From the feelings of a casual vacationer to the powerful reactions of a new expat, the term “culture shock” explains away our experiences of cultural rejection and eventual assimilation, turning them into theory and process. But can an academic explanation of a very human experience really describe our feelings? As an anthropologist, I’m trained to say “yes,” but as an expatriate myself, I wonder.

There are four basic phases of culture shock. The first is called Euphoria, a.k.a. The Honeymoon Phase. As new arrivals or tourists, we are full of enough hope and excitement to cloud our vision and make cultural differences seem unimportant, even fun. However, after a few days or weeks, we move into the second phase, Irritation and Hostility. This stage is actually what many people refer to as culture shock - homesickness and frustration enter our daily lives, we get angry over little things, and experience depression. This second stage is usually the “make or break” stage, when expats either adjust to their new country or decide to go home.

If we safely make it through, we arrive at the Gradual Adjustment phase, where we begin to adapt to our surroundings and function normally in our new culture. We make efforts to fit in, to actively accept new things, and appreciate the differences of our new culture. Finally, after months or years in stage three, we graduate to the final phase, Adaptation. We are bi-cultural, able to function in both our native and adopted cultures without a problem. We have a strong command of our new language, and many of our old habits are replaced by new, one culture seamlessly folding into the other.

At least, that’s the theory. In real life, culture shock is a much more personal, individual experience. My euphoric phase was marked by an appreciation of the mountains that surrounded me, an amusement at the crazy drivers, and a sense of awe that I was finally here. By phase two, I still appreciated the mountains, but those crazy drivers were assholes, and my only wish was to be able to curse well enough in Spanish to give them a piece of my mind the next time one blew threw a red light as I crossed the street. There was no dulling sense of awe or wonderment anymore, I no longer woke up in the mornings congratulating myself, “You live in Costa Rica!” I was often frustrated by being stereotyped as a gringa, spoken to in English, and ripped off at every opportunity. If I had been just a little less mature, I would have stomped my feet and hurled myself to the ground for a good, cathartic temper tantrum. Every day.

For several months, I grappled with being a minority for the first time in my life. I wondered if the bus driver had given me incorrect change on purpose. I secretly raged at strangers who spoke to me in English, even though I spoke perfectly passable Spanish. I was angry. I wanted to know where all the nice ticos had gone. I wanted sales people to leave me alone, instead of breathing down my neck. I wanted people to just say “no” instead of “puede ser,” show me brutal honestly instead of feeding me white lies. But then, slowly enough to not warrant my own notice, the “want want WANT!!! turned into a gentle acceptance of my surroundings. All things tico started to make sense, without my consciously making sense of them.

Phase three is a happy place - I’m comfortable and calm, learning something new everyday. Like a child, I learn through observation, mimicking my tico friends in everything they do. Instead of using a finger or head nod, I see them use their lips to point out a location, and then I practice doing the same. They say “mae” every other word, and like a parrot, I say it, too. I’m learning how to time the traffic, and I cross streets without [much] fear. When it’s necessary, I know how to stop most errant drivers dead in their tracks with a few well-chosen palabrotas (bad words) and an icy stare. And about those mountains… they are still forever beautiful.

In many ways, I’ve already hit the fourth phase of culture shock, adaptation. But I don’t want to. Like in love, I don’t want my relationship with Costa Rica to ever feel stale. I never want to be so perfectly adapted that I take my surroundings for granted. It’s a vicious cycle - Costa Rica is not my native home, and so if I ever grew “used to” being here, I would never achieve cultural fluency. The day that I accept my Spanish as “good enough” will be the day that I stop improving my accent and vocabulary. If I ever stop questioning exactly when I should snap my fingers in disbelief or place them all together to indicate that something is full, I will always be on the dusty outskirts of tico culture. Without questioning and wondering about everything around me, I will never be able to discover all the amazing nuances of my new home and language.

May I never grow complacent and merely accepting of unique gestures, rolling mountains, artistic churches, perfectly laid stone fences, incredible forests, and linguistic idiosyncracies. Because to me, phase four — Adaptation — is apathy. It’s the acceptance of everything around you to the point of feeling so comfortable that no further effort is needed. But my love affair with Costa Rica is special, enduring, and for that reason, I hope to never adapt.

Two blogging buddies recently wrote that no one knows them completely. I know this feeling too well - to want to share everything with someone, yet know that you can’t is painful, torturous even.

My divorce left me relieved and happy with my newfound freedom, but it also left me broken. What had been a hopelessly romantic girl had given way to a slightly jaded woman, and it was evident. Ripping my heart off of my sleeve, I stashed it away in a soundproof vault and began to believe in things like “the only person that will ever look out for me is me” and “no one ever loves someone just as she is.” It never occured to me that this could be my heart’s defenses clicking into place; instead, I thought that I had finally discovered a Universal Truth.

I think there’s a process that every recently-single person goes through: First, there’s anger and rage toward the person you no longer love, and a spiteful satisfaction that you don’t have to tolerate his presence anymore. Then you graduate to the insecure phase, wondering how much of the breakup is your fault, and eventually convincing yourself that you are completely unlovable and will never walk hand-in-hand again. During these first phases, there is much introspection and self-discovery, and it can be excruciating. But when we allow ourselves to deal with our inner demons, we emerge as happier, healthier individuals. We move into the final stage of self-acceptance where we’ve come to terms with our past and are willing to move into the future, ready to love and be loved.

Those first two stages were hard for me, tossing me around like a kayak that had been carried into the Bermuda Triangle by a tidal wave, only to be welcomed to that maritime hell by a class-5 hurricane. But after confronting and dealing with each one of my fears, I knew that I would love again. And I was certain that our love would be perfect enough to make Aurora, Cinderella, Ariel, and all the rest of them absolutely green with jealousy.

I was single for 28 months before I met the last man I will ever love. For the first few weeks, I showed him my wildly confident, slightly flirtatious side. I was so convincing that I think I scared him a bit. But on the inside, I was terrified, and had no idea what I was doing. But with a good dose of humor and a generous serving of patience, we made it through the awkward first encounters and became a couple.

So then I thought, “finally! now is when it gets easy!” Wrong again. Opening up to Fabi — letting him into the confines of my soul — was anything but easy. Because when we finally let someone in, we give him the ability to hurt us. As I whispered my secrets and ground him a copy of the key to my heart, I felt vulnerable and fragile. And that is the opposite of easy.

But fear is no excuse to hold back. If we never risk, we never gain. And that it is why we must do the very thing that stands to lose us the most: open up and give of ourselves. With baby steps, I began to confide in Fabi and tell him my past, show him dreams, and share confidences. And with each little test I gave him, he proved that he was worthy. And knowing that was worth far more than 28 lonesome months.

My relationship would not work for everyone, but for me, it is the best union that will ever exist. With confidence that he will always love and accept me, I can share my laundry list of fears, mistakes, insecurities, and sins. I know that he will not always agree with me, but that his love will never waver and our relationship will strengthen, not weaken, from our complete, naked honesty. And this is why, someday, Fabi will know everything that there is to know about me.

Sharing yourself with someone will never be easy. In fact, I think it’s the most risky and frightening thing that we can ever do. But if you start small and open yourself up like a flower in bloom, you’ll find that this leap of faith is the best one you’ll ever make.