Bridge Year Costa Rica – Fall 2025

Since arriving in Costa Rica, I’ve navigated the world around me positively—full of enthusiasm and optimism. Evidently, on the contrary, I’ve often felt overwhelmed and conflicted by my nerves; yet, ever hopeful, I always remembered one thing: todo estará bien.

In an attempt to lighten the adjustment period, I valued and appreciated every moment for what it was. I gave myself grace—during moments when I felt lost, ungrateful, or unsure of my purpose, I reminded myself to stay present and kind. It’s important to trust the process, and before everything, trust yourself. Of course, these moments feel intimidating and challenging, but they shouldn’t outweigh the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the happiness it brings.

Overcoming these struggles is easier said than done, but that’s part of the process. It’s part of the adjustment. It’s okay not to have all the answers in the beginning, but it’s equally important to never stop questioning the world around you. Be curious. Be adventurous. Be outgoing—and outgoing is exactly what I’m meant to be.

At first, my days began with simple greetings heard through the kitchen walls along with common disturbances my abuelita and I made each morning: “hola”, “buenas”, “¿cómo amaneció?”

Along with the energetic wake-up, the cycle continued as I found comfort through the daily routine I shared with my host family. These greetings were polite, habitual, considerate, and playful.

But one afternoon, my host sister greeted me with a cheerful “¡Holis!”—a word that carried love, care, and genuineness. That small shift changed everything. I began to adopt it myself—not just as a word, but as a reflection of how I wanted to approach every interaction—with warmth and sincerity.

Soon, “holis” became part of who I was, my way of embracing Costa Rican culture fully and lovingly. Outside of my host family, I found myself constantly repeating the word: it felt natural. As I familiarized myself within my partner agency, Casa de la Mujer, I found use of the word “holis.”

As I welcomed the women into the organization, smiling from the reception…

During the beginning of every English class I taught, after I greeted them all in English… Before immersing myself into a conversation with my coworkers…

Every time, the word would flow effortlessly, paving its way into the ears around me: “¡holis!”

Aside from Casa de la Mujer, I carried the word wherever I went—greeting family members, friends, neighbors, and even strangers. Accepting the world into my daily routine encouraged me to emphasize interactions and connections with locals in the community, while finding an excuse to say “¡holis!”

However, I soon felt trapped, I felt insecure—dreading the foreseeable endings of conversations. I dislike what, to me, felt like awkward goodbyes: “hasta luego” “ciao.” They felt forced, unnatural, paired with uncertain pauses as conversations faded.

I realized that hyperfocusing on perfection did more harm than good. I realized the fear of making mistakes was only limiting me. I forced myself to experience Costa Rica within self-imposed, unrealistic expectations, hindering my ability to connect, grow, and simply be present. Enjoying Costa Rica didn’t mean perfection, embracing pura vida meant imperfections, perseverance, and opportunities to learn.

The truth is, the fear of not fitting perfectly into the rhythm of daily conversations doesn’t have to define me. Nothing does. The easiest way of saying goodbye is taking the tico-style habit of adding “-ito” to the ends of words, softening them with warmth and affection. That said, “chaito” became the most fulfilling farewell—simple, endearing, filled with genuine care, while perfectly complimenting “holis.”

It quickly joined “holis” as part of my daily vocabulary, a reminder that my journey in Costa Rica wasn’t about flawless Spanish or seamless adaptation, but again about sincerity. With time, I learned that growth isn’t measured by how perfectly you fit in, but by how fully you show up and immerse yourself within an unfamiliar culture. So I’ll keep saying holis and chaito—and sometimes awkwardly, maybe sometimes effortlessly, regardless it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it will continue to represent exactly what I came here to do: to try, to learn, and to live pura vida.

So here’s my farewell, chaito until next time—because “chaito” here never truly signifies a proper “goodbye” but rather another way of saying “see you later.” That said, I cannot wait to say “holis” again!