My name is Aerielle. Yes, that’s my real name. No, I didn’t make it up to sound whimsical or mysterious, and no, it’s not French. My parents, in a moment of wild creativity (or sleep deprivation, who’s to say), decided to name me after Ariel, but with extra letters for personality. They thought they were being unique. They did not, however, consider the consequences of sending a child named Aerielle into a world full of people who don’t know how to pronounce things and corporations that insist on making random electronic products with human names.
At some point in the ‘90s, a company called Aerielle—yes, with my exact spelling—decided to manufacture radio transmitters. So while other kids got to enjoy their childhoods, I was out here getting roasted for being “the girl named after a piece of outdated audio technology.” Middle school was a lawless place, and the jokes came thick and fast.
“Hey, Aerielle, can you broadcast my playlist?”
“Does your brain work on FM or AM?”
“Wait, are you, like… Bluetooth-compatible?”
Hilarious. Really. I’m still laughing.
I spent years waiting for the Aerielle radio transmitter empire to collapse, but fun fact: brands fade, childhood trauma sticks. So here I am, a fully grown adult still mildly haunted by a discontinued gadget, wondering if the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe I really was built to transmit signals. Maybe I was always meant to be broadcasting something.
Which brings us to Spain.
I moved to Valencia for reasons that made sense at the time. I had a life back in the U.S. that looked great on paper—a job with benefits, a fully stocked fridge, people who understood my language—but somewhere along the way, I started feeling like I was watching someone else’s life happen instead of living my own. I didn’t hate it. I just… wasn’t sure it was mine.
One morning, I woke up, stared at my inbox full of emails I didn’t want to answer, and thought: What if I just… left?
And because I have zero impulse control and a completely reckless approach to major life decisions, I bought a one-way ticket to Spain without much of a plan beyond “Be near the ocean and try not to die.” Valencia seemed like the perfect mix of chaos and coastline, a place where I could blend in just enough to avoid too many questions but stand out just enough to make things interesting.
So now I’m here. Alone, underqualified in every possible way, and currently learning Spanish at the pace of a distracted toddler.
I’d love to tell you that I came to Spain on a mission of self-discovery, that I’m here to find inner peace and eat olives with the wisdom of a woman who has it all figured out. But the truth is, I barely know what I’m doing. Every day is an adventure in survival, miscommunication, and trying to figure out what, exactly, I just ordered at this café.
People love to romanticize moving abroad, as if it’s all sunlit terraces and deep, meaningful personal growth. So far, my personal growth mostly consists of getting lost in my own neighborhood, sweating through my clothes in record time, and learning the hard way that Spanish pigeons have no fear.
I don’t know where this journey is going, or if I even should have started a journey in the first place. All I know is that I’m here, I’m broadcasting my nonsense into the void, and if nothing else, at least now I finally have a reason to be named Aerielle.
This is my frequency. Hope you like static.
Please note, I don’t sell Aerielle transmitters, it’s just my name. If you are looking for them, visit a site like Amazon!