On December 5, in Skopje, I pledged myself to a life of service. With my right hand raised and a steady, certain voice, I took the Peace
Corps oath—the same certainty that carried me through the decision to apply, to leave, and to stay. In that moment, every hard day, every
doubt, and every small victory from the past eleven weeks seemed to exhale all at once. I am finally in it.
Pre-Service Training—PST—was eleven weeks of becoming. Eleven weeks of stretching in directions I didn’t even know existed yet: language,
culture, safety, technical skills, community integration, personal resilience. Some days were full and bright and energizing. Some days felt endless. And for all of it, I lived in Kavadarci with my host family, in a city that quietly worked its way into my heart.
Living in Kavadarci also meant falling into a family I didn’t expect but now can’t imagine my life here without. My little host brother—“Steve,” as I lovingly nicknamed him—became one of my favorite parts of every single day. He made me laugh until my stomach hurt,
always performing some wild story or joke with a personality far bigger than his age could ever explain. We had sleepovers, watched
movies, annoyed each other like real siblings do, and somewhere along the way, he simply became family.
And my host mom—though we don’t share the same language, we share something stronger. From day one, she made sure I had everything I
needed, checking on me constantly, helping me settle in, reminding me to eat, to rest, to take care of myself. One night she texted me, “You are family. I love you like a daughter.” Leaving my own family in Florida was the hardest part of this experience, so landing in a home
where I was met with such unexpected care and love is something I will always hold close.
Kavadarci became my first home in North Macedonia. It’s where I learned how to greet the morning in another language, how to listen
before I spoke, how to move through a rhythm that wasn’t mine—but slowly became familiar.
Language class ran Monday through Friday at a local school. Before long, routine took over in the best way. Every morning, I met my
friend Bella at the corner of her street, and we walked to class together along the same route, day after day. Sometimes we talked the
whole way. Sometimes we barely said a word and took comfort in silent company.
At 10 a.m., we always had pauza, our break from language training. My classmates—who quickly became my dear friends—and I crossed the river
to a little market for snacks and fresh air. Everyday like clockwork. Those walks were small, ordinary, and everything at the same time.
There was so much joy threaded through those 11 weeks. Exploring the city through cultural experiences- museums, music and art. Long
coffees that turned into conversations and reflection. Cappuccinos and pizza that felt like tiny comforts on heavy days. Some evenings I
would stop in the middle of it all and think, How did I end up here? How is this real?
And still—living so far from home came with a weight I didn’t fully understand at first.
I got sick twice. Both times landed me in the hospital. It was frightening and isolating. But more than anything, it was mentally
exhausting. In those moments, far from my family and the life I knew, the distance felt loud. I wasn’t questioning my strength. I was learning what it meant to hold it on my own.
The second time I got sick, my mom asked me on the phone, “Do you want to come home?”
My answer came fast. No.
Not because it wasn’t hard. But because I didn’t want to leave. Because getting here had taken courage I didn’t know I had until I
used it. Because I wasn’t ready to walk away from the life I had only just stepped into.
There were days I felt worn thin. Days I felt behind. Days I wondered if everyone else had found their footing before I did. But even then, something steady kept pulling me forward.
And through it all, I was never truly alone.
I’m endlessly grateful for the Peace Corps staff who held me with patience and care. For the medical team who met me with compassion.
For the friends who checked in, brought snacks, sat beside me in silence, and made me laugh when I least expected it. And for my family
at home—my constant anchor—cheering me on through every fear, every setback, every quiet win.
Swearing in wasn’t just a ceremony. It was a gathering of everything that came before it—the leaving, the learning, the stumbling, the staying.
And today, I’m writing this from my new home in Veles.
A quaint, ground-floor apartment tucked into the side of the mountains that hold this city. My walk to work is a quick five minutes downhill.
My walk home—well, that’s another story. That’s a climb. I stop on the hills sometimes, catching my breath and laughing because they are
genuinely so steep. One step at a time, I remind myself. Watching the old men in front of me take them with such quiet grace always makes me smile. If they can do it, I can too.
Here in Veles, I’m working in community development with an organization that serves individuals with special needs and disabilities. The work feels like a meeting point between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming—rooted in my background in nonprofit development, shaped by the people I now get to learn from every day. From the very beginning, my office welcomed me with open arms. That alone told me a lot. These first few days, I have been taking it all in. Listening to the office speak in Macedonian and barely catching anything, walking to the market next to the office, teaching my coworker new words in my language while they exchange theirs with me. Establishing myself in my new role.
This chapter feels quieter than training. Slower. Deeper. A new home. A new routine. A community I’m only just beginning to understand.
When I think back to December 5, I realize I carried everything into that room with me:
the joy and the doubt,
the courage and the fear,
the losses and the lessons.
And now, I move forward not as a visitor or a trainee—but as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Still learning. Still becoming. Still choosing, every day, to show up.
Because I’m learning that service isn’t just about the work you do. It’s about the way you arrive in a space. The way you listen. The way you stay when things feel uncertain. The way you let yourself be changed by the people you came to serve. Being a Peace Corps Volunteer isn’t a role I step into each morning—it’s a way of moving through the world with open hands and an open heart.
This work is deeply human. It lives in conversations and shared meals, in laughter and frustration, in showing up on the days when no one is watching and nothing feels polished. It lives in the small moments just as much as the big ones. And I think that’s what it really means to serve—not to save, not to fix, but to walk alongside.
This is only the beginning.
And I’m here.
With heart,
