Every Wednesday, K Redd is telling the truth about what it actually cost to leave — the parts that don't make it into the photos. This is Part 6.

The day before I left the United States, it snowed.

It wasn't a heavy snow. It was actually the first snow of the season in Maryland, where I was living at the time. It was pretty. I remember looking at it and realizing, Damn, this might be the last time I see snow for a while.

And I was okay with that.

I was excited.

In my head, peace was waiting for me somewhere warmer.

Peace looked like my money stretching further. It looked like sunshine, warm weather, cleaner food, and being able to afford the kind of self-care that sometimes felt inaccessible in the United States.

At the time, I was working as a peer specialist, and that job could be heavy. Every day, people came to me with problems. They needed resources. They needed support. Sometimes they simply needed somebody to listen. I loved what I did, but carrying other people's stories all day took a toll.

I carry stress in my shoulders and my back. My body will tell me I'm stressed before I even admit it to myself.

I wanted to live somewhere where I could take better care of myself.

But peace was about more than money and massages.

I was tired of sirens.

I was tired of hearing gunshots.

I was tired of some of the tension I felt living in the DMV. I was tired of the feeling of everything being so militarized and constantly on edge. The National Guard. ICE. Police presence. Political tension. Just that constant feeling that something could happen.

I know Colombia has crime. I know guns exist there. I'm not pretending anywhere is perfect.

But I wanted distance from the particular kind of stress my nervous system had become accustomed to.

And when I got to Colombia?

My nervous system really did calm down.

I think people sometimes swing too far in either direction when talking about relocation and mental health.

One side makes it sound like moving abroad fixes everything.

The other side says, "Wherever you go, there you are," like changing your environment doesn't matter at all.

For me, both are true.

I still came with me.

But my environment absolutely mattered.

In Colombia, I would go downstairs to the sauna and steam room. I worked out. I discovered that every Sunday they closed one of the main streets and the whole community came outside. People walked. People ran. Kids rode their bikes.

I loved it.

Our apartment was on the 21st floor, and the view was beautiful. Everything felt different.

There were moments when I would just look around and say:

Damn. This is my life.

Even now in Peru, I still have those moments.

I'll go outside, look up, see a whole volcano sitting there and think:

What the fuck? I really live here.

I don't hear gunshots.

I don't constantly hear sirens.

I hear dogs barking.

And I genuinely feel peaceful.

So yes, changing my environment improved my mental health.

It removed real stressors.

It gave me better access to things that helped me regulate.

It gave my nervous system room to breathe.

But here's the uncomfortable truth:

My anxiety got on the plane too.

I live with anxiety.

That doesn't disappear because I changed countries.

It just finds different shit to be anxious about.

When I first relocated, I still had my salary, so work became something I could worry about.

Then I lost my job.

Now sometimes money becomes the thing.

Trauma doesn't disappear either.

I've been working through things from my past for years. Healing didn't suddenly speed up because I had a beautiful view.

Family stuff followed me too.

Distance actually helped with some things because there were responsibilities, pressures, and family dynamics that I didn't want to carry anymore.

Being far away created boundaries that I probably needed.

But distance has another side.

When my grandparents are sick, being far away can hurt.

Sometimes there's this helpless feeling of, What can I do?

I can't fix everything.

Sometimes all I can do is call.

Pray.

Wait.

Accept.

And acceptance is a word I've had to become very comfortable with.

Not because I like everything that's happening.

That's one of the biggest lessons I've learned about my mental health.

If I spend too much time living in the past, I can become depressed.

If I spend too much time living in the future, I can become anxious.

So I have to keep bringing myself back to right now.

What can I control today?

What can I do today?

What needs my attention today?

And what do I need to let the fuck go?

When people imagine someone in survival mode, they might picture somebody completely falling apart.

That isn't always what mine looks like.

Sometimes my survival mode looks like getting my shit together.

I get focused.

I start calculating.

What's the budget?

What can we afford?

What do we actually need?

What can wait?

What can I sacrifice?

There are things I would love to do that aren't expensive, but if they're not necessary, sometimes they're not happening right now.

And I can get hyperproductive.

I'm naturally an early riser anyway. I like getting up while everything is quiet. My mind is sharp in the morning. That's my time to think, work, plan, and knock things out.

The problem is that sometimes planning can turn into obsessing.

I can get so focused on fixing the problem that I start trying to solve things that haven't even happened yet.

That's when I have to catch myself.

Break the big thing into smaller pieces.

Do what I can.

Be patient.

Sometimes I need meditation.

Sometimes I need a nap.

Sometimes I need to completely restart my damn day.

And sometimes I need my wife.

Cam has had to look at me more than once and say:

"We have everything."

And I'll be sitting there thinking about whatever I'm worried about, and she'll start naming things.

We have food.

We have water.

We have somewhere to live.

What do you actually need?

And then I have to sit there and think.

Well...

Technically?

Nothing.

Maybe there are things I want.

Maybe there are things I'm waiting for.

Maybe there are things I wish were happening faster.

But what do I actually need right now?

Nothing.

Sometimes I confuse not having everything I want with surviving when technically I'm still thriving.

I'm just in a season where I need patience.

And patience is hard when you're a person who wants to fix everything.

Sometimes the toolbox is another person reminding you:

You're okay. Look around. You're okay.

People throw the word anxiety around casually.

For me, anxiety can get very physical.

It can look like hyperventilating.

Like I legitimately can't breathe correctly.

It can look like indigestion because I'm not even breathing properly.

Crying.

Sweating.

Pacing.

Racing thoughts.

Headaches.

Not being able to focus on my work.

It can look like me checking my email repeatedly to see if something new came in.

It can look like me logging into my traveling mailbox even though I already know they will send me a notification the second something is uploaded.

I know that.

But anxiety says:

Check again.

Sometimes my healthiest decision is to walk away.

I'll tell myself:

You're not getting anything done like this. Go do something else. Come back later.

And I do.

The key is that I actually come back.

I've had to learn the difference between discipline and forcing myself.

Sometimes you just have to take a break from shit.

There are days when I am functioning and still not okay.

That's another thing people don't always understand.

You can laugh.

Travel.

Go to school.

Run a business.

Create content.

Make plans.

Be married.

Be ambitious.

And still be struggling mentally.

There have been days recently where I'm trying to do schoolwork and randomly crying.

Checking my phone.

Thinking about family.

Feeling sad.

And eventually I'm like:

Fuck this schoolwork today.

But instead of completely abandoning my responsibilities, I've learned how to negotiate with myself.

Okay.

Do one assignment.

Turn one thing in.

Then stop.

Then I can watch Marvel movies and chill.

And you know what?

I still accomplished something.

That's growth for me.

Years ago, I was much more likely to suppress my emotions.

I didn't want to feel sad.

I didn't want to cry.

So I would hold everything in.

And eventually?

Boom.

I would explode like a ticking time bomb.

I don't want to live like that anymore.

I still don't like feeling sad.

I told Cam recently, "I don't like this. I don't like crying all the time."

But I also understand that it's okay to sit with your emotions.

It's okay to feel your feelings.

It's okay to not be okay.

The difference now is that I let myself feel it without letting it control every decision.

I'm a grown-ass woman.

I have responsibilities.

But I also deserve grace.

So sometimes the deal is:

Handle what you can.

Then rest.

Tomorrow, we try again.

Cam and I have had this understanding in our marriage for years. If one of us needs a day or two because we're going through something, fine.

Feel it.

Work through it.

But we're also going to use our coping skills.

We're going to communicate.

We're going to ask for help.

We're going to open that toolbox.

We are not just going to unpack our bags inside the sadness and decide we live there now.

Getting certified as a peer specialist was probably one of the best things I ever did for myself.

For a lot of people, I became an accountability partner.

But through that work, I learned how to become one for myself.

Because I always think:

How can I tell somebody else to do something and then not do that shit myself?

Being a peer specialist taught me to recognize warning signs.

It taught me to pause.

It taught me to name what I'm feeling.

It taught me that coping skills aren't just cute little things you write down on a worksheet.

You actually have to use them.

And mental health is serious to me because I've experienced what happens when mine gets to a very serious place.

I have been hospitalized for my mental health in the past.

I don't want to go back there.

I remember being in medication management and telling my doctor that I didn't want to be on psychiatric medication for the rest of my life.

I asked him:

What do I need to do?

What kind of life do I need to live to take care of myself?

And he told me.

So I committed to practicing those things.

And that's what happened.

You practice.

And practice.

And practice.

Eventually the coping skill becomes a habit.

Then the habit becomes a lifestyle.

My mental health isn't something I only think about when I'm struggling.

It's something I maintain.

And I'm fortunate to have a wife who knows me well enough to see when something is off.

We catch things in each other.

We call it out.

Sometimes somebody who knows you well can see you slipping before you realize it yourself.

One of my problems has definitely been thinking:

I can fix everything.

I can fix this.

I can figure it out.

I got it.

Until I don't.

And then I feel worse because not only do I have the original problem, now I'm upset with myself because I thought I should have been able to fix it.

Asking for help can be difficult.

Living abroad can make it even more complicated because sometimes there's this fear that somebody is going to say:

"See? You can't handle it."

"Maybe you need to come home."

But the United States is not home to me anymore.

D.C. isn't home to me anymore.

So struggling abroad doesn't mean I made the wrong choice.

People struggle everywhere.

People lose jobs in the United States.

People have anxiety in the United States.

People cry in the United States.

People have family problems in the United States.

So why should one difficult season abroad mean I need to leave the life I've chosen?

Recently, when I was feeling sad and overwhelmed, I reached out.

I talked to an old mentor.

I talked to my therapist.

And my therapist reminded me:

Focus on what you can control.

And I was like:

Duh.

Because I literally tell people that myself.

But sometimes you need somebody to give you back your own advice.

Sometimes you don't need new wisdom.

You need somebody to remind you of the wisdom you already have when your emotions are too loud for you to hear it.

Maybe I go play Smash Brothers and beat somebody's ass.

Sometimes I need Marvel.

Sometimes I need a snack.

Sometimes I need a little treat.

Somebody could look at those things and say I'm distracting myself.

I don't see it that way.

It's coping because I don't stay there.

I give myself a break and then I come back.

I'm not pretending the feeling doesn't exist.

I'm letting myself breathe long enough to work through it.

There is duality in life.

Light and dark.

Happy and sad.

Good and bad.

Peace and anxiety.

I don't think mental wellness means eliminating one side.

I think it means learning what to do when each side shows up.

Years ago, one of my mentors was teaching me mindfulness.

She would give me something to practice.

I'd go practice it.

I'd come back.

Then she would give me another step.

I kept learning how to work through my thoughts and emotions until eventually we got to acceptance.

I practiced and practiced.

Finally, one day, I went back to her and basically said:

"Okay. I've been doing everything you told me to do. I'm working through my anxiety. I'm working through depression. I'm feeling good. Now what?"

She asked if I was in a good place.

I said yes.

And she told me that eventually something else would happen.

Life would happen.

Something would upset me.

Something would challenge me.

And then?

I would do the steps again.

And again.

And again.

That was it.

There was no graduation.

No magical point where nothing bothers you anymore.

That's mental health.

You keep working on it.

I also remember someone in the mental health field telling me that sometimes people don't know how to be okay when things are good.

They've spent so much time in survival mode that peace makes them nervous.

Everything is going well, so instead of enjoying it, they're waiting.

What's about to go wrong?

That's another skill I've had to learn.

How to enjoy the peace while it's peaceful.

Nothing is wrong right now.

So let me enjoy right now.

People fear the unknown.

I understand why.

Anxiety loves certainty.

It wants to know what happens next.

When.

How.

Whether we'll be okay.

But there is beauty in the unknown too.

I didn't know exactly what Colombia would be like when I left.

I didn't know Peru would become part of my story.

I didn't know I would lose my job.

I didn't know what Cam and I would build.

I didn't know what The Uncomfortable Truth would become.

Even Redd Academy has changed so much.

The idea started years ago while I was working at Discover in New Carrollton. Back then, we were building a financial literacy program.

Then the idea changed.

Then it evolved.

Then we evolved.

The Uncomfortable Truth didn't even exist until I lost my job.

At the time, losing my job could easily be labeled as something bad.

Devastating.

Scary.

A setback.

And I'm not going to rewrite history and pretend those feelings weren't real.

But when I zoom out?

That event became a catalyst.

Without something that felt horrible in the moment, I might not have created something that now feels beautiful.

That's why I'm becoming careful about labeling every experience immediately.

Sometimes we call something bad because we haven't lived long enough to see what it becomes.

Some of the best parts of my life were things I never saw coming.

Think about your favorite movies.

What makes some of them incredible?

The twist.

The turn.

The moment where you're sitting there like:

OH SHIT. I did not see that coming.

If you knew the entire movie before you watched it, it wouldn't hit the same.

Maybe life is like that too.

Maybe the unknown isn't automatically danger.

Maybe some of the things we can't see yet are the parts that will eventually make the story worth telling.

People spend so much time worrying about what's next that they forget to experience what's happening now.

And for me, the milestones mean even more when I look backward at the journey.

Not just:

I made it.

But:

Look at everything I overcame to get here.

I always tell myself:

It's only the beginning.

Which is a whole mind fuck when somebody else might look at my life and think I've already done so much.

But that's also why I have to remind myself to stop sometimes.

Look around.

Enjoy the view.

Enjoy the milestone.

Enjoy the peace.

Because if every destination immediately becomes the starting line for the next goal, you can spend your entire life arriving and never actually feel like you've arrived.

The uncomfortable truth about mental health is that you never stop working on it.

Your life can look beautiful and still be hard.

You can live abroad and still have anxiety.

You can be grateful and sad.

You can be ambitious and overwhelmed.

You can be laughing and still need help.

You can have everything you need and still have to remind your nervous system that you're safe.

Mental wellness isn't never falling down.

It's recognizing when you've fallen.

It's knowing what tools you have.

It's knowing who you can call.

It's giving yourself permission to cry.

It's taking the break.

It's doing the one assignment.

It's watching the movie.

It's asking for help.

It's accepting what you cannot control.

And eventually?

It's getting back up.

Then life happens again.

And you do it again.

And again.

And again.

Maybe that's not failure.

Maybe that's the journey.

And maybe instead of being so afraid of what we can't see coming, we should remember that some of the most beautiful parts of our lives are still out there in the unknown.

K Redd, Arequipa

Part 7 of The Uncomfortable Truth drops next Wednesday. If this is the first thing of ours you've read, Sovereign Sundays goes out every Sunday.