Emirates Airline Flight EU 235. December 16, 2019. 2.22 pm. Just seconds from landing at Chicago airport after my fifteen hour flight from Dubai. Watching the camera view of our surroundings on the back of the seat in front of me, I saw snow on the edges of the tarmac, and a lump formed in my throat as an American Airlines plane shuttled past in front of us. I was home. In MY country, the land of the free!

Almost three months has passed now, and the fresh beauty of that moment has all but evaporated in the reality called repatriation–a fancy word for returning to my own country. The shock of being “home” after almost eight years in Dubai is difficult to explain in words. Mainly, it’s that everything is different now. And I mean everything.

In Dubai, I was swimming laps at the outdoor pool in the sunshine, just fifty steps outside of my spacious apartment. I had a job earning 75,000 dollars per year in addition to our free housing, no taxes, and free health insurance. I was busy, and I really enjoyed spending time doing charity work for those in need. My best friend was Annah, a school security guard, and we interacted daily, exchanging positive quotes, Bible verses, and notes.

In Dubai, my hubby worked part time and we drove a cute little Honda Jazz named Zippy. We ran errands to the tune of 120 kilometers per hour, and enjoyed the Organic Shop Brunch as well as camel sightings, getaways to Tila Liwa Resort, and monthly phone calls to family. Things weren’t perfect, but we were good. We were settled. We knew how things worked and how to deal with the things that didn’t. We hung our clothing to dry on the back porch, washed our dishes by hand, and called for professional cleaners to come if we got behind on housecleaning.

In Dubai, I was pursuing my career, earning promotions yearly. I was doing what I loved: writing curriculum, working with students, helping teachers, and creating complicated schedules for our entire K-12 school, integrating interventions and enrichment periods to meet student needs. I loved working with the Elementary principal, Lisa, and I was part of our company’s talent program, selected to attend professional development courses on line management and strategic thinking, amongst others.

My colleagues, friends, and neighbors were from all over the planet: Canada, South Africa, Australia, The United Kingdom, Ireland, New Zealand, Pakistan, Philippines, Syria, Lebanon, and India (I’m sure there were more). Although we all spoke English, let’s just say that we were still basically speaking a different language. I learned to listen carefully and to read lips because the accents could be quite strong at times. Over time, I found myself using words like gobbsmacked, telling people to have no worries, and signing emails with kind regards. Grocery carts became trolleys, my resume became a CV, and instead of turning off the lights, I began to close the lights. Thank you evolved to shukran, and my pronunciation of words became overly obvious. Life was insanely full, and I thrived in this environment of differences and always could find interesting people to talk to.

But now, like I said, life is different. Life is largely silent.

Sunshine and flip-flops have evolved into ice, snow, and winter coats. My career has fizzled, and I’m alone at night while my other half drives for Lyft to feed the rental fee on our small, expensive apartment. If the house is dirty, there are no cleaners to the rescue; there’s me, on my hands and knees. Without a paycheck, we aren’t having brunch with friends or special getaways out of town. Rather, we are living week-to-week, trying to get reestablished in our little nook of the Midwest.

Honestly, I have more time on my hands than my mind can tolerate. My days are filled with applying for work, keeping up the house, fixing the meals, walking the dogs, paying the bills, and little else. To not go crazy, I’ve started reading books, writing a blog, trying to draw, and wasting time on Netflix and Facebook. I go to the gym and enjoy the jacuzzi and massage chairs, but haven’t really geared up to full blown exercise. I do a fair amount of thinking about where I want to go and travel next, because I’m basically brain dead and broke here in the USA. Kuwait? China? Egypt?

In my lowest moments, I remind myself I should be thankful for my life. In my poor times, I am still rich when compared to a large portion of the world’s inhabitants. I have Costco and Whole Foods Groceries in my kitchen. I have a dishwasher and a dryer. I have two fluffy, white pups, and I have a loving husband. I have electricity, a vacuum cleaner, and closets with clothing. But this repatriation thing is challenging. It is pushing me to figure out a new way of living in a country that seems too busy to stop and chat or have tea. It is pushing me to practice patience when ignorant comments fly from people who have never stepped foot out of their own comfort zones. It is pushing me to the edge of a cliff, daring me to figure it out–to embrace this new stage, new place, and new way of life. At least for now.