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.