought about it, but when I took a moment to answer, I realized that I spent an inordinate amount of time planning when I was going to get my assignments done instead of actually starting them. He told me that often in the time you spend worrying about when you are going to do something, you could have already done it. Or at least started it. Yes, sometimes forward thinking and planning is necessary with a busy schedule. But oftentimes the planning is just another form of delaying the frustrating feeling of starting something and feeling like it will never be finished. Instead of worrying about when I was going to do all of the things I wanted to do, I just needed to take a breath, appreciate what I had already accomplished, start whatever task it is I was stressing about, and always remember that progress is steady.


    In April I decided to do a little spring cleaning, ready for a challenge and a slight counteraction to the let’s-eat-pancakes-all-day-in-bed mentality of a new relationship. I didn’t have the money or the patience for the Whole30 diet (no bread is one thing, but no beans?) so I decided to stick with eliminating wheat, added sugar, and dairy from my diet. Dairy was easy enough, wheat was tricky but do-able, but sugar is everywhere. I had never noticed how many items in your pantry (even the ‘healthy’ ones with pictures of contoured runners on them) that are in no-way considered ‘sweet’ have so much sugar.
   I wrote a much longer post about my 30-day experiment, but the short story is that I did well by my goals for the most part and then my mom came to visit and I dove head-first into a swimming pool of cheesecake, coming out looking worse for wear. The awful sugar withdrawal that followed was a stark reminder that what you put into your body is one of the most important lifestyle choices you can make for your health and happiness. This month, more than any other time in my life, I really started to think about food—what it is, how it works, what role it plays in social settings, what it does to your body, the economics of food, and what food different people have access to and how it shapes their lives. I became much more aware about food justice issues, the health crisis our nation is facing, and certainly re-evaluated the way I look at food and nutrition. On a personal level, I realized that a life of temptation, disappointment, separation, and guilt is no way to live. It is about moderation, not elimination.


    Something I have struggled with the past few years is learning when to focus on myself and when to prioritize others. After a string of uneven relationships that continually prioritized my preferences and needs under those of another (which left me feeling completely spent, emotionally drained, and detached from myself) I told myself that my year in D.C. was going to be just that: my year. For the first time in years I was going to focus on what I waned to do and be the sole owner of my schedule. And when I first arrived in Washington, I felt very liberated in regards to my social obligations. Because my friends were new and we all had our independent lives, I didn’t feel the same social pressures to to stay out late drinking on a Friday night if I was tired. I went on runs or stayed in bed and read instead of going to happy hour or a party. I had ingrained so vigorously into my brain that this year was about me—and only me—that I was retreating into the old habit of isolating myself and not prioritizing the thing that makes life worthwhile: people. Every weekend in May was hectic, whether it was with Justin’s friends in Virginia, my friends in D.C., Justin’s family, or my friends and family in Minnesota.
    Initially I was so preoccupied with the books I wasn’t reading, photoshop tutorials I wasn’t watching, blog posts I wasn’t writing, GRE practice tests I wasn’t taking (OK—that one probably should have happened more), but then I had a moment where I just said ‘no’. This is too important and I am having too much fun. There is a time and a place to focus on those things, the little tasks of personal betterment and productivity. But as someone who had always sacrificed relationship and fun for school or work, I was done missing out on the more important things just because I have—like we all have—been trained to be busy and ‘productive’. I was done feeling as though I was wasting my time when I was with people all day because time spent building relationships with people is time well spent.


    While somewhat contradictory to the lesson learned in May, June reminded me of the importance of quiet. Not that I had any quiet—I just sorely missed it. The first weekend I was in Philadelphia for a conference, the second was the GRE, the third I was in New York with Justin’s family, and the fourth was spent gearing up for a move (all of this after a month that was also full to the brim). A lot of people have been talking recently about introverts and extroverts: what it means to be one or the other, which one is better, how life is so much harder for one or the other. While I think hard and fast categories are a little silly (aren’t we all a mix of both, falling somewhere on the spectrum?), personality types have always been very interesting to me. As someone who is conventionally considered and introvert (both by myself and others), I have always thought the feature that makes an introvert to be shyness. Therefore, I always assumed I was one. But then, in a good majority of social situations I am not shy. Not at all. Often when I don’t talk, it isn’t because I feel as though I can’t participate. I just choose not to, feeling as though nothing of value will be added to the conversation if I speak. What distinguishes introverts from extroverts–the internet tells me–is the source of our energy. Do we feel re-charged after an evening with people or an evening alone? Do social situations invigorate us or leave us feeling drained? Having always been one to prefer an intimate evening to a large one and to love my evenings in bed alone with a book a little too much, I am definitely more firmly rooted in the introvert camp. There are many other areas of introversion vs. extroversion where the boundaries are much more muddled for me, but that’s another story. The point is, I thought I was finding the balance between being self-centered and prioritizing people. But it is ok to say no. In fact, it is important to say no. For me, the difficult part has always been figuring out where to draw that line. When I was being flexible and when I was being a pushover. When I was being justifiably selfish or when I was just being lazy. It is ok and even necessary to enjoy the quiet and remember to sleep.


    I have always been the giver, the provider, the fixer. I hate to ask people for things and usually give people easy outs on simple requests, things for which I shouldn’t have to apologize for asking. But in July–having not heeded the warning signs of exhaustion that were flashing the month before—I got sick. I woke up on my last morning in Iowa with an itching throat and a cough that stung. My flight was delayed and, as a result, I missed my connection and had to spend the night in Detroit. A stiff mattress, disappointing continental breakfast, and short flight later, I was finally home, but in bad shape. My head was pounding, cough debilitating, and nose unstoppable. The biggest indicator that I was sick, however, was when I told Justin I didn’t want dinner. That is when he knew something was wrong—I am always hungry. After two days in bed with no improvement, I asked Justin to stay home from work and take me to the doctor. Not having to navigate public transit (or, walk, in my case because the doctor’s office was right around the corner from my apartment) is a blessing when all you want to do is be in bed. My body reacted not so favorably to the antibiotics for the sinus infection, which led to another week of crawling into bed after work because I didn’t feel well enough to do anything else. Aside from the cooking (both breakfast and dinner), cleaning, and errand running, presence is an important thing and Justin didn’t leave my side the entire time. He enthusiastically watched 24 with me every single evening, content to hold drop his plans and hold my hand. Even just knowing he was there (playing video games) while I slept was comfort enough.
    I think between the constant aches and pains, the sadness of having had so many goodbyes in the previous weeks and of leaving work so soon, the stress of getting everything ready for the move back to Texas and then to India…I stopped feeling like I had to say ‘no, I’m ok’ when he asked if I wanted anything. It was honestly the first time I can remember asking someone (who wasn’t my parent) to do so many things for me for such an extended period of time. I’ve been around people who will drop anything to help you and people who make you feel like everything you ask is a burden, no matter how small a request it is. I think we are trained to not impose upon people and be seen as ‘needy’ or ‘annoying’, to be self-sufficient and therefore ‘strong’, and to mask any signs of needing help lest it be seen as ‘weakness’. I remembered this post I read a while back on one of my favorite blogs about how good people can be if you let them help. I decided to stop feeling guilty and let people take care of you.


    Last Thursday was my last day of work and Friday morning, August 1st, I woke up feeling as though something should have been different. Similarly to how you feel on the morning of a monumental birthday. The anticipation has been building, you’ve thought about how your life is going to be different afterwards, everyone has been making such a big deal about it, but you end up waking up the same way you do every other day. You feel the same, but different. Or at least you feel like you are supposed to feel different, but really the only times it hits you is when you have to fill out a form that says how old you are (or in my case, a form asking what my occupation was and pausing for a moment before writing ‘unemployed’).
    Yes, it was strange and sad to see my bare desk, reminiscent of every empty dorm room, every empty locker. It was strange to be reminded once again that all the spaces that had once been mine—spaces in which I have nestled and made countless memories—now belong to someone else. Last weekend I packed up all of my belongings in the contents of three suitcases and two boxes. Yesterday we loaded them in the car, putting my whole life on wheels. And in 10 days I will have (hopefully) condensed these belongings into a suitcase and a backpack and will be half way around the world. I’ve changed dramatically from last year to this year, subtly from month to month, and many gradations in between. Yet no matter the magnitude, I’ve come to learn, change is sudden and it doesn’t wait for you to be ready.

Let’s see what September brings.

Mall Sunrise

Sunrise on the National Mall. It’s been real, D.C.

Little Lists [10]

The past two weeks of teary goodbyes and nights with friends have made me realize a few things in life I will always need….

Four way air-hockey (I won)

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Delicious Indian restaurants for special occasions (6 months with this guy)

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Cool places to watch the sunrise (the Lincoln Memorial wasn’t too shabby)

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And a  group of friends like these

Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetI am officially moved out of my apartment in Maryland. A few more days in Virginia for a wedding, two days of road-tripping, a week in Texas, and I am off to India. Here we go!


I hate it. In fact, I don’t think I know a single person who likes to move. It is an unsettling, expensive, and sweaty endeavor that is always such a hassle and usually ends up burdening other people (friends help friends move, right?).

Our lease ended at the end of June and rather than switch to a month-to-month rental agreement with our current complex until my job is over July 31st, we decided to just bite the bullet and move. My current roommate, Maddie, will be in the Bethesda area for another two years, so she would have to move anyways and this way I wouldn’t have to deal with all of this hassle at the very end of my time in D.C.

I’m not sure what exactly happened, but the total move took about 13 hours. We left the apartment at 8am to pick up the u-haul and finally locked the doors of our empty and clean(ish) old home shortly after 9pm. Nothing had gone egregiously wrong, but small things kept piling up and I think we all underestimated the amount of work it was going to be. Our couch is still stuck in the entry hall-way (trying to get that thing in and out of elevators and into our living room was very reminiscent of this scene) and I may have had a slight mental breakdown while ordering take-out at the very end of the evening. But we bought Ben & Jerry’s (which makes everything better, even though the combination of ice-cream and Chinese food didn’t make me feel very good) and decided to suck it up and unpack everything that night. So we went to bed at 1:30, but when I woke up in the morning, my clothes werefolded, the Christmas lights were hanging, and it quickly felt like home.

The fact that I hate moving is not to say that I don’t love change. I love new places and getting rid of old things. Both present the opportunity to start fresh, which I think everyone craves. In three weeks I have to move again. My job at Carnegie will be over and Justin and I will be packing up my bags and hitting the road back to Texas (seems like just yesterday my dad and I were making the trip to D.C.). I will be there for one week and then am moving once again, this time a little farther away….

After months of searching, interviewing, and life-changing decisions….I am going to India.

My parents got this for me for Christmas. I guess they knew before I did.

My parents got this for me for Christmas. I guess they knew before I did.

But I should start at the beginning, which for this particular story starts in 2012. I wanted to study abroad my junior year of college and was accepted to go to Guatemala for an anthropology program. I would live with a local host family and complete an independent research project of my choice (I was thinking something about cosmological myths. They’re pretty cool.).

Something inside, however, made me hesitate. There was another Carleton program that year in Washington, D.C. and I knew the moment I sat down to talk to the professor in charge of the program that it was where I had to go. So I bought a briefcase (yes, I was THAT over-eager intern) and moved to D.C. in the Spring of 2012. I must have applied for over 20 internships before I landed one: working as a research intern at the National Defense University (NDU). 

At NDU, an intern’s work area depended on both your academic interest and the availability of professors who needed research assistance. My very first day I was introduced to Capt. Chan Swallow–director of the Afpak (Afghanistan-Pakistan) Fellows Program at NDU–and he needed help developing the syllabus for one of his courses. He handed me a book called Pakistan: Between Mosque and Military and told me to read it, summarize it, and tell him which chapters he should teach his Master’s students. I told him I wasn’t sure if I was qualified to make that kind of decision (since I knew nothing about Pakistan) and he told me that if I could read and think, then I was.

That was the first time I had ever read anything about Pakistan that wasn’t in the news. This was also my first internship and the first work experience I had ever had that didn’t involve taking care of tiny humans. I was just so excited to be doing something professional related to my International Relations major, completely unbeknownst to me that it had changed the trajectory of the next several years of my life.  

This exchange (book for summary and selections) repeated itself 6 times throughout my 2 months at NDU. Not only did I feel like I was learning 10 times as much as my classmates who had other internships, I felt like I had come across a topic that was more exciting to me than anything I had ever studied before. I poured over each book I was given and found myself buying books on Afghanistan and Pakistan to read in my spare time.

That summer I landed an internship with the Department of Defense doing intelligence work and after a few weeks of training, we got to select our summer projects. Since I had enjoyed doing South Asia related work at NDU, I selected a project about the region and continued learning both inside and outside of work (with my stack of books) for the next three months. In the end, I knew that DOD wasn’t for me, but I wasn’t done with South Asia yet. 

Going back to Carleton for my senior year–knew-found intellectual curiosity in hand–I was disappointed that the Political Science department wasn’t offering any courses on South Asian politics. The pickings were also rather slim in the history department, so I ended up registered for “Religions of South Asia”. And I had a blast. Not only was my professor phenomenal, but I was finally approaching this region from a cultural perspective (instead of an American-centered-military one) and it was the first time I had ever read anything about India outside of a security context in relation to Pakistan and Afghanistan. I attended religious services, watched documentaries on social movements, inhaled ancient texts, and found myself entranced by a completely new face of these places. 

I knew I wanted to keep South Asia in mind when applying for jobs after college, but my professional pursuits weren’t single-minded. In fact, my job search was split down the middle: teaching vs. research. As excited as I was to have found a topic that I could read about for hours on end without tiring, I was passionate about working with kids. And working an office job at DOD made me realize how badly I needed to work with people–not computers. 

So at the end of March (2013), exactly a year after I read my first book about Pakistan, I was faced with a choice: be a research assistant for the South Asia program at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace in Washington D.C. or an Elementary School teacher in Dallas with Teach For America. Ironically, these were the only two jobs offered I received (looking for employment is the worst) and they could not have better represented my dilemma. 

I was torn. It wasn’t quite as divided as “do I follow my brain or my heart?” because my heart was also in my work and my head was also telling me that I should teach. Ultimately, I chose to go to D.C. because of time sensitivity. The research fellowship was only open to people within one year of graduation, so I would have been unable to return to Carnegie after doing TFA. I also chose not to defer TFA for a year because it would have required me to start the following June when Carnegie went until August and–even if leaving early were possible–the prospect of planning out three years of my life all at once terrified me. I spent a wonderful four years at Carleton, but–in my mind–graduation was a liberation from any commitment lasting longer than a year. 

And so I moved to the nation’s capital and dove head-first into Indian politics. All day, every day. From historical research to headlines, my days were consumed by India and–as much as a country can from a computer-screen–India came alive to me. Of course I knew that there was more to a country than its many religions, but I knew next to nothing about anything else before I walked through Carnegie’s door. Quite a drastic change from knowing nothing about India to spending twelve months thinking primarily about the political corruption there (read: social issues, political history, economics, etc. You can’t study one aspect of a country in a vacuum without touching on everything else that has shaped it).

My year in D.C. has been one of the best in my life. It has been a year of professional and personal challenges, constant growth, and self-reflection. To think about where I was a year ago–emotionally, intellectually–is just astounding. Of course, the difference is mostly only visible to me, but many of the people closest to me have noted that I am happier. Those changes are their own story, though. 

One thing I definitely learned about myself (which I should have already known after DOD) is that office jobs are not for me. I am so grateful for this year–to learn what I’ve learned, to have made the friends I’ve made, to have had the most supportive boss I could have ever asked for–but sitting behind a computer for 8 hours a day makes me go mad.

Though I used to think that ‘learning’ was enough fulfillment in a job, I’ve slowly come to realize that I would much rather have a job that was minimally cerebral, but required me to be active (quite a difficult concept to grasp for someone who has always loved school and being a student); required me to be with people. More specifically, a job that allows me to help people and have a direct impact that I can measure on a day-to-day basis. It doesn’t have to be a big impact, just something I can see. 

And, I need to work with kids. I miss them so badly and every opportunity I have had to be with children (see: tutoring and adopted family) has reinforced this notion that my future job must be to work with–or at the very least, directly on the behalf of–children. 

The problem with one year jobs is that you have to start thinking about what you want to do next pretty soon after you start. So shortly after I started at Carnegie, I had to make some decisions about what I wanted the next few years of my life to look like. I realized–with great excitement and trepidation–that there was no where in the world that I had to be at this time in my life. I have no car, no mortgage, no children, no pets. Not even a fish. So I took a class on how to teach English to non-native speakers, thinking that I could a) travel, b) work with kids, c) probably find a job more easily than I could in the United States. At least jobs that I would qualify for with no advanced degree. And since I had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life, why not? For the first time I could control where I went and how long I was there. And it was terrifying and liberating all at the same time. Which, I thought, meant I should probably run at it with open arms. 


But where to go?


To India? It seemed like the obvious choice. I knew that–even if not right away–I had to go to India. I couldn’t think about this country every single day for a year and not go. Even if I went and hated it there, at least I would have seen it for myself (and that would also be a pretty good sign that I should study something else).

Before I moved to D.C., my dad introduced me to a woman who worked at this small school in Southern India. He knew I was going to be working on India and that I liked to teach, so he thought she and I might have a few things to talk about (thanks, dad). I had lunch with her a year ago and she told me about this place called the Shanti Bhavan Children’s Project. This school was a private institution created by  a man named Dr. Abraham George, who has devoted his life to alleviating poverty in rural India. He had an idea, an idea that the children of India’s lowest caste (children who are more often than not banned from attending school with other children because they are considered ‘dirty’) can achieve the same success as other students if afforded the same access to educational opportunities. 

My primary interest was in poor children, and I had learned that the main problem facing them was lack of access to anything resembling quality education. I felt that Indian society had long given up on these children, and there was no real hope for them to rise beyond their meager beginnings. Many people probably believe these children are simply incapable of doing anything better. Hence, the initial idea was to start a primary school in a rural village. It would be a world-class boarding institution for children from the poorest homes and for those belonging mostly to the lowest caste, mainly the ‘untouchables’.

The school could not just be a holding pen designed to keep the kids in place until they assumed their life long roles as servants and workers to the rich. Instead, I was determined that it would be one of the best in India, a school that normally only the children of the richest families could afford. I would give these children the same opportunities as the children of the wealthy and powerful. As far as I knew, it was a model no one else had embarked upon in India. It was to be named Shanti Bhavan, Haven of Peace.

And so he created a home and school for children who have never had clean water, much less received a K-12 education. Children who would have otherwise had no way out of the cycle that is poverty and social discrimination in India. 

I applied to work there with an open and eager heart and, on August 17th, I am packing my bags and leaving for India. For Shanti Bhavan.

You know what else is pretty cool? That Justin guy I always gush about is coming too. We met in that English teaching class I was talking about and–after deciding that we wanted to travel together–I introduced him to this place.

In every regard, things have converged in a way I didn’t think possible and, though I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it, I could not be more excited. I can’t think of a better way to learn about India than through this place, through these children. When I told a man I met from Mumbai that I was moving to India, he clasped my hand and told me: 

“You must have an open mind in India, because it is corny. Embrace the corny. India is love. India is life.”