Two months into service, I have begun to understand that time moves differently here.
Pre-service training stretched and folded in ways I could feel. The three months leading up to swearing in felt present, deliberate, and slow on certain days — as if each moment wanted to be fully lived before it passed. It was a season defined by foundation: bonding with my host family, learning the language piece by piece, and slowly identifying myself within the pack of my cohort. Those months were full, sometimes overwhelming, and deeply fulfilling.
Service carries many of the same attributes — but time now feels quicker, almost slippery. Weeks pass before I can fully register that they’ve happened. I am living and working, building a routine that feels grounded in a simple but profound realization: I am here. I am doing it.
The relationships I’ve formed continue to be the heartbeat of this experience.
My host family from training has become, in many ways, my own family. When I first arrived in country, I told my friends that my hope was simple — that I would be placed with a host family I could grow to love. I didn’t know then just how deeply that wish would be answered.
Every night, I sign off the phone with “I love you” to my seven-year-old host brother. Stojanche has become one of my favorite things about North Macedonia. He is a rambunctious entertainer, full of charisma that somehow already feels fully formed. He has lit up my life in ways I didn’t anticipate.
He calls often, and I answer whenever I can. If I miss a call, he gets mad. Truly mad. I try to visit my training site as frequently as possible — luckily, Veles sits in the center of the country, with buses leaving for just about anywhere. When I arrive, he and his mom pick me up from the bus station. Every time, without fail, he jumps out of the car to greet me first.
Our time together is simple and joyful. We read. We practice English. We make little TikToks and take long walks. Sometimes he just wants to sit and talk. He asks about my life and offers advice — some of which I take seriously. Leaving is always the hardest part. He cries. He swears. Sometimes he pouts so dramatically that I feel like I am breaking his heart, mostly because he insists that I am. Our goodbyes are filled with pinky promises to return and requests for just one more hug.
One of my motivating reasons for joining the Peace Corps was my love for people. I can say with certainty that these first two months have been defined by the relationships I am building — with friends, family, coworkers, and the many strangers who no longer feel like strangers. These connections have grounded me in ways that make even the difficult days meaningful.
Assimilating into a new culture is not always easy. There are still many days when I feel like an outsider looking in, quietly pretending that I know what I’m doing. But there are other moments — quiet, ordinary ones — that feel as though this has been my life forever. Walking up the hill where my home sits. Buying fruit at the pazar. Greeting familiar faces on the street. In those moments, something settles. I feel less like a visitor and more like a participant in the rhythm of this place.
I recently told my mom that this environment promotes a level of personal growth and understanding that feels both intensive and raw. Some days, it feels like an experiment: just how far outside my comfort zone am I willing to go? I don’t have an answer yet. But I keep saying yes. I keep showing up. I’ll report back when I get there.
In March, we are allowed to leave the country.
Peace Corps Volunteers accumulate leave days that can be used for international travel, and for the first time since arriving, I will step outside the borders of the life I have been building here. I’ll be traveling home for five days — just enough time to attend Kaylee’s wedding and hold my family close before returning again.
When I first arrived in country, I worried that I would miss it. The dates sat heavily in the back of my mind during training, a quiet anxiety that I might have to celebrate from afar. But my leave request was approved, my flight has been booked, and now the anticipation feels almost surreal.
I find myself wondering what home will feel like.
This is the longest I have ever been away. Even when I went to college, I was only two and a half hours from home. I drove back whenever I could, slipping easily into familiar routines and spaces. Home was always accessible, always waiting just down the highway. Now there is an ocean between us, and the distance feels both immense and strangely manageable — as if I have stretched in ways I didn’t know I could.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about the small comforts. The feeling of my own bed. The particular warmth of Florida sunshine. I imagine stepping off the plane and being embraced by humidity — that familiar, heavy air wrapping around me like a welcome back. I think about the first moments I’ll see my family: my mom, dad, sister, brother, my grandma and grandpa, friends who have known me through every version of myself. I want to get coffee at my favorite spot downtown. I want to stay up late watching TV with my mom. I want to walk my neighborhood and go swimming. I want to be still in the place that raised me.
And then, after those five days, I want to come back to Macedonia.
If I’m honest, I don’t know exactly who I’ll be at the end of this experience.
But I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be right now.
In March, I’ll go home for a few days — hug my family, drink a good iced latte, stay up too late with my mom, and let Florida remind me of who I’ve always been. Then I’ll get back on a plane and return here, to the life I’m building in real time.
This experience hasn’t taken me away from my life.
It’s expanding it.
With heart,
