Notes from the Swiss Alps: No 5. – My Nervous System Is Learning a New Language

The Memories Begin Before Morning

The memories start in the early morning, when my dreams end and my consciousness slips back in to remind me what I was worrying about right before bed.

There are people and places in my life that feel etched into the inner lining of my skin, like the rivers and rivulets that carve themselves through earth. I’m shaped by the landscapes and humans that built me — California, my family, all those years of salt air and bay leaf, and the soft panic of traffic and possibility.

And this year, everything shifted.
My family flew across the world.
Nico and I got married. (What a beautiful day!)
California and Switzerland existed in the same space for a brief, magical moment — my two worlds overlapping just enough that I could breathe without choosing between them.

And then they left.
The village quieted.
And the Alps inhaled again, pulling me back into the silence of this new life.

Emotional Support Houseplants & A California Nervous System

Living at 5,500 feet in the Alps, I have several houseplants that, I’m realizing, have become emotional support foliage more than anything else. Not that we need “air purifiers” here — the air is the purest I’ve ever breathed. No mold. No pollution. Just a whole lot of forest under a clear blue sky.

Maybe these broad-leaf tropical plants are my nervous system’s way of saying:

“Girl, your California brain is still confused. There’s too much white outside and not enough sun.”

It still blows my mind to live somewhere not in a drought. California is always in a drought — it’s practically a cultural identity.

When I was in high school, a Swiss-Italian girl lived with us for a summer, and I was appalled by the way she let the water run while brushing her teeth. Meanwhile, Switzerland is basically water Disneyland. It pours out of mountains. It gushes through valleys. It spills into troughs you can literally drink from. The lakes are bottomless sapphire bowls of glacier melt.

California Colors vs. Winter White

My brain still thinks in California colors —
Sunlight through redwoods.
Saltwater.
Fog.
Dry, golden oak hills.

Here, it’s resting evergreens and larch trees submerged in winter white.
White, brown, and quiet.
My nervous system keeps looking for familiar markers and comes up empty-handed.

The Water That Holds Memory

I still feel guilty letting water run — decades of drought conditioning — but here, the water wants to run. It falls from mountains, flows through valleys, pours into deep blue lakes. It feels ancient, untouched, alive.

And somehow, it’s changing me too.

They say water holds memory. So naturally, I’m drinking ancient Swiss mountain water thinking:

“Okay… whose memories are these? What is this water teaching me?”

Maybe this water is imprinting something I can’t articulate yet — a kind of purity I don’t quite know how to metabolize.

On Belonging, Vulnerability, and Being Seen

Sometimes I struggle to connect with humans the way I connect with nature. People see me as warm, open, caring — but vulnerability, the letting-myself-be-seen part, still makes my insides twitch.

I’m still figuring out who I am here.
What I am here.
How to belong when everything familiar has been stripped away except my own thoughts — which, to be fair, are loud enough to count as a second person.

The Invisible Thread of Writing

Sometimes I stare at the page and my brain goes completely blank — like the invisible thread connecting my inner world to the physical one snaps.

That’s why writing is not a hobby. It’s a necessity.
Writing lets me gather my thoughts the way light gathers in a prism — scattered, but suddenly coherent if you tilt the angle just right.

Right now, there’s a kitten in my lap and candles flickering, and I still feel blocked. Everything requires so much concentration, and my brain refuses to participate.

Running, Ice, and Asking “Why Here?”

Can I run in the snow and ice? Sure. It might just take a bit more planning, concentration, and certainly more layers.

Running is my therapy — my freedom — and suddenly I live in a place where movement requires spikes on your shoes and a tolerance for freezing eyelids. Sometimes I feel trapped. Not by Nico or this village, but by the extremity of it all.

Then again… why not?
Why shouldn’t life ask us to grow in uncomfortable ways?

The Mountains Strip You Bare

This might be another “shit” blog post.
Or maybe it’s just real.
Another stream of consciousness. Another crack in the dam.

I’m learning uncomfortable truths about myself.
I’ve always been good at hiding — in my head, in my writing, in my family. I love alone time — maybe too much. Friendship is harder. Vulnerability is harder. Letting people see me is hardest.

Moving here ripped the mask off.
Or maybe Krampus ripped it off — who knows.

I can run from discomfort — I’ve done it.
But here? There’s nowhere to hide. Not physically. Not emotionally.

The mountains corner you in the best and worst possible ways. They ask who you are when no one is watching. They strip away every previous identity until you’re left with the bare skin of yourself.

Learning the Language of Belonging

Culture isn’t just tradition — it’s belonging.
In California, I knew the rules.
Here, I’m still learning — including German. Which I am learning, even if I currently sound like a linguistic toddler chasing its first noun.

Living in this tiny Alpine valley feels like being squeezed and expanded at the same time.
The mountains close in but they also open something ancient in me.

They force honesty.
Patience.
Growth.

Recalibrating a Nervous System Built for Marin County

My nervous system is recalibrating in ways I never expected.
Less fight-or-flight.
More “what the actual fuck is happening?”

But also more presence — more awareness of how deeply place shapes us.

I left a place where belonging was effortless because it was familiar.
Here, belonging is a negotiation between who I was and who I’m becoming.

I went from 260,000 people in Marin County to 166 here — maybe 1,500 in the whole valley.
From the hum of the 101 freeway to houses dotted along a two-lane mountain road.
And quiet.
And tradition.
And everyone knowing who I am even if I don’t know them back.

The nervous system is a memory keeper — a tuning fork. It knows the frequency of home.
But it can tune to a new one too — if we let it.

This Is What Becoming Looks Like

Some days I feel like I’m doing it.
Other days I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece trying to jam myself into a picture that isn’t mine yet.

But then the snow falls again.
The water flows.
My kitten curls into my chest.
My husband walks into the room.
The wind shifts in that particular Alpine way.

And I think maybe — just maybe — this is part of the becoming.

I don’t know what I’m doing.
But I’m here.
And I’m trying.
And maybe… that is enough for now.

Because somehow, in this microscopic dot of humanity, I’m learning the biggest lessons of my life:

How to stay.
How to feel uncomfortable.
How not to run away.
How to be seen.
How to listen to the land.
How to honor both where I came from and where I am now.

I don’t know what comes next.
But I know I’m supposed to write it down — because writing is where my internal chaos threads itself back together, like tiny fibers weaving into something whole.

Maybe you feel like this too sometimes.
Maybe you’re also navigating the unknown.
Maybe you also wonder who you are becoming.

If so…
Same, my friend. Same.

with love and patience,

Bridgette Joy