Right now, as you read this, I’m in the air—literally. Suspended in that liminal space between the familiar and the foreign, crossing invisible lines that mark not just countries but chapters. Two suitcases. Two carry-ons. Two cats. My partner and I. 

This isn’t a sprint away from something. It’s a walk toward something new. And contrary to what some might assume, I don’t dislike where I’m from. I feel deeply for the U.S.—for the people navigating its increasingly jagged terrain. The truth is, change is happening all around us, and for someone like me—neurodivergent, routine-oriented, soothed by predictability—that kind of change isn’t just hard. It’s seismic.

But here’s the twist: I’m choosing change. On my terms.

I’ve never been to Spain before. Not physically. But I’ve walked its streets in virtual reality. I’ve studied its rhythms like a student preparing for the biggest test of their life. I’ve strolled the seaside promenades in VR, tuned in daily to local news via AI, and absorbed slang and custom like someone studying for more than survival—someone studying for belonging.

And I didn’t stop at language or landmarks. I dove into history, discovering how Spain’s soul is stitched from many cultures—layers upon layers of influence, resistance, and renewal. I found echoes of myself in that blend: part warrior, part wanderer, part whisper of something wild and ancient.

Preparing to move wasn’t just about learning where the bus stops are or how to order a cortado. It was about becoming someone ready to contribute—to be part of a community without demanding it mold to me. I’ve mapped out ways to give back, to connect, to make friends in ways that honor local traditions and my own wiring. I’ve trained for this like an athlete trains for their debut on the world stage—with empathy in one hand and self-protection in the other.

And in doing so, something beautiful happened: I changed.

I became more effective, more reflective. I learned to pack light not just in my suitcase, but in my soul. The clutter of fear, the old stories about limitations—they got left behind with the excess clothes and furniture.

To be clear, I’m not romanticizing reinvention. This isn’t about running off to find myself. This is about bringing myself—fully—to a place that deserves that kind of intention.

And yes, I set this blog to post while I’m quite literally up in the air. Because that’s how transformation often feels: floating, vulnerable, exhilarating.

This journey isn’t just across borders. It’s through discomfort, through growth, and ultimately, through love—love for myself, for people I’ve yet to meet, and for a world I still believe in, even when it scares me.

Let’s not mistake leaving for abandoning. And let’s never confuse fear with failure. For those of us who thrive on routine, change isn’t a weakness. It’s a feat of courage.

And I’ve got two cats curled up under my seat to prove it.

Muchas gracias