“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens… a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to be silent and a time to speak.”
— Ecclesiastes 3
The past six months have been filled with all sorts of weird and wonderful things.
Mostly happy, life-changing moments, but also moments of navigating unfamiliar places, starting over, figuring things out as I go, and learning to find wonder in the life I am actually living.
There have been moments that required me to take a step back from some things, slow down a little, and simply take it all in.
And don’t worry, Caroline Wonders is still here.
If anything, I think I’m beginning to understand a little better what I want this space to be: a place where I can share the stories between the big moments. The messy bits. The small wins. The things I’m still figuring out. The funny, awkward, ordinary little moments that remind us that we’re all just trying our best to make sense of this strange thing called life.
So, let’s catch up.
It’s been almost four months since I packed up the life I knew and started a new one in Vilnius as someone’s wife.
That last part still sounds a little strange to say out loud.
Someone’s wife.
I’m taking it one bite at a time — no pun intended.
Navigating a new country, a new culture, a new language, and its immigration and government systems has been quite an experience. There have been plenty of moments where I’ve had absolutely no idea what I was doing and had to figure it out as I went.
There have also been some really lovely wins.
I found my first job here. I’m slowly learning my way around the city. I’m figuring out public transport, banking, healthcare, paperwork and all those wonderfully exciting things that come with building a life somewhere new.
It’s all taking time.
But if I’m being completely honest, this is the happiest your girl has been in a while.
And it’s strange saying that out loud.
The happiest you’ve been.
I think it’s somehow easier to talk about struggle than happiness, especially publicly. There is so much sadness and heartbreak happening in the world that sometimes admitting that you are happy can almost feel uncomfortable.
But I am.
And I also don’t want to pretend that moving abroad has been easy.
Whatever the circumstances of your move, there is something uniquely humbling about being an immigrant.
You suddenly find yourself having to learn things you once took for granted.
How does the transport system work?
Which bank do I use?
How does healthcare work here?
What do I need this document for?
Where am I supposed to go?
And why does every website seem to be in a language I don’t understand?
So you download translation apps. You ask questions. You make mistakes. You try again.
And slowly, almost without noticing, things begin to make sense.
There is something quite beautiful about that process.
Because once you get past the initial overwhelm, you start noticing things you might otherwise have taken for granted.
You begin to appreciate systems that work.
Public transport that you can actually rely on. Administrative processes that, for all their paperwork, have a structure to them. Public spaces that are cared for. Services that make everyday life a little easier.
And I find myself admiring these things more than I expected to.
At the same time, that admiration comes with a little ache.
Because as someone from Lesotho, I can’t experience these things without thinking about home.
I find myself wondering what it would feel like if some of the systems we rely on here existed back home too. If everyday life could be a little easier, a little more predictable, while still keeping everything that makes Lesotho Lesotho — its mountains, its culture, its people, its stories, its sense of community.
Maybe that’s one of the strange things about leaving home.
You don’t necessarily love it less.
Sometimes you understand it differently.
You notice what you miss.
You notice what you appreciate.
And you notice what you hope could one day be different.
Lithuania is beautiful. And living here has given me a strange new relationship with the idea of home.
I feel grateful to be here, but I also feel a responsibility to be a good guest — to respect the systems, the people, the culture and the place that is allowing me to build this new chapter of my life.
And perhaps that’s where I am right now.
Not trying to have everything figured out.
Just learning.
Learning how to build a life in a new place.
Learning how to be someone’s wife.
Learning how to navigate a language I don’t speak fluently.
Learning how to find my way around a new city.
Learning how to hold gratitude for the life I’ve dreamed about while still acknowledging that it can be hard sometimes.
And perhaps most importantly, learning that a new life doesn’t have to look extraordinary every day to be meaningful.
Sometimes wonder is simply waking up and realising:
Oh.
I’m actually here.
And for now, that feels like enough.
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