I drove my tiny little mint green Mazda AZ wagon on the island's west coast and thought “oh, shit. I’ve made a mistake.” I finally accepted that I was having an excruciating time here. I felt lonely in a way that I foolishly believed I had “defeated” years ago in Montana. In contrast to when I wrote that I “shipped pieces of a person” to be assembled on arrival, this time around, it felt akin to my weary body slumping over the finish line— not realizing it was a start line instead.

I miss my family. My parents are growing older— and the grievances I’ve had with them— as any young person is wont to have— are being replaced by a tacit admission of time and how it feels to be ticking down at points. I’m missing the first years of my niece. I miss mundane moments such as working on a house project with my father or standing in the kitchen, drinking tea, and talking with my mother. I miss my siblings— and I’m grateful for our daily messages—the little portraits of their lives we share on our phones.

I miss my friends. The time difference leaves me little pockets where I can call over Facetime audio to my friends spread across the west coast. I miss sitting at dive bars, standing on soccer fields, driving to movies, and walking through verdant neighborhoods. It howls in my bones the way I long for them.

I’m apt to turn my struggles into neat packages of fortitude and action. That way the sadness dumpling keeps all the broth locked inside.

This isn’t one of those meals. This is the entree that spills across your plate. I struggle with this vulnerability. I wanted that definitive “plant the flag” moment where I cinematically conquered whatever emotional landscape I had started from. That I could prove that coming to Japan was an overwhelming positive.

I don’t have that.

It’s been necessary— if I hadn’t come here, it would have gnawed at my soul. I had tied this idea of self-worth and global exploration into a rats nest I couldn’t undo. That’s a privileged belief to hold. But nonetheless, I held it, and it shaped the way my teens and twenties have gone. For better or worse, coming to Japan was my way of closing the unfinished circle from my childhood.

I resisted the idea that what had led me here could have landed me in a contemptible situation. I refused to accept that I was both lonely and upset at my location. I kept saying, “I’m fine. It’s working out.” Deep down the laundry shoot of my soul, I was screaming, “Fuck this shit— I don’t want to be here.” I was battling myself in silence, not letting those words out because that meant admitting failure. Something that previous versions of myself had labeled as building blocks for success. But over here, all turned around and upside down? Spending every day in a different language with none of my friends or family nearby? Admitting failure felt more like biting into an unripened grapefruit.

The hilarious thing is that when I copped to it. When I let myself say I was unhappy. When I admitted that part of me didn’t want to be on this island— it eased up. Not all at once or in the snap of my fingers. But it eased up like a rider dropping a horse from a gallop to a canter.

All the things I miss still hold true. I want to eat a California omelet with hashbrowns at Tom’s restaurant while drinking coffee from a small brown mug as Laura or another waitstaff stops by with smiles and excellent service. I want to sit on that faded and torn vinyl booth by the corner with my kindle and a couple of notebooks to jot passing thoughts into.

I want to stand on the sideline of a soccer field next to my coaching colleagues and wonder why one of my midfielders isn’t dropping back into the middle of the field to track the opposing team’s runner, as I talked about at halftime.

I want to hold my niece and tell her goofy stories while she’s still small enough to hold without feeling I’m doing an extended Youtube workout video. I want to hear her squeak with joy and furrow her brows at whatever confuses her.

I want all these things— but I know I could not want them with peace until I accepted that I had to come to this island. And that being on this island has moments of extreme difficulty and loneliness. There’s a duality to it— and one I’m incapable of eloquently expressing.

I’m grateful for the time being on this island has allowed me. I can cast my eyes on the past and sift through unresolved stories—while also learning the lesson that you need to let certain “sleeping dogs lie.” I’m halfway through my first year here. It’s just now that I’m finding a sustainable rhythm that doesn’t oscillate between the extremes of a caustic monk and a manic lush.

I haven’t quite gotten around to sorting out my artistic goals for this year. Or when I might visit home. I haven’t found a gym— only some weights to go along with the exercise bike.

But I am getting my head around, keeping clear eyes on all that passes through my heart. I’m avoiding the eternal “wax on, wax off,” buffing of my emotions and letting them arrive raw. Don’t polish and set aside, don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars.

I have cried a lot of fucking times on this island. Many tears have come from overdue grief (carrying its share of interest). There have been tears of doubt. Tears of joy. I’ve had tears of confusion, as in, “why the fuck am I crying right now?” I cried after watching an artistic masterpiece of a movie. I’ve cried overlooking the ocean as I stood alone— wishing I could share the beauty with someone I loved.

I’ve laughed. Cackled like the mad hatter. At jokes. At fate. At silly lines in a paranormal romance novel. I’ve joined in a roar with my students. Let belly laughs rumble free. I’ve chortled on the phone as I’ve plotted bets.

I have turned towards whatever this experience is. Because that’s why I’m here. I’m here to experience what this place has to offer. What living far away from my own country and culture will be like. I’m here to learn. To fail, succeed, mosey about. I’m here for all that it entails.

Some days it will be a drive along the coast where I’m cursing the island. Another will be the bated breath of overlooking the archipelago from a viewpoint. It will be both those things and more. But it can’t be everything— it can’t be whole until I have accepted that I might have been wrong in coming here. Double wrong in signing for a second year. That a grand life goal of mine could be a colossal failure.

I couldn’t truly be here until I sat with that.

So I did. I sat in that little green K car and bitterly accepted that I might have screwed the pooch. I let myself acknowledge that my tower of Babylon dream might be a shitty LEGO knockoff that I just blundered through in the dead of night.

I can live without the tower of Babylon— and the knocked-over parts mean an opportunity to build something new. One that will hold all the parts of myself without trying to block out the wistful desires or honest frustrations.