My entire life, really, I've wanted to study abroad and travel the world. I wanted to see beautiful sites, meet people with stories from everywhere, party hard, and eat food with flavors I had never tasted before. I had this theory in my head that everything away from home would be perfect. I thought there would be no struggles like the ones they had back home; the people would be ideal, and so would all the experiences I had dreamed about.
However, reality checked me the first time I went away alone.
Things were “perfect” for a while, but eventually the fears I always carried caught up to me. One thing always hit me the hardest: I missed home. I missed it even when I never wanted to. I missed the normalcy, even though I thought I was trying to escape it. I missed not having to prepare for my next move, my next interaction, or rehearse my following sentence because my language was different.
Despite that fear, I tried again with Peru.
But this time, I arrived with a constant question in my mind: I know I'll be here for four months, so how can I make this place feel like home?
The first time I walked the streets, everything felt unfamiliar. Spanish conversations moved faster than I could keep up with. The pace of city traffic felt different from the quiet of my rural town. The altitude even made me question whether I could physically keep up at all, and those first few days stayed like that. Then something shifted.
The place started welcoming me in. I started figuring things out. The kindness of the people around me slowly turned my fear into familiarity. The blessing is, I didn’t have to try very hard; this place did it for me.
It started with the dogs I saw every day on the streets, confidently guarding their companion tiendas like tiny bodyguards, always right at the sunny entrance. Sometimes they wore sweaters, costumes, or little necklaces, proving they were truly part of their family.
Oscar, a street dog my friends and I nicknamed cause he walked with us the entire afternoon.
Or maybe it was the meals I shared twice a day with my temporary, yet incredibly welcoming, family. My host mom, who sits with me and checks in, gently slows her Spanish so I can both understand and practice. My host brothers play games with me, sometimes helping me learn new slang, other times letting me test out what it feels like to be an older sister. Our afternoons would start with hallway soccer, turn into card games or Monopoly, and end with hot cocoa before bed.
One of my favorite meals with my host parents.
Or maybe it was the weekends, hiking in the mountains with friends, sharing picnics with fruits I had never tried before, or exploring the flashing city lights at night. Or was it trying new restaurants each weekend or sometimes ordering the same empanada from my favorite local spot because it has already become my place?
Mountain from the Ausangate 7 Lakes hike I did with my friends.
Maybe it was Carnival in the central plaza, a celebration for the whole community. I tried wearing a poncho that did almost nothing to protect me from the foam and water balloons thrown by abuelitos and little kids alike, laughing just as hard as my new little brother during his frequent wins.
My friends and I at Carnival in the main square of Plaza de Armas.
I’m not exactly sure which moment did it. But now, five weeks in, home doesn’t feel so far away.
Yes, things are different. Home looks different: a new language, new people, a new normal. But I welcomed that. As cliché as it sounds, the heart here has created a home for me. The smiles have welcomed me as if I were always meant to be part of it.
My time here is limited, and at times it already feels rushed. But I can see the parts of me that are changing because of this new normal. I am meeting those beautiful people. I am seeing those incredible sites. I am trying all the new things I once imagined. And yes, it has been scary, and it has stretched me. It has made me struggle and grow in ways I didn’t expect.
But now I know, it feels like home. It just took time, and it was well worth it.
Now I understand that fear is temporary, but that impact is permanent. Maybe home was never meant to stay the same thing; perhaps it was meant to grow with me.