Thoughts from a Midwestern transplant in Flo-rida

When it doubt, head to the Gulf of Mexico and listen to the waves.

Florida — and really any tropical location — used to seem like another planet to me. 

The idea of white, sandy beaches and snow-less, sunny winters was too foreign for my Northern brain to wrap my head around. It just didn't make sense. How could you live somewhere that never offered the delight of a warming cup of hot chocolate after a long day of snow exploration? How could you live in a place where you would never hear the satisfying *crunch* of a crisp autumn leaf as your shiny black boot squished it into the changing earth beneath you?

I didn't "get it" until now.

Last Sunday I sat on the beach under a late-afternoon sun, half shaded by a striped drugstore umbrella that had been taken by the wind twice in the past hour, and I buried my feet in the softest sand I'd ever touched. As I continued to use my feet as a human shovel in order to seek refuge from the July heat, I watched a little boy run into the ocean and greet it like an old friend. He sprinted towards the waves in full-force, sandcastle tools in hand, and let the water embrace him in a way I've only been embraced by people whom I truly love. He soon began a thorough inspection of the wet sand causing his little feet to sink into the shore, and soon he found his treasure: a small shell that he proudly thrusted high in the air so all the world could see, beaming with pride as his parents yelled muffled calls of "good job!" 

Life is pretty good with a private path to the beach.

The ocean is one of the few things on Earth that will always offer joy. And not just any joy; joy in its most simplistic form. The hard shell of a crustacean waiting to be discovered between gaps in the white-frothed tide; the graceful movement of an afternoon wave and its welcoming embrace; a warm watercolor painting-sunset blurring the line between the end of the water and the beginning of the sky...these simple joys will always be offered.

These simple joys will always be here, in beach towns like this, for as long as we live (if we don't completely kill the environment, that is. Global warming is a thing). Beaches are the watering holes of the non-Saharan world. You see all kinds of people in all kinds of shapes and sizes and hues. It doesn't matter where they come from. It doesn't matter how much money they have. It doesn't matter if they're locals or tourists or somewhere in between like me: beach-goers are united in their quest for peace and joy in a place that helps them forget what they were worrying about on the car ride over. 

There's something about the melodic rush of a wave hitting the shore that forces you to move at a slower pace. It's not that extraordinary — it's just water hitting sand —but then again, maybe it's the simplistic beauty and unifying potential of the act that makes it so remarkable. 

I'm fairly convinced that a beautiful Florida sunset in the only 100% effective short-term cure for new-job anxiety.

Writing Practice 6/17

My current source of inspiration: the wise words of Gloria Steinem.

Moments of inspiration come in many forms.

Seeing a group of schoolkids selling over-sweetened lemonade on an affluent street of Chicago while holding signs that say "All proceeds go to Chicago Public Schools!" and shouting "Help me keep my favorite teacher from losing her job!"

Watching a hummingbird dance gracefully around the ancient branches of your crabapple tree while you sit in the shade with a book in your lap on a hot June morning.

Getting in a passionate argument with an old friend who just can't seem to understand your perspective and why it's changed over all these years.

The sensation of summer sunlight warming your untanned skin, then permeating through every layer of your being until reaching your hibernating heart.

Everyone is inspired in different ways, but certain moments seem to be universally moving.

Seeing the pride on a new parent's face when they hold their newborn for the first time.

Watching students confidently cross the stage at their college graduation after four+ years of late nights, early mornings and an unfaltering sense of determination.

Clicking on a video showing the pure joy and heart-wrenching displays of love that resulted when a group of service dogs comforted survivors and loved ones of the victims of the Pulse nightclub shooting.

It's moments like these that keep me going.

It's moments like these that remind me why we're all here.

It's moments like these that give me another reason not to lose hope.

Love is all around us. We need to keep going. We need to win the battle against hate.

It's funny how cheesy and inspired you can feel after an afternoon outside.

Writing Practice 6/14 (the first of many extended "tone poems" about my time abroad)

It was early on the first morning of May. Or very, very late on the last night of April, depending on your perspective.

We were leaving the stupid yet somehow relentlessly enticing club that we had spent half of the semester trying to get into. It was the last time we would walk past the tall, bulky men who had been the deciders of our partyer fates for what seemed like a brief eternity.

We took a different way home that night. I shook my head, folded my brown, faux-leather-covered arms into my chilled chest and followed three of my favorite reckless wanderers into the night.  

As per usual, we opted for the street instead of the sidewalk. We pranced, ran and even jumped upon the uneven cobblestones that had come to feel more familiar than the smooth asphalt of our hometowns.

We were thirsty, so Kenz decided it would be a good idea to yell “AGUA?!” at some unsuspecting partygoers spilling onto the balcony of the sole party on an otherwise silent street.

The response was even more unexpected than her remark (which was made in a language that neither us nor the locals speak, mind you). The joyous strangers invited us into their home — an invitation which, looking back on it, should have been alarming — and we didn’t think twice before running up their creaky wooden stairs.

Consider this an ode to my semester of elated preposterousness.

We found ourselves in the middle of a party that was slowly thinning out. We were clearly the youngest party-goers in the crowd, but we weren’t there to mooch for adult beverages. Being the mature, responsible drunkards that we are, we were looking for an alcohol-free beverage to hydrate ourselves before the long trek ahead.

The overly-generous strangers complied, and Kenz went to the sink to fill empty Heineken bottles with the only non-alcoholic liquid to ever grace their glass bottoms. We made small talk with our saviors until multiple bottles had been filled, and eventually, we made our way back into the dark limbo between nighttime and daybreak.

I laughed as my friends reminisced about their wine-induced escapades, their voices echoing off the humble cream buildings surrounding us. It was a small miracle that no angry, robe-clad Frenchmen ran out of their homes to yell at our band of stereotypically rowdy Americans.

Green bottles clanked as they cracked against worn stones. Car lights flashed, warning the idiots dancing blissfully down the street that they had no place there. Birds sang a cheerful lullabye — or an alarming pre-dawn wakeup call, depending on your perspective.

It was one of the only times I’ve ever felt invincible. With the beat of the bass still pumping through my veins and remnants of a liquid confidence potion warming my throat, not a single anxious thought crossed my mind.

I was just a young girl being foolish with her equally irrational companions.

The streets were ours, and we were theirs.

Writing Practice 6/8

I’m at an intersection, but there are no stop lights.

Instead, there are sad, drooping trees with leaves that sway like wind chimes by my side. In the distance is a pathetic excuse for a sledding hill, made more appealing by the pink light quickly disappearing behind it. Behind me is a dark, noisy creek with no fish to call it home. Before me is a vast stretch of green earth that’s seen the soles of infinite children run across it.

There are no vehicles at this intersection.

Other than my mom’s silver mountain bike — thrown haphazardly amongst the weeds — there is no sign of anyone else trying to cross this intersection. It’s just me, sitting on the slanted rock where I used to ponder the thoughts that crowded my curious young mind.

Today, those thoughts are a little different than they were back then.

Yes, I still pine for romances that will never be and let friends who don’t value our relationship upset me, but there are new thoughts, too. There are new subjects to ponder, new unanswered questions to worry about. There are unpacked suitcases to fill, checks to write and a plane to catch. There are student loans to pay, people to meet and a job to get done. There are countless knowns and unknowns, and there is a new story in which only the first page has been written.

This is an intersection between the past, present, and the future.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m stuck between the different phases of time. When I sit criss-crossed in my room, surrounded by four alarmingly pink walls, I look at old photos and dance ribbons and award certificates and camp scarves and collectible teddy bear figurines. I carefully slide them off the shelves as a mini dust tornado swirls through my nostrils, and I’m reminded of how I got to this point.

But when I scroll through my camera roll, I come across the screenshot of a job offer that will define the years to come. I re-read the sentence describing the increase in vacation days offered after a year, and I can’t help but wonder how I’ll spend them. I look at my “Flo-rida Bucket List,” the piles of clothes in my bedroom and the stacks of paperwork in the dining room, and I wonder how this will all work out.

I’m at an intersection of time at which the past and the future are so appealing, the present seems completely inaccessible.

I watch the sun set over the green hump of land that I used to slide down every winter and roll down every summer, and I try to take the moment for what it is. I try not to think about the last time I sat atop this hill, or how this might be the last glimpse I ever get of it.

Instead, I let the cool summer breeze chill my legs, and I try, for the first time in a long time, to truly live in the present.

An overly nostalgic "exchange was 1 year ago" post

A year ago today, I came home from the adventure of a lifetime.

I know it’s cheesy and we’ve all heard the “study abroad changed my life” story before, but you’re going to hear it again, so if you’ve over it, now is the time to gracefully dip out.

A year ago today, I flew from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris to O’Hare here in good ol’ Chi town. I boarded the plane with my dear pal Kenz — in matching “I <3 Reims” shirts that one of the flight attendants reacted to with a “J’aime Reims aussi!”, I should add — and I tried not to cry. It was a crowded flight, and Kenzie was nowhere in sight, so I had only the aisle seat and the relief that it promised for my frustratingly long legs to comfort me. Once I sat down and sealed the deal with the click of my shiny silver buckle, it was inevitable: I was leaving. I  remember not knowing what to do with myself. I was so full of emotions that I was physically exhausted, so much so that my body just couldn’t take it any longer. It decided to skip the waterworks that would have hindered my ability to watch takeoff and nap instead.

Takeoff would have been too much for me. I think if I had seen the last glimpse of my temporary home disappear into a sea of white, it would have made it all too real. That scene would have been carved into my brain for a long time — it would have been hard to shake it. Escaping to my dreams where I could travel the world without having to worry about returning to any responsibilities was much easier.

I think leaving was hard because it meant leaving behind a country that had truly felt like home in its purest sense. I was also leaving a continent that had played host to over a dozen unforgettable, laughter-filled trips, but the hardest part was leaving some of the best friends I’d ever made.

I was nowhere near ready to leave France. My time studying at Sciences Po Campus de Reims was far from perfect, but its imperfections were perhaps the most impeccably beautifully aspects about it.

At SciencesPo, I learned what it’s like to learn in an international community (FYI: it’s the best way to learn, and I'm not trying to sound pretentious. It's seriously eye-opening). I learned everything from what a French PACS is to what it’s like being a student journalist in China. I learned that French journalism professors and I don’t always mix very well, but I came to respect their stubbornness and pride for their craft. I learned French grammar and vocabulary from a petite, charismatic French woman; I learned the Spanish equivalent of phrases like “you’re on fire” from two beautiful, adventurous Chilean girls; and I learned how to properly greet charming, glamorous Italian students (with big hugs, kisses and wine, of course).

My time in Reims was educational in many ways, most of which had nothing to do with lectures or homework assignments (the latter of which there weren’t too many of, so thanks for that). When I came home from Reims a year ago today, I was a very different person than the girl who boarded a plane headed for Paris four and a half months prior. Living in France taught me how to actually enjoy my time as a student and young adult. For the first time in my five semesters of college, I felt like I was truly living.

I know it’s cliche AF but I’m serious. I wasted so much time worrying about unnecessary things throughout the first half of college that I don’t think I was actually experiencing Mizzou, I was just going through the motions. I woke up, I went to class, I did work for one of the multiple organizations I was a part of, I went to my job, I did homework and I attempted to get some sleep before doing it all over again. I stayed up late studying even when it didn’t help, and I tried to make everyone around me happy, even when I knew that wasn’t physically possible.

In Reims, I shed all of those habits. In Reims, I put effort into all of my classes, but I didn’t beat myself up when my work wasn’t the best. In Reims, I stayed up late because I was drinking wine and laughing with my friends, not because I was studying. In Reims, I didn’t worry about to-do lists or work shifts or schedules of any kind. Instead, I spent my time sipping authentic champagne, deciding between the croissant or pain au chocolat, and trying way too hard to get into the coolest club in town. I danced with people who didn’t speak my language, watched the sun rise after staying up all night, and ate a ridiculous amount of 2-euro microwavable pasta meals. I made good choices and I made bad choices, but I didn’t have any real regrets.

None of this would have been possible if it weren’t for the wild, hilarious and loving group of fools who were by my side throughout it all. Never have I met people who are so full of life than I did in Reims. My exchange friends taught me how to enjoy myself without worrying about whether the people around me were having a good time. They taught me how to be truly present, and they taught me that I deserve a break. They fully dived into the study abroad experience, and they inspired me to do the exact same.

So, I want to dedicate this piece of writing to my favorite gang of weirdos (both the exchange students and wonderful full-time Sciences Po students who I met). Thank you for helping me come out of my shell. Thank you for making me do things I never would have done at home. Thank you for letting me know that it’s okay to be a little selfish. Thank you for encouraging me, for laughing with me, and for getting shushed in public places with me (you know you’re having fun when you’re too loud for the Europeans around you to handle). You guys mean the absolute world to me, and even though a new part of my heart breaks whenever I think about how long it’s been since we were all together, I refuse to give up hope that I’ll find my way back to you someday.

Je vous aime, mes amis :)