"The sophomore slump" is always a term that has made sense to me. Put a concept into a metaphor and it suddenly appears to me in its most understandable form.

For the expat, it's that second year. You're not quite an expert but not quite a novice, either -- which leaves you in the very uncomfortable position of constantly battling apathy, fighting to stay present, and recovering from guilt.

Apathy, because you've been wherever just long enough to know deeply it is not where you're from and that weighs on your ability to belong. Staying present, because your first home leave is just around the corner and you're dreaming of walking down familiar grocery aisles and hugging all the people (a void even Skype can't fill).

Guilt, because even though you've been wherever you are for a while now, you're still just not completely adapted, not completely convinced you could have anything to offer when you find yourself in a circumstance as foreign as this still feels. 

Our second year living in Asia has gone by a lot slower than the first year. The first year was all fresh and exciting. We felt special when all the locals stared at us. We felt adventurous about going to the market for the first time. We felt victorious when we crossed busy streets, wild with honking taxis and swerving diesel trucks. Now we are self-conscious when they stare, wanting so desperately just to belong, to be accepted. We're wary of going to the market, missing the days when we could just hop in the air-conditioned car and run to the store and stock up for the whole week. We cross the street without even thinking of it, donning our face masks and throwing our hands up at the cars that get a little too close, moving with the unkempt rhythms of the constant flow of traffic. These things aren't what keeps us here, of course. These things, like crossing streets and shopping for groceries, are trivial, really. But the everydayness of them is enough to give you that slumpy, second-year kind of feeling. 

On my best days, I find I'm asking myself how to thrive in this slump. How do I defeat what wants to defeat me? I laugh and think I'd have to be pretty weak to let a thing like going out of the house to get tomatoes defeat me, after all this time. Yet that is a reality I have to humbly face. Not every day, but a lot of days.

If anyone is reading this and finding it resonates with them, whether you're in your second year or your first or your twenty-fifth. If you haven't conquered the things you thought you would by now, if you haven't gotten over what's frustrated you about the culture from day one, if you still don't completely understand what your role is or why you are where you are, let me be the one to tell you, there is grace enough to cover you. There is worth in the little things you accomplish each day. And there is time for all of those big dreams you have of changing the world to happen.

But we need to start with these little things. As much as I am tired of "settling" and "adjusting" after all this time, I'm ever so thankful that we have had the time and space to do so, to really dig deep and find a home in this place. Our days are still filled with learning and discovering -- not in the exciting and new way they were when we arrived, but in a way that is deeper and more mature. The second-year version of us sees things with second-year eyes. And whether we realize it at the moment or not, we've grown and are still growing. Though the days sometimes feel monotonous and murky, they play out much differently than they did when we first arrived.

No longer do we just see a slew of people that look and sound different than us, but we see individuals who are unique and alive. We see people who are friends, brothers and sisters, aunties and uncles. We don't just smile and nod anymore, unable to understand the words they speak, but we laugh together. We ask questions and give responses. Sometimes we walk away from a conversation wondering where we found the words. The gap is being bridged. No longer are we wandering in a homeless, confused state. We know the quickest route home. We know the grocery store that has the Heinz ketchup. We walk into our house after a long dusty day and feel the rootedness of that place. We've made a place to stay. 

I hate that I miss these moments when I'm stuck wondering why I didn't do more or why I'm not measuring up to where I thought I'd be by now. When I'm stuck in that place I miss the smile on the face of the woman whose fruit stand I visit. I miss the way my husband details in the local dialect to the carpenter the dimensions for our daughter's crib. I miss the way we and our friends talk differently about all the things that shocked us at first. I miss how far we've actually come. It's the accumulation of these little moments -- these tiny victories -- that make the slump easier to trudge through. 

The slump, I'm learning, is necessary. In all the ways it's exhausting, it's just as much enlightening. In the valley, we can see so clearly the mountain top that waits for us. It'll take some climbing, some grunting, and some time, but we'll get there. So while we walk through this adventure, a little tired and uninspired, we know there is a purpose -- so much purpose -- to the small, slow steps we're taking.

How have you navigated "slumps" while living overseas? What years did you feel them the most? Share any times or insights below and don't forget to join the conversation over on Instagram.