Approximately two weeks ago I was living in America with very little certainty of what the near future held for me. Coming back to Italy was a risk that my mind screamed at me not to take but my heart whispered for me to give it a chance. Trusting my gut has never led me astray so the next thing I knew I was on a plane headed to southern Italy with only a suitcase and backpack containing the essentials. The 20 hours of nonstop travel were torturous and sleepless. I cursed to Atlantic Ocean for being so big but also thanked modern technology for this chance that would’ve been impossible not so long ago. Looking out the window at Naples during the descent of the plane gave me an enormous sense of relief. The golden-orange rooftops, colorful exteriors and high-up terraces breathed a sense of relief into me. I felt at home for the first time in months. It was like a piece of my heart was finally put back into it’s proper place and I could see the world in marvelous color again.

Since that first day of arrival back into this land where I am a foreigner yet I feel at home, everyday has come with it’s challenges. As I walk down narrow streets and dodge Vespas while listening in on conversations I do not understand, I constantly think of how unlikely of a candidate I am for this adventure. Having anxiety, not knowing hardly any Italian, and being so young I wonder if my students will take me seriously as a teacher. It all makes perfect nonsense. I laugh at myself and call myself an idiot every single day because it is somehow therapeutic and I think I would go insane if I took myself too seriously. Yesterday I moved into my apartment. My very first apartment where I live alone like I have wanted since I was very little. When I was younger I told myself that when I moved away from my parents the first thing I would do is eat an entire tub of cookie dough because there would be no one there to tell me not to. I have yet to do that since moving in because the thought of it makes my stomach churn but I guess it’s nice to know that it is a possibility. I think I will christen my apartment with a good bottle of wine instead. It a very weird thing to have the first place I live away from my parents to be in a foreign country. A part of me feels like my extraordinarily independent childhood self. At the age of about 10 I asserted that I would get a job at the age of 14 and move out of the house at the age of 16. Neither of those things happened yet that same independent spirit has stuck with me all that time. I felt that little girl inside me when I walked to the grocery store and picked out the items that I would use to provide for myself like I have wanted to for so long. I know for a fact that my younger self was a lot more confident in the person I would grow up to be today than I am in myself. I brought with me to Italy a keychain with a picture of me from when I was in kindergarten on it. I look at that past version of myself and remember all the dreams she had of doing things differently by exploring the world that others said was too big. The enemy to my anxiety is my curiosity and perhaps that is why I thrive in this strange, foreign land. I don’t think my past self would’ve predicted that I would be insane enough to move so very far away with no knowledge of the language and no friends to fall back on. I don’t think I, myself, fully believe that I have done this crazy thing yet. It’s quite the unbelievable reality given the set of challenges that come with every single day. I can’t even cross the street without waiting for an Italian to go first and then following close behind. Grocery shopping means not really knowing exactly what I’m buying until I get home and try it. And I seem to get lost every single day yet I am always too stubborn to stop and ask for help ever.

Every single day is a struggle, but it is the most beautiful struggle I have ever endured.