What is the breaking of familial ties? - Peace Corps addition

My mom coined the phrase “break all familial ties to America,” and when she first said it, it sounded harsh. Punitive, even. As if the Peace Corps system wanted to strip us of comfort and familiarity just to see what remained — a weeding out of the weak, survival-of-the-fittest style. I didn’t yet understand that the breaking wasn’t meant to be permanent or cruel, but strengthening.

What I learned quickly is that distance reveals dependency. If that dependency isn’t addressed, the likelihood of successfully completing a two-year service is slim. This is my first time truly away from home. In college, I attended Southern Arkansas University, only about two hours from my hometown of Shreveport. There were moments when I’d be sitting in my dorm room, think okay, I’ve had enough, and get in my car at 10 p.m. just to drive home. That’s how close home was.

Now I’m 9,000 miles away, and going home would take at least three months of planning. A stark difference.

So yes — back home, connection was effortless. Family was a call away. Friends were nearby. Comfort lived in routines I didn’t even realize I depended on. Here, those ties still exist, but they no longer function the same way. I can’t lean on them in moments of fear, boredom, or loneliness. When I’m on the verge of panic at 11 a.m., it’s 3 a.m. in the time zone where all my loved ones exist — hahaha. The only option, then, is to sit with the feeling.

Breaking ties taught me how much of my identity was built around being reachable.

In Lesotho, when something goes wrong, there is no immediate solution waiting in my phone. No quick reassurance from someone who already knows me deeply. Instead, there is silence. Time. And the necessity to figure things out on my own, or alongside people who are still learning who I am.

It taught me resilience — not the dramatic kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that looks like cooking a meal alone. Locking your doors at night without panic. Finding joy in small routines. Choosing calm over fear. These are things I suspect a past version of me believed she already knew. But I’m learning now that the skills that helped me survive in America must be adapted to survive in Lesotho. Like learning a second language, my brain is constantly sorting and cataloging: skills needed now versus skills needed later.

A fellow volunteer and I met up a few days after Christmas to splurge on fast food in town, and we jokingly admitted that the chances of developing Peace Corps PTSD — or at least some serious readjustment issues upon returning to America — are probably higher than we’d like to admit.

Peace Corps Lesotho is a bit different from other posts in the PC universe. From what we’ve learned, serving here is one of the closest experiences to the original, off-the-grid version of Peace Corps life.

Being the stranger, the foreigner, the odd woman out means I can’t choose people based on shared history or convenience. Connection here grows through proximity, patience, and repeated presence. Shopkeepers become protectors. Neighbors become watchful eyes. Children become anchors to joy. Family is no longer defined by blood, but by consistency.

Belonging doesn’t require sameness — only mutual care.

Perhaps the hardest lesson has been realizing that loneliness isn’t always a problem to solve. Sometimes you’re sitting alone during the holidays, without distraction or escape, stripped down to your core — and that’s more than okay. Because at any given moment, you can choose to step outside, take a walk, or put on a full personal Soprano concert in front of your mirror. Alone is not lonely.

Breaking ties taught me that independence is not isolation. It’s confidence in your ability to exist fully wherever you are planted.

When I eventually return home, I know I won’t carry these lessons neatly packaged. They’ll show up subtly — in my patience, my boundaries, and my gratitude for ordinary things. I’ll love my people just as deeply, but I won’t need them to hold me upright.

The ties aren’t being broken to make me smaller.

They’re being loosened so I can stand on my own.

And you know what?

I am standing.

Kamrin ♥️