I’ve been all sorts of sentimental the past few weeks. Here’s the quick breakdown: I just graduated from the Center of Global Action and moved from my 8 month home in Georgia. Two years ago, I journeyed my way to Georgia for Training Camp. And one year ago, yesterday, I set foot on American soil after 11 months on the World Race.
Don’t worry- I’ve kept everyone up to date on the actual anniversaries: “Dad, today was the day I flew to Training Camp!” and texting my squadmates: “One year. What.”
A few days ago, I was catching up with an old family friend. I filled her in on what my life’s been up to (sometimes it’s felt like it just goes on without me while I throw a pity party or two), and how I’ve been home–back in America at least–for a year.
“I remember wandering into this World Race thing, thinking that I’d just worry about the aftermath later. Everyone’s all excited about you going on the adventure, but they don’t tell you how hard it will be afterward.”
“They never tell you,” she agreed.
It’s true. There’s absolutely no way to prepare yourself for the aftershocks of such a life jolting journey. At least in my experience, but if you have wisdom to impart to returning missionaries, by all means spam that shiz.
So it’s slightly a big deal for me to be writing here again, on this little World Race blog. ‘Cause this is it: the one year mark’s been hit, and I can see an exciting future ahead. I’m not looking behind me anymore.
The last year has been one of the most difficult. They say the Race is the best and worst year of your life; I beg to differ. While it was awkward and sweaty and frustrating at times, it was by far not my worst. I’d argue that this past year was. Here’s why.
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People kinda stop looking up to you.
I got home from the Race, and after posting my first photo of America on Instagram, immediately lost a handful of followers. Obviously worth isn’t based on followers (though we do it anyway), but I remember thinking how I was no longer something special. I was an American back in America, and there weren’t any wild elephants around to take selfies with. Slightly humbling–convicting?–after being near celebrity status for a year due to white skin.
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Your habits go from abandonment and contentment to guilt and greed in 5 seconds.
For a year you live without comforts: AC, speedy wifi, a closet, a car. For a year, you talk about all the things you miss at home: Chick-fil-a, your favorite pair of shoes, your family. And then suddenly you have it all back. And your world is flipped, because you start wishing for the dirt floors and sweaty hugs and same t-shirt lifestyle. Guilt crawls its way into your heart as you purchase a new dress you definitely don’t need or put on a sweater because your house is too cold from the AC.
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The World Race isn’t current life anymore, but past stories.
I’d been home for less than a week, and I remember talking to people at church about the Race like it was a storybook I pulled off the shelf. I was no longer describing my living conditions or intrigue of the country I was currently in, but an 11 month experience topped with the question “what was your favorite country?” It’s a painful moment when you realize people–and you–are just waiting for the punchline or storybook ending.
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The isolation and loneliness are very, very real.
After living in close quarters with 40 people, I suddenly felt extremely alone when I realized how much thinking I actually did by myself. My head felt full, words jammed there because there was no longer anyone around to talk to. It’s a frightening discovery when you recognize just how known you were for the past 11 months–perhaps more than ever in your life–to suddenly feeling isolated and unknown.
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Mood swings are normal, though you don’t feel like they should be.
I went from angry to crying to laughing to grieving to forgetting to guilting myself to emotionally eating. On a daily basis for months. I was in the pits, depression clawing at my skin, tempting me to just stop trying to get up off the floor. I listened, and because I felt so isolated, depression seemed like my only friend. Years of struggle smacked me in the face only days after getting home from a “life-changing experience.”
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You can’t just talk and dream anymore; you have to act.
You almost feel invincible on the Race. At least I did. I was all talk, though I didn’t realize it. I dreamt of becoming a writer, and my 40 squadmates believed I would be. Then I got back to America–the land of dreams and plenty–and I realized I had to actually make sacrifices and persevere and sit down and write. Also, traveling seems completely easy and accessible to anyone and everyone when you’re on the Race, but let me tell you: life is never again handed to you that way. And you learn that quickly in the months following the Race.
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I was more open with the Lord than I ever was on the Race.
I had to be, because he was the only constant thing in my life throughout the mood swings and transitions. I grew more in the past year being home than I did on the Race–which is an alarming fact, but true nonetheless. I didn’t have a squad to rely on, a host telling me how to live for the month, or travel to let me escape. I was utterly and completely lost and alone–and God met me there.
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America becomes normal again.
And in a creeping sort of way. The first few months I fought it, and did my best to remember third world living conditions and how I was capable of surviving with minimal. Then suddenly, you’re driving down the road and the bright conglomeration of traffic lights and cars flashes you back to Bangkok roads. Or the normalcy of ordering food in a drive-thru (yes, Chick-fil-a) and you remember the scarcity of meat in India. Even a year later, I get overwhelming flashbacks to the point of having to sit down on a bench in the mall and remind myself, “I’m in America. I’m in America. I’m an American, and I’m in America.”
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There’s a lot of life beyond the World Race.
For a year, the most dramatic events in your life are team changes, border crossings, and feedback. Then you get home and realize people could care less if you were or weren’t a team leader. This was hard for me to embrace at first–that the world values different things–and I wasn’t ok with the fact for a long time. But eventually you learn it’s actually a good thing the rest of life isn’t one big giant World Race.
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You go back and forth between recommending the Race and telling friends they should never do it.
On a good day, in re-entry, I’d say I grew immensely on the Race and loved it, all the good feels. I’d suggest it to my brother or email my friend inquiring about it. But on a bad day? “It’ll wreck you for the rest of your life. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done, and the after process is the hardest season I’ve ever walked through.” All while emotionally eating, of course.
All said and done, I’m a year stronger and healthier, though there were days I cringed from the sunlight and thought I’d never smile again. It has been an absolute rollercoaster, a ride I thought would only be 11 months, but a ride that’s proven to be on a loop for a very long time. And I still struggle some days, and guilt creeps in sometimes. I miss my squad every day, and texting isn’t enough.
But walking through the valley this past year after 11 months of mountaintop highs has taught me that Jesus is enough.
He was enough before I met my squad. He was enough even when I relied too much on my squad in Romania and Guatemala and Thailand. He was enough when I saw my family for the first time after a year, and he’s still enough as I enter a new season of unknowns.
And, I think, that’s what the Race is really about anyway.
p.s. G squad, I know we’ve been over this, but I’ll love you forever. Don’t forget it. xoxo, Safety Sarah
