What am I expecting when I land in Brussels? I’m expecting to be intimidated by customs and passport control. The officers seem menacing to me. I’m expecting to be flustered as I try to connect to airport WiFi and communicate with Jake and find my luggage and find him. I’m expecting so much when I see him. Butterflies, mostly. It has been two months, after all. I’m expecting flowers and I’m expecting to really need a bathroom.

 My belongings. Everything. Hehehe.

My belongings. Everything. Hehehe.

I have been told that unfulfilled expectations are the source of much misery. But our imaginations are pregnant with expectation. Hope itself is a kind of expectation. I want to enter expat life with an awareness of my expectations, not repressing them nor believing that they will all be fulfilled. I want to name these hopes and not be afraid to hold them in open hands. Why let the fear of disappointment keep me from having the courage to hope?

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