Before I bring you on a heartfelt journey through my sacred love for storytelling, I want to say one somber thing:
This will be the last blog post I write from my beautiful, little condo on Lake Como (don’t get that confused with last blog post about Italy, though). In just a few short days, I will pack my bags and head back to the Boston area. It is my nature at this point to travel to places that steal a little bit of my heart, and although I can always return to visit, my time will never be quite the same. People grow older, some move away, new streets are paved, new shops are built, and life goes on. It is the most bittersweet feeling to be appreciative of what I’ve endured and also be starkly aware of the finality of my departure. To exist in this in-between state of polarized emotions makes leaving much harder for me. One minute I am thankful and happy for the memories made, the lessons learned, the love that was felt, and the next, I am overcome with, “and that was that.”
But enough somberness for now. I have one of my favorite stories to tell you.
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Let’s bring you back to the moment I realized I was in love.
It was an ordinary day. Nothing crazy happened. My boyfriend and I didn’t hit a new milestone in our relationship or conquer anything big. He simply came home from work, came upstairs to my apartment, and drank some wine with one of my best friends and me on my porch. I remember sitting there, watching him talk to her, about nothing significant or relevant at all, and I thought to myself, “Oh my God. I love this man.”
It hit like a ton of bricks; this feeling of “I love you”. I remember thinking in that moment, “I want to tell him,” but it wasn’t the right time. I wanted it to just be us, so I waited until the evening, when we were lying in bed, my head on his arm, his hand stroking back my hair. We were about to fall asleep, but I needed to tell him. I whispered his name while looking into his eyes, and he just looked back at me waiting for me to speak. My heart was beating out of my chest, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get the words out. All I could do was look at him. For about 10 full minutes, I struggled to say what I wanted to say. Although I was taking my sweet, sweet time, he never rushed me. He never said, “hurry up”, or “spit it out”. He simply waited, patiently, to hear what I had to tell him. And then when I finally found the courage, when I mustered up everything I could, I whispered his name once again, paused for a moment, and during that pause, right before I opened my mouth to speak, he looked me in the eyes and said, “me too”.
Needless to say, the rest of the night was filled with pure love.
I want to be quite frank, though. I don’t want you to read this and think, “this sounds like a fairytale,” because although it’s felt like a dream at times, this love is not the kind of love I was looking for or even “wanting”. I’ll be honest when I say I’ve been searching for big love for a long time. That all-consuming, head-over-heels, intoxicating, can’t-get-enough, love. The kind that suffocates you in the best way possible. I’ve held out for that kind of love for a long time because, in my mind, there was no other option. It was either going to envelope me completely or it wasn’t going to be in my life.
But truth be told, this is not that kind of love.
This love is the safest, softest, most gentle thing I’ve ever known, and although I was searching for a wild fire kind of love, I have the rescue team kind of love. The type that will protect you at all costs, make sure you’re on safe ground, and let you know that you’re not alone anymore— that you’re in good hands. It’s the reassuring feeling you get when you call 9-1-1, and the operator says, “Hang tight. They’re coming for you.” In the simplest terms, from the moment I met my boyfriend until now, I have never worried if I’d have to army crawl through the destruction of rampant fire running wild through what I own. I have only known the sweet relief of a hose putting out flames, a hand grabbing ahold of mine, and the promise to make it out alive, together. I have learned that a wild fire burns, and the rescue team saves.
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There is a lot I want to brief you about, but I want to start by telling you that none of this was accidental. I very strongly believed I would find love in Italy before I arrived in Italy. When I booked my flight to Lake Como back in February 2022, I had this overwhelming feeling of, “you are going to meet someone,” and let me just say, I have never had that feeling before. I remember telling my friends, my mom, my mom’s friends, and even others that I felt like I was going to fall in love. I knew there was a chance my intuition would be wrong, but there was a larger part of me that knew it wasn’t. It has been my life’s mission over the last few years to listen to that voice and to drown out the rest of the noise. I have come to learn there will always be naysayers who want to see you fail, and there will always be a doubtful voice inside your head that wants to misguide you. To live in authenticity means finding “you” in every situation, amongst all the voices calling your name, and following your soul’s light despite how dark the trail may be.
I also want to add that during my last in-person tutoring session with one of the brightest students I’ve had the honor of teaching over the last 10 years, I was handed a gift. I had never mentioned my intuitive thoughts about falling in love while I was in Italy to my student (that would be weird to do), and although that topic was never discussed, the following perfume was picked out specifically for me.
At the beginning of this year, on January 1st, I wrote down 3 goals. I’m a New Year’s resolutions type of gal, so each year I strive to achieve one particular goal; however, this year it was 3. I remember they felt very ambitious as I wrote them down on New Year’s Day. I often write “far-fetched” goals and ideals down at a time when I feel so far from them, but I’m a big believer that just because something feels “unrealistic” in the moment doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. So, I wrote down my 3 goals and told myself that I would make them happen one way or another. I would stay open to the possibilities and opportunities that presented themselves to me, and I would remind myself that I’m worthy of feeling and doing what weighs heavily on my heart.
One of those goals was to travel as far and as wide as I could.
Another one of those goals was to fall in love.
The third is still in the making.
I suppose I tell you any of this because although it may seem that I am “lucky”, that my journey here has been a “fairytale”, I don’t necessarily think that either of those are true. I am blessed. I am fortunate. I am privileged. I am a lot of things. But what I’ll preach to the people who care to listen until the day I die can be nicely wrapped up by one of my favorite sayings:
"What if I fall? Oh, but what if you fly?"
I am no wizard. I am no magician. I am no spiritual guru. I am nothing “special”. I just deeply, deeply believe that the soul’s journey is one worthy of listening to, following, and ultimately, living.
Go fly, my people. Whether that means on a plane or underground or in the ocean or in outer space— go live your damn life.
P.S. I love you.
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