I Was Wrong

My own self from six months ago would never have believed this version of me exists.

I have a vivid memory of whispering to Chris before falling asleep one night, speaking a quiet truth into the dark comfort of our room:

“I can’t learn a new language. I’d never be able to make friends. I don’t want to move to Spain. I don’t want to leave Colorado.”

At the time, we were planning a Thanksgiving trip so Will could participate in a soccer camp in Barcelona. Colin chose to stay back and spend time with his grandparents instead (who can say no to ten days without rules?).

I was excited to explore a new country—but also fear of the future possibilities that might develop after the trip. Questions I didn’t want to face in daylight:

What if I love it there?

What if Will fits right in with those players? What would it even look like to see him play with a whole team of kids better than him? How could I refuse him the chance to live out this dream?

What if Chris loves it too? What if he realizes that in Spain, he wouldn’t need to drive hundreds of miles per soccer season to attend training opportunities that match Will’s level? He might see a glimpse of a future where he gets to be a dad and not Will’s coach.

And with that came a kind of panic I can’t quite explain.

Because if all of that were true… everything might actually change.

I remember saying it out loud, too—more than once, to different friends:

“Oh I could NEVER learn another language. I know I’m a teacher, and I’m supposed to believe everyone is capable of learning… but I’m too old for that.”

And yet—today, I surprised myself.

I sat down for coffee with a woman who recently moved here from Barcelona. She’s learning English; I’m learning Spanish. We planned to speak slowly, switch back and forth, and rely on Google Translate when needed.

We barely used it.

We talked for 90 minutes.

And I mostly understood her! Like, maybe 80%. Which I think is pretty excellent.

A few times during the conversation, I had this out-of-body thought: Whoa… I’m talking a lot! We moved fairly easily from one topic to another—our kids, our husbands, where we grew up, the places we’ve lived, the music we love. At one point, we found ourselves laughing over the fact that there isn’t a specific word for “wife” in Castilian Spanish—it’s just “my woman.” Neither of us likes that, and both of our husbands find it hilarious.

I was hearing whole sentences and not translating word by word.

I’m proud of myself in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Not just because of today, but because of the quiet, consistent efforts leading up to it— working through two levels of Pimsleur, studying with workbooks, Rosetta Stone online lessons, playing Spanish music while I walk on a treadmill and following along with the lyrics, and attempting to read children’s books.

I’ve made it feel like a hobby instead of a chore.

As long as I’m willing to sound a little foolish, make mistakes, and keep going—I can learn a new language.

I was never too old.

I was selling myself short.

I wonder what else I’ve been wrong about.

*my favorite recent photo of me and my parents, who always believe I’m capable of anything