Learning to Kneel & Learning to Breathe: A Week of Healing

Alright guys, I know last week’s post was kind of a bummer—but this week feels like my redemption arc, so to speak. I can’t say my homesickness has magically disappeared (wouldn’t that be nice?), but I’ve started to realize a few things:

1. I love Costa Rica—and I love living here.

2. This experience is for me.

3. This is the loneliest I have ever been.

   
   

That third one sounds a little sad, and honestly, it is. But it’s also real. I’ve come to see it not as something to fix, but as part of the process—an opportunity, even. I get to shape this experience exactly how I want it to be. I get to spend time with myself as a woman in her early twenties, figuring things out in a country that feels both new and strangely familiar. I get to see and do things I love, even if I’m alone when I do them.

I think that’s what growth looks like—learning that sadness and loneliness don’t cancel out joy or gratitude. They exist together. And that’s okay.

So instead of fighting the homesickness this week, I just… let it be. To ride the wave of it, so to speak. I promised myself I’d let things come as they are—to feel everything fully, to take breaks when I need to, and to move through each day without pressure or expectation. Just doing what feels right, when it feels right. I knew I eventually wanted to get back out there, to do something that reminded me of the parts of me that are still curious and alive.

Tuesday night was my first step.

Well, when Anna told me she heard through the grapevine there was a jazz bar in the area, I knew this was the thing to get me out of the house. Anna and I had heard whispers about a jazz bar nearby—Amor Solar—and as soon as she mentioned it, I knew we were going. I’ve always loved music. My playlists are all over the place—Fleetwood Mac to Bob Marley to Frank Sinatra—and jazz has a way of melting everything else away.

We got to Amor Solar as the evening was beginning and we were met with one of the most wholesome pictures. The room glowed in that soft, amber light that makes everyone look a little cinematic. Couples were swing dancing to 70s and 80s jazz, skirts twirling, laughter spilling over the brass horns. It felt like walking straight into an old movie scene. I didn’t even join in—just watched, smiling, with a glass of sangria in hand.

Downstairs, we found what felt like a secret: a dimly lit speakeasy tucked under the building, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers swaying to a live blues band. No lyrics, no distractions—just rhythm, soul, and the sound of a trumpet that seemed to pull the air itself into song. It was hypnotic, and I could’ve stayed there all night. We finished up the night with some card games and headed home to continue on with the week.

By Thursday, the week shifted gears—my parents flew into Costa Rica, and we met up for lunch with Mamatica. Watching all three of my parents laughing together was surreal, like my worlds colliding in the most wholesome way possible.

But Friday? That was the start of our marathon.

With just a few days together, we crammed in as much as we could. We left early for Sarchí, a colorful little town famous for its intricate ox carts and vibrant folk art. Every inch of that place bursts with color—hand-painted flowers, swirling designs, patterns that take years to master. The craftsmanship was unreal. I could’ve spent hours there, sketching or just watching the artists at work.

From Sarchí, we drove up to Parque Nacional Volcán Arenal. Most days, the volcano hides behind clouds, but not that day. The sky opened up, and there she was—majestic, perfectly framed against the horizon, her slopes mirrored in the still blue of Lake Arenal. Standing there, I felt small in the best way possible, like nature was reminding me just how huge and alive this planet really is.

Afterward, we melted into the Baldi Hot Springs, where steaming pools of volcanic water bubbled around us. It started peaceful and then somehow turned into a full-blown water-slide competition. The slides looked innocent enough, but the second my dad and I launched ourselves down one, we realized the Ticos definitely designed it with mischief in mind. We came flying out looking half-drowned and completely hysterical. Nonetheless, we relaxed, we laughed, and some of us even went a little airborne. The laughter that followed was pure medicine.

Saturday took us up into the mountains to La Paz Waterfall Gardens, one of the largest animal sanctuaries in Costa Rica. It was like stepping into a dream—mist curling through the trees, the air thick with the smell of rain and earth. We wandered past sloths, pumas, monkeys, and bright scarlet macaws. The sanctuary was woven so seamlessly into the forest that it didn’t feel like an attraction—it felt like nature was letting us in for a moment. And those waterfalls were everything you imagine when you think of Costa Rica.

My parents left early Sunday morning, and I wasn’t ready for the quiet that followed. To keep moving, I took a trip to Parque Nacional Volcán Irazú, one of the closest volcanoes to San José, with my program. The air grew thin as we climbed, and though clouds drifted around the rim, I managed to catch a clear view of the crater—massive and gray-green, with the faint smell of sulfur in the air. It felt like standing on the edge of the world.

From there, we went to Cartago to visit the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles. I’d seen it before, but stepping into that space again hit differently. The sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting the marble floors in soft color. I noticed that locals were on their knees, slowly making their way to the altar, and after asking around I learned this was a a quiet pilgrimage of gratitude and prayer.

Something inside me told me to join them.

It wasn’t easy—especially after two knee surgeries—but I dropped to my knees and began the slow, deliberate crawl forward. Every movement was a mix of discomfort and reverence. I took my time, breathing in the smell of incense, listening to the faint echo of whispered prayers. And when I finally reached the altar, my knees bruised and my heart full, I met La Negrita.

Her story is woven into Costa Rica’s soul. They say that in 1635, a woman named Juana Pereira found a small, dark statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus resting on a rock near a spring. When she took it home, it vanished—only to reappear on that same rock. Even when she handed it to the local priest, the same thing happened again. The people believed it was a sign—the Virgin wanted to stay there. So, they built a small chapel on the spot, which eventually became the grand Basilica that now stands in Cartago.

Today, La Negrita is the patron saint of Costa Rica. Every August, millions walk in the Romería, a pilgrimage that fills the streets with faith, sweat, song, and devotion. It’s a tradition that unites the country—more than religion, it’s a symbol of identity, love, and perseverance.

This week was full of deep breathes and things that healed me. It also came with the fond realization that Costa Rica keeps teaching me that there’s space for every version of myself here—happy, homesick, unsure, grateful—all of it. And for the record, I also saw some of the biggest leaves of my life this weekend. Like, I could probably live under one if I had to.

So, I’m moving at my own pace. And it turns out—that’s exactly the right speed to be going.

Pray for me, and wish me luck!