Attempts to learn a new language had tangible consequences in Brazil. If I didn’t know the word for rice, I certainly wasn’t going to get to eat it. If I didn’t know the word for bus, I certainly wasn’t going to get home. If I didn’t know the word for bank, I certainly wasn’t going to find one. Not knowing portuguese reduced complex thought. For months, I could only express basic ideas. I could no longer ask someone about a recent change in their life, but instead had to settle for asking how they were doing. For a time, I lost my personality. I couldn’t make jokes or get angry at anyone; social situations became self-degrading as I could barely communicate my tumultuous emotions. Learning portuguese came in humbling steps. I became willing to put in the hours with a textbook and translation dictionary in my room. I learned to try and fail to meet strangers over and over. I practiced patience with myself after forgetting phrases day after day. I learned to rely heavily on my body language and never forgot to bring scratch paper to draw on. The morning after I dreamt in portuguese for the first time, I called my portuguese teacher, practically crying. Progress doesn’t always come softly.