Unpacking My Closet of Anxiety
My first time living overseas was a bit of a disaster.I was twenty-nine at the time, confident in my ability to handle life in industrial China. I had worked in multicultural settings for years; I had traveled to Asia, Europe, and Africa. I was excited to live in another country and support my husband’s budding social enterprise.
He and I were moving to a thriving metropolis called Shenzhen, full of high-rises and high-speed subways. Every neighborhood had its own Starbucks, McDonald’s, and KFC. I wasn’t exactly moving to a slum or village that lacked modern conveniences.
Ten long months later, I could do little more than weep and sleep. Life overseas had broken me.
In the more than two years it took me to recover, I reviewed everything I had done wrong: I had overworked myself. I had unrealistic expectations about the speed with which I could master the language and cultural norms. I didn’t protect myself from the harsh reactions of Chinese Nationals who thought I wasn’t Chinese enough. I had eschewed community and a support network.
But my biggest mistake, I thought, was moving abroad to begin with. I told my husband that I never wanted to live overseas again.Five years later, when our first son was three years old, my husband asked if I would consider going abroad again for a few months—this time to Kenya—so he could focus on his company’s Africa operations.
Despite my earlier proclamation, I said yes. In truth, I wanted a do-over. I couldn’t quite stomach the idea of being someone who couldn’t cut it in another country. And I knew what I needed to do differently this time. But I was still terrified at all that could go wrong, especially with a young child in tow. And the mere anticipation of those possibilities felled me.
In the weeks leading up to our move, I became so anxious that I had panic attacks during the day and insomnia at night. I eventually dragged myself to the doctor and was given not one, but two anti-anxiety prescriptions to help me manage.
Our seven-month stint in Kenya in 2016 had its fair share of messiness and disorientation and loneliness. But there was also richness there, especially in connections with Kenyan friends, in bonding as a family, and seeing our child thrive in another culture and place. When we moved back to the U.S., I was grateful for my second chance overseas. Surely this was the conclusion to my expat life that I had been hoping for. We bought our first home, we had a second child, and my first book was published.
My anxiety had been tamed. My roots were flourishing. So, as it turned out, was my husband’s business, which forced him to travel frequently and splintered the intimacy of our family. The solution was obvious: go back to Kenya one more time, now with a nine-month-old baby and a first-grader along for the ride.
As we prepare for our upcoming move, that old anxiety is creeping back. I find myself rehearsing the many challenges of the expat life. I waver between being reasonably confident that I can manage life overseas again and feeling intense fear that I will succumb once again to debilitating stress, depression, or anxiety.
I thought I had taken care of my anxiety, but really, I had only put it away in a closet for safekeeping. Now I’ve opened the door on that closet, and I sense those familiar, timeworn fears seeping out.
“I don’t know if I can manage it,” I recently told a friend. “It’s too much. Everything’s going to tumble out of that closet and overwhelm me.”
She paused, took a breath. “Try thinking of your anxiety as being packed in shoeboxes in your closet,” she advised. “Don’t try to keep them locked away, but take them out, one at a time. Examine them. Face them. Understand them. And then put them back.”
So, in between buying supplies and packing and planning, I ponder each shoebox of fear. I worry that my older son will have trouble adjusting to school. I worry about the health of the baby. I worry about loneliness. I worry that my career will suffer. I worry that I will resent my husband. I worry about my well-being.
I’ve been through this routine enough times, I remind myself, that I know we can mitigate our risks through proper planning, preparation, and a bit of prayer. I also know that many of these things have a way of sorting themselves out. My kids are more resilient than I give them credit for—and, I’m discovering, so am I.
God willing, I can do this. I just need to take it one day at a time, one shoebox of anxiety at a time.
Have you dealt with anxiety when moving abroad? How did you cope and what advice would give someone struggling? Share here and don't forget join us over on Instagram where we discuss this and other expat issues.
