The storm cloud of exhaustion

8/23/2024

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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

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A note for context: the first half of this post is sourced from an entry in my personal journal

It’s been ten days since I’ve written in my “daily” journal. Some days, I couldn’t pick up a pen and document the list of activities and emotions packed into twenty-four hours tighter than my winter clothes and travel backpack. Journaling — a dependable grounding practice — suddenly became a burden. Instead of welcoming the discomfort of reliving events and piecing together my complex reactions to life on the road, I left the puzzle pieces scattered in the box.

Whenever I attempted to visit my past, the storm cloud of exhaustion hovered over my subconscious. Our bodies viscerally remember the past and hold the power to recall and simulate the same aches, flutters in our chest, or shortness of breath we feel when our anxiety is triggered.

In my first week transitioning (I use this word loosely because four days after this journal entry, I traveled to Rivera) back to Maldonado, I realized that I was repeatedly triggered by exhaustion. The words of resolution were trapped behind the cloud instead of liberated on a blank page. I could not access them.

My brain and body were still recovering from the twelve-hour workdays, late-night and early-morning bus rides, and emotionally over-stimulating discussions. I recognized the signs: I was dysregulated. Until the storm cloud lifted, I could not reflect. The puzzle remained unsolved.

My body had to live in the present.

I had to slow down and protect my well-being. I had to rest.

Doing nothing is usually a challenge for me. There is always another blog post to write, a lesson to plan, a friend to call, and a place to explore. But I could not, cannot do it all.

In my first week in Maldonado, I found myself leaning into the local simplistic lifestyle. I sat on my sofa and read as the sunset. I clicked through travel videos on YouTube, reminding myself of my motivation for choosing this strange life of living abroad.

I chose this temporary lifestyle to expand my perspectives, challenge my preconceptions of what could be, recognize my capabilities and limits, and make decisions through intuition and passion. I chose to live abroad to connect with other humans outside my hometown, state, and country — to recognize our simultaneous collective humanity, cultural differences, and the lessons each of us models.

But watching Kara and Nate, my two favorite travel YouTubers, gallivant across the seven continents grounded me in an epiphany: unlike them, I have the luxury of time in Uruguay. Right now, my days and weeks do not have a threatening countdown hovering over them like they do in videos. I still have months to intimately build familiarity with one country. Not every day needs to be an adventure or a story. Some of my most productive days recently have been days of rest.

I acknowledge that in August, I will not establish a routine. And that is frustrating. Despite moving to Maldonado over a month ago, I lived here for only two-and-a-half weeks. I left every week for a different city. This inconsistency became a pattern and an in-progress acceptance project. Realistically, therefore, the cloud of exhaustion may not lift until September. Routine and consistency are the scaffolding of my regulation tower. Without them, I exist in a dysregulated state.

So, this month, I will lean into my grounding mechanisms and regulation strategies. I am learning to view anxiety as my compass. I meditate and utilize deep breathing. I allow myself to cry when the waves of overstimulation and uncertainty roar, drowning out all over background noise. When the storm cloud becomes a hurricane, I turn to others to co-regulate. Because I am never alone.
I am never alone.

This is my reality of living abroad. It is my story, but at the moment many of the subchapters are being written by others. I follow the requirements of my coordinators. I show up to school with my best foot forward. In my free time, I take back control through stillness, books, runs on the beach, going to bed early, and sleeping in late.

The storm cloud of exhaustion still lingers, but it does not define me. I still have the power and autonomy over my attitude. So I walk through each day with gratitude, patience, and kindness. This life is a privilege. I consciously turn the mindset channel from “I have to” to “I get to” when confronting challenges.

Finally, I am irrevocably grateful I get to live this exhausting, transformative, liberating, demanding life. A life that is concurrently fulfilling and draining.

. . .

Exhaustion is an apparent theme of August. Following the theme, there are two storylines to choose from: an easy but miserable story of negativity or a grueling story of positivity and a make-the-most-of-it attitude.

I will admit, that the temptation to live the easier story frequently crossed my mind. The feeling of “I just want to go home” threatened to bring toddler tears to my weary eyes. However, I ultimately was inspired to live a more demanding life, an optimistic memorable life. My inspiration was emitted by my radiant friends, and my most reliable teachers, who approach each day with a fresh perspective.

I follow their lead and show up to each meeting, small-group activity, and class with an open heart further charged by hotel breakfast americanos. During the Montevideo seminar, for example, Ryan and I held each other up through inviting smiles, a comforting silent-signal hand on a shoulder, and midnight chats over empanadas and Ted Lasso. She was my guiding beam of light that broke through the overhanging dark cloud of exhaustion.

Outside of Montevideo, I am surrounded by other light sources: Sol and Flor. One foggy Sunday afternoon, Sol’s light rescued me from a pit of frustration and self-disdain in which I found myself. Her contagious laugh and serene kindness wrapped me in a safety blanket. Maldonado felt more familiar as we uncovered wandering side roads along the coastline. With her, I matured from a lost stranger to an invited guest.

She was, is, and will be my host, guide, and confidant. Nothing is off limits in the sanctuary of her Fiat. We are just two women unabashedly cackling over travel stories and old friends. Our compatible inner child spirits burn bright like twin flames as we watch the fire-red sun set behind the peaks of Pan de Azúcar, the next adventure we will conquer together.

Every other Wednesday at 5:10 p.m., I depart my apartment for La Paloma, Uruguay. Two bus rides and an hour of reading later, I leap out of the hard cold bus station seat and into Flor’s arms. Her regular presence in my life is a gift that revives the spring in my step. With our feet light, we almost skip the four blocks to her brick house. There we talk for hours, heated by mounds of blankets, soft-crusted margarita pizza, and the living-room heater.

These Wednesday nights are reminiscent of high-school sleepovers. The first night, I dropped off the weighing responsibilities and stress at the door like checked luggage. Then we ordered pizza (we both prefer margherita) and settled on the extra twin bed in the living room. We instantly connected over Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, zealously bonding and trading stories of childhoods between Minnesota and Argentina.

Although Flor is one of my university students in Rocha, we treated each other as equals. That evening, we were just two women in our early twenties with big dreams, a shared adoration for Gilmore Girls and Taylor Swift, and unknown futures. This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

. . .

The abnormality of the past few weeks is rightfully reflected in this abnormal post. I do not typically share entries from my personal journal. The confines of lined paper are my sanctuaries for free-flowing thought and unrestrained scribbles. I write only for me. However, my authenticity is best expressed across the spectrum of structure and intended audience.

Most of the previous posts were written for both of us. For you, dear reader, my entries served as a window into the intricacies of my experience as an expat. For me, they served as a platform for catharsis and a treasure chest of captured memories. This post, on the other hand, was written in the pursuit of closure. And thankfully, I found it — not only in my words but also in my people.

This is my story. Sometimes, I lack control over what happens when living abroad, but I know I always have control over how I write.

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