The Day I Realized I Probably Wouldn’t Have Helped

The place where kindness met discomfort.

Lately, I’ve been considering how my family has evolved since moving to Valencia a year and a half ago. There are the more obvious ways, and then there are the more subtle changes.

Take me, for example.

In my suburban Nashville home, I lived in a bit of a bubble. My days were spent getting up, taking the kids to school, going home to work a bit, and then, in the early afternoon, I went back to school to pick them up. Maybe we’d swing by Kroger for a grocery pickup on the way home, or one of the neighbors’ kids would come by to play (and eat all the snacks!). But my days revolved around the neighborhood: walks, kids’ friends, my friends. Everyone I knew basically had the same life: work, home, neighborhood. Some had kids, and some didn’t, but mostly, our lives revolved around our homes.

In other words, I didn’t reach very far outside of my comfort zone.

Then there’s our kids. Always picky eaters, I’ve watched them slowly expand their palates, trying dishes they wouldn’t have touched before we left the U.S. Their school lunches are fresh, and while they still won’t eat certain things, they’ve learned to try, which is something my husband and I couldn’t get them to do in Tennessee.

Maybe that would’ve eventually come with time and growth, like most kids. Or maybe they would’ve remained a bit picky because their favorite foods were always within reach.

They’re both learning Castellano (Spanish) and Valenciano at school, and neither of them would’ve ever been exposed to Valenciano in Tennessee. Instead, at best, they’d begin learning a foreign language in high school, most likely limited to Spanish and French. My son is already learning French in addition to Castellano and Valenciano. My daughter will choose between French and German next year when she enters middle school.

Never much of a language nerd, Will has picked up some Spanish, often surprising me with what he understands or knows. When we first arrived, he decided to learn to order our coffee at the café without my help, and he did. In the beginning, every morning, he’d go across the street, order our coffees (café con leche), and return triumphantly with drinks in hand.

With time, while Will still doesn’t speak the language as well as the kids or me, he can get around on his own and understands more than he speaks.

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When I cooked up this crazy plan to move, I thought it would be an adventure. I didn’t realize how much it would shift my perspective on so many other aspects of life.

I can’t think of a single time I looked around my neighborhood and felt the need—or, sadly, the desire—to reach out to the immigrants who’d settled in, far from the familiar and likely often feeling both lonely and overwhelmed. I was too caught up in my own “stuff.” I’d see them taking walks around the neighborhood, taking in the sunshine and fresh air, wonder about their stories, and then … go about my day.

Now, as I sit in the shoes of those same immigrants, far from “home,” I understand them better. Learning a new language, putting their children in schools where they don’t understand the system, eating unfamiliar foods, and perpetually feeling like a fish out of water can really wear you down.

Earlier this year, a woman I met at my daughter’s horseback-riding lessons offered us a ride home—and she continues to extend the offer every week we see her. It costs her nothing but kindness since she lives quite close to our building, and yet it felt like someone was reaching out—offering a warm hug and solidarity.

This woman doesn’t speak much English, and I have a long way to go with my Spanish, but we make it work. She was willing to reach across the language barrier, despite the discomfort, and offer something I likely would not have offered.

Her kindness has not gone unnoticed.

When this woman’s offer first occurred, Will asked me, “Would you have done that for someone?”

The uncomfortable answer was, “No, probably not.”

But now? After feeling the warmth of someone reaching out and pulling me a little more inside the fold?

I would. Because everyone deserves to feel a sense of belonging, even if it’s just temporary.

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I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

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If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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