Leaving

    Two years ago, I had never lived outside of Ohio and I had never left the United States before. Teaching English in Erlangen has transformed my life. Throughout the past two years, I’ve changed in big ways, such as being more confident and adaptable, and also small ways, like cultivating a finer appreciation for German bread. In particular, I feel lucky to have been at a school that values the arts, that trusted me enough to start and lead the Creative Writing Club, that continuously supported me, and that welcomed and treated me so well. Although I am returning to the United States for now, this is not a permanent departure. Erlangen has become my second home, and I’ll know in my heart that I’ll be back again someday.

    I am endlessly grateful to have had this chance to live and work abroad. Not only have I grown professionally and personally, but I have made incredible connections with friends, colleagues, students, community members, neighbors, and more. These memories of teaching classes, visiting local festivals like the Bergkirchweih and Oktoberfest, hiking through the Fränkische Schweiz (Franconian mountains), eating Raclette instead of turkey for Thanksgiving, visiting new countries, translating for my American friends and family members, and so much more will stay with me forever. Learning is a tremendous gift, and moving to a foreign country has given me the opportunity to learn about myself and the world around me. I wish every person could have an experience like this: a chance to take a risk, be challenged, make mistakes, and grow. Every person deserves an opportunity to meet others unlike themselves, to learn about another part of the world, or to experience a place different from their own. Language is a wonderful tool that connects us to each other and opens doors to new parts of the world. Step outside of your comfort zone: it will have enormous positive results.

    Maya Angelou said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” For my students, I want them to feel positively when they think about our time together learning English. I want them to look back and remember feeling comfortable, seen, and valued in the classroom. Like my own German professor who inspired me, I hope I made a good impact here. Finally, I want to leave my students with one final lesson: you are capable of doing great things. Never stop learning.

    From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Germany.

Heimat: Ode to Home

  When I first arrived in Germany, I had stars in my eyes. Everything sparkled with excitement and newness. That first month was the honeymoon phase. I’d finally achieved this long-held dream. I made it.

  Catching COVID in October and being forced to lie in bed for a week, among other things, weakened the world’s rosy tint and brought me closer to reality. The flaws and challenges of life here presented themselves with growing prevalence. This was also the period when I made new friends and began establishing more connections with the people around me. The roads made more sense, I memorized the bus numbers and routes I needed, and I could navigate through the city. All these factors and more grounded me, and I began to adopt the mindset of a resident rather than a tourist.

  German winters are brutal. They’re long, and cold, and grey, and the daylight hours are short. Last year, the week following my trip home for Christmas was tough. This year, practically the entire winter season was hard. My mood has always been moderately affected by the weather, as we all are, but the dip I felt this past winter was unprecedented. I’m someone who thrives in the sun but burns easily. 

  At some point in the late winter or early spring last year, life felt normal. I no longer felt like “an American living in Germany”. I felt like somebody doing a great job in a special place. Erlangen, in particular, became a refuge, a place to breathe deeply and relax my shoulders after weekends spent gallivanting. Yes, it’s still Germany, but it also simply became the place I live. A second home. Warm. Comfortable. Less sparkly.

  Year two increased this feeling tenfold. I adapted. So much so that occasionally, I lost sight of the magic of this experience. I forgot that this is temporary. In a sense, this perspective could be viewed as a sign of integration or belonging. Am I better integrated now than I was at the beginning? Auf jeden Fall. Do I feel like I belong? Well, that’s another conversation. 

  I think I've grown to play an integral role at my schools, in community groups, and with my friends. There’s something wonderful about being included. At school, I am a teacher among teachers. I am in the yearbook. I have my own key, my own code for the printer, and my own spot in the Lehrerzimmer. I lead the Creative Writing Club. When students see me in public, they wave and say, “Hallo Mrs. Schneider!!” (Since Fräulein has fallen out of use and all female teachers go by Frau, the students have no concept of Mrs. vs Miss/Ms. and, as a result, almost always call me Mrs. Schneider. I’m fine with it. I prefer language that doesn’t differentiate how you address someone based on marital status.) To be part of something, to be accepted, it’s indescribable. 

  As the number of months remaining ticked down to three, I hit a second wind. As of late, my energy’s risen, I’m socializing more, and I’m prioritizing fun again. Suddenly, my body remembered: this is definite, not infinite. February melted into March, stomped over, picked me up, and bellowed, “TIME IS RUNNING OUT!” 

  Twenty-two-year-old Julia would have claimed blasphemy for this, but part of me is happy to be home soon. I love the life I’ve built, but I also miss my family. I love this second home, but I miss my original one too. Both desires coexist: the appreciation of now and the anticipation of the future.

  Do I think I will move back home and stay in Ohio the rest of my life? No. Am I currently looking for long-term jobs in Germany to extend my stay? Also no. What I need is some time sitting with my family at the dining room table playing board games. Calvin on my lap, Tom Petty's music in the air, and time to decide.

What Comes Next?

 "Either you know what you want and then you don't get what you want, or you get what you want and then you don't know what you want." — Bojack Horseman: Season 1, Episode 12

        As an anxious, ambitious overachiever, my perspective has always been future-oriented. For as long as I can remember, the horizon has attracted me. The possibilities, the opportunities, my own potential, all these factors have made me open, eager, and optimistic about what comes next. Exploring the United Nations website, writing applications, and scrolling through LinkedIn can be thrilling (yes, really). Even when I have doubted myself or battled imposter syndrome, I’ve generally felt assured about the future and my ability to carve a path to my liking. 
Now, for perhaps the first time in my life, I do not have a solid plan for what comes next. There are plenty of ideas swirling through my mind–grad school? International relations? Diplomacy? Museum work? Travel and tourism? Moving to a cabin in the middle of the mountains with a boat in the nearby lake and a job at the local cat café?--and, surprisingly, I am becoming more okay with uncertainty. Though contrary to my nature, I am trying to accept and comfortably reside in this liminal space.
When we look ahead, we can forget what directly surrounds us. I know that my days as a foreign language assistant in Erlangen are numbered. Fulbright, by design, cannot last forever. Until the end, I intend to spend this time living in the present. I must enjoy what I have now before I look back and reminisce on it as “the good old days”. 
For now, I am excited for the future, but I will not forego the present in search of it.