trust the process

Let’s set the scene here. Alaska, 2014 – I was fourteen, whiney, and still sort of awkward. It was summer, but in Alaska that means 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit and drizzling rather than snowing. For the last activity of the two-week vacation, my family booked a day trip explore a glacier. Hike a little, spend the day meandering around an ancient glacier, learn some ice climbing, and make it to the airport in time for our flight, right? So I thought.

Well, we drove through the chilly morning fog and arrived at the cozy cabin where we would pick up our gear and begin our hike. As we packed our hiking packs with snacks, crampons (the spiky metal frames you attach to your boots to grip the ice), and first aid gear, our guide casually informed us that the hike would be ten miles round trip to get to the glacier and back. In response, I could only stare at her, mouth hanging open in shock. Fourteen-year-old me was NOT a hiker of any sort. But, even though my always-adventurous mother was caught off guard as well, she urged me to try it. I begrudgingly agreed, even though I couldn’t even fathom how one could actually walk ten miles in one day. I was still in it mainly for the crampons and the promise of scaling a glacier.

The next couple of hours included, but was not limited to: traversing ice-cold streams, trudging up extremely steep switchbacks, scrambling over boulders, and narrowly avoid not one, but two, emotional breakdowns on my part. I nearly gave up several times during the difficult hike, but our guide kept telling me just to keep moving forward and to trust her that I would be able to make it.

mid-hike, trying to look like I wasn't about to cry

When we finally arrived at the fabled glacier, I stopped walking and just stood, taking in the vast, blinding whites and blues against the gloomy grey backdrop. I couldn’t believe that I actually made it there to behold this awe-inspiring hunk of ice. As our guide kept reminding me, I had to trust the process of getting to the glacier even though it was the most physically difficult activity I had ever done. The reward was worth it – traversing the glacier and learning to ice climb was, indeed, incredibly badass. Trust the process, and you’ll look back and astound yourself with the journey you made. Now, I’m proud to tell this story because that’s still (7 years later with much more hiking experience) one of the hardest, and most rewarding, hikes I have done to date.

excuse my dumb face, but it was #worthit

Okay, so, why am I telling this story? It’s freezing in Alaska, and it’s sweltering hot in Cambodia. Alaskans eat salmon and bear, and Cambodian people eat pigs and crickets and occasionally snakes. I know, very different places. But that little story was essentially a big metaphor for PST (pre-service training). Two months of long and mentally trying six-day weeks. My training class has passed the halfway point and progressed into the 7th week. - which means we’ve been in Cambodia for more than a month and a half already. Looking back from this point, I am already astonished at the progress that I (and my cohort) have made in terms of language and comfort in our new surroundings and work.

For the first couple days of this journey, every interaction with a real Khmer person was so uncomfortable for me that I just wanted to shrink into my skin. At the beginning of this process, I had NO idea how I would ever be able to learn enough Khmer to function independently (let alone do a job). I didn’t know enough Khmer to really be able to say much beyond telling my family that I was a volunteer from America and that I don’t eat meat. It took me two weeks to figure out my parents’ jobs, and more (I won’t say how many, it’s embarrassing) to finally get their names. The language seemed like an insurmountable barrier, even with the staff telling us that "you'll get it soon enough!".

But – in putting my faith, as well as a lot of time and conscious effort, into this demanding PST process, I have developed in both tangible and subtle ways. More obviously, I am able to communicate increasingly complex ideas that I would never have thought possible in such short time, I can comfortably (more or less) lead a group of primary school students in a game about spreading germs, invite mothers to a community education session, ask a midwife about her antenatal care process, and – possibly even more important – I am able to hear and pronounce the difference between the Khmer words for yellow, fast, wash, and penis (luung, luun, liung, and lung – you try to figure that one out).

I’ve learned quite a bit about many different areas of health that I have not considered before, and techniques to educate on them effectively. In addition to classroom learning, we also have two health and education practicums per week. Think – home visits with expecting mothers, taking blood pressure of patients at the local health center, hand-washing education events with primary school students, etc. Our most recent, rather significant one – bringing the mothers and grandmothers of a village together to educate on active feeding (ways to ensure your young children are actually eating), the feeding timeline for newborns and young children, and nutritious weaning foods.

I have also grown in less obvious ways. Peace Corps’ approach to these practicums is to (almost literally) throw you in headfirst, with maybe two or three hours maximum of preparation. Can’t speak Khmer well enough? Make it work. Your plan goes awry? Unforeseen cultural barrier? Improvise, make it work. I’ve done enough practicums and have has so many halted conversations, misunderstandings, and situations where I have just had to ‘smile and nod’ that I have finally started to become ‘comfortable existing in the uncomfortable’, as Peace Corps likes to tell us. The language barrier is real, and can be confusing, entertaining, funny, and awkward all in a single day, or even a single conversation – like when a fellow volunteer’s mother was telling me that her volunteer was learning about pregnancy, and I thought she was trying to tell me that the volunteer was pregnant. Needless to say, we both laughed quite a lot.

Many of these interactions just don’t faze me anymore, and I just power through (smile permanently stuck on my face) until I can be understood or understand the situation. Talking to strangers - at the market, at my family’s shop, or maybe at breakfast - who are curious about who I am and what I’m doing in Cambodia is becoming more normal, and less anxiety-producing. I’m getting a lot better at improvising (which is also highly linked to the ability to speak more of the language) and ‘going with the flow’.

PST is forcing me to analyze deeper, question further, and, above all, be patient. My mindset about my role here in Cambodia has shifted entirely from a lone health change agent to one of an educator and facilitator with the skills and abilities to empower others to create change. We are learning about development on a deeper and more impactful level. I am becoming more confident as our cohort transitions from infants in this new and foreign country to something more like pre-teens, able to function individually but still needing some help and support. Patience with yourself and with others is of the utmost importance in this process. Not being able to understand most of what is going around you is frustrating and exhausting, but reminding yourself that you’ve been here less than two months is key to being kind to yourself.

It’s been a difficult, exhausting process, but looking down from the top of the glacier to where I began the hike, I am proud of the journey I’ve made so far. I’m not only proud, but also astonished that I’ve made it this far. Showing up and putting in the effort and faith in yourself every day gets you there little by little, even through the rough days.

I’ve got many more miles to go, but if I can remember to trust the process, it doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Su su! (a phrase that basically means, keep on truckin’)