Two Weeks In: A Lesson in Patience

What I’m noticing, just two weeks into this adventure, is that my patience needs some serious work. 

Wow. I really can be hard on myself.

These first fourteen days have been all about shaking off the jetlag, finding our feet in this new rhythm, and adjusting to the full-on pace of big city life here in Madrid. The girls have started Spanish classes and are doing some kind of home education with me in the mornings — which, honestly, as I write that down, makes me pause. That’s actually a lot.

But this morning was one of those ones that just knocked me sideways. My youngest woke up missing home. Really missing home. She wanted to call her bestie back in New Zealand, but it was the middle of the night there. And when the tears came, they hit me right in the heart.

Suddenly, all the doubts crept in. What have we done? Why did we think this was possible? Who did we think we were, taking their education into our own hands, dragging us halfway across the world?

It was one of those heavy mornings where everything felt hard.

Thankfully, my husband did what he does so well. He grounded me. He reminded me of our why, of the kaupapa that brought us here in the first place. And he nudged me gently to zoom out for a moment — to see what we’ve already achieved in just ten days.

I have been listing them off like a grounding meditation:

The walks around the city.
The friends and family we’ve connected with.
The way the girls are now confidently hopping on and off the Metro.
How they’re feeling brave enough to head to the local shop on their own to buy bread and milk.

And then there was Sunday.
A golden afternoon at Mercado de San Fernando in Lavapiés, with Anika and Dani getting to model for a local drawing group, the buzz of the market all around us, beers and food with friends. The amazing little bookstores we’ve stumbled into. The art on every corner.

And just like that, I remembered why we’re here.

We lived here 14 years ago but these streets are starting to show me different layers. I’ve found myself completely fascinated with is the faces of the older people here — especially those over 70. There’s something about them that feels like living history. I look at some of them and wonder if they were part of the La Movida, that generation who shook off the weight of fascism and burst into colour through art, music, and literature. It's fitting to be reminded of this during these times when fascist rhetoric seems to be rising again.

There’s a side of Madrid that hums with collective action, with resistance, with this deep, unshakable belief that the status quo is always worth questioning. You can feel it in certain neighbourhoods. You can see it in the posters on the walls, and hear it in the conversations.

And now, as we inch closer to March 8th — International Women’s Day — I’m curious to witness how this city shows up. From what I’ve been told, it’s a day that matters here. A day that pushes feminism to keep evolving. To stay honest. To hold its intersectionality at the core, or risk becoming something else entirely. There are TERFs here too, of course, and I wonder how those tensions will play out on the streets.

But back to today.

After the heartbreak of the morning, and a few days of walking beside my children as they navigate the ache of missing home, I’m starting to feel us settling.

We’re exactly where we need to be. 

I can see it now, through the tiredness and the homesickness. We’ve done the work — on ourselves, on our relationship, on our vision as a family. We’ve laid the foundation to guide our kids through this season in a way that feels grounded and true.

And that, right now, feels like enough.