Despite the near constant panic that plagued my entire adolescence, I had a surprisingly low number of concerns about traveling abroad to Cyrpus on my own. Although only twenty-three, I figured I had enough life experience under my belt to conquer this hurdle, or at least shakily climb my way over and flop down like a dead fish at the finish line. Either way was fine with me, so long as I made it there. The worries I did have were big things, like having to go to the hospital here, or something happening to one of my family members back home. I hoped and prayed I would experience neither of these things, that my trip would go according to plan, exactly the way I wanted it to, and I would sail smoothly over the waves the whole entire time. I felt good about it, too, especially when I got to spend time in Athens. Roaming around a city I had longed to visit for years, independently, was a high like no other. I was making my family back home so proud, but more importantly, I was proud of myself. I stoop in front of a statue at the Acropolis Museum, a beautiful marble piece entitled “Nike Unbinding Her Sandal”. It was headless, but still flooded with life. The stone was cut so that it looked like her dress was made of real silk, like I could reach out and touch it and it would flow through my fingers. Her wings were only an outline, jutting from behind her body. And she was indeed bending down, as though taking off her sandal after a long day of winning victories. I laugh out loud in the quiet space, because I was imagining her taking off that sandal and chucking it at someone. I resonated with that statue like I haven’t with any piece of tangible art. I wanted the victory that Nike promised to bring forth, and I decided that I was going to have it. I was going to be victorious.  

And then, the next day, I wound up in the hospital.  

It was a sneaky pesto sauce snuck into what was meant to be tomato sauce pasta that did it, making my lips swell and my throat close and my lungs wheeze. Stupid pinenuts! I had double checked there were not nuts in this pasta, and yet here they were, shutting my body down and sending me to a hospial in a foreign country, where I had no idea how anything worked. And the waiter had still made us pay!  

Luckily, after two IV’s and two rounds of the nebulizer, all of which only cost me three euros, I was off to the airport.  

When I finally made it to Cyprus, I retold the story like a fun anecdote, sure that my bad luck was over for the remainder of the trip. I could still be victorious, I decided. 

And then, four days later, I got the call that my youngest brother was in the hospital back home. 

I don’t remember much about the day I got that call. I floated through everything like it wasn’t really there, like I wasn’t really there. People were speaking to me through what felt like layers of cotton. I was here, living in a beautiful, bright morning. Pieces of pottery were being thrust into my hands, and I was holding thousands of years with my own fingers, but all I really wanted was the present. Where my brother was undergoing emergency surgery to remove one of his beautiful brown eyes. Where my parents were sitting in a waiting room, exhausted in the middle of the night.  

Instead of doing what I really wanted to do, which was return to the apartment, get into bed, and pray that the bed would magically turn into a time machine or a teleportation device, I instead journeyed to the Larnaca Archaeological Museum with my peers.   

I wandered around, looking at things but not really taking them in. I was searching for a something to grab my attention and hold it there, a sign to let me know my brother would be okay. Angel numbers, something that reminded me of him, something that reminded me of anything. And between one room and another, I saw a statue of Nike. She was headless again, and positioned similarly to the statue of her I had so loved in Athens. But I did not take it as a sign. I was angry. I had called on NIke for victory, and I was not getting what I wanted. 

The things that had tormented my imagination about leaving were becoming real, I was miles across the sea from my family in a place that was unfamiliar, and I had no idea what to do. That was not victory. 

I took the next day off, just to clear my head and debate with myself on what to do next. After talking to my family, including my brother, I decided I was going to stay and stick it out as best I can.  

I walked around Larnaca for awhile on my own, popping into the little shops and taking in the city. I could still feel that energy I felt when I started my journey in Athens thrumming in my body. I was still standing, even after my two greatest fears had materialized a week into my trip.  

I realized then that I had been looking at things wrong.  

There is not victory without a battle. Victory without a fight is just luck.  

If I wanted victory, I needed to stay in the thick of it, to dig deep, both figuratively and literally.  

The victory wasn’t eating lunch and not having an allergic reaction. The victory was walking from the hospital to the airport. The victory was the act of marching along. 

The victory wasn’t getting that call from my mom and finding out what had happened. The victory was when I talk to my brother on the phone, and every day he makes me laugh a little harder from his hospital bed. The victory was finding a lead sling bullet in the dirt and naming it after him.  

The victory wasn’t touching down in Athens and realizing I was strong, the victory was my first week in Cyprus and realizing I could be stronger.  

Every day after work, I go to the beach. I kick my sandals off and think of Nike. And when the tang of saltwater hits my tongue, it tastes like victory. 

-Abby