Posted in: JET Journey
Photo by Patrick Nguyen on Unsplash
I know where I’m going.
Hiroshima Prefecture.
I’ve been sitting with that for a few days now, turning it over, letting it settle. Hiroshima. Close to the ocean — which, as someone from landlocked Arkansas, feels like its own kind of miracle.
Here’s the thing about Hiroshima — we’ve actually been there. On our trip to Japan last year it was, without question, our favorite place we visited. There’s something about Hiroshima that feels different from anywhere else. Welcoming in a way that’s hard to articulate. Impactful in a way that stays with you long after you leave — the history there is heavy and important and handled with such grace and dignity that you walk away feeling like you learned something that actually matters.
And then there’s Miyajima. If you know, you know. If you don’t — just wait. I’ll be writing about it extensively. 😄
What excites me most isn’t the sightseeing, though. It’s the idea of actually becoming part of a community there. Not a tourist passing through, not a visitor with a return ticket, but someone who gets to live and teach and belong — even temporarily — in a prefecture that already has a piece of my heart. I’m a municipal JET, too, which means elementary and junior high schools are likely in my future. Real classrooms. Real kids. Real lesson plans that I will absolutely overthink before bedtime—every single day.
Of all the places I could have been placed, I got the one we already loved.
I don’t take that lightly for a single second.
It’s real. It’s actually, genuinely, completely real.
I’m going to need a minute. Please, grab a cup of coffee, and join me.
What Life Looks Like Right Now (Spoiler: It’s Mostly Paperwork)
If you’re imagining me serenely packing a beautifully curated suitcase while soft Japanese music plays in the background, I need to gently correct that image.
Life right now looks like paperwork. So much paperwork. Visa applications, forms, more forms, forms about the forms, waiting to hear from my Board of Education, and approximately one thousand browser tabs open at all times. I’ve been watching vlogs from previous JETs obsessively — absorbing every packing tip, every “I wish someone had told me,” every “here’s what your first week actually looks like” I can find.
My husband, in an act of love and bravery I don’t take lightly for a single second, is leaving his job to come with me. He’ll figure out what’s next from the other side of the world — new job, back to school, TBD — and the fact that he’s doing that, for us, for this adventure, means absolutely everything.
We are doing this together. All the way.
The Five Stages of Progression
Everyone knows the five stages of grief. I’ve been thinking there should be an equivalent for big life changes — not grief exactly, but something that lives right next to it. The five stages of progression. Of becoming.
Because that’s what this feels like right now.
Each day that passes feels like a tick toward departure — time moving slower and faster simultaneously, which sounds impossible and yet here we are. Spending time with my family feels that much more precious lately. Conversations that would have been ordinary six months ago now feel like something I want to hold onto a little longer.
I’ve started writing goodbye letters to my family. Not because I won’t see them again — I will, I absolutely will — but because I’m an extremely emotional person and I already know that when the actual moment comes, when I’m standing at that airport with my backpack and my husband and my whole life rearranged, I will not be able to get a single coherent word out. So I’m writing them down now, while the feelings are still manageable enough to form sentences.
It helps. Mostly. Sometimes I just cry anyway. Both things can be true.
The Hardest Goodbye (A Section I Almost Didn’t Write Because I’m Not Ready)
I have to tell you about my animals.
Three cats — Bitman, Onyx, and Khaleesi — and one border collie named Sadi, all varying in ages, all completely and blissfully unaware that their mom is about to move to Japan.
They’re staying with their grandparents. That’s the only way I can say it without completely losing it, so that’s how we’re saying it.
Bitman is judging me from across the room as I write this. Onyx is asleep and has no idea what’s coming. Khaleesi, true to her namesake, is unbothered and in charge. And Sadi — my sweet border collie — is currently doing what border collies do, which is existing at maximum energy and demanding attention I am very happily giving her while I still can.
Leaving them is the part that hits differently. You can write your family a letter. You can call. You can FaceTime at 2 a.m. when the time difference makes everything confusing. But animals don’t understand explanations. You just have to go, and trust that they feel loved, and try not to think about their little faces too hard on the days when you miss them.
Grandma and Grandpa will take the best care of them. I know this. 🐾
The Strange Beautiful Truth
Here’s what I keep coming back to in the middle of all the paperwork and the goodbye letters and the animal guilt and the ticking clock:
I have never been happier or more excited in my life.
Both things are true at once — the sadness and the joy, the grief and the anticipation, the heaviness of leaving and the absolute lightness of going. This is the first truly big thing my husband and I have ever done alone together. Just us. A new country, a new language, a new life built from scratch on the other side of the world.
Terrifying? Yes. Wonderful? Completely. Would I change a single thing? Not a chance.
Hiroshima, we’re on our way.
— Katherine, somewhere in Arkansas, packing for departure 🌸
Currently accepting: packing tips, Hiroshima recommendations, and emotional support regarding leaving your pets behind. Drop them in the comments.
Good luck, I hope to see you in Japan!
Lost in Translation 
Thank you!