Growing Pains

Before I joined Peace Corps, I had experienced some sort of "growing pains" when I packed up and left my sheltered and familiar little life in Ste. Genevieve for a college town and a university experience in Cape Girardeau.  I knew not a single soul when I arrived, and it definitely took an adjustment period to become accustomed to the community showers (not to mention the random men who showed up in them) and the vast amount of freedom I had never experienced before.  This left me feeling both terrified and exhilarated, and I definitely resisted a tugging to return to all things familiar.

Granted, within a month or three, I had created friendships with individuals I now cannot imagine life without, and all was well.  I learned plenty of lessons, made memories, and discovered I was able to define my life outside of what people in that small town deemed "acceptable" for me, and that was okay.   

Fast forward four years.  I decided to up and change my life again: I am an American living in Cherkasy, Ukraine.  I know enough Ukrainian vocabulary to share my love of drawing, animals, exploring, and reading.  I can, brokenly, explain how to make tacos and in return, learn how to make my new family's divine mushroom soup.  I can tell my host family and new co-workers I appreciate their friendship, support, and help on this crazy journey (although much less eloquently than that). I can identify the correct trolleys and marshuki to get me to and from work, and to my favorite park,  I can go to the bazaar or store and buy cherries or shampoo.  I could go to the train station and purchase a ticket for the correct day and time to another city, if I so desired (Probably.. We'll test this theory in a few months).  I can even explain why I am living and working in Ukraine while using big-kid vocabulary, like "youth development." For only having three months of language practice, I know this is an accomplishment; I know I should be proud of myself.

However, sometimes, without warning, growing pains can hit you hard in the middle of the night, plaguing you for days on end, refusing to be placated.  

This week, I have been unable to explain that my grandfather is in the hospital, facing a long, difficult recovery, and I want more than anything to jump on a plane and be there for him and my family.  I have been unable to voice my fear of being a burden, disappointment, and failure instead of a blessing to the organization that has been wanting a PCV for two years.  I haven't been able to disclose how guilty I feel for not loving every minute of this experience like I feel I should be.  I have been unable to express how much I am craving something familiar- a hug from my mom, a kiss on the forehead from someone dear to me, cuddling one of my furballs.  Even helping my Ukrainian mama in the garden and playing with my pig-friend, Wiggly, would be a welcome comfort, because even that is more familiar than this busy new city. 

To sum up, culture shock and home-sickness brutally tag-teamed me with the force of a sledgehammer.  I wanted safe.  I wanted home.  

However, I didn't join Peace Corps to stay "safe."  I didn't join Peace Corps to stay comfortably in my feel-good box where I can control everything with my pretty excel spreadsheets and highlighters.  I don't even own a highlighter, now.  

I joined Peace Corps to challenge myself.  I joined Peace Corps to learn a new language and culture.  I joined Peace Corps to become a more empathetic and knowledgeable social worker and human; to develop new relationships and to be of aid where help is truly needed.  I joined Peace Corps to learn how to live.  

Moving to a new country is hard.  Preparing your personal and professional life for two years of service where you won't even be able to go home for the holidays is incredibly hard.  I say that with a new understanding, albeit a bit of a delayed understanding.  I think this is partly due to the fact that when you talk with RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers), they talk about the differences they made- they relationships they shared; almost as if they're looking at their service through rose-colored glasses.  They do not admit initial minute-by-minute struggle to understand what is being said to you and around you, the struggle to find your niche in your new community, or the fear of becoming lost in a city of 300,000 people when you cannot even correctly pronounce the name of the street you live on.  

At first, I resented these RPCVs and Peace Corps staff for not disclosing the negatives of service because these struggles are so very real- they're part of the growing pains.  But once I started thinking, I realized these barriers, the ones that feel ten feet tall? They're not permanent.  They're built of clay, and they will begin to crumble with each small victory- be it a word learned, conversation had, or a cat-friend made.

So, yes, feel.  Feel everything that's happening around you.  Validate these feelings.  After all, they're real; probably some of the most tangible you've ever experienced outside of being heels-over-head in love.  But in these intense moments, don't forget to take a deep breath, step back, and reflect.  This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience that you're lucky enough to call your own.  One day, you'll be that starry-eyed, twitter-painted RPCV describing the land and people and memories you fell in love with.  All it takes is a little faith, trust, and pixie dust (comprised of a lot of hard work, dedication, and persistence).  And remember:

You've got this. 

This time it is "officially" official.

Five days ago I took the oath and swore in as a Peace Corps Volunteer after almost three months of four-hours-a-day language training, teaching healthy lifestyles, civic engagement, and leadership skills in Ukrainian, making friends with the street animals, technical sessions, planning and running a mini camp, facilitating an English club, assisting with English classes, and living with an absolutely amazing host family in the quaint village of Kozelets, Ukraine.  We had chickens and geese and pigs and one slightly slaughtered pig who, I have to admit, made an amazing soup after I overcame the shock of seeing his corpse laying out in our living room.   It was not a drill.  In addition to leaving my host family, I had to leave my dear little group of fellow misfits- The Wolfe Pack- as we all dispersed across Ukraine to our new homes for two years. 

I realize there has been a hiatus in this blog, and I apologize for this.  While living in Kozelets, I had very limited access to the interweb, and quite frankly, we were too busy to even find time to sleep properly, much less write a blog after trying to differentiate between the eight different ways to say "to go" in Ukrainian every day.  Don't buy it? This was just one wall out of the house we had covered in Ukrainian words and grammar: Level Unlocked; BadAss Status.  

I am thankful to my little Wolfe Pack for keeping me sane in these first few months and putting up with my never ending need to sleep.  I am thankful for the laughter, the tears, and the friendship we now share thanks to this adventure we're privileged to be on.

As for my Ukrainian Mama and Tato, I am forever grateful for sharing recipes (vareniki for tacos) , conversations (complete with elaborate pantomimes), laughter, helping with the language, showing me the wonders of the bucket bath when the hot water is determined not to work, and accepting me as family without a second thought.  I will cherish my Ukrainian family for the rest of my life.

I am now living in Cherkasy, a city with a population of 300,000 on the Dniper River, with a new host family, while I become acquainted with my new surroundings. My new host mother has given me my first Ukrainian nickname, Samichko.  She and her daughter refuse to let me go more than a couple hours without trying to feed me or offer me chi (tea), while her husband reminds me of the need to wear slippers inside the house else I get sick.  I am beyond blessed to have been spoiled with this many kind, generous, loving souls since I have been in Ukraine. My host sister has already taken me around the city and insisted on taking pictures of me in front of the local landmarks, like this beautiful Orthadox church near the center of town.  In addition to the new host family, I have begun working with the local youth resource center and have introduced them to the game Humans Vs Zombies, which will now be used for a fundraising platform (nerding = awesome). 

So what happens next? Not even I know the answer to this, but oh, am I excited to find out. 

The hard work has paid off: I am a Peace Corps Volunteer.