I get by with a little help.

So, sometimes I write things, outside of this here blog.

Sometimes I get to have friends who ask me to write for things that they do.
Like Jill, who asked me to write this for her page.

Jill is a friend I ran into via Joanna Brooks, whom I admire and love very much. You know how sometimes you’re hesitant to get to know someone because of the type of people who recommend them? I had a bit of that hesitation with Joanna. She was always recommended by friends who could care less about immigrants. I went all fangirl when I started reading more of her posts. A feminist Mormon? A pro immigrant college professor? I wanted to bake the woman cookies and ask her to sleep over at my house so I could get all starry eyed because oh my gosh, that alternative exists. I do love Joanna, really, truly- she recommended books for me to read (oh my gosh, it’s like she knows me!) and was kind and gracious in spite of her incredibly busy schedule.

Somewhere in all of that, she played matchmaker and introduced me to a new friend- Jill. Jill is getting her doctorate with UNAM and is smart, and kind and soft spoken. One day we connected through Skype and I was so happy I wanted to burst into song and dance. She is that cool.

Jill and I have had a few conversations which confirmed within me the feeling that  in the grand scheme of things the great cosmic orchestrator has got this covered;  Jill was getting me to talk about stuff that I avoided and wanted to forget. She got me to understand how empowering it is to remember everything- the good, the bad, the ugly, the secretly hilarious and not-so-hilarious side of things.

There were a few nights of majorly ugly, telenovela style crying, but I got through it and most importantly I was able to start talking about the non-fun parts, which this expat/relocation/return is full of. Sometimes it’s not fun. Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I want to be the chick in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and break a bunch of stuff (who am I kidding, I always want to be her- have you seen her fly accross the rooftops?). Everyone knows this, I just hate talking about it. But I should and now I do.

That was a really long way of telling you that I wrote something that I’ve been scared to talk about.
And even though it was hard (seriously, whoever said that writing about traumatic and tragic events is cathartic should run a marathon in a bed of coals. Lies I tell you!), it was worth I because I feel like I can start having whole and complete conversations.

So instead of a slice you get the whole pie.
And more pie is good.

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