It's been a while since I've been new to something. And I don't mean new as in trying a different ice cream flavor or buying a new pair of sneakers. I'm also used to being new at a job. Since Lorenz and I decided to go abroad for a year, I've been taking on temporary teaching positions - hopping from one classroom to the next. So, no, that's not the kind of "new" I'm talking about.
I mean it in a completely disorienting, overwhelming sense. Being new to everything at once. Like here in Nanyuki.
New home. New car. New people. New places. New food. New climate. New smells, new noises, new routines. Even the sky looks different. At night, I find myself staring at constellations I don't recognize, the Southern Hemisphere quietly insisting I relearn the night.
There's something exhilarating about being new. But also exhausting.
It's barely been two weeks since Lorenz and I arrived in Nanyuki. And while I thought I was prepared for the move - mentally, logistically, emotionally - being new always turns out to be more than you anticipate.
Some things were astonishingly easy, though. Meeting new people, for example. Everyone here is so friendly and open. In the first few days alone, we were invited for lunch, assisted with settling in and guided through town by locals eager to show us around. It's heartwarming how welcoming strangers can be.
Yet, not everything has been smooth. For instance, we've already made a cultural faux pas. While chatting with one of Lorenz's work colleagues, we asked him, "How many cows do you have?" Back in Switzerland, this would have been an innocent question. But here in Kenya, for a pastoralist like him, that question is comparable to asking someone, "How much money do you have in your bank account?"
What we meant as curiosity came across as intrusive. Luckily, he wasn't offended and laughed it off, but the moment stuck with me. It reminded me of how delicate and humbling it can be to navigate a new culture. When you're new, you're constantly walking a tightrope between curiosity and cluelessness, trying to learn without offending, to integrate without losing yourself.
That's why I've been reflecting a lot on the importance of welcoming new people. Being new is exhausting. Everything - from buying groceries to figuring out how to get around - feels monumental. It's in those moments of overwhelm that the kindness of others feels almost magical.
A warm smile, an offer of help, or just a simple "Hey, let me show you..." can make all the difference. The people here in Nanyuki didn't just meet us; they welcomed us.
And that's something I want to preserve: to always be the kind of person who makes someone feel seen and included. Because what's routine for you might be completely foreign for someone else. A small effort on your part can have a huge impact on someone navigating the unfamiliar.
So here's my challenge - to myself and maybe to anyone reading this: Make it a habit to be that first connection for someone. Invite them in, share what you know, and help them feel less alone. Start small: Maybe be the first one to reach out to the new co-worker, warmly welcome the new classmate into your study group or invite the new neighbors to a cup of coffee.
I don't say that being new should be a passive road to take or that you should wait for others to show you around or always make the first move. We've got to be honest here: Being new means you have to be courageous and take initiative. You'll have to step up, leave your worries and shyness at home, and confront the blank page in front of you. Go out, say "hi" to people, and make yourself be seen. It's more exhausting, yes, but also more rewarding!
For instance, we've now successfully rented a lovely house here in Nanyuki. So, from now on, I could easily just stay at home, enjoy the garden, and work remotely. While this sounds like a comfortable way of passing my days, it's not how I want to proceed. In the first couple of days, I spent three days doing exactly that. Lorenz left for the office in the morning, and I stayed home with the whole day to myself. What seemed nice at first quickly grew isolating. Even though I had plenty to do - reading, doing laundry, working out, writing a new blog post, attending online courses on photography, learning new vocabulary in Swahili - it felt like I was trapped on a small island in an ocean filled with new, exciting things to explore and interesting people to meet.
So, I had to get up and go out: exploring new places in Nanyuki, checking out the local gym, enjoying lunch at a new restaurant, renting a coworking space for the day, or stopping by the office... Small steps, but with a big impact. Quickly, I became acquainted with new people, and I became more comfortable navigating through this town. It made me feel so much more connected to the place, and fewer things felt "new" to me.
"New" can feel scary. Even more so because it's often equated with "foreign" - a word or a concept that emphasizes differences and separateness. But being new and being foreign are not the same thing. Being new is temporary. It's a phase you work through as you learn the ropes. But feeling foreign - that sense of not belonging, of being "othered" - can last much longer, especially when it's mirrored by the way others treat you.
It's easy to see how "new" and "foreign" can overlap, though. Being new often makes you hyperaware of the things that separate you from those around you - language, customs, values, even the way people greet each other. But here's the thing: new doesn't have to become foreign.
It's all about connection. Humans are hardwired to form in-groups and out-groups, often unconsciously. But we're also wired for empathy, for building bridges. The difference lies in the effort we make to reach across divides. And being new is a perfect moment to practice that.
In that sense, being new is an invitation - to learn, to grow, and to foster openness in myself and others. Stepping into the unfamiliar can be terrifying. But it's also transformative.
When everything around you is new, you have no choice but to leave your comfort zone. And that's where the real magic happens. Being new forces you to question the way you see the world. It challenges assumptions you didn't even know you had and reveals blind spots you didn't realize were there. It's humbling, yes, but also empowering. You grow because you have to - because you're adapting, learning, and finding your way.
And somewhere along the way, you realize that being new is less about what you don't know and more about how you approach it. With curiosity? With openness? With grace for your own mistakes?
Here's what I'm taking from this experience so far: Being new is a gift. It's uncomfortable and messy, but it's also an opportunity - to connect, to learn, and to make the world feel a little less foreign.
And it starts with the small things. A smile. A question. An invitation. A moment of empathy. These are the building blocks of connection, the things that turn strangers into friends and foreign places into homes.
But as I hear the latest news or read global headlines, I can't help but worry. To often, we let people with divisive agendas hold the microphone. They point out differences we wouldn't have noticed, stoke fears we wouldn't have felt, and build walls - literal and metaphorical - that make the world smaller and colder. We can't afford that. Humanity can't afford that.
Our world can only thrive through connection, through joint action, through bridges, not barriers. So, stop looking for differences. Stop being scared of what's new or unfamiliar. Instead, reach out. Get to know people, cultures, and perspectives you've never encountered before.
Because when you do, you realize they're not so strange or dangerous after all. They're just human - like you - trying to navigate this world, to build a life for themselves and their families.
see you next time, Nicole
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