Camino a la sociedad

I look out of the window - out of the car’s window, out of the bus’s window, out of the train’s window, out of the plane’s window. Each time, I have mixed emotions. I don’t really know what to feel. I can only hear myself think, “Todo va a estar bien, Cami. Tranquila… todo va a estar bien.”

When I was moving to the University of Michigan for the first time, I remember feeling the moths in my stomach, the tingles in my chest, the dizziness of overthinking, and the numbness of realizing I’d be alone for the first time in a city I didn’t know. I tried to gaslight myself into believing it would all be fine.

The conversation with my parents went like this:  “Cami, ¿cómo te sientes? ¿Estás emocionada o nerviosa?”  “No sé, ma. Tengo miedo, pero también sé que esto va a ser bueno para mi futuro. El futuro que sueño en lograr.”  “Por si acaso, aquí vamos a estar.”

I still remember the last dinner we had together before they went back home. I was bawling my eyes out, convinced they didn’t love me anymore because they weren’t crying. Little did I know they were just being brave for me. That was one of my first steps into adulthood.

Again, I could only hear myself think, “Todo va a estar bien, Cami. Tranquila… todo va a estar bien.”

Then, it was 5:00 a.m. on a Monday - October 10, 2022 - when my mother called to tell me that my brother had passed away. The moment time stopped. When the air left my body. When the world blurred, and I couldn’t imagine how it could possibly keep going.

Later that day, I barely had the energy to get on the airplane. On the window seat - 31A - I just looked outside, trying to breathe evenly, pretending I was okay as my eyes burned and my throat closed. Every moment until I reached Costa Rica, I was alone. Every moment, whispering to myself, “Todo va a estar bien, Cami. Tranquila… todo va a estar bien.”

And then I heard it again, every time I came back to Ann Arbor. Alone, again.

Until I needed those words for something new. Something different.

This time, I was going to study abroad in Vienna, Austria. I didn’t speak German, didn’t know anyone, didn’t even know how to order food or find my way on the U-Bahn. Did you know there are seven different subway lines with over a dozen stops each, and people yell at you in German when you’re confused? Did you know people stare at you for no reason at all? Did you know some can be rude as hell, just because they can? Every five seconds was a culture shock. Still, sitting on the airplane from Chicago to Vienna, I told myself again: “Todo va a estar bien, Cami. Tranquila… todo va a estar bien.”

And thank goodness I did, because that trip ended up being one of the best experiences of my life. I found some of my closest friends there. Funny how loneliness can sometimes lead you to the people who make you feel less alone.

Three days after I got back from Vienna, I was on another airplane - this time to Seattle - for my internship with Amazon. Once again, another window, another reflection, another version of me looking out, repeating the same quiet words that have followed me everywhere.

Now, when I look out of a window, I don’t just see the clouds or the blur of passing cities. I see every version of myself that once sat in a window seat - scared, grieving, hopeful, brave. Each time I’ve whispered “Todo va a estar bien”, I’ve meant something different. At first, it was survival. Then, it became reassurance. Now, it’s faith.

Maybe that’s what the path into adulthood really is: learning to say goodbye to who you were, over and over again, while still finding the courage to look out the window and believe that everything will be okay.