Flying Isn’t Free

It’s been two weeks since my study abroad program ended—though I use that word loosely. Nothing about that week felt like an ending.

With my Barcelona girl group—five girls who were complete strangers just four months ago—taking on the town in our matching “I ❤️ Barcelona” shirts, sadness didn’t stand much of a chance.

Magnetic is the only word for our final night out.
It was one of those rare, untouchable nights—charged with laughter, open dance floors, and some universal law that made everyone around us want to cheer us on. The only thing we thought was missing was the infamous camera we always bring but somehow forgot.

Didn’t matter. At every turn, in every bar, people were clapping, shouting, dancing with us, taking our photo like the shirts made us Barcelona’s stars. And maybe, in that moment, we were.

But life, in all her recent wisdom, has been asking something new of me: grounding.

So there we were—me, Charlotte, and Samantha—the last three standing, of course—sitting on the Barceloneta beach at sunrise, celebrating the fact that we actually partied until morning. A bucket list item finally crossed off.

Taking in the view, we felt grateful we hadn’t listened to the warnings that the beach wasn’t safe. Pfft, we scoffed, cueing up “Margaret” by Lana Del Rey and letting the breeze kiss our cheeks like the city itself was gathering our memories to send off in the wind.

And then—poof. Samantha’s purse, gone.

We stood up to hug, and just like that, we realized it had vanished.
Luckily, thanks to her intuition, only keys and lip gloss were inside—but still, it was a jolt back to Earth. Charlotte, always reaching for meaning, said maybe it was Barcelona’s way of keeping a piece of Samantha forever.

Then came my turn.

Still high on dreamy delusion, I typed “breakfast near me” into my phone and—bam—it got snatched right from my hands. I didn’t think. I just ran.
Boots. Mini skirt. Barbie on a mission.

Apparently, I channeled White Chicks, Mission Impossible, and Sex and the City all in one. My friends say they’d never seen me like that. But there I was, sprinting after the guy, yelling, “Helppp! He’s getting away…”

And then, like some divine joke, the universe tripped him. Literally. He faceplanted on the curb. I gripped the stolen purse slung on his shoulder—some other poor girl’s, not Samantha’s—and before I could decide whether to scream or cry, he looked at me and just said, “Here.”

Seconds later, a security guard casually strolled out of the bank we were in front of. Thanks for the help, sir.

I didn’t feel brave. I felt shaky. Emotional. Foolish.
He could’ve hurt me.

And this is exactly what I’m learning now that study abroad has ended—or transformed, really. I’m not just flying anymore. I need to learn how to land.

Study abroad was a simulation. A dreamy, soft-focus version of life: no homework, Monday brunch recaps of weekend trips to other countries, endless novelty. And I floated through it. Happily.

But now? Now I live here.

The next chapter has begun. Barcelona for the summer.

I’m building new routines, a new community, and learning how to navigate the quiet days. I’m sharing a home with Mr. International. And as dreamy and daring as he is, it’s not all magic. It’s just real.

Living together means we see each other unfiltered. Not just the highs or the carefully curated versions we used to present. Now it’s also the tired nights, the distractions, the in-between moments.

But somehow, we’re still flying.
Maybe slower. Maybe closer to the ground.
But together.

And I’m realizing now: flying isn’t always about lift-off.
Sometimes it’s about letting life anchor you just enough to notice what’s right in front of you—your people, your lessons, your love.

Maybe the real flight begins when you finally stop trying to escape gravity, and start learning how to embrace the force that keeps pulling you down to earth.