Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia → Bilbao · Casco Viejo

Nov 28, 2023

1. Diary

   1. today I joined the team meeting at the office near Atxuri. the energy was low. everyone was worn out from last week’s events. I tried to bring up the community workshop ideas, but it felt like my voice was echoing in a void. I could see their eyes glazing over.

   2. I remembered something I read once: “the most important thing is to keep moving forward.” but it’s hard to see the path sometimes. we talked about the fundraiser; I can’t help but feel like our efforts are just a drop in the ocean.

   3. later, I caught a glimpse of Itziar planning a project on her laptop. her focus is always inspiring. she glanced up and smiled, a light that cuts through my clouds. we had dinner together, some simple pasta, and then talked about her family’s opinions on what’s happening in the Basque Country. I’m still trying to follow half of it, the politics twist like a maze.

   4. I texted a few of my paisa friends tonight. it’s comforting, knowing they’re out there, scattered between Madrid and Barcelona, sharing the same feeling of distance.

   5. it's chilly, like the city is holding its breath. I think back to my family in Medellín, their voices echoing in my mind. I miss them.

Dec 25, 2023

1. Diary

   1. I can’t believe it’s Christmas already.

   2. The morning started with a quiet breakfast with Itziar, just us. She made a light tortilla and we shared some leftover pan de yema. I had a moment of homesickness, missing the festive chaos of Medellín.

   3. We went to her family’s place for lunch – a big gathering. I tried to keep up with the conversations, but I lost track with the Euskera. Their laughter filled the room, and I felt a bit like an outsider, but Itziar squeezed my hand under the table, a reminder that I belong.

   4. They talked about local politics, something I barely grasped, but I nodded along. Itziar’s uncle is so passionate, he nearly jumped up from his chair.

   5. The afternoon was warm. The sun peeked through the clouds, creating a cozy glow, reminding me of all those Christmas afternoons at Abuela's in Medellín.

   6. I miss the familiar. But today, I also saw how much I’ve gained. I’m learning, slowly.

   7. Back home now, Itziar’s asleep beside me. I can hear the faint sounds of the street below. It feels peaceful, but the weight of feeling different lingers. Can’t shake it off.

   8. Tomorrow, I’ll dive back into the NGO work. For now, I’ll hold onto this moment, this warmth, and the reminder that I'm here for a reason.

Jan 17, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q1 (initiator)

   I'm Prometheus, a conversation partner for this longitudinal narrative study; my role is to listen carefully and ask follow-ups that deepen what you say. To begin: where do you feel most at home right now — and why?

2. synth_05

   It's hard to pinpoint a single place where I feel most at home right now. Home feels fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle that haven’t quite come together. There’s a comfort in Itziar’s family home, in the warmth of the kitchen where they gather, sharing food and laughter, but I often feel like an outsider in those moments. I’m still learning Euskera, and while I can catch snippets of conversation, I sometimes drift while they discuss local politics that I can’t quite grasp. It’s a reminder of the disconnection, even in the most intimate spaces.

   Then there’s the NGO office near Atxuri. It’s familiar, filled with the chatter of colleagues, the clatter of keyboards, and the weight of our shared mission. I feel a sense of purpose there, advocating for those who often go unheard. But it can also be exhausting. The meetings blend into each other, and sometimes the energy just isn’t there. I wonder if I’m being effective, if I’m making a difference.

   If I close my eyes, I can still picture my sister’s apartment in Medellín, the loud voices of my paisa friends shouting over music, the smell of arepas. That’s a different kind of home, one that feels rooted in my identity, my past. But I can’t go back, not now. Every time I think of it, I feel that pang of homesickness, the mix of nostalgia and longing that pulls at my heart.

   So, I navigate between these spaces. I’m still trying to define what home means here in Bilbao, a mix of warmth and discomfort, belonging and alienation. Maybe home is more about the people, the connections we build, than just a physical space. But I’m still figuring it out, one day at a time.

Feb 1, 2024

1. Diary

   the first of february. almost spring.

   1. woke up to the sound of rain against the window. it reminds me of medellín, but different. here, it's colder. 2. spent the morning at the office, preparing for the upcoming migration seminar. everyone seems stressed. the usual tension in the air. the conversations drifted toward policies that seem endless, like they never really change. can’t help but feel worn out. 3. made a joke in the meeting about our “international expertise” and got a few chuckles. sometimes humor feels like the only way to cope with the heaviness. 4. felt out of place again. being 'the Latin American' in these discussions, navigating through the specifics of migration while trying to insert perspectives from home, my voice sometimes feels swallowed up. reminded me of last week's txikiteo with the team; I stumbled over my Euskera despite trying hard. 5. itziar and I talked about her family dynamics during dinner. her brother’s new project in urban sustainability. I want to contribute to something that feels meaningful here, but the Basque politics confuse me. 6. found a moment of peace while washing the dishes. sometimes I just need to immerse myself in the small tasks to ground myself. thought about how itziar often makes everything seem lighter, just her presence. 7. the rain continues. it’s a reminder of the layers I carry — the nostalgia, the hope, the frustration. sometimes I feel like I’m in a limbo. wondering if the warmth of spring will bring clarity.

Feb 7, 2024

1. Diary

   1. woke up early today, the sun peeking through gray clouds. 2. Itziar made coffee—her secret weapon. the smell filled the kitchen, and for a moment, I forgot about the world. 3. went to the NGO office near Atxuri; it was a long day. we’re pushing for more resources for migrant support. the usual frustrations—funding, bureaucracy, but today felt heavier. 4. met with the team, discussing the Basque political landscape. I tried to follow along. my Euskera is still shaky, but I catch bits. I sometimes feel like an outsider, even in meetings meant for inclusion. 5. messages from paisa friends in the WhatsApp group. they’re planning a reunion in Barcelona. it hit me—homesickness creeping back in. 6. saw Itziar’s family later. they had questions about Colombia, politics, and I felt the weight of explaining. 7. the day ended with a quiet moment on the balcony, rain started again, falling softly. it reminded me of the nights in Medellín, but here, it feels like endings.

Feb 24, 2024

1. Diary

   1. woken up today with a dull ache. maybe it's the weather; a constant drizzle, the kind that reminds me too much of nights in comuna 13. 2. spent the morning at the NGO office near Atxuri. typical meetings. everyone talking in circles about funding cuts. I felt like the outsider again, trying to piece together the implications of it all. 3. someone mentioned "progressive Bilbao," and I wanted to laugh. it's all relative, isn't it? some days, I feel lost between worlds. 4. Itziar came by with lunch—chicken and peppers from her family’s baserri. she always knows how to ground me. that warmth in her eyes when she talks about projects keeps me tethered. 5. in the evening, a WhatsApp ping from my paisa friends: planning a Sunday lunch in Madrid. I felt a familiar tug, the kind that makes me miss Medellín but also my place here. 6. I mixed up Euskera phrases again while ordering pintxos. they laughed, but it felt like I was fumbling through a performance I didn’t know the lines to. 7. the rain still falls, and I can’t help but feel it’s washing away parts of me, but maybe it’s just a needed cleansing.

Feb 26, 2024

1. Diary

   1. woke up today to the sound of silence. no rain, just a stillness that felt strange after weeks of drizzle. 2. made breakfast—just toast with jam. itziar helped me find this local fruit spread. tastes like home but not quite. 3. had a long call with a colleague in the NGO. we discussed the upcoming workshop for migrants. important topics, but there's this underlying tension in the air, like we’re just skimming the surface of real issues. 4. later, we went for a walk around the casco viejo. itziar pointed out a new café that had popped up. small moments feel huge here. 5. met a friend from the WhatsApp group later. we talked politics, her optimism clashing with my doubts. 6. sometimes, I still feel like “the Latin American” in every conversation, as if I must represent a whole continent. 7. end of the day, quiet again. a chill in the air but my heart feels lighter. those little pieces of warmth matter.

Apr 9, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (initiator)

   Which three places shaped you most? What did each give or take?

2. synth_05

   1. Medellín, my birthplace. The vibrant chaos of comuna 13 gave me a fierce sense of community and resilience. Growing up amidst the street art and the stories of survival forged my identity in ways I am still unpacking. It also took a lot—a childhood overshadowed by violence and the constant struggle against stigma. Every corner has a memory, every face a history.

   2. Bogotá, where I pursued my studies. The city is a labyrinth of ideas and contradictions. Here, I found my passion for human rights and activism. It taught me the power of words and organization, but it also drained me, exposing the depths of social inequality and the weight of systemic injustice. The nights spent over books and discussions were transformative, yet I often felt like an outsider, even among my peers.

   3. Bilbao, the place I now call home. Itziar’s world, with all its quirks and familial warmth, gives me a new perspective. The integration of Basque culture challenges me daily. I’m learning Euskera, trying to navigate the politics I don’t fully grasp, but the acceptance from Itziar’s family is a balm. Here, I’m learning to hold my Colombian identity and understand a new one, though it can feel lonely at times, like I’m still piecing together who I am in this new landscape. Each place shaped me, leaving me with both gifts and losses that intertwine.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (follow-up)

   Your reflections on these three places are rich and layered. Can you share a specific moment or memory from each location that encapsulates the gifts and losses you experienced there? How did these moments influence your understanding of your identity?

4. synth_05

   1. Medellín: I remember a Sunday afternoon, the sun was setting over the hills, and my friends and I gathered in the plaza after a long week. We shared stories, laughter, and the sweetness of arepas con queso. That moment felt like pure energy, a reminder that even in hardship, we found joy together. It taught me about resilience, about leaning on each other. But it also highlighted the losses—those who weren’t there, the ones who had left for safety or better opportunities. The weight of their absence lingers, shaping my understanding of community.

   2. Bogotá: In the university's sociology department, I sat in a crowded lecture discussing intersectionality. A classmate presented a paper on LGBTQ+ rights, passionately articulating the struggles within our society. The atmosphere buzzed with energy and ideas, igniting my commitment to advocacy. But as I listened, I felt the divide between theory and lived experience; my own identity became a complex blend of privilege and struggle. It was a beautiful gift, knowing I could contribute to the dialogue, yet the loss was palpable—many voices, often silenced, were missing from that room.

   3. Bilbao: The first family lunch at Itziar’s baserri was overwhelming. I sat among her family, trying to follow their rapid Euskera conversations, feeling like an outsider. They welcomed me warmly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being the “other.” It was a gift to be included in their traditions, to share food and stories. Yet, the loss of my own cultural references became stark; I realized how much I had to learn, to understand. Each moment added layers to my identity, expanding it while also reminding me of what I left behind.

May 9, 2024

1. Diary

   1. I was scrolling through old photos today, the ones from comuna 13. The colors, the faces, the energy. Reminded me of the afternoons in the plaza — how we would laugh until our stomachs hurt. Itziar walked in and asked what I was looking at. I told her.

   2. She smiled softly, said she wanted to visit Colombia with me. I don’t think she understands how hard it is for me to explain what it felt like, the sounds, the people.

   3. Every time I try to share, I feel the distance — her Basque life, my paisa roots, two worlds colliding. I’ve had a hard time connecting with her family, their political conversations swirl above my head. I nod, half-understanding, trying to keep up.

   4. The weather today was cloudy, a hint of rain. I miss the sun. It feels like the sky is mirroring my mood. I just want to feel grounded, like I did back home, but here I’m still a bit lost.

May 27, 2024

1. Diary

   1. a quiet morning. I woke up late, Itziar already gone to work. Coffee with the familiar smell of roasted beans, different from what I grew up with. I miss the tinto, the little stalls with their cardboard cups and lively chatter.

   2. worked from home today. The project feels heavy, the deadlines looming. Why is it that every meeting turns into an uphill battle? even the simple things turn complicated when you're the 'Latin American' in a room full of locals. I ended up drafting a new proposal, trying to fit the Basque context into a framework I still haven't fully grasped.

   3. later, I took a break. walked through Casco Viejo. the cobblestone streets and the echo of laughter felt comforting. popped by that little grocery store, the one run by the woman with the short hair and bright scarves. I grabbed some tortillas — a reminder of home, but also a little piece of me here.

   4. after dinner, Itziar came home, tired but smiling. we watched a documentary about the Basque conflict. she explained some parts, her voice soft but full of passion. I tried to engage, but sometimes I feel lost in the conversation, like I’m just a shadow on the wall.

   5. the evening sky was grey, the clouds heavy. it felt like an ending, but also a moment to breathe.

May 28, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun was relentless today, shining through the window as I sat with my laptop, trying to focus on our project proposal.

   1. the office was buzzing with conversations that felt foreign. my colleagues were deep into the nuances of migration policies, and I could only catch fragments. sometimes it feels overwhelming, this mix of languages swirling around me. I feel more like a visitor in this space than a participant.

   2. itziar dropped a book on the table this morning—“the left hand of darkness.” she said she thought I’d like it. it's a sci-fi classic, but it speaks of otherness, of companionship across divides. I love how she sees me in her readings.

   3. our whatsapp group lit up today with messages from paisa friends about a reunion in Madrid. I felt a pang of homesickness. they’re all together, sharing laughter and stories that I can only imagine. I miss plaza de los deseos, the energy of our evenings.

   4. made dinner alone, just me and my thoughts. itziar’s family politics weigh on me sometimes. I smile and nod during meals, trying to understand their perspectives, but I long for the comfort of shared experience, like the debates we had back home.

   as the day fades, the heat lingers but the sky is finally cooling. a quiet ending, like the soft light slipping away.

Jun 3, 2024

1. Diary

   1. woke up today feeling heavy. it’s been a while since i felt like this. the weight of everything — the NGO work, trying to fit into a culture that feels just out of reach. Itziar already left for her project. breakfast was quiet. just me and my thoughts.

   2. at the office near Atxuri, the conversation was different again. our funding proposal is due next week, and everyone feels the pressure. kept translating the ideas in my head, flipping from English to Euskera, and back, trying to catch the nuances. sometimes i feel like I’m stuck in a loop, like I’m performing in a play where no one knows my lines.

   3. during lunch, I went outside to grab a bit of fresh air. the sun was warm, almost too much. I think of the plaza in comuna 13, where we’d joke and eat arepas. here, it’s all pintxos and txikiteo. fleeting connections that don’t quite fill the space.

   4. Itziar texts me a photo of her sketching for a new architectural project. she looks so focused, so sure. I’m proud of her. I want that certainty. returned home later than usual, the streets were quieter. the evening light felt gentle, like it was trying to soothe the day’s exhaustion.

   5. I’m tired of being 'the Latin American' in discussions, of navigating a world that feels at once familiar and alien. my paisa accent slips out sometimes, and I see the confusion in their eyes. I don't know how to bridge that gap.

   the sky darkened as I finished this entry. there's a storm coming, I can feel it in the air. it reminds me of Medellín, the way the rain can wash everything clean.

Jun 17, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q5 (initiator)

   What anchors your week — whether they be rituals, people, places, or apps?

2. synth_05

   1. The mornings start with a café con leche at the little corner café. It's a small ritual, the same barista every time, always smiling, trying a bit of my Spanish. It feels familiar, like a thread to Medellín, even if the sun doesn’t rise the same way here.

   2. Workdays are anchored by meetings at the NGO office. The hustle of the team, the urgent conversations around migration and rights — it’s draining, but it’s also where I feel I belong, even when my Spanish stumbles.

   3. Itziar, of course. She’s my anchor. We share quiet dinners where we talk about everything and nothing, her Basque family’s politics, my frustrations, and dreams. When we laugh together, it feels like home.

   4. Sundays are sacred. We visit her family in the baserri, the wood and stone echoing stories of the past. There’s a comfort in their warm welcome, and I’m learning Euskera bits and pieces, even if I can’t yet follow the discussions fully.

   5. WhatsApp has become my lifeline. I’m in a group with my paisa friends, sharing memes, checking in on each other. It’s like a digital abrazo, a reminder that I’m not alone in this, even when the distance feels heavy.

   6. And the apps — I rely on Google Maps for navigating the streets, and Duolingo for my Euskera practice. Though, honestly, I sometimes feel overwhelmed by the number of languages I’m juggling.

   Each of these anchors holds me in moments of uncertainty, grounding me in this new life, even when the weight of homesickness presses down. I’m still figuring it out.

Jun 23, 2024

1. Diary

   1. the café con leche always warms me, but today it felt heavier. every word in my head, every thought like a stone. 2. meeting at the NGO office. same issues — funding, outreach, and the usual arguments about how to make our voices heard without losing our essence. we’re all so tired. 3. talked more than usual. i get defensive about our initiatives. they say we’re too “Latin American” while trying to fit their molds. 4. itziar texts me during lunch, a distraction. “¿cómo va todo?” i wish i could tell her everything. i don’t want to worry her with my heaviness. 5. the afternoon dragged. picked apart our project plans like they were threads of a sweater. some colleagues joke that it’s like a txikiteo without the fun. 6. when the day ended, i walked home slowly. the streets of casco viejo felt too quiet. it was warm, but the air was thick, like it might rain. 7. dinner was light. we shared stories about our days, but i felt distant. itziar noticed, her brow furrowed with concern. i smiled, but it felt fragile. 8. later, i stared out the window, thinking of medellín. the nights there were so different, alive with sounds i can’t find here. 9. the clouds rolled in, and a gentle rain started. it felt like an ending, but also a promise of something new.

Jun 28, 2024

1. Diary

   1. mornings still begin with a café con leche. the little corner café, same barista. today, I tried to practice some Euskera with her. she laughed, said I was getting better, but I could see the uncertainty in her eyes. 2. work has felt like pushing a boulder up a hill. funding still tight. had a meeting today with the board. they want results, but the reality is different. I felt defensive, like they were expecting me to have all the answers. 3. Itziar and I talked about our plans for the weekend. her family wants us to visit the baserri again. part of me dreads it. I can’t seem to follow the conversations, especially when they switch to Basque. 4. on WhatsApp, my paisa friends are posting photos from a barbecue. I miss those gatherings. here, I feel like the outsider, always searching for a way to fit in. 5. as the sun sets over Casco Viejo, I watch shadows stretch across the pavement. it feels heavy, but I remind myself that every day is a step forward, even if it doesn't always feel like it.

Jul 7, 2024

1. Diary

   1. today, the café con leche felt lighter. maybe it was just the sun breaking through clouds, or maybe it was the barista’s cheerful laugh. it felt like a small victory.

   2. I spoke with Itziar about her latest project. she’s so passionate, sketching out ideas, while I’m stuck in the NGO grind. I mentioned my frustration about the outreach plan. I can’t shake this feeling of being the outsider still, despite my efforts after all these months.

   3. the WhatsApp group with paisa friends buzzed today. they’re planning a get-together in Madrid. I wish I could teleport back for a night, share a round of aguardiente, and lose myself in familiar accents.

   4. after lunch, we walked through the old town. the streets are so alive here, but I still feel like a ghost sometimes, drifting through. Itziar held my hand, her warmth grounding.

   5. the evening skies poured orange over the rooftops. I sat on the balcony, closed my eyes, listened to the distant laughter below. a reminder that even in this strange place, warmth exists.

Jul 12, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q6 (initiator)

   Growing up, what were your family's rules about belonging (spoken or unspoken)?

2. synth_05

   1. Belonging was always a complicated tapestry in my family. On one hand, there was a sense of togetherness that felt instinctive — Sunday lunches at abuela's where everyone gathered, laughter spilling into the air as we shared stories and food, which was a strong sign of acceptance. But there were also unspoken rules, like always putting family first, which sometimes felt suffocating.

   2. My mother often reminded us that we had to stick together, especially in a world that often tried to divide us. “La familia es lo primero,” she would say, emphasizing loyalty above all else. But this also meant that any deviation from what was expected — like questioning traditions or wanting to pursue a career outside the norm — could lead to conflict.

   3. I remember being a kid and feeling the weight of those expectations. It was about knowing your place in the family hierarchy. As the youngest, I was supposed to listen more than speak, to absorb rather than challenge. There was a lot of love, but it came with strings attached.

   4. There was also a cultural aspect — being mestiza meant navigating that duality of identity. My family expected me to embrace both sides, the Colombian roots and the openness of modernity. I could be proud of where I came from while also striving for something different.

   5. When I came out as queer, it shattered some of those expectations. I felt a shift, a moment where the rules changed. The love was still there, but it was a redefinition of belonging, learning to negotiate acceptance in a space that often felt rigid. I had to carve my own path while still being a part of that intricate web of family ties.

   6. Now, living in Bilbao, I find myself reflecting on those rules again — how they shape my interactions with Itziar’s family, where the dynamics feel different but still familiar. The search for belonging continues, navigating old lessons while trying to fit into new spaces.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q6 (follow-up)

   You describe a rich tapestry of belonging in your family, where love coexists with expectations. Can you share a specific moment when those unspoken rules felt particularly heavy for you, perhaps when you were navigating your identity or your place within the family? How did you respond in that moment?

4. synth_05

   There was a moment during a family dinner in Medellín last December; we were all gathered at my sister's apartment, and the conversation turned to marriage and children. My sister was pregnant, the news was still fresh, and everyone was celebrating her future, but I felt this weight in the room. The unspoken pressure of being the "queer one" in the family suddenly felt crushing.

   As they discussed the joys of motherhood and fatherhood, I could feel the glances shift toward me, expectant. My parents always had this vision of a traditional family, and although they had grown to accept me, there was still a subtle tension around what that acceptance truly meant. To them, I was still a daughter, but the expectations of what that meant often felt at odds with who I was. The air was thick; love and expectation intertwined like threads in a woven tapestry.

   In that moment, I responded by trying to steer the conversation away from family expectations. I brought up the recent projects we were working on at the NGO, discussing migration and how families adapt across borders. It was my way of deflecting and inserting my own narrative into the room, a reminder that family can look different and still be valid. I wanted to affirm my place within our family even as I pushed against those unspoken rules.

   I could see Itziar, sitting beside me, nodding along while I talked, her presence grounding me. It was a brief escape, but as the conversation shifted back to my sister and her future, I felt that familiar tug in my chest. The rules of belonging were ever-present, but I reminded myself that my identity, my love, and my path were just as valid in this family tapestry. There’s still much to navigate, much to understand. I guess it’s a work in progress, like everything else.

Aug 17, 2024

1. Diary

   lately, I’ve been thinking about the last family dinner in Medellín. how we all sat around the table, voices blending, laughter and tension in the air. my sister mentioned marriage again, perhaps to nudge me, to remind me of expectations. it felt like everyone was watching, waiting for me to say something about my life here. but what could I say? that I’m not sure if I want what they expect? I remembered how abuela used to say, “a home is built on love, not bricks.” I wanted to believe that, but sometimes the weight of the unspoken rules is heavy.

   itziar and I walked through the casco viejo today, the sun shining brightly, and I felt that familiar ache — the longing for home but also a deep love for what we’re creating here. she talked about her latest project, and I could see that spark in her eyes. it’s moments like this that ground me. we stopped for pintxos at a small bar, and I tried to pick up some euskera with the waiter. I can’t say I nailed it, but I tried.

   I also checked in with the WhatsApp group of paisa friends. they’re scattered across Madrid and Barcelona now, sharing their own stories of making homes far from Medellín. it’s comforting to know I’m not alone in navigating this.

   as the day closed, the light faded softly. it reminded me of the complexity of my own belonging — warm yet precarious.

Aug 29, 2024

1. Diary

   1. I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the window. It’s one of those gray mornings in Bilbao that stretch on, making everything feel heavy.

   2. Spent the morning reviewing proposals for the NGO. Frustration bubbling under. I know the right words but they feel stuck. Too many layers of bureaucracy. It's like running in place.

   3. Had a quick chat with Itziar over breakfast. She asked about my plans for the week, and I felt the urge to share everything. The excitement of a new workshop we’re planning, but instead, I just nodded and smiled. Her understanding flows so easily, while I struggle to articulate the chaos in my head.

   4. Later, I met with the team near Atxuri. We talked about the upcoming event—we want to create a space for queer migrants to share their stories. I felt a flicker of hope amidst the exhaustion. The group dynamic is so important; we need to keep pushing against systemic barriers.

   5. I caught myself mixing Euskera phrases while explaining our goals. “Gure helburua…” I hesitated, feeling out of place. Itziar gently encouraged me to keep practicing, but I still feel like a foreigner in this language.

   6. The day ended with a long walk along the river. The rain had stopped, leaving everything glistening. I thought about my sister’s dinner in Medellín. Laughter and pressure, and how marriage can feel like a medal or a chain. It’s a dance I can’t quite follow.

   7. I’m grateful for Itziar, though. Her warmth grounds me, even when the rain reminds me of distance.

Nov 3, 2024

1. Diary

   1. the rain has been relentless this week, soaking everything. it feels like the weather is mirroring my mood — heavy, gray, full of unspoken words. 2. I found myself staring out the window at the puddles collecting on the street, remembering the warmth of my sister's laughter back in Medellín. I miss that ease, the way we could talk about anything without hesitation. 3. thought about our last dinner together, how my sister’s mention of marriage hung in the air. I felt caught between two worlds — my family’s expectations and this new life with Itziar. 4. the NGO office has been busy as usual; we’re prepping for a new project launch next month. I don’t feel much excitement, more like a sense of obligation. 5. Itziar sat across from me at lunch today, sketching designs while I flipped through project reports. there’s a quiet comfort in her presence, though sometimes I worry I’m losing touch with the vibrant chaos of my roots. 6. I tried to catch up with my paisa friends on WhatsApp later. their voices feel distant now, like echoes. 7. tomorrow, I think I’ll take a walk along the river. even if the clouds don’t clear, maybe just being outside will help shake this weight.

Nov 18, 2024

1. Diary

   1. the rain hasn’t stopped. it's like the sky is just as tired as I am. 2. this morning, I walked to the office, under my umbrella, and still got soaked. it’s frustrating to feel so out of place here, even as I navigate the NGO meetings. 3. sometimes I think about how I’m “the Latin American” in this household. my accent, my stories — they don’t translate fully. 4. had a video call with my sister. her laughter, a light against the gray here. she asked again about marriage, about settling down. I could hear the concern, the love. 5. Itziar made tortilla for dinner. I tried to share my thoughts on the latest community meeting, but somehow, I felt distant. 6. we sat together, the warmth of her hand in mine, but I could still hear my sister's voice echoing about family expectations. 7. as night fell, the rain kept hammering. I wondered about the weight of home, the pull of Medellín, even through this love.

Dec 4, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q3 (initiator)

   Which language do you reach for when you're tired, angry, or tender?

2. synth_05

   When I’m tired, I often find myself slipping into Spanish, the paisa rhythms rolling off my tongue like a familiar lullaby. It feels comforting, almost like wrapping myself in a warm blanket. The cadence of my childhood, the way my mother would say "mija" when she sensed I was overwhelmed; that’s what I reach for.

   Anger, though, that jolt of heat in the chest, it pushes me to English. It’s sharper, more direct, especially with colleagues who don’t get the nuances of a paisa’s frustration. I want my words to cut through, to make them understand the urgency of what I’m feeling — whether it’s about the injustices I see in the NGO work or the frustrations that pile up living here. Sometimes I throw in a Basque phrase, trying to blend the fire of my emotions with the language I’m still learning, but it often feels clumsy.

   Tenderness is where Itziar comes in. With her, I speak a mix of English and Spanish — those moments when we share something soft, vulnerable. "Te quiero" slips out easily, and so does "I love you," depending on the mood. It’s a beautiful mess, really, like trying to dance between two worlds. Sometimes I’ll catch myself using Euskera words of endearment, even if I fumble through them. It’s a way of bridging my life in Colombia with the new one we’re building together here in Bilbao.

   Language shifts like the weather, depending on what I’m feeling. I keep reaching for what feels right in the moment, trying to find a balance, just like I’m trying to find my place in this new life.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q3 (follow-up)

   How lovely to hear how language serves as a refuge for you. Can you share a specific moment when you felt that comforting embrace of Spanish, perhaps when you were feeling particularly tired? What was happening around you, and how did the language help you navigate that moment?

4. synth_05

   I remember a Saturday afternoon in the NGO office, sunlight pouring in through the high windows. We had just wrapped up a long meeting about our new outreach program, and I was drained. My head was spinning with the technical jargon, the back-and-forth debates, and the weight of the stories we were carrying from the community. I stepped out for a moment, needing air, and I found myself scrolling through WhatsApp.

   There was a message from my sister, a video of her dancing at a family fiesta in Medellín. Instantly, the vibrant music filled my mind, and I could almost hear the laughter echoing through our crowded living room. I felt the familiar warmth of my paisa accent as I typed back, “¡Qué rico, hermana! Me muero de ganas de bailar con ustedes.” Those words felt like a lifeline, pulling me back to a world where I wasn’t just fighting for rights, but celebrating life.

   In that moment, Spanish wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. I could express my joy, my longing, my connection to home without the heaviness of the complexities I faced here. The language flowed freely, a stark contrast to the formal English I'd been wrestling with all day. It reminded me of who I was, of the vibrant life waiting for me back in Medellín, and gave me the energy to face the next meeting with a renewed spirit.

Jan 2, 2025

1. Diary

   1. rainy day. 2. the sky is grey, heavy. I missed the sun today, more than usual. 3. I went to the NGO office near Atxuri, but felt disconnected. 4. so many conversations swirling around me in Euskera, and I barely grasped bits. 5. tried to join in, but it felt like I was shadowboxing. 6. Itziar was working from home today. I miss her presence, the ease of her laughter even when things are tense. 7. later, on WhatsApp, I shared a meme with my paisa friends. “/que pena/!” they responded, and it made me smile, a reminder of home. 8. I’m grateful for those links, but it’s bittersweet. 9. I should call my sister tomorrow; I haven’t heard her voice in weeks. 10. the rain keeps falling. I see it through the window, a steady rhythm. 11. it reminds me of Medellín, the way the rain wraps around the hills. 12. sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel fully settled here. 13. I want to find a way to belong without losing my roots.

Jan 4, 2025

1. Diary

   1. like a weight. 2. today was rough. 3. i woke up to rain again, the clouds hanging low, a familiar heaviness. 4. the kind of day that makes everything feel compounded. 5. went to the NGO office but felt off, the noise of conversations buzzing around me like static. 6. tried to engage with the new outreach program, but my mind kept drifting. 7. missed the warmth of Itziar’s presence beside me, her laughter in the kitchen. 8. a quick WhatsApp chat with my paisa friends; i love hearing their voices, but today it was bittersweet. 9. i’ve been feeling the homesickness that snuck up on me, like a shadow stretching longer every day. 10. maybe it’s the weather or just my heart reminding me of Medellín. 11. evenings like these, the chill creeping in, i find myself wrapped in my thoughts, wondering if I fit here. 12. hoping tomorrow brings a bit of light.