Week 3: The Mountains

2–3 minutes

Dear You,

Week one was pure denial, exhaustion wrapped in adrenaline and an overwhelming flood of information that just wouldn’t stick. Like trying to fill a sponge already soaked.

Week two was slower, steadier. I started absorbing. Learning. Not just names and routes and routines, but the land. The sky. The soul of this place.

In Week 3, I have been getting more used to this new reality. Colombia is breathtaking. The tree canopies stretch wide across the roads, shielding us from the brutal sun. There are trees here I’ve never seen before. Some look hundreds of years old, the kind of trees that have seen the world shift and stayed rooted anyway.

The plants are out of a dream. Or another planet. It’s like I’m living in Avatar. Some of them grow straight out of cement walls or high up on tree trunks. They thrive with no fuss, no filtered water, no perfect sunlight. Meanwhile, my plants back home are clinging to life despite love and careful attention. I saw a flower that looked like a spiky red pom-pom; it looked alive. The avocados here are massive, like little green footballs. And the fruit? It just hangs there. You can pick it, eat it. Life grows everywhere here, effortlessly.

And the sounds. The birds don’t just sing, they perform. There are hummingbirds and woodpeckers, and lizards that dart across stone walls like tiny dancers. The insects buzz like background music, each a different frequency. Even the air feels alive.

We’re connected. The earth, the animals, the sky, the people, we’re all the universe, made up of the same stardust. But here, I don’t just believe it. I feel it. I feel it when I hear music playing from someone’s open window or hear the rustle of trees. The world around me holds me; it grounds me. Especially in the moments when I miss home so deeply.

Nature has become my medicine. When anxiety creeps in and when the longing for my people, my dog, my safe places grabs at me. I start to have negative thoughts and I forget why I even came to Colombia, this weird in-between period starts becoming a negative space. I go outside. I let the earth hold my thoughts. The breeze softens them. The sound of birds turns my stress into rhythm. I start to flow again.

This week, that connection deepened when we went to Vanessa’s family’s farm, hidden high in the mountains. It was the perfect time. My heart was heavy, and the silence up there felt like a soft place to land. The mountains were green, lush and warm. The quiet was so deep it felt sacred. Time had stopped to listen to the silence with us.

We spent the day cutting trees, watching butterflies, and playing with the dogs. Vanessa and her friends cooked Colombian food over an open fire. I had chicken, rice, potatoes, and yucca. It was simple. And it was perfect.

I sat in that stillness and let it fill me. The silence of the mountains told me that everything was going to be okay.

From,
Cali, Colombia