I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of a “found family.” Stories like Percy Jackson and Harry Potter (insert any other cliche series) promised me that, amidst new adventures and challenges, I’d cross paths with the people I’m meant to meet and they would become my second family. In high school, amidst acne, bullying, and the constant feeling of not fitting in, I clung to that idea. When I read “Anna and the French Kiss,” studying abroad in a far-off land became my ideal getaway: leaving behind everything I struggled with at home and instantly belonging.
But, as with many dreams, reality got in the way. Money, logistics and my own fears put my study abroad fantasy on hold. Instead, I chose to attend college in my former home, the U.S., and when that dream became a reality, studying abroad slipped from my mind. College life consumed me: rushing between lectures, juggling to-do lists and cramming for exams left little time to recall distant fantasies.
Fast forward to now: Here I am in Madrid, my 15-year-old teenage dream finally realized. A new city, a new country and, thankfully, a language I already call my own. What more could I want?
Yet, the truth is, this experience hasn’t quite matched the fantasy adventure I envisioned. I didn’t expect epic, life-or-death adventures, but I did expect to find my people, a close-knit group I could call home. Movies, social media and other students’ stories painted the same picture: You’ll arrive, meet like-minded people and effortlessly form lifelong friendships. This romanticized notion made it seem like friendship was a guarantee rather than something that takes time and effort. But while the idea that our second family will materialize from thin air sounds magical, reality is rarely that simple.
I’ve never found it easy to make friends in class. In high school, with only 30 students in my economics concentration, friendships developed naturally. But at Duke, I justified my lack of classroom friendships with “I need to focus on work.” And while that excuse held some truth, I think a part of me was still stuck in high school: afraid to force connections, afraid of rejection.
Outside of academics, friendships came more naturally. I found my people in dorms, clubs and internships, but it took time — semesters, even. Now, I have friends from different circles whom I deeply trust, but those relationships weren’t instant. So why did I expect Madrid to be any different?
The Duke in Madrid program is small. It’s just five of us this spring compared to 50 in the fall. The odds of taking classes with other Duke students are slim, and none of my closest friends joined me here. Without a built-in support system, I quickly realized that making new friends wouldn’t be as effortless as I had imagined.
At the University Carlos III of Madrid, the classroom feels like a maze of cold, metal chairs. The faint hum of fluorescent lights echoes in the silence, and the air feels thick with the weight of unspoken social rules. I can almost taste my awkwardness. As I scan the room for a place to sit, my mind races, but the familiar unease creeps in, that same tight knot in my stomach as when I was the new kid in high school. The students around me have already formed their little circles, their murmurs a wall I can't break through. I stare blankly ahead, and the conversations move in a rhythm I can’t follow — like being a dancer in a room full of people who already know the steps.
I’m an outsider, trying to break into pre-established social circles that already have inside jokes, shared experiences and unspoken bonds. I find myself constantly battling an internal struggle: Do I force friendships for the sake of not being alone, or do I wait for something that feels real? I’m still looking for my “study abroad soulmate,” but it hasn’t come naturally as I had imagined.
What’s strange is that in a way, Madrid feels familiar — almost too familiar. The educational system in Spain isn’t vastly different from what I experienced back in Argentina. The set curriculum leading to classes with the same people, the unspoken hierarchy between students and professors, the way social circles form — it all feels like home.
Academically, Madrid presents new challenges. A passing grade is a 5, or 50% (as opposed to Duke’s grade inflation). This, plus professors being reluctant to give grades higher than 7, shifts the focus from maintaining a 4.0 to simply getting by. Professors deduct points for wrong answers on multiple-choice exams, there are no office hours for extra support and rote memorization takes precedence over real-world application. It’s a system I understand, one I know how to navigate. But instead of feeling liberated by my familiarity, I feel stuck in the same cycle I wanted to escape.
I came to Madrid expecting something entirely new, a fresh start in an unfamiliar environment. Instead, I find myself in a world that feels like an extension of my past, a parallel version of what I thought I had left behind. And perhaps that’s what’s truly strange, not the similarities themselves, but the realization that no matter where I go, certain aspects of life remain constant.
I came here seeking something new, yet I find myself battling the same insecurities. I wish I were bold enough to strike up conversations with strangers, but something holds me back. I freeze, retreating into my quiet, middle school self — the one before I became quietly extroverted. Maybe I feel less brave this semester, and that’s okay. We don’t always have to push ourselves beyond our comfort zones; sometimes, just being in a new country is enough.
As the weeks go by, I’m accepting that my study abroad experience might not be what I expected. Maybe I won’t find a close-knit group of friends, or maybe I will, but not overnight. I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that my experience here is going to be more solitary than my teenage fantasy. But the discomfort is allowing me to grow in unexpected ways.
At Duke, the idea of being seen by myself was terrifying. I used to dread being alone, my eyes fixed on my phone to avoid the weight of being by myself. But now, I’m learning to embrace it and turn my gaze outward. I notice the intricate patterns of the floor tiles in my favorite restaurant, the quiet hum of the city waking up, the way the sunlight filters through the trees in the park next to my homestay. I’m no longer in a rush to find someone to sit with, to fill the silence.
Madrid is beautiful — its history, architecture, parks and food offer endless wonders. I would love a group of Spanish friends leading the way, but I’ve realized I don’t need them to fall in love with it. Madrid itself has become a companion, a character in my story. And though I haven't immediately connected with its people (of my age), I’ve found something just as valuable: the ability to experience life on my own terms. After all, solitude isn’t synonymous with loneliness.
I used to believe that enjoying a place required a strong support system, surrounded by those who understood me and shared my experiences. But now, I’m starting to see that adulting means finding trust in yourself. I don’t need constant companionship to feel connected to the world around me. I can wander through Madrid, explore libraries and museums, and still feel connected to the world around me. I’ve come a long way from the co-dependent junior who was scared to face the world by herself in North Carolina.
I wish I were writing the typical study abroad article, where I met my new best friends within a month and we spent every weekend exploring the city together. But that’s not my reality, and I’m coming to terms with that. This isn’t to say I haven’t made any connections. I’ve had meaningful conversations, shared fleeting moments with kind strangers, and formed subtle bonds. But these relationships don’t fit the “found family” narrative I had in my head. They are subtler, more transient shared experiences.
There will come times in our lives when the dreams we've clung to for so long don't turn out how we once hoped, but that shouldn’t diminish their value. Give yourself permission to grieve the gap between expectation and reality, and feel the disappointment. In time, you might discover that this new version of your dream is even more meaningful.
This semester has turned out to be a different kind of adventure than I imagined, but one I wouldn’t trade for anything. If studying abroad or going to college in another country scares you even more as you read this, I encourage you to take the leap anyway. You might just find that you learn to enjoy your own company along the way.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Sign up for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.
Ultimately, study abroad isn’t necessarily about finding a “found family.” It’s about learning to trust yourself. I’ll always have my support system back home (and that’s something no new city can replace). But here, while in Madrid, I’m discovering how to navigate life on my own terms.
And for now, that’s more than enough.
Valentina Garbelotto is a Trinity junior. Her column, “Dear comfort zone: It’s not me, it’s you. Time to break up…”, typically runs on alternate Wednesdays.