The Art of Leaving

This blog post has been marinating in my head for the last couple of weeks, and I feel like I have finally managed the willpower to put words to some of the thoughts I have.

Leaving is hard, and it doesn’t always get easier. That’s all I have to say about that.

Thank you for coming to my blog post; I will be sure to drop another one next week.

Only kidding – I don’t think I’ve ever been known to not have a lot to say about something that is on my mind…I’m sure my mother can relate to that. Mom, I’m still sorry for my over-caffeinated, under-developed, pre-pubescent, twelve-year-old snarky phase.

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Leaving.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, there are two meanings for the verb to leave:

a. to go away from

b. to allow to remain

I don’t know about you, but that feels like the English language is making fun of me. To leave means to go away from something, and it can simultaneously mean to allow something or someone to remain. The only difference is the context in which they are used.

In the last three years, I have lived on three different continents, studied in a foreign country during a pandemic, and met countless people from around the world. I have left them, and they have left me. Physically, I am not in the same place as any of the people that I lived with in Bhutan (which was the end of 2019 and the beginning of 2020 before the world shut down). They are scattered around different parts of the United States and other countries around the world. Many of them don’t live in the same time zone as I do. At one point, I had close relationships with many of these people; we cried, laughed, ran, jumped, sang, and experienced life together. Only the people that I spent six months in Bhutan with, a tiny country in the middle of the Himalayas, will know the Alaina of that time.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a completely altered version of myself compared to the present. Presently, I probably have more in common with the Alaina that lived in Bhutan compared to the fifteen-year-old version of myself. But I will say that the experiences that I had in Bhutan had a say in the person that I would become today and will impact the “me” that I become in 20+ years. I was one version of myself before I left U.S. soil to travel 36+ hours through Seoul, S. Korea; Bangkok, Thailand; and finally land on the tarmac surrounded by rice paddies and mountains (which, fun fact: there are only 12 pilots in the world that are allowed to fly into the Paro, Bhutan airport because of special training you must receive.)

I was a more grumpy, hungry, and tired version of myself – there is no doubt about that.

I left my family, the place I called home, all my friends, a familiar culture, language, the American cuisine (hey, Culver’s custard is assuredly included in that), and the flat, flat, flat, flat, did I mention flat, dairy farms of SE Wisconsin for the mountainous Himalayas. The Alaina of 2019 had a lot of change to acclimate to, whether she did that well or not is up for debate.

After I physically left Bhutan, I felt that I had left a part of myself in Bhutan, nestled away with the people that I was blessed to meet and the experiences I had. I both went away from Bhutan and allowed parts of myself to remain.

Fast forward to August 2022, and the feeling remains.

This week I have had to and will have to say goodbye to friends whom I have shared my life with for the past two (+) months. We cooked, ate, laughed, cried, swam, and were scientists alongside one another. For many of us at the Bocas station, we are familiar with fieldwork that takes us to many places around the world, so we tend to rip off the proverbial band-aid upon meeting new people. We have become adept at cutting through the niceties of first introductions and aim straight for the topics that resonate, the kind that binds you as friends when you might not have been before.

This is the joy of living abroad and meeting new people. People are beautiful, and everyone has their own story to share and hugs to give. This fact also makes leaving that much harder. For me, a piece of myself will always remain with the people I have shared life with, and while that is a comforting fact, there are moments when I feel stretched thin because of it. My faith is what makes this “fracturing” manageable.

So, this post is for the God who has never left and will never leave and for the friends that carry a part of me with them. Thank you for the blessing of your friendship, and here’s to no goodbyes, only “see you later.”

Sincerely,

the miss in (miss)adventures