My Cocoon Era

An honest look at life abroad, 6 weeks in.

One reality:

It’s a Friday morning in Munich. I’m sitting in a cozy cafe at a large wooden table with other writers as lo-fi pulsates through the speakers. Large windows surround me, showing me the clear sky outside, a tantalizing blue. After I finish writing this, I’ll stroll along the historical streets of the city, passing groups of tourists snapping pictures of beautiful churches and couples dining on the sidewalk outside restaurants. I’ll make my way toward the English educational center where I’ll spend the afternoon tutoring adult students. The weekend ahead is wide open. My husband and I are thinking about visiting a nearby lake, or Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany. Maybe pop into a museum or try a new ice cream spot.

Another reality:

I wake to an empty bed. My husband’s already gone to work. He won’t be back until late, as he has German class this evening. I scroll through my group chats with friends back home to see what messages I missed while I was asleep. I look at pictures from their latest hangout. Bright eyes, big grins. While I make breakfast, I watch Marco Polo videos from my cousin as she updates me on her life. I record my answer in between scoops of granola and sips of coffee. I want to call my mom to chat, but she won’t be up for another 4 or 5 hours. I teach a class later tonight, but that feels so far from now. The day ahead of me stretches out into a million possibilities. I have no place to be. No one expecting me. And so I sit here, alone, trying to figure out what to do next. The urge to change out of my pajamas just isn’t quite there.

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It’s been six weeks since we moved to Munich.

I imagine that when people hear I moved to Germany, they probably think of that first reality. A city full of art, historical streets that boast beautiful buildings, dining under the stars, a public transportation system that would could make any American green with envy. And that is part of my reality… but that second reality is, too.

June marks my ninth month abroad. I honestly think back to last summer and laugh. It feels like years ago. My husband and I worked towards this dream of living abroad ever since he switched companies in 2020 and we learned that international assignments were a possibility. So it can feel strange to have a dream come true, and yet realize that it isn’t always as smooth and easy and you dreamed it to be. I feel like I’m channeling some major Glinda vibes from “Thank Goodness” in Wicked:

'Cause getting your dreams
It's strange, but it seems
A little - well - complicated
There's a kind of a sort of: cost
There's a couple of things get: lost
There are bridges you cross
You didn't know you crossed
Until you've crossed

I don’t want to make it seem like we aren’t incredibly lucky that we are getting this opportunity… because we are, and I realize it every day. Especially considering how many people in the world may desperately want/need to leave their country, but are turned away by others. Or those who are forced to flee the only home they’ve ever known, and experience these transitions that I’m experiencing, only without the agency of having chosen this path for themselves.

I seriously don’t take this opportunity to live abroad for granted. But I do realize that I’m a human being that can feel many conflicting emotions at once!!! I’ve been trying to find the words to convey how this transition has been — I’m a writer, after all — and, like I always do when I try to process things, I turn to the page to help.

Happy? Write. Sad? Write. Confused? Write. Frustrated? Write.

All of those emotions at once? W R I T E.

Here’s a paragraph from an email I sent a friend a month ago:

I'm so grateful to have found a job and the city itself is stunning and green and quiet. But you have lived abroad, so you probably remember the roller coaster of emotions that come with it. I've been spending a lot of time alone, which as an introvert is fine. But I'm the most extroverted introvert I know, and therefore am starting to feel a little lonely. I have to remind myself it's only been two weeks, and not to panic yet because I haven't found "my people." They come in time. They come with patience. And they come with not giving up!!! So I plan to try out a bunch of different activities and groups and see what sticks. This strangely feels like freshman year of college all over again. 

Strangely, when I sat down to journal how I was feeling this week, I wasn’t met with words… but rather, a visual.

A visual metaphor, if you will. Let’s explore with some poorly drawn doodles, shall we?

At the end of my six months in Manchester, I felt like a butterfly. Fluttering around, in love with myself and the beauty that surrounded me. My eyes were wide open. I knew where I belonged.

Then, I was plucked from my safe environment and landed in a brand new country, a brand new culture, and I was unable to recognize myself.

All the things that made me feel like a butterfly — familiar city, creative community, language, volunteering, regular writing routine — had disappeared. My wings were replaced with stubby little legs. Everything felt foreign, including myself.

But now, six weeks in, I’m having moments that signal to me I’m ready for my cocoon.

This past week, I rode my bike around the city, unable to wipe the smile from my face when the wind tousled my hair or raindrops kissed my cheeks. I used the U-Bahn without help from my phone GPS. I figured out how to work a German printer all on my own. I picked up my first library book — meaning I figured out how to get a library card and how to reserve books (as the ultimate library lover, this feels like a core part of my identity is returning). I taught a class with a window view of the most gorgeous, quaint German street. A student told me she loves my class more than any other English class she’s taken. After attending a writers group and going out for drinks after, I walked back to my apartment and felt I was walking on air.

These small moments may not seem like much, but they make me feel capable.
They tell me that, in time, I’ll feel like a butterfly again.

I’m just… in my cocoon for now.