“Get in bed with us” we say, with all the tenderness she seeks. We say yes to her easily, because it rarely happens. She sleeps like the dead and always has. And because, we know: now that she is seven, this will become rarer still. Her needing us. Her self small enough to be in bed between us.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her, as we make room in the bed for her. “I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” I whisper into the tangle of her hair, pulling her close to me. She gives off the sweet, particular smell of sleep.

It is not the middle of the night. I can tell it is actually early morning. The light is a blue sliver sylphing between the curtains.

She shifts to face me. She tucks her knees up. She folds her arms in. She has made herself so small. But I know: This is a trick. Because when she stands next to me now, the top of her head meets with my rib cage.

How did she get so tall? How.

But all folded in like this, she is my baby again, and I would take her into my belly again. My body would protect her and nourish her. I would keep her. But I know I can’t, so I won’t — in spite of myself.

All of mothering is letting go. No one tells you this. It is so much letting go. And it’s better not to fight it, because the truth is: the best version of mother-love is the letting-go kind. The you-are-free-to-be-you kind. The promise-not-to-interfere kind.

We stay curled up like this for many minutes. She is comforted and asleep again. And here is me, awake now, remembering her as my baby again.

It is surely morning now. The light beyond the window is brightening. We are overdue for the Starting of Things. But it doesn’t matter, I think. Let’s be late today. I trap time in my hands, willing it to stay, even though I know it’s not mine to keep.

Our daughter Penny goes to a sweet little school on the other side of town. When we moved to Cape Town, I searched and searched for a preschool for Penny. Turns out all the clever mothers put their children’s names on waiting lists as soon as they’re born. I was about three years too late. The school secretaries couldn’t hide their disbelief: me calling in November hoping for a place in January. I nearly gave up.

But then, I heard about a school in the hillside neighborhood of Tamboerskloof. It wasn’t on any lists anywhere — a friend of a friend knew about it. It was a Montessori school in a shabby old Victorian on Belle Ombre Road. I visited. I fell in love with it. They didn’t have space for Penny, but they made a space for her. And even now, I tend to believe it was a specially appointed place for Penny. And for us.

Penny’s teacher, Sophie, is a Xhosa woman, and she is the heart of this school. She keeps 25 children in line, and every one of those children knows that Sophie loves who they are. Sophie is not just teaching lessons. She is shaping the character of these small people — teaching them about respect, courtesy, kindness and how to treat one another.

A few weeks ago, Penny turned five. She was counting the days until her school birthday party. The school party is special, and among the children in this little school, it has reached ritual status.

We were invited to join circle time for the morning of Penny’s birthday celebration. We listened as Sophie affirmed Penny’s character and talents in front of her classmates. We watched as Penny lined up twelve months on the floor and then walked around it fives times to symbolize the length of her life. We joined in as the class sang Happy Birthday to Penny, first in English, then in Xhosa.

Sophie often manages the classroom through song. I’ve seen her do it many times. She calms the children down by starting a song. She teaches them ideas and lessons through song. She alters the mood of the classroom with a song. After Penny’s birthday celebration, the class was raucous and rustling. So, Sophie refocused them with a song.

“I won’t hurt you with words from my mouth,” she sang out loudly. And it was like an anthem. The children heard her strong voice above the din and joined in.

“I won’t hurt you with words from my mouth,” all the little voices sang. Then, the song soared beautifully.

“I love you. I need you to survive.”

My heart nearly doubled over in recognition of all the truth coming at me by way of this song.

Consider for a moment that the words we use with each other are paramount to survival.

Ben and I sat in chairs made for small children, in this room full of tiny voices singing along with Sophie. We looked at each other, as if to say, there is some kind of magic in the room. Do you feel it too?

The song ended, and we said our goodbyes. We left Penny to the rest of her day at school, but circle time stayed with us.

In the car on the way home, Ben said: Imagine if the world had to sit down and do circle time together every morning.

And I said, imagine if we said this to each other every day:

I won’t hurt you with words from my mouth.

I love you.

I need you to survive.

Last year, we quit our jobs, sold everything we owned, and moved our family halfway around the world.

We wanted to hit reset. At home, our lives had become eerily predictable. So we decided to gamble with everything that was comfortable and settled about our lives for a chance at adventure.

Cape Town seemed like a good place to do that. Ben is originally from Cape Town, and I lived in South Africa myself a while ago. So we sold everything, packed our bags and moved our family (including the dog) halfway around the world. When we left, people admired our gumption. And we accepted their admiration, even as we nursed quiet doubts and fears about what we were doing.

This is the dream, right? You’re sitting at work, toiling away on another unsatisfying assignment. And you think: I could leave it all behind. I could hop on a plane tomorrow. I could live somewhere exotic. I could learn a new language. I could meet interesting people. I could take matters into my own hands and change my life.

Now, here we are. We’ve been in Cape Town for exactly a year. It’s been illuminating and inspiring. It’s been eye-opening. It’s shaken us up. It’s been all those things. But it hasn’t always been easy.

Here’s what no one tells you about the big adventure.

You’ll be lonely.

The perk of an experience like this is you get to start all over and even —reinvent yourself. But the flip side is no one knows you from anywhere. You crop up in a new place with no history, no context, no back story.

Making new friends is daunting, even when you’ve gained the confidence and experience that comes with getting older. Our daughter, Penny, is nearly four, and she’s a little on the shy side. We’re always giving her the pep talk when she sees a potential friend at the park: Just go up to her and see if she wants to play.

Now that I’m working hard to make new friends, I see this scenario in a whole new light. We’re encouraging Penny to ask a question fraught with risk: “Will you be my friend?” I’m doing that almost daily right now, and it feels more vulnerable than I’d like to admit.There’s the very real possibility that someone will say no. But, the possibility that someone will say yes, and become the friend you’ve been waiting for — is too good to pass up. So, I keep asking, and I keep encouraging Penny to do the same.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m in high school all over again. I left behind a circle of friends who not only loved me, but thought I was fun and funny. But here I am, 35-years old , the new girl in school, trying to figure out where I fit in and just hoping I’ll make the invite list. The social scene in Cape Town is well-established, and it lives up to its reputation of being an insider kind of place. Circles are tightly defined, and there aren't usually any extra seats at the table.

Being on the outside looking in, we now realize that we were insiders at home. We had established our circle, and we weren't really looking for new friends. We now wonder how many cool, interesting, inspiring people we were missing out on. So this is the reminder: even if you feel like you've found your people, always keep a few seats open at the table for friends you don’t know yet.

As it turns out, we’re making friends with other people on the fringes — people who don’t naturally fit in to the scene here. Our friends are an ever-expanding circle of newbies, ex-pats and otherwise mis-fits. I kind of love that.

You’ll feel vulnerable.

Vulnerability is the plight of the risk-taker. Anyone who’s ever tried to do life differently, anyone who’s ever chosen to get off the preset path — knows what it means to be vulnerable.Turns out, going on a big adventure, is not so much about being confident, as it is being willing to be vulnerable.

I’m starting to think vulnerability is a good sign. It means you’re far beyond the comforts that once hemmed you in — and you’re not playing it safe anymore. To be vulnerable is to be open to new situations, new people, new places, new ideas.

At home, we had it together. We were the pinnacle of thirty-something American success. But when we came to South Africa, we didn’t have jobs. We didn’t have a car. We couldn’t open a bank account without my father-in-law to vouch for us. We had no idea where to send our kids to school. We had to find a co-signor just to get a cell phone contract. It was humbling, and we needed a lot of help. But family, friends and strangers were eager to give us the help we needed.

Now, being a year in, I see us taking in people who are new to Cape Town. We can empathize with the fears and challenges in starting over. We’re passing on the advice and insights we received when we were fresh off the boat. I’m reminded that asking for help — and offering it — connects us to each other.

At home, we weren’t vulnerable. We knew our way around. We had our people. We had a clear path forward. It was comfortable, but I know we were missing out. These days, we’re wide open.

Your problems don’t go away.

Your problems don’t go away, just because you went away.This seems obvious. But it’s actually harder than you’d expect. To see that, even though you’ve changed your whole life, the same old issues are still hounding you, some of them even more pronounced in the new situation.

The Walt Whitman poem “Song of the Open Road“ is an anthem for travelers and independent souls. I get all caught up in freedom and possibility when the narrator takes to the open road, “strong and content.” But in a parenthetical, he confesses that his problems and burdens travel right along with him: “I carry them with me whenever I go / I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them.”

It’s always tempting to believe that a change of scene will solve your problems. But it doesn’t really work that way. While changing scene doesn’t make your problems go away, it does give you fresh perspective to see these issues in a new way. It helps you break old patterns and behaviors. And now that you’ve changed your circumstances, you might have new realizations about your issues (like, maybe the dissatisfaction with your job wasn’t entirely the job’s fault).

Once you’ve stripped away all the context and constructs that keep your issues under wraps, you have no choice but to tackle them. But for your efforts,you’re bound to arrive at a better version of yourself.

You’ll wonder why you did this.

When we’re having a rough week, we can get buried in homesickness. And homesickness is not rational at all, but a raging, wild emotion. In these moments, we ask ourselves: what the hell were we thinking?

This will happen — anytime you’re taking a huge risk or in the middle of a big adventure — you’ll have doubts. We try to give ourselves permission to indulge doubt when it comes, because it’s the way we feel, and it’s part of the experience. But we also try to cut it short before it turns into tailspin. Because tailspin keeps us from enjoying what’s positive, inspiring and stretching about our current situation. In other words,it keeps us from being present.

In fending off the tailspin, we find ourselves going all the way back to the beginning of this story: Why did we decide to do this? Going back to the original motivation clears our heads.

For these times, you need a mantra, a firm answer to the doubt. For us, we remind ourselves that: “ This is our chance to hit reset on our lives.” Which is shorthand for, this is our chance to figure out who we really are and how we want to live the rest of our lives.With this reminder on repeat, we tighten our grip on the compass and carry on.

If I had to do it all over again.

I won’t lie to you. This experience isn’t exactly what I imagined it would be. But I’d still get on that plane a year ago. Maybe we need to justify this move, but I’m convinced we needed a change of geography to facilitate a change of direction.

It’s not the fantasy. But ultimately, I have to believe it’s richer and more satisfying. I’d rather be living in an honest, hands-on way — even when it’s uncomfortable — than let life happen to me.

And as I’m discovering, the big adventure is not a place, an experience or a plane ticket. The real big adventure is the thrill of a life (any life, anywhere) that’s lived honestly, deeply and with intention. This kind of life doesn’t avoid questions, risk or vulnerability. This kind of life is the one I want.

I’m a long way away from home.

Home is The Great State of North Carolina.

A long way away is Cape Town, South Africa. (That’s where I live right now.)

But not a day goes by when I don’t think about North Carolina. And lately, the news from home is startling, disappointing, frustrating. My state, my beloved state, is making national headlines for all the wrong reasons.

The New York Times recently wrote an op-ed about my state. They called it “The Decline of North Carolina.” That headline. Oh, it hurts. My North Carolina friends were circulating the op-ed with dismay. We all cringed collectively, because the worst part is: it’s all true.

But you know what?

It’s not the whole story.

There are more sides to North Carolina. And even though I’m unhappy about what’s happening in North Carolina and can point to others who feel the same way, I’m not going to dive into a heated political debate here. Not today. If you want to know what liberals and conservatives, both inside and outside of North Carolina, are arguing about, head over to the comments sections of the op-ed I mentioned.

Because I don’t want to debate and dismay today.

Today, I just want to remember why I love North Carolina. I want to tell you a story about my home state — a different kind of story than the one we’ve been reading in the papers.This is a story about family, loyalty, kindness, and the pull this place has on me.

First, my family. We don’t have a long and storied heritage in North Carolina. Our story is only a few decades old. We’re transplants — my dad is a Chicago boy, and my mom had at least a dozen addresses growing up.

But none of that matters, because North Carolina will adopt you and take you in, love you and welcome you.Even when you leave, it longs for your return — like a mother who secretly hopes her children will move back home one day. And, out of a sense of loyalty and love, you’ll eventually make your way back to her. Because how can you stay away?

My mom and dad started their lives together in North Carolina. My dad was in medical school, and they lived in a tiny apartment on North Street, near campus. They fell in love with Chapel Hill’s mix of Southern kindness and progressive outlook. And that was the beginning.

My dad was assigned to a residency in Missouri, but when he was done, they returned to North Carolina with me in tow and my brother on the way. My dad signed up to be the town doctor in a small, rural town in Anson County. I grew up with pine needles all over the front yard and the smell of honeysuckle in early summer. Sometimes, my dad was paid for his services with a basket of corn or bags of string beans, which we snapped outside on our sunny stoop.

My family left North Carolina for a second act in the Midwest. But every summer, we made the steamy, 22-hour trek in our Dodge Chrysler minivan for a week at the beach. And we waited for that moment — that moment when we crossed the state line surrounded by lovely, blue-tinged mountains. Sometimes, feeling sentimental, we’d put in the James Taylor tape to play “Carolina in my Mind,” just as we crossed over the line. It was a kind of anthem to announce that we’d made our return. As if to say: Hello again, you gorgeous girl. How we missed you.

On that summer trip, we’d swing by Charlotte to pick up my grandmother, and then make our way to Holden Beach,where we’d rented a house for a week. And when we finally crossed the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway and saw the ocean gleaming in front of us,we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. For having this long trip behind us. For finally arriving. For a week of sunshine and ocean ahead. My dad was the first one in the water, with us kids following close behind — before suitcases were even unpacked, before bedrooms were even chosen, we were swimming in warm Atlantic waters.

Eventually, my parents couldn’t take it anymore — landlocked in the Midwest, hundreds of miles from home. I imagine there was a homing signal. North Carolina whispering in the ear, “You can always come home.” So, after ten years in the Midwest, they jumped at the chance to move back. And they’ve been there ever since. As for me, I graduated college and left for Washinton D.C. But when that flinty, frenetic city lost its luster for me, I knew there was only one place to go.

And so, North Carolina became the place for my own beginning. This place stamped my marriage certificate, gave me my first house, welcomed my two daughters, and gave me leaps and bounds in my career. It gave me countless weekends at the beach, to relish and remember all those summers growing up. It consoled me with sunshine and blue skies, even in winter. It offered me a dear circle of friends and the very deep sense of belonging we all hope for in our lives.

North Carolina imparted in me the importance of supporting and loving your community. Honoring our farmers by putting cash in their hard-working hands at the Saturday farmers market. Acting up as a community and protesting together when there’s intolerance like Amendment One. Supporting the businesses working to make a go of it in downtowns that have long been abandoned.

North Carolina also covered me with kindness. On a daily basis, there were friendly gestures and conversations with strangers — in the line for coffee, on a walk through my neighborhood, in the aisles of the grocery store. Neighbors were exceptionally generous when both our babies arrived, showering us with presents, encouragement and home-cooked meals. And every lady at the post office, the grocery store, and even the DMV who called me “Honey” made me feel like I had extra grandmothers all over the place.

So. When my time in Cape Town is done, I promise you’ll find me back in North Carolina. Even now, she keeps whispering in my ear — reminding me “You can always come home.”

I’ll answer the call one day. And when I do, I know exactly what I’ll say: Hello again, you gorgeous girl. How we missed you.

Here a few more love letters to North Carolina. If you love this place as much as we do, please share your story with us.

North Carolina, I wish I knew how to quit you by Ileana Rodriguez

I like calling North Carolina home… by Geoff Gann

Home at Last by Angela Salamanca

Please don’t give up on North Carolina by Virginia Ingram

Most of my life, I’ve been a reluctant American.

I’ve never felt particularly connected to the culture. If you asked me to describe my point of origin, I’m not sure American would even show up on the list. I’d talk about my family, my circle of friends, and maybe the cities and towns I’ve lived in. But I wouldn’t identify myself as an American.

My friend @gingin has traveled the world, and was sharing recently about how her parents cautioned her against being the “Ugly American” when she was abroad. I get that. Whenever I step over the border, I’m always shuffling my feet and trying to dampen my American accent.

Last year, my husband and I quit our jobs, sold everything we owned and moved our family halfway around the world to South Africa. Now, I spend my days trying not to be the Ugly American.

I’m learning that the only way to gain any perspective about your own culture is to step all the way out of it. Especially if you’re an American. Because we are an insular culture, hemmed in on all sides by an internal view. Take American news, for example. While the rest of the world consumes news about the rest of the world, American news is mostly about us, to us. We have everything we need. We are everything we need.

Americans tend to assume everyone likes us. Partly because we are confident and optimistic as a culture. But partly because we have so little perspective about how we come across. If you’ve traveled at all, then you know that the rest of the world has mixed feelings about America. We’ve earned ourselves a reputation. And though it might not always feel fair — the world’s stereotype of the loud, brash, uncouth, consumerist American — we aren’t blameless. There’s some truth at the heart of every stereotpye.

But.

A few weeks ago, a You Tube clip was going around the Twitter feeds of several South Africans I follow — and like. It was a short animation by a South African comic, and the general consensus on Twitter was: “this is so funny.” I got all the way to the end of the clip, before realizing, with a pang, that Americans are the butt of the joke.

Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

If you’re American and reading this, please don’t get hot and bothered. The clip is not all that funny, or smart. It’s not worth getting upset about. My point is not to stir up offense. I have a different point to make.

As you might expect, there were a slew of hotly offended comments from Proud Americans who were practically waving the stars and stripes with aggressive patriotism. And the stereotype gets a cringe-worthy boost.

But what bothered me more were all the comments from Americans who were chiming in with slightly-embarrassed, self-deprecating confirmation that “this is what Americans are really like.”

I understand — if you’re the butt of the joke, preemptive strike is to get in on the joke fast. But I was disappointed by it.Do we really have to be so ashamed?

I don’t want to be in either camp. I don’t want to be grouped in with the hot-headed patriot. But I also don’t want to be so ambivalent either — always feeling as though I have to apologize to the rest of the world. This is new for me. But I feel a protectiveness about my country, and a stroke of pride. I don’t want to join in on the joke.

Because here’s the deal.

America is a flawed place, and of course it is, because — aren’t we all. But from 8,000 miles away, I’m newly appreciative of this place. This is a culture, mine, that celebrates the individual with passion, keeps pushing forward on change and progress, and remains, unflappably optimistic — to name a few of our better qualities.

Is there a way to be self-aware but still proud?

I think there must be.

So, America — I’m coming around on you.