Tag Archives: Living Abroad

Navigating Non-Linear Expat Life: A Repatriation Journey

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Collins Dictionary describes non-linear as “Does not progress smoothly from one stage to the next in a logical way…makes sudden changes or goes in different directions at the same time.”

Most days, we thrive on our non-linear, unpredictable Foreign Service journey, but It’s “PCS” season in the diplomatic community here, which stands for Permanent Change of Station, and I’m wishing for a smooth transition, especially as a U.S. federal government family in the current political climate. While bidding for our next assignment these last few months, we thought briefly our family might be moving to Turkey, then chances were good for Prague (for which I was pining), however, now we will land in DC this summer for two years.

After more than a decade abroad in Swaziland, Cairo, Honduras, and Gabon, the best part of repatriation will be the proximity to friends and family, especially, reuniting with our son who left for boarding school one and a half years ago after a military coup. We’ve had holidays and breaks together, but in between, contact has mostly been via video chats and I cannot wait for us to be back under one roof as a family.

Returning to America, we know to expect some reverse culture shock and necessary adaptations. Focusing on the positive, there is the anticipation of choosing which property we get to live in, a change of seasons (sweaters and boots!), drinking water from the tap, smooth roads accompanied by (mostly) civil driving rules, ample electricity and countless conveniences, like quick trips to the store without hunting for ingredients, browsing the library for a book in english, and the instant gratification of finding the essentials without much hassle.

But, how I will miss our dear friends, conversing in foreign languages, and the rich cultural experiences and adventurous travel. I will miss buying produce and fish from the source and the unexpected gestures of kindness, like the gardener gifting me a fresh coconut. And the stunning beauty of fiery sunsets near the equator, watching storms roll in next to Kingfishers perched on our fence, and the wild vibrancy of our surroundings.

fruit stall

I’ll even miss the frequent life lessons that come fast and hard in developing countries, challenging us to find solutions without the resources and tools we’re accustomed to; at times living with instability and even fear, operating far beyond our comfort zones. Learning to do without and living on less. And the important, constant reminders that as Americans how fortunate we are to have access to clean water and air, sturdy living quarters, stable food sources, education, accessible healthcare and the protection of human rights – all of which far outweigh what we’ve witnessed in Central America and Africa. (Unlike what the show “The Diplomat” portrays, our life is a lot more grit than glamour).

Out of necessity, I’ve reinvented myself in each of these foreign lands. Through building community and a life for our family, one hurdle at a time, I’ve grown emotionally stronger, braver, and more self-assured. Since I’ve been unable to consult overseas in my field (illicit finance, deemed a conflict of interest with my husband’s job), I’ve shifted to writing, public speaking, developing a deep spiritual relationship with nature, and cultivating a quieter lifestyle.

Repatriation will take resilience and patience. We’ll need to find a car, rent a home, register for school, and furnish a house- parts of which will come to us in stages: a few hundred pounds of household effects (clothes, linens, kitchen utensils and things needed sooner than later) from Gabon will arrive by plane, followed by crates full of carpets, furniture, and goods that will make a longer journey by cargo ship.

Back on American soil, I’ll be interested to see who I will I become. I’m secretly afraid I’ll lose my wilder spirit–that it might get buried or swallowed up by box stores instead of roadside markets, or by the ease of days spent mostly indoors and without having to tap into bravery and daring. But I imagine although our lifestyle stateside will likely be faster-paced, it will also be more even-keeled, safer, and less like living in survival mode.

As a more relaxed mama with our child at home, perhaps I’ll once again sleep through the night. And, after a long hiatus in my career, I’ll navigate reentry into the work place in a way that feels meaningful. It might take a while, but the house will come together–quirky as it may be–and we’ll start 8th grade and new jobs, discover new friends, activities, and spaces to explore. Also, after grieving the recent loss of our sweet Golden Retriever, “Biscuit,” we’ve promised our son we’ll consider becoming dog owners again once we’re settled.

On this new journey home, to blend the past with the present, we’ll bring along talismans collected during our time abroad— local art, sea glass, shells, and feathers– all imbued with moments we’ll cherish.

Cheers to “fair winds and following seas.” We hope you’ll come visit us next fall in Arlington and create new memories with us.

Peace, Joy, and Light, Tracy

Then There Were Three

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The morning after Christmas, I heard the comforting chatter of Brad and Ramsay in the kitchen. Seated on the living room sofa, the cold pressed in against the window panes. The thermometer outside of Mama’s dark green cottage registered 28 degrees. Sleepily, I watched plumes rise from the chimney at a neighbor’s house, silhouetted against the soft glow of dawn. A cardinal darted into a magnolia tree and the clock on the mantle piece rhythmically announced the seconds like a countdown: tick. tick. tick. One week until boarding school.

We celebrated New Year’s with friends. I chose a word for the year- intention-because of its definition, “stretching toward a new way of being.” Oh, yes, 2024 would bring plenty of challenges.

January 2nd, leaving Ramsay at school was downright heart wrenching, hugging our only child goodbye at age eleven: so young, so vulnerable. The dorm staff could not have been kinder or more supportive, but I could hardly breathe when Brad drove us off campus, like someone had taken my air away. I sobbed in long inhales and exhales like strange notes of an accordion. Brad talked me down several times that night from driving back to get Ramsay.

In the following days, our tight-knit family scattered like jacks on a map- Brad and our dog Biscuit back in Gabon, me living out of a suitcase stateside, yet hours from Rams. The school counselor assured us our anxiety and questioning our decision was common, so normal- we had to give the homesickness time. “Wait a month before visiting,” they suggested. With a leaden heart, I practiced yoga, took walks, leapt at a glass of wine at cocktail hour with my mother, and immersed myself in writing my fiction manuscript. The absence of Ramsay’s happy spirit was all encompassing and I impatiently waited for those 5-minute intervals when I got to speak to him on the phone, a fake smile pasted on my face. Be strong. Don’t cry til you hang up, I told myself each and every call- a pep talk that rarely worked those first few weeks.

Days passed without seeing his face, just the occasional text that gave me no sense of what life was like for him. Was he sleeping? Making friends? Doing okay in school? “Yes, he’s doing fine,” school staff encouraged, but I was lost, mothering from afar. Desperate to bring us all back under one roof, I day-dreamed of buying a house a few miles from the school. Maybe I could apply for a job there and beg Brad to quit the State Department. We’re serving our country, I told myself. The coup that led to this wasn’t our family’s fault. Count our blessings. We can bear anything for a year. Pretend it’s COVID again.

When I felt like crumbling under the weight of missing my child, I reminded myself it’s temporary, that Rams was getting an excellent education we could not otherwise afford him, and that this was an American experience he’d never had, having been raised overseas. I shifted perspective with positive affirmations- trust that this life is happening FOR us, not TO us, and, especially, I often whispered internally- he’s safe and in a caring place. My mommy guilt serves no one.

It was impossible to imagine that weeks later, we would have days without tears and Ramsay would be well-adjusted to dorm life and school abroad, but we all transitioned to a better place. I got to visit Rams after a month and although I was so choked up when I hugged him that I could only whisper, “Hey sugar, missed you,” I could tell he was settling in well. We gathered his sheets, bathrobe, uniforms and loads of clothes in his dorm room to take to the AirBnB rental. I threw out a stale, partially-eaten bread roll on his desk and poured out a murky cup of steeped-for-days tea.

Rams and I chatted incessantly and indulged in little celebrations- sparklers and hot chocolate, a mini-pinata to break open, and a snow-tubing trip. I was determined to live in the moment all weekend as the deadline of returning him to campus pushed in like a storm on the horizon. He asked for, and received, new tennis shoes, a basketball, and a haircut. We took long walks, watched funny videos together, and cooked his favorite meals. He enthusiastically shared his new knowledge of race cars and sports teams.

During a steak dinner out, I detected Ramsay’s slight new southern accent as we laughed and played cards. (Ramsay won, not because I let him, but because he is a card shark like his Gran). I took breaks from folding laundry that night to listen to his soft breathing as he slept. Our weekend together released me from the constant fretting. It was evident his boarding school community was providing a caring net to fall into. My heart swelled with pride for this courageous fellow who had surmounted this monumental life change much better than I. 

Weeks later, Brad flew to the U.S. and the three of us had a wonderful Spring Break with Ramsay. Rams had just taken his first unaccompanied flight to see his Godparents, whom he adores. “Were you scared?” I asked. “Mom, come on,” Rams replied. (This was a silly question for a kid who had been on 30 flights by age 5). “It was awesome- I got to see the cockpit and they gave me guac and tortilla chips.”

Hibachi night with Gran
In the Captain’s Seat
A Hockey Game in GA

A few days later, it was time for me to return to Gabon. It’s just the three of us now in Libreville- me, Brad, and Biscuit. The first couple of days home, at 3:45pm, my heart filled with anticipation, waiting for Ramsay to burst through the door after school like he used to. Biscuit, too, seemed to remember our old routine and sat by the entrance, tail wagging. We needed a new schedule. To push through that witching hour, I began afternoon beach walks with Biscuit in tow, repeating adapt, adjust, and keep looking ahead.

In our absence, cherished friends and family hosted Ramsay for visits, fueling him with love and food, for which we are deeply grateful. Rams made the baseball team, has played laser tag, and got a signed puck at a hockey game. He does his own laundry, irons his clothes, does chores at the dorm, and is soaking up learning without language barriers. He chipped a front tooth, took it in stride, and coordinated with the school nurse to have it repaired at the dentist. He continues to amaze us with his positivity, resourcefulness, and gumption.

Recently, Rams sent a quick voice message on text- further evidence that he was finding joy there. On his weekly grocery trip back from Wal-Mart, there was abundant laughter in the background from his dorm buddies. Classic rock played and Rams said he was eating a Subway sandwich on the bus, mentioning between bites that he liked this song, by the way, and could we hear it? And oh, yeah, we’d see a credit card transaction for LED lights for his room, and he hoped that was okay. He recounted that he’d seen Aquaman at a real movie theater and recently learned the concept of “family style” dishes. “Mom- have you heard of this, family style eating?  When the bowl is empty, they just refill it- it’s amazing!”

Ramsay’s enthusiasm was contagious and Brad and I laughed out loud, content that our family had shifted out of a place of heartache about boarding school into a place more flourishing. Soon, summer break arrives, and once again, we will be four.

With Love & Light,

–Tracy

A Sacred Space

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“There is an Indian proverb that says everyone is a house with four rooms:  physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person.”― Rumer Godden 

At 7:45 am, the car in reverse, something catches my eye in the review mirror as the garage door opens. It’s a bird’s nest in mid-creation; thin twigs and strands of field grass have tumbled down. A brief sadness floats through me, wishing she had chosen a sturdier place for her home, her work now dismantled.   

The fallen nest is like living abroad with its moments of feeling unmoored. I relate to her temporal housing, like a sandcastle eroding with a vanishing wave, or a hermit crab shedding its shell. International moves and occasional cultural mishaps have taught me to create a safe refuge; not just a house, but a home. 

Post errands, I step with a mug of tea into the light-filled room that buoys my spirit. Through the open window, soft light spills onto the tiles and a gentle breeze rustles the palms. The curtains billow like sails, curling around the bookshelf holding crooked stacks of travel journals and stories of empowered women. 

Taking centering breaths, I sense the cosmic connection in this room; a haven for soul crafting and building castles in the sky. “A woman needs a room of her own,” Virginia Woolf said. This is where I begin my morning ritual of meditation and writing. I call it my sanctuary, a space to hear my thoughts and seek inspiration. 

Each time we change houses, I claim a space as mine, surrounding myself with favorite photos, art, and travel mementos that feel like me; a snapshot of the world from my perspective. 

Like the concept of “Wonder Rooms” (from the German word  Wunderkammern) in the Victorian Era, when cabinets of curiosities were popular, I display my most cherished objects: rosewood tea boxes with stationery collected from museums and hotels, the mint and gold silk carpet I hand-carried home years ago from Marrakesh, a special hand-painted porcelain globe.  I light a candle, which stands proudly in its decorative stand from Kusadasi, relishing memories of standing in the Blue Mosque and exploring markets across Europe. 

A nest made of Vetiver root from Swaziland holds shells and feathers, and an Italian glass dish cradles healing stones and talisman. A dented singing bowl rests alongside a bottle of ink from Paris. A lantern with stars and moons illumines the corner of the room.   

I roll out my yoga mat, spritzing a blend of essential oils into the air.  Sanity returns and I feel myself expand in this sacred space where I rekindle dreams and am restored.

“I have sometimes thought that a woman’s nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing-room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go… but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.” – Edith Wharton from her story, “Fullness of Life:”

Do you have a sacred space or nook? 

What are the precious objects that make you feel grounded? 

Namaste, 

Tracy