January 1, 2024
I woke before the sun to walk along the world’s longest beach in La Baule, France. My jacket was zipped up all the way past my mouth, my hands were shoved into my pockets, and my headphones were twisted into the nook of my ears. I was bundled from head to toe, not sure how long I’d have to brave the cold for until I felt something—something that reminded me of the life I could only hope was just buried and not burned.
It was dark and cold, and the weather app on my phone said it was going to rain any minute (is that thing ever right?), but I didn’t care. My body was craving to be close to the ocean, my soul was begging for some reprieve, and a walk had never failed me.
I stood in front of the ocean, closed my eyes, and did what any normal person would do in that moment. I thought, “If anyone can see me right now, they must think I’m some weirdo.” Then again, I was on the beach at 7AM on January 1st when most of the world was hungover, or, ya know, anywhere other than the beach.
But I needed that weirdo moment. I needed to stand by myself in front of crashing waves and breathe. I needed a reason to believe 2024 wasn’t going to be a continuation of the ending of 2023. 90% of 2023 was out of this world, but that 10%—that 10% was catastrophic.
With my eyes closed, my lungs expanded, my hood over my head, and the weather app actually being right for once (of course), I made a pact with myself to find my way back to me.
January 6, 2024
I was alone in my friend’s apartment. I didn’t even know if we were in the category of “friends” at that point in time, considering I met her the month before. Don’t even get me started about how guilty I felt for calling her and asking if I could crash on her couch for a night or two WHILE she was away. In what world does an acquaintance agree to let a practical stranger sleep in their apartment while they’re not even there?
In my world…where the acquaintances turned friends offer up the keys to their Parisian apartment when you’re in desperate need of a place to lie your head.
Thankfully my world of good ass people doesn’t stop there.
That night, when I was unwell in every sense of the word, my friends back home called me, and I spent six hours (from 9PM to 3AM) rotating talking to them on the phone. I lost all track of time while talking to them, and if you can lose track of six hours and stay up until 3AM talking on the phone, you are not in the company of good people. You are in the company of angels.
~
I remember thinking to myself, “I can’t stay here. I have to make a plan to leave,” but when you’re operating out of survival mode, the last thing you feel capable of is making a plan. One of my friends said to me, “Don’t make any decisions tonight. Go to sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll know what your next step should be.”
On January 6th, I had no idea what to do. The thought of doing anything other than hopping on a plane and going back to my cocoon of familiarity felt like the most massive undertaking in the world. But I couldn’t help but hear the little whisper of, “Go to Rome. Don’t ask. Don’t question. Just go.”
The next morning, I woke up, and although I was exhausted, overloaded in every possible way, and on the verge of a collapse, I pulled my backpack onto my lap, booted up my computer, and purchased a 16 euro flight from Paris to Rome for the next morning. I couldn’t bear the thought of booking a return flight—I couldn’t bear the thought of what I was going to have for breakfast, let alone trying to plan when I was going to leave Italy.
To this day, I’m not sure how I got myself to the airport and onto the plane without having a conniption, but I thank my lucky stars for showing me the way to Rome because the moment my plane landed in Italy, a piece of me felt whole.
I spent a week in Rome. A week of waking up every single night panicking that I was late for work or I had done something wrong, only to realize minutes later that I wasn’t even in France anymore. I was in a different country—I was a whole plane ride away from Paris.
However...
I also spent a week weaving in and out of the Roman roads, surrounded by people who were laughing and smiling and happy to be alive. I was greeted with warm welcomes from complete strangers. I felt the sun on my skin as I waltzed past the Trevi Fountain and found a restaurant where I could indulge in a pizza by myself.
I met up with old friends and made new ones. I bought truffle cheese from a store owner who siphoned me into his shop while I walked by admiring his storefront. I stood in my friend’s kitchen in Trastevere and waited for a pot of water to boil so I could make myself a plate of fresh pasta and top it off with the truffle cheese I had just bought.
On my last night in Rome, I sat in the center of the city while night fell around me, looked up at the moon, and thought about how nothing was fixed but everything was okay.
It was the first time I felt a tinge of settlement since leaving the U.S. almost three months prior.
It was abundantly clear to me during my days in Rome that Italy was the answer all along. It felt like Italy was waiting at the front door as I walked up the driveway, and although I braced myself for the, “I told you so,” I was never met with a tongue lashing. Instead I was met with open arms and the reassurance of, “I knew you’d be back.”
In the simplest of terms: it felt like coming home.
~
When I was in Italy a few years ago, I would think to myself, “I know I want to live in Europe. I know this is where I’m meant to be.” Except every time I thought that or said that, I used the word “Europe” and never “Italy” because at the time, I didn’t have the wisdom to piece together what I know is true (or truer) today.
I couldn’t see that every time I dreamed about living in Europe, it was based off my experience in Italy.
It was Italy that made me realize (really realize) I wanted to live in Europe. Before my three months on Lake Como, living in Europe was just some far-off dream of mine. Some elusive, “in another life” fantasy I would drift to in the lulls.
It was only when I was living on Lake Como that the idea of actually making it happen solidified for me.
It was Italy that made me believe in a life I had only ever dreamt of.
It was Italy that taught me how much love there is to experience.
It was Italy that brought out the most artistic and creative sides of me.
It was Italy that made me feel like everything I had ever wanted was still out there waiting for me to find it.
It both surprises me how much I glossed over something that was always present and makes me wonder what else I’ve missed along the way.
When I look back, I think to myself, “How did I not connect the dots?”
What makes matters worse was while I was pursuing my decision to move to Paris, I was ignoring the faintest of whispers from within because I did not value the meaning of those voices.
While I was taking French classes and working with a French tutor, all I could think of was, “I wish I were learning more Italian.”
When I told a freelancing client I was stepping away from her project to pursue an opportunity in Paris, she told me, “I’m more of an Italy person than a France person.” My stomach dropped as I thought, “Me too.”
I once did a visualization exercise with a mindset coach, and we spent an hour running through every little detail of my future life. The exercise called for me to write my conscious stream of thoughts, so whatever came to mind first, I put down on paper. My entire visualization took place in Italy. I didn’t will that to happen. I didn’t even know that was going to come through. But it was organic and effortless. It was my truth.
Before I left home, a friend of my mom’s told me not to go to Paris and instead go to Italy. I remember thinking, “Is she right?”
When I watched Parisian creators on TikTok, I was never as captivated by their content as I was Italian creators.
On August 29th, days after signing a contract and sealing the deal on Paris, I texted one of my best friends. You can read the convo for yourself below:
I thought about Italy every single day of my life, even while I was planning Paris. I thought about it so much that if you cracked open my skull, you’d probably see gelato and focaccia sitting on top of my brain.
If you’re thinking, “Were you lying to yourself about wanting to go to Paris? How could you possibly ignore all the signs pointing to Italy when they seemed so in your face?”
I have two things to say about that:
I wasn’t lying to myself. Although the signs for Italy (in retrospect) were abundant and stark, the Paris signs were tenfold. If the Italy signs were in my face, the Paris signs were knocking me upside the head.
Although I resonated with the Italy signs, I did not value them. When we don’t value something, we are quick to discard it. Bada bing bada boom, that’s exactly what I did.
I also want to tell you something I never would have admitted (even to myself) because I would have considered this thought a self-righteous one.
Italy has always felt really cliché to me.
When I was deciding where I wanted to study abroad for my junior year of college, I never considered Italy because everyone and their mom studied abroad in Florence or Rome. I didn’t want an experience that everyone else had. I wanted my own, so I didn’t even think of Italy as an option.
I also would have not chosen to spend three months on Lake Como had a family friend not offered her vacant condo to me. It was never a priority for me to go to Italy. I simply had an opportunity when she handed me the keys, and I thought, “Why not?”
~
I preach about listening for the whisper beneath the scream. That audible screech is a culmination of outside noise—people’s opinions, thoughts, feelings, projections, what have you, but the whisper is your voice. The whisper is what’s there when you strip down everything you’ve been conditioned into believing or doing. It’s often muted or muzzled and completely disregarded, but it is never gone.
My whisper was Paris, and seven months ago I was sure that giving airtime to that whisper was honorable because it meant I was putting my intuition first.
What I know today is there are varying levels of decibels, and it is the softest, quietest sounds—sounds so close-mouthed they can’t even be categorized as a “whisper”—that offer us the most insight into ourselves.
I didn’t know digging down was the answer. I didn’t know listening for the wind beneath the whispers was the answer.
What I know today, I only know because of how poorly Paris went.
~
When I got home from Europe in January of this year, I was still hellbent on trying to find a way back to Europe. I couldn’t imagine giving up my dream of living there after being so close to it. How was I supposed to settle back into “my life” here in Boston when “my life” felt like it was supposed to be happening an ocean away?
I’ll tell you how.
One day, after taking a yoga class at my regular studio, I bawled my eyes out as I drove home. I’m not sure what exactly happened during my practice, but I left that class knowing I had to surrender to the idea of living in Europe, which accurately explains the tears.
As dramatic as it sounds, that realization felt like a mourning. It brought me through the cycle of grief, and I cried so hard I yawned (if you know, you know).
“Surrender” is what I heard, in the same way I heard the faint hum of, “Go to Rome.”
The second I decided to surrender, something in me lifted, and I saw the tired, disheveled version of me who had been trying to hold it together for so long, slightly smile and take her first step home.
It was a reunion and a baptism—my downfall and resurrection all in one.
~
In the months before I left for Paris, I would have said I was happy. I still stand by that. I was in a really good place, and I was hopeful Paris would unlock a new level of happiness for me.
Unfortunately, that was not my experience in the slightest, and I drifted so far away from myself I questioned every single thing there was to question. In my lowest moments, I wondered if I were ever going to find my way back to me.
Even though those days will be marked down as some of my hardest days in life, what I have now is something I would have never found had I not gone through what I did.
Today, in this very moment, after what feels like the harshest chapter I have lived through thus far—today I have peace.
I have never known the level of peace I know today, and even though I had to go through hell and back to find it, I know Paris taught me pain so Rome could teach me redemption.
~
I have no idea where life is taking me anymore, but for the first time in a very long time I can say with full confidence: I am exactly where I belong.
It's safe to say the life I'd been searching for was not buried and not burned.
It was back home ❤️
Love your back… both home and your blog.