September 15th, 2014: Vernon Hills, IL, United States of America

Hasty departures absolutely suck. The curse of flying with standby tickets means you will always be at the mercy of the masses who actually pay for their tickets. Or, in the case of my first flight to South Africa, at the mercy of the few who flew our planes.

 I was due to leave for Johannesburg on the 16th of September, 2014, but Lufthansa pilots were about to go on strike that day. My mother, a devout employee and all-knowing sorceress of the airline industry, went with her instinct, called me, and rushed me to finish packing 24 hours earlier. She decided to put me on the first flight out to Munich, Germany on the 15th of September. It was a Monday. My father was in China for business and was supposed to be back tomorrow. I didn’t get to give him a proper goodbye.

 In the same way I answered all life-changing phone calls, I took this one sitting on the toilet. My mother was hysterical. Two years later, when I would eventually return home to the US, I’d often look back on this moment, when her level-headed instructions suddenly cracked into grieving sobs. I’d ask myself how much pain I put her through. Her only son was about to leave for a destination that to her, for all she knows, was part of a continent that frankly doesn’t have the best international reputation.

 My mother asked for a half day off from work to be able to take me to the airport, and so that we could spend few more precious moments together. When she got home, she tried her best to distract herself by taking me through my checklist. Clothes? Check. Toiletries? Check. Laptop? Check. Old malaria pills? Why the hell not? I let her dote and say whatever. She just wanted to be a mother for a little while longer.

 I lugged two suitcases downstairs. It’s shocking both how much and how little I needed to pack. As I put down the second one, I found myself sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shoulder to shoulder with my mother. She had been crying all day and was grimly staring down at my luggage, as if they had wronged her in some way. She was trying to stay strong, but the tears were like reservoirs behind a cracked dam.

 As I placed my hand on her shoulder to try to comfort her, a sudden wave of emotion caught me by surprise. Not sadness. Fear. Since I had received my one-year work permit 10 days ago, I had felt nothing but joy. Sunny, energetic South Africa was waiting for me. Yet now, to come so close to actually stepping out of gloomy, tired, boring America, I not only refused to spring forward, but I sank back. When will I see home again? Will I fit in over there? What am I doing this for? Doubt consumed me.

 Soon, I heard only my own sobbing. Further down the line, a lot of people would say to me, “You went to South Africa? That’s so brave!” or “You’re fearless, you lived abroad on your own!” Truth is, that was the first time I had ever felt so terrified of the unknown. As my insides wrenched, my world turned inside out. This was no study abroad trip. This was the real deal—planting myself on another continent and facing the “real world” in its full weight. Childhood extinguished by adulthood. Familiarity choked by the uncertainty. The house trembled in anguish as my mother and I embraced, neither wanting to let go.