Just over a year ago, I was training in Nakhon Phanom for my year of teaching in Thailand. Around this time last year, I heard the news that Rama IX had died, and that my new country of residence would enter a year of bereavement. Around this time last year, Boom arrived at the WorldTeach house to drive me 100 kilometers north; to the loveliest place I have ever had the privilege of calling home.

I would like to sit here in my house in Madison, with my long-awaited mug of fresh coffee and write about the lessons I’ve learned and the person I have transformed into being. I was worried that I would return to the States and face immense culture shock; in fact, I have dealt with none, other than trying to get into the wrong side of Joanie’s car when she retrieved me from the airport. I have had truly, deeply happy days since being back – the marriage of my cousin, the birth of my niece, the familiarity of frolicking around the DC monuments and driving around downtown Madison.

The truth is that adjusting back is easy in a way that arouses guilt in me. How can I retreat back into the comforts of America when I have seen people live with so much less, in so much more happiness? How can I go from being a valued teacher and a daily contributor to society, to someone who these days, contributes nothing?

These are the wrong questions. They’re self-indulgent, and if I learned anything from a year in Ban Phaeng, it’s that selflessness and love are the only two concepts worth spending any time or energy on. I don’t want to spend the rest of the post writing about myself and how supposedly evolved I have become in the past year. I want to share with you instead my last (for now) and most dear stories about them. The people who – if I have in any way grown – deserve all the credit for my transition.

My last weekend in Thailand was labeled a “retirement party vacation” but was in fact a pilgrimage to pay our final respects to Rama IX. All teachers boarded the bus at 3pm on a Thursday… and on that we bus we sat until our 3am arrival at a gas station restroom. In darkness and disorientation, we found our way off of the bus into hoards of likeminded Thai tour groups, waiting for a bathroom stall in which we could change into our mourning clothes. One hour later, we were deposited outside of the Grand Palace, a line we entered – and remained in – for the next 12 hours. Surrounded by my friends who were surrounded by larger and larger groups of mourners, we stood in all black, awaiting the rise of the sun, awaiting forward movement, awaiting our entrance to the Palace.

We were tired and crowded, hungry and caffeine-deprived. As the sun came up, we began to feel and smell the weight of our black attire. We weren’t having fun – but we were happy. Together, we endured the aches that accompany standing for half of a day. We took photos of Boom when she fell asleep on the floor, we laughed with Wijit when she fell asleep and tipped out of her chair, we helped Duan as she ran to the first bathroom we had seen in hours, and we rejoiced when we made it inside the palace walls.

I remember my first few trips as a tourist to the Grand Palace, noticing the Thai people standing in line for something that seemed exclusive, but in a laborious way that I did not envy. Becoming one of those people – one of those people who made this once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to enter the most sacred part of the Thai Palace and pray for a King, a King I had spent an entire year mourning – made my eyes and heart swell.

I had worn black for a year – a concept that previously seemed limited to the Victorian novels I poured over in high school. I had stood before Rama IX’s portrait every day, and learned the lyrics to the song that we sang in his honor. I had learned the stories of his life; I had grown accustomed to hearing the word “father” and knowing it was in reference to him. I had been welcomed into Thailand during a time of heartache and grief, and was now partaking in a moment that honored those feelings and exchanged them for peace and joy. As it was finally my turn to kneel before the king, in the culminating event of my year in Thailand, I realized the moment for being the most unique and glorious thing of which I have ever been a part.

My final week in Ban Phaeng was so filled with both joy and sadness that I’m not sure if I ever took a pause from crying. All of my students presented me with different surprises as a class, each unique to their own group personalities. My M6 (senior) class made me a video of all of my photos from Thailand, and photos of each of them, too. My M4 class bought me one of their Thai uniforms, and each signed my shirt. All of the others surprised me with balloons and presents and cake and a sense of gratitude of which I am not sure I was worthy.

On one of the final days, classes were cancelled and the entire school assembled in the courtyard, in front of our newly renovated stage. The three retiring teachers and I sat in the seats of honor, and one by one, all of the school’s teachers approached me, tied a white string around my wrist, and granted me wishes for the future. In times of transition, this is what they do. It is my absolute favorite Buddhist tradition.

My final days in Ban Phaeng were a blur, mostly due to my eyes, which kept finding fresh reasons to swell. I visited Mom Tome at her house, witnessing her miraculous and full recovery. I was invited to lunches and dinners from which I continuously had to excuse myself, for each time someone expressed how much they would miss me – their daughter – I could no longer upkeep the Thai tradition of smiling. Boom slept at my house on my last night, and we recalled with fondness all that had transpired over the course of a year.

On Wai Kru day a few months back, I witnessed students place flowers in my lap and kneel at my feet, humbling themselves in an act of gratitude. It is an act I saw repeated on Mother’s Day, when all moms were the guests of honor at our school, and their children – one-by-one – presented their appreciation in the same traditional manner. On my last day of school, I collected the traditional flower wreaths (reality check: I sat on the back of Ole’s motorbike, sobbing and insisting that I had to make everything perfect, while she drove around town looking for the correct bouquets). I proceeded to enter each teacher’s classroom, place the flowers before him or her, and bow down. Every time I looked up, tears were in their eyes. You understand Thai traditions. You are Thai now.

I wanted to do something touching. I had to do something touching. It is only the tip of all that I want to do to show the most wonderful people in my life the beautiful impact they have had.

When it was time to take my overnight bus to Bangkok, everyone arrived at the station to see me off. My friends, my students, my family. They showed up with snacks for my journey and presents for my life back home. They took photos with me and hugged me and smiled, and as the bus pulled away, my heart was full.

When the realization of what was happening came calling, so did the tears. So, too, did Boom. After leaving the bus station, she was driving out of town to visit her mother. She realized she was behind my bus, and that the bus was making its next stop.

“Look out the window!” she called into my phone. Pulling back the curtain, I instantly recognized her smiling face. I ran off the bus, crying, laughing, and hugging her tightly. She was the first person to bring me to Ban Phaeng a year before, and there she was again, just when I needed her, the last person to see me off. I’ve been trying to write this post for the past month, but there are no words adequate to express what it’s like to have someone like that in your life. To have any of those people in your life.

There were days in Ban Phaeng that I would have done anything to get back to the U.S.; and now, there are days here I would give anything to be there again. All that any one of us can do is savor the time that we have and trust that it will propel us into what’s next. Thailand and the year of mourning taught me that even in sadness, there is peace, and that even in uncertainty, love can create the stability that seems lacking.

I feel my writing turning maudlin, so I’ll end it here. I just want to say thank you – in the deepest, most adoring sense of the phrase – to my family in Ban Phaeng. You are in my heart, and in my mind, on my tongue, and on my fingertips every single day.

Your love for me has given me confidence in myself. And my love for you has given me confidence in humanity.