As the plane started its descent, I started to unwind from my seemingly contortionist-inspired sleeping position, relieved that I wasn’t going to be just within view of (yet tortuously excluded from) the first class accommodations, which unsuccessfully hid behind a curtain one row ahead, for much longer. After my ritual stretching and stirring, my glance shifted from the enviable seating ahead of me to some of the more surreal images for my airport-adjusted, sleep-deprived eyes: pastoral landscapes, massive windmills, the beautiful dancing and weaving of the canals throughout the oblong gridding of the city. I had for so long pictured what my first impression of Amsterdam was going to be, and this amalgamation of picturesque scenery eased my anxiety and helped assure me that I was not about to be disappointed by the four-month adventure ahead of me. I was about to experience so many new people and experiences, so naturally I was reenergized and ready to get out into the city.

Last week marked my first full month in the Netherlands, and I finally decided that it was time to fulfill the promise that I made to my aunt before I left-- I bought my first journal. I had previously been really skeptical about journaling or any type of material, self-reflection activity. Although I’m sure a lot of this initial resistance arose from some subconscious, residual childhood insecurity about having a diary “like a (GASP) girl,” as would result from growing up with four brothers and two evangelically-masculine male figures, my more explicit worries were that I wouldn’t follow through, or perhaps that it would be a waste of my time. Despite these “rational excuses,” I put it to the test—mostly compelled by the guilt I would have felt toward my aunt. Anyway, new place, new me, and all of that cliché shit, right? Should be simple enough if girls can do it (sarcasm).

After one of my two weekly classes (a much welcomed change of pace from my Davidson workload), I decided to grab a latte and sit in the park with my newly acquired journal, since that seemed to be fittingly stereotypical fuel for my introspection. Once I found a bench which provided a perfect balance of views between the open fields, overarching trees, and fountain-punctuated ponds, I knew that a wave of inspiration was bound to overtake me. The conditions were right. I waited for this supernatural force to move my pen into intimate action. No dice. I sipped my lukewarm latte, hoping that the caffeine might be the catalyst to self-reflection.

After an embarrassing amount of time spent blankly looking at the untouched page in front of me, it started to seep in that I had neglected self-reflection so much during my time in Amsterdam up to that point that I was cognitively rusty. I was actually a bit taken aback. One of the traits which I have so valued in myself is my introspection and reflexivity. Hell, I spent six weeks this summer in a class with an instructor whose dogma was rooted in these concepts. How did I go so astray? Was this just some sort of emotional performance pressure?

As I began to recover from my mini-existential break, I decided that I needed to go back through the last month and retroactively process, file, and store these experiences and feelings, which were previously unexplored. This was my starting point. As I poured over all of the events I had done, people I had met, museums I had explored, craft beers that I had shared, so many thoughts and unexamined feelings flooded my brain. It was great to be able to concretely ensure that I would remember these times and my reactions to them years from now, but it was equally as fruitful to my present self. The dream-like state that I had been operating under in the preceding month, resulting from the overwhelming nature of being thrown into such an unfamiliar environment, embedded within it centuries of history, ways of life, and unspoken practices, had restricted the amount of consciousness that I was able to afford my own reflection. Not once did I ask myself “How are you doing? What have you noticed about adjusting to life here? Are you happy?”

Whether the park aesthetic and caffeine finally started to work their magic or my very flirting with journaling set me down an inevitable line of thought, which was already ripe for discovery, I began to finally reach a level of reflexivity which is almost euphoric. Over the course of about an hour (to the detriment of the coffee date which slipped my mind until I was 45 minutes late), I had filled several pages, all of which was much more intimate than I expected to produce at the onset. The amount, on its own, was a bit shocking to me. But what blew me away, even more, was how much better I actually felt. I couldn’t believe that what seemed so corny to me just weeks ago had such a visceral impact. During this test-run, I developed insights on how content I really was in my temporary home, how my insecurities had restricted me from fully experiencing unfamiliar things, the impact of my fluctuating self-love, and how much I needed to socialize each day in order to achieve happiness. It was my consciousness reflected on page, and I loved it.

After stowing away my journal and making sure that the almost-excessive number of zippers on my backpack were sealed, I reach for my sunglasses in preparation to make my way back to my apartment. As I look up to position them on my face, I catch the sun setting over the scenic mix of urban and natural structures which are interspersed throughout the city.

Although I had been relatively adjusted to this scene after about two or three weeks, this instance was different. I felt much more grounded in the reality that I was in Amsterdam. This was distinguishable from that first, (above) surface-level view as a newcomer. That first scene marked the beginning of the onslaught of external information which overwhelmed and numbed my first few weeks here. No, this was a more holistic, fulfilling experience, quite akin to relief.

My reconnection with my own emotions, preferences, and ruminations allowed me to restore my comfortability with myself. With this established, I no longer felt like an ethereal part of my surroundings, but an actionable agent, confident in my ability to embrace the inevitable uncomfortability which emerges around every corner while you are abroad.

When you remind yourself of who you are, what you value, and how you react to different scenarios, you regain the ability to take what limited control you can of your experiences and tailor them in such a way that the moments are maximized, and you might even be able to take away a lesson to help you grow as a person.

Journaling may not be your path to mindfulness, but whatever your preferred method, I highly recommend setting aside time to enable reflection while you are studying abroad. If you need any motivator, think of how much your trip costs, and if that doesn’t make you want to maximize your experience (given my assumption of most people’s intimate knowledge of the anemic college budget), I honestly don’t know what will.

Thanks, Aunt Angela, your potential guilt and disappointment (…and love) have wholeheartedly changed my experience abroad for the better.