It was Tuesday—“luckily” a quieter day. With the warmth of my winter coat in a spring that hasn’t quite woken up, and the beep of the office door closing behind me, I greeted two colleagues. I had planned the day: arrive an hour early and skip the wave of greetings. And so, the reentry began in silence.
There were two moments that made me hesitate: walking down the stairs of my apartment building, and the ones at the subway exit on the way to the office. I thought of them as thresholds—between who I was and who I’m now trying to become.
It had been three months. Long enough to forget how far the coffee machine is from my desk—past offices, around a couple of corners. With a digital screen and dozens of options (I always choose a double espresso), there it was again. And with it, the comforting presence of limitless oat milk, a reminder that some things don’t change.
At home, everything is different. My dogs wait eagerly for every second we can play or rest together. My small plant community grows without making a fuss. I watched my ficus turn green again after weeks in a corner with too much light. I saw it learning to grow again. Just like I’m doing, too.
That first week came with some welcome-back calls. A few familiar faces approached gently, with kindness. I smiled, responded, said I was doing fine. And while I’ve appreciated every gesture, I can’t deny how I often feel: a pull to step away, in an attempt to preserve that silence—not stumbled upon, but built. The noise of social life feels too difficult to wade through.
That first day, I wore a silver necklace with the Peruvian emblem. It wasn’t a charm—it was a companion. A symbol of my roots. A small anchor in the process of discovering this new version of myself.
My job is still the same, but I’m not. Before, I would dive in—proactive, focused. I believed I was unbreakable. Now I move with care. Not out of fear, but out of compassion for myself. I see my responsibilities through different eyes. I show up. I join meetings. I follow the familiar path to the coffee machine. And I begin to notice things—like the pause before I speak or respond, and the silence I let stretch.
There’s a question I still don’t know how to answer: How does it feel to be back?
Some people have told me I seem different—for reasons they can’t quite name. To me, inside, everything is quieter. Less urgent. More deliberate. For me, this return isn’t about picking up where I left off. Without explanations, it’s about beginning again—in silence, and at my own pace.
Ave Migratoria 