On Making a Difficult Life Transition
South Sudan to the United States
Living in South Sudan for three years was like being transported to an alternate reality. When I returned to the United States in late 2015, it was again, like being transported to an alternate reality, only one I should have recognized as home.
Some call the process of returning home after a long stay in another country, reverse culture shock. Indeed, my return to the U.S. from South Sudan was shocking. In my shock, I denied for a long time that I was actually re-entering the States. I felt sure my return was temporary, and that I would quickly board another flight back to South Sudan, or a different country. Instead, I moved back to Orange County.
As roots go, the oldest and strongest of mine are in southern California. Still, upon my first visit back to the OC, a long-time friend asked, “Why don’t you move back here?” I immediately responded with a resounding “No.” At the time, I couldn’t fathom what on earth I would do for work. But also, the environment in Orange County is polar opposite to that of Juba, and I knew it would be a difficult adjustment. Nevertheless, as I began to settle back in the U.S., I moved exactly where I thought I wouldn’t.
The transition was challenging, to say the very least. I did a lot of writing and reflecting as I went through it, which was helpful. But just like it took me years to start integrating in South Sudan, it took years to start integrating in Orange County. I worked several jobs and tried multiple churches in the area. Along the way, I had to learn how to take care of myself — even if that meant letting myself be sad or angry — even if I thought I shouldn’t be sad or angry anymore.
Why was the transition so hard? It can’t be simplified to any one reason. There are many reasons major life transitions are difficult, and I could probably write a book of essays on this topic alone. But piece by piece, or, “slowly by slowly” as they say in East Africa, I have been able to understand the journey more clearly.
A few months ago, I went for a run. I left my neighborhood in Capistrano Beach at about 5:30am and ran south toward San Clemente. The plan was to run seven miles and finish at sunrise.
I love the early morning. That time before the sun has risen, especially when the purples and blues of twilight are vivid, and the bird chorus is in full effect, is my favorite time of day.
On this particular morning, as I ran in the dark, I started to notice my surroundings. The first thing I became aware of was how safe I felt. Then, I noticed all the pretty lights. There were street lamps and front porch lights illuminating the street I ran down. Then there were lights in the distance, making the hills sparkle. I thought about how amazing constant access to electricity is. Then, I ran past a lawn that was being watered by sprinklers.
There was a time in my life when I would run past sprinklers and feel nostalgia. My mind would hazily reminisce about summer days spent running through sprinklers or playing with the water hose and making it rain. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that simpler time.
Nowadays, when I notice water coming out of a sprinkler, or see sparkly lights in the early morning, or feel safe running outside: my mind often wanders back to South Sudan. Even in Juba — the capital city — a lot of people got sick from the water when I lived there. They would contract diseases like typhoid, cholera, or diarrhea. During that time, there was also limited electricity. There would rarely be city power, mostly near government institutions, but everything was typically powered by generators. And when it came to safety, especially after the war started, South Sudan was in short supply. Crime was rampant in Juba, and there were regular outbreaks of violence throughout the country.
South Sudan is a place where it will take longer than seven miles to arrive at the peace of a sunrise. A place where there are more lights radiating from people than houses. A place where holy water somehow sustains the spirit when physical thirst is unquenchable. A place where there is great suffering, but even greater beauty. As John 1:5 says, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
The early morning run wasn’t the only occasion when my mind suddenly took me back to South Sudan. A friend recently said something that made those moments click for me. She said our bodies have a way of reminding our minds where we’ve been. Barring amnesia, dementia or the like, there’s no way for me to un-see what I saw in South Sudan. There’s no way for me to forget what I experienced. And there’s no way I would ever want to un-see or forget.
The challenge of my transition has been one of integration and balance. It has meant learning how to thrive where I am, physically, while holding South Sudan in love, mentally and spiritually.
The reverse culture shock, and the aching just from knowing about the different ways we’re living — my South Sudanese friends and I — is just one piece of a greater whole of the transition. There has also been post-traumatic stress, loss and grief, and significant physical, mental and spiritual recovery.
Nearly three years since I landed at LAX, I am now through the transition. But my memory and knowledge of South Sudan will always be with me. As I continue moving forward, I get the sense the pieces will continue to come together over time. And a new feeling has finally emerged. I don’t understand it completely, but I know there’s a harmonic movement taking place in my spirit, and I’m grateful.
