At The Water's Edge

Why I’ve been gone so long, and on returning to once-loved places

My first therapist lived on the water.

If by lived, I could say her office — a repurposed house boat floating on a dock in Eastlake, or Westlake, one of the posh neighborhoods hugging Seattle's Lake Union.

I step onto the boat, and it shifts slightly. I regain my composure, and I introduce myself.

I had a panic attack on the way to work, I confess to my new therapist as I stare out the window.

After therapy, I tell my friend L. that my therapist lives on the water. That's incredible, she tells me. Did you know that water calms us?¹

I only spend three sessions with the therapist on the water, quickly growing sick of her telling me to breathe this way, and that way, when I knew how to breathe. But I remember what L. tells me, that water calms us, and I start chasing water.

My beach in Floripa, Brazil.

Years later, I return back to the water — in another hemisphere, on another ocean.

I took the last transcontinental flight of my sabbatical over a month ago, flying from Sarajevo to São Paulo. I'll settle here, I decided. A year earlier, I had spent 10 months in South America, since then spinning stories about alternate lives I’d make on my new favorite continent. And with my return, Brazil became the first country — besides my homeland of Eritrea — that I've ever intentionally returned to. There's too much to see, I usually think, but something about returning felt so sweet.

So for a month I lived in Florianópolis (better known as Floripa), an island off of Brazil's southern coast. I walk 200 meters from my studio apartment to the crashing waves of the Atlantic, passing by blonde-haired horses and over waving sand dunes. I relish the salty wind and the cool sand of Brazilian winter.

I charm locals by asking them, "what's your favorite beach on the island?" One takes me to Joaquina, hiking barefoot up high dunes and through rainwater lagoons until we reach the final rock cliff, looking towards Africa. Another takes me to Jurere, a resort beach of western tourists and high class shopping. And another watches the moonrise with me at Campeche, a monthly tradition of friends, families, and lovers watching the full moon break above the ocean's horizon.

One afternoon, I marvel at the palm trees outside my window, knowing my visit is temporary. Floripa has welcomed me, but it is not home.

The marshes on the trail to Joaquina Beach.

I had returned to Brazil to practice returning.

After a year and a half of travel, I was tired. It was time to settle, and I had reluctantly accepted that — more likely than not — this would mean a return to the United States.

My first attempts at return were in April. After several rounds of interviews at two US tech companies, I lost my breath. I felt panic in my chest. So, I stopped. I backpacked the Balkans: Bulgaria, Macedonia, Kosovo, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, and Bosnia.

And then, I flew to Brazil. Brazil was a reset.

I applied to five jobs a day from my studio apartment in Floripa. When my heart quickened, I took off my shoes and ran into the sand dunes. With each step, I buried myself in the sand a little bit deeper. I watched how the waves charged forward and then retracted, how they stretched to reach just a little bit further than they had come before.

And then, I got interviews. In one week, I juggled 9 interviews with three companies. My eyes darted between notes and time slots, terrified of confusing one interviewer with the other.

Whenever I found an hour to spare, I walked back to the water. I sat, legs extended, on the beach log that marked the trail back to my apartment. Catching the sun's warmth with my palms, I watched as the waves returned back to me.

I waited for my interview results by the water, pacing my breath with the ocean's movement. I celebrated two job offers, leapfrogging through the chilling water to shock myself into a decision. I accepted my equally chilling fate by the water — that I will be returning to the United States, and that I will need to work hard to make it home again.

The full moon rise at Campeche Beach.

Now, I'll return back to the waters of the Pacific.

I'll take the flight that officially ends my sabbatical, from São Paulo to Seattle. I'll sign an apartment lease, balance work calls with Portuguese classes, cook dinner in an air fryer.

And I have struggled to share this, to find the words to update you here. Because though I am going home, I will still be VERY LOST. I will still have to re-adjust and rebuild in the United States. I will still have to publish the unwritten travel stories on my to-write list. I will still have to examine who I've become after I've left and returned. And I’ll do that here, with you.

I think of the waves leaving and then returning, never exactly the same.

Thank you for reading VERY LOST. Here are a few other articles that I’ve loved lately:

• Issue 3 of Unlocked, which was curated by

  Noha Beshir
  (+ edited by
  Marc Typo
  ), includes my last essay in its monthly roundup of BIPOC voices.

• I thought of

  Rahma
  ’s recent essay, Am I Still A Woman Who Wanders?, as she also examines what it’s like to plant roots again.

• I loved the style and substance of

  Kelsey Blackwell
  ’s Between Two Worlds: Kamala Harris and the Complexities of Navigating a Mixed Race Identity.

1. It’s true! Being near water — or even just looking at photos — lowers our blood pressure and heart rate (Axios)