“Hola, bienvenidos a la clase de español. Estoy emocionada para ser tu profesora e introducir a vosotros el lenguaje que me encanta.” (Hello! Welcome to Spanish class. I’m excited to be your teacher and introduce to you all the language that I love.) And so, my eighth-grade Spanish teacher went on, fluently enunciating these beautiful, strange, incomprehensible words to a room full of fearful 14-year-olds who looked like they’d just been dropped into a foreign country and told to survive. Seven years later, I’m sitting in a conference room discussing memory, trauma, and the Spanish Civil War in my last graduate-level Spanish Studies class for the semester.

I distinctly remember going to my first day of Spanish 5150 this semester, finding that the room was two floors up from my typical undergraduate classes. Out of breath at the top of the third floor, I meandered around looking for trecientos diecisiete: “320, 319, 318, aha! 317.” I walked in and sat down at a long table that seats a maximum of 12 people, choosing a corner spot so as not to draw attention to myself. There was one other woman in the room, probably in her late 20s, who looked up and smiled at me. I returned her silent acknowledgment, thinking maybe she was the professor?

But more 20-something native speakers entered the room as the clock audibly warned me of the inevitable approach of 2:30 p.m. and the start of a fear-stricken three hours feeling small and incredibly American in that conference room chair. They all babbled back and forth in Spanish, carrying thin novelas full of scribbled annotations; one of the women sipped from a mug reading “World’s Best Mom.” It felt like the first day of eighth-grade Spanish all over again, but this time, the only deer-in-the-headlights was me and a car full of native Spanish speakers was hurtling toward me with their high beams on.

I had no choice but to stay in the class if I wanted to complete my Spanish Studies degree with honors by next spring. It is only now that I look back and can confidently say that the challenge of feeling vulnerable, piping up in slow, rudimentary Spanish punctuated with a few umms, a few pauses, and a few pueses, has taught me more about learning a second language than my now seven years of classwork, grammar exercises, and reading assignments.

Spanish has broadened my discourse with others in the most unexpected environments, provided me with connections I wouldn’t have otherwise made, and has allowed for my first independent experience abroad in a beautiful country full of thoughtful people. My experience has been punctuated by embarrassment and fear to the point of paralysis when asked if I wanted my Diet Coke “¿Para aquí? ¿O para llevar?” at a small café in the historic casco of Toledo, Spain.

But as a barista, I have helped Spanish-speakers order caramel lattés and made what I personally know to be a nerve-wracking situation more comfortable. It is these moments and collection of experiences with Spanish that have made learning a second language so worthwhile.

Though I am far from fluent, my journey to proficiency has been one that has made me vulnerable to constructive criticism, correction, and the occasional judgmental under-the-breath jibe from a native speaker about my American accent or my unintentional mutilation of words or pronunciation.

I have taken these comments in stride and worked toward a more confident, unapologetic application of my language abilities through conversation, writing, and engagement with other Spanish-speakers. So, take a risk knowing that, at the end of the day, no one can fault you for attempting to better yourself through the ability to communicate with a broader, more culturally diverse group of people.