You Deserve Good Gelato

You Deserve Good Gelato Plot Summary

Introduction

Have you ever stood at the edge of something incredible—a plane ticket purchase screen, a job application, or even just the threshold of a party where you knew no one—and felt your heart race with equal parts excitement and terror? That tingling sensation is your body's way of telling you something momentous awaits on the other side of your comfort zone. Yet so often, we retreat. We make excuses, postpone dreams, and create elaborate stories about why "someday" would be better than today. This book is about what happens when you silence those excuses and step into the unknown anyway. Through intimate travel stories and vulnerable confessions, we journey through the transformative power of facing our fears head-on—especially while exploring new cultures and places. You'll discover how pushing through discomfort builds resilience that transfers to every aspect of life, how failure becomes your greatest teacher rather than your worst enemy, and perhaps most importantly, how the richest experiences often lie just beyond the edge of what scares you most. These pages aren't just about travel; they're about building a life defined by courage rather than limitation, connection rather than isolation, and growth rather than stagnation.

Chapter 1: Taking the First Leap: From Venice to a New Life

The first gelato I ever tasted in Italy was terrible. Standing in a small piazza in Venice, I had been lured by bright colors and fancy decorations—classic tourist mistakes. After one bite of the sugary, artificial concoction, I knew I'd been duped. But that disappointing gelato taught me something crucial: learning to identify the good stuff requires experiencing the bad. It's a lesson that would become the theme of my journey. For years, I'd dreamed of visiting Italy without acting on it. "I'll go when I find someone to travel with," I told myself repeatedly. Meanwhile, I watched friends and family members experience what I longed for while I remained stuck in New York City's grueling dance industry, burning out from anxiety and the endless hustle. During one sleepless night at my mother's house in Michigan, the frustration of waiting became unbearable. Staring at the ceiling, a simple yet profound realization hit me: "So do it." Why was I waiting for permission or perfect circumstances? We have limited time on this planet, and I was wasting it making excuses. That night, fueled by wine and determination, I booked a one-way ticket to Venice—the first truly terrifying leap of faith in what would become a series of them. Though struggling financially as a dancer working multiple side gigs, I threw myself into earning money for the trip, sometimes working four jobs a day. When concerned friends and family questioned my solo travel plans with warnings of danger and kidnapping, I recognized how women especially are conditioned to believe the world is too dangerous to explore. But the most telling response came when someone flatly stated: "You can't do that." Those four words ignited something in me—a fierce determination to prove them wrong. Despite missing my connecting flight and losing a day of my trip, when I finally arrived in Venice, something magical happened. Standing on that first bridge over the canal at dawn, watching gondoliers prepare for the day as sunlight danced across the water, I felt a profound certainty: "You can do this." And I did. Through mishaps and loneliness came freedom, healing, and eventually love when I met Dario, an Italian chef, in a Florence jazz club. Two years later, during the pandemic, we made another scary decision together—moving to Italy. Facing our fears and doing what scares us isn't about the absence of doubt or anxiety—it's about moving forward despite them. Every uncomfortable situation while traveling, from being stranded in France alone to boarding the wrong train in rural Italy with a dead phone, has taught me to solve problems in unfamiliar environments and built confidence in my ability to handle unexpected challenges. These experiences become memories we pocket for future reference whenever we need reminding that we can do hard things. They become stories we feel grateful to have experienced because of the invaluable lessons learned from them. When I say do the shit that scares you, I'm not advocating for recklessness or ignoring legitimate danger signs. I'm suggesting that we cannot let fear be the ultimate decision-maker in our lives. With every scary thing we conquer, we pocket a lesson and build confidence in our decisions. We learn to persist through setbacks and embrace the good things waiting on the other side of fear—because we are deserving of them. You are deserving of them.

Chapter 2: Lessons in Humility: Accepting Cultural Differences

When Dario and I arrived in Italy, we faced a mandatory two-week quarantine. From our balcony, I watched Harry Potter dubbed in Italian (where Professor Quirrell was renamed "Professor Raptor") and counted how many smoke breaks the barista across the street took each day. As our quarantine ended, I wanted to make Dario's birthday special. I had visions of streamers, confetti, and a festive birthday card. So I ventured to the pharmacy across the street, confident I could find birthday supplies. Upon entering, I looked around for cards and gift wrap but saw only medicine and skincare products. Confused, I used Google Translate to ask the pharmacist for birthday cards. Her response was delivered with bewilderment: "Questa è una farmacia..." I didn't need a translation for that. In America, pharmacies like CVS or Walgreens sell everything from food to photo prints to birthday cards. This seemingly insignificant cultural difference had never appeared in any "things to know before moving to Italy" guides I'd studied. I wasn't angry or frustrated—I was humbled, even happy. I realized there would be countless things I simply couldn't know until experiencing them firsthand. This lesson in dropping expectations extended beyond small cultural differences. Before visiting Naples for the first time, I'd read countless warnings about danger and crime. I arrived with my guard up, convinced I wouldn't like it based on others' experiences. Unsurprisingly, I didn't enjoy my visit. A year later, I returned with fresh eyes and an open mind, discovering a completely different city—one vibrant with life, amazing food, and passionate locals living fully "in the shadow of Vesuvius," as my Neapolitan friend Gino explained. I'd allowed others' opinions to color my experience instead of forming my own. This pattern repeated when I visited Bratislava with my friend Brett. Slovakia wasn't somewhere I would have chosen, and I had minimal expectations. The result? I was completely charmed by this quiet, historical city with incredible cuisine. By letting go of preconceptions, I discovered a place I truly loved, captured perfectly by a quote I read there: "Bratislava does not bellow its beauty, but makes its case quietly and insistently until one day you wake up and realize, you're in love." Letting go of expectations gives us lessons in humility and opportunities for growth. Travel challenges our preconceived notions and forces us to admit they might not be entirely accurate. It makes us grateful for the skills we have while motivating us to develop those we lack. When traveling, our notion of "normal" is challenged, inevitably leading to uncomfortable situations that can cause confusion and anxiety. While most of us expect this, it often leaves travelers frustrated that things don't operate as they do back home. When we give ourselves permission to learn in an unfiltered, unexpected way, everything becomes a blank canvas we can fill with our own experiences. Each challenge becomes an opportunity to grow rather than a disappointment. Like the question "where do you see yourself in five years?"—which I've always disliked—expectations can limit us, tying us to goals set by our past selves instead of allowing us to embrace unexpected opportunities. Five years ago, I never would have imagined living in Italy running a travel business and creating social media content. By releasing expectations, we become less hard on ourselves when encountering the unfamiliar and begin to see the world as waiting to be discovered.

Chapter 3: The Authentic Journey: Finding Your Voice Abroad

There's something about Mediterranean families and food that goes together like peanut butter and jelly—or prosciutto e melone, depending on your perfect combo of choice. In Italy, meals are more than sustenance; they're a point of connection. They become the birthplace of lively conversation, a symphony of laughter, and a symbol of adoration. After all, "Mangia!" ("Eat!") is basically the equivalent of saying "I love you" in Italian, something I heard quite often upon moving here. When I first met Dario's mother during a visit to Italy, we couldn't communicate through language—she spoke little English, and I spoke no Italian. Yet we bonded over a perfectly cooked Florentine steak, our conversation powered entirely by Google Translate. This was just the beginning of my integration into Italian family life. Dario spent childhood summers with his nonna and nonno in a medieval castle in the Tuscan countryside. His nonno would take him foraging for wild blackberries and hazelnuts, while his nonna taught him to cook, instilling his passion for creating food from scratch. When Dario's nonna learned that ravioli was my favorite pasta, she greeted me the next time with homemade ricotta and spinach ravioli that she had rolled and stuffed herself—despite being 89 years old and using a walker. The respect for elders runs deep in Italian culture. By maintaining personal dignity for their elders, Italians ensure they remain productive and valued members of society—it's no wonder Italy has Europe's oldest population. This respect flows both ways, with older generations deeply dedicated to their children and grandchildren. At my friend Danae's American-style baby shower, I offered "date night" babysitting coupons as a gift, jokingly adding "in case nonna isn't available!" Her Italian mother-in-law playfully but seriously retorted: "Nonna is ALWAYS available." Those coupons remain unused. Italians have adapted the phrase "it takes a village" as a fundamental concept in their society. Children become mini-celebrities in public spaces, with Italians of all ages gushing at the sight of a baby. Unlike my American upbringing, Italian children are raised in the "adult world" rather than adults accommodating the children's world. You'll see kids playing in piazzas at 11 p.m. while their parents enjoy wine with friends nearby. Most parents opt for children to accompany them at dinner with adult friends, fostering a strong sense of respect between generations. This village mentality extends beyond blood relations. Pregnant friends have shared countless stories of being treated like royalty—escorted to the front of government office lines, receiving free meals "for the baby," and being congratulated by strangers. In a small Tuscan restaurant, I watched as an elderly woman offered to hold a crying baby so the young parents could enjoy their meal. It was a beautiful moment of recognizing another human being—not blood relation—as family, providing help to care for both the new generation and the older one. During the pandemic lockdowns, Italian neighborhoods demonstrated this community spirit through balcony singing, dancing, and even coordinated "dinners together" from their respective homes. This underlying current of gratitude runs throughout Italian culture: gratitude for family, for each other, for life and its lessons, for the small things and the beauty of being alive. Italians lean on one another through hardships and help each other with small things too. They understand that life is best walked hand-in-hand, building a strong community that flourishes beyond blood ties. I see this philosophy embodied in my friend Pino, who runs a family panini shop in Florence. Known as the "study abroad dad," he helps students with documents, navigates Italian bureaucracy for them, and creates a space that feels like home. Students return decades later with their own families, who are then naturally adopted into Pino's extended family. The wall behind his counter displays hundreds of university flags given by grateful students. Of course, the degree of empathy varies by individual and region—southern Italy is often known for a warmer atmosphere than the north. However, culturally, Italians cherish the idea that personal well-being is tied to community well-being. In joyful moments and hard ones too, Italians unite to celebrate or console one another. It's the freedom to share feelings without fear of judgment, with the comfort that those feelings will be heard. In an age of increasing individualism, this trait of authentic community connection is something we can all learn to emulate more.

Chapter 4: Failing Forward: Language Mishaps and Growth

The first time I went mega-viral on TikTok was with my Culture Shock Series about four months after moving to Italy. These 10-second skits strung together into 60-second videos featured culture shocks I'd experienced as an American—from teens legally driving motorcycles at 14 to the government providing monthly vouchers for those with celiac disease. The videos reached millions of viewers, sometimes up to 20 million views each. I would wake up to notifications that I'd gained 50,000+ new followers overnight. On one hand, this was a beautiful accident that allowed me to connect with people worldwide. On the other hand, it exposed me to intense online bullying and hate comments, particularly questioning my intelligence simply because I was American. Social media fueled videos showing Americans failing geography questions, carefully edited to evoke specific reactions. While there are certainly rude American tourists and Americans who couldn't locate Italy on a map, stereotypes don't define an entire population any more than a government represents all its people. Yet I wasn't immune to brutal comments suggesting I should already know certain cultural differences. The reality is that knowledge is a privilege. We aren't born knowing everything, and there are some things we simply cannot Google because it doesn't cross our mind that we should even Google them in the first place—like European pharmacies not selling birthday cards. The first time I went to an Italian grocery store in Venice, I bagged up produce and took it to checkout, only to be met with an annoyed employee. Through gestures, I realized I was supposed to weigh my produce and print price stickers before reaching the cashier—something I'd never done in American stores. Later, I learned from viewer comments that in Italy, you're also supposed to wear disposable gloves when selecting produce. This is the essence of "we don't know what we don't know." We're fortunate to live in an era with countless ways to learn—Google, books, podcasts, and yes, social media. People sharing real, unedited stories of failures and successes pass on knowledge so others might relate or understand. If we shame someone for genuinely wanting to learn about different cultures, eventually they'll stop asking questions altogether—a dangerous outcome. The constant stream of comments attacking my intelligence simply for being American began to affect me deeply. Even surrounded by positive feedback, my mind fixated on the negative ones. When repeatedly exposed to the same message, our minds begin to consider it truth. I started to believe I might actually be stupid, becoming hyperaware of how others might view me. I tried to make myself small, apologizing before speaking, convinced everyone saw only "American" when they looked at me. This culminated at a networking event in Barcelona, where I experienced this prejudice face-to-face. When a woman asked where I was from and I couldn't understand her response about her own location, she mockingly asked, "Babe, do you even know where that is?" When I hesitated, she exchanged knowing glances with others, one whispering, "It IS true what they say about Americans." The rejection stung deeply, leaving me in tears in my hotel room. The next morning, I faced a choice: quit or continue. I thought about all the people who had reached out to say my content helped them feel less alone, less scared, more prepared. Study-abroad students, solo travelers, families, couples, fellow immigrants—countless kind people who found value in my perspective. That community saved me more than they'll ever know, and that's what made the hard parts worthwhile. I realized I would never satisfy everyone's requirements. No matter who I was, where I came from, or how I looked, someone would always find fault. So why try so hard to conform to others' expectations? They didn't know my life, my challenges, my desires—so why allow them any vote in my worthiness? There will always be people uncomfortable with who you are because it reflects qualities about themselves they lack. This knowledge doesn't erase the pain, but it helps build resilience. Ultimately, accepting potential judgment and putting yourself out there anyway is never easy. But if you let fear of judgment hold you back, there's only one loser—you. Because you are enough, exactly as you are. Creating content became one of the most beautiful accidents and simultaneously one of the scariest things I've ever done. Continuing despite that fear is something I'm deeply proud of. Like travel itself, it requires stepping into uncomfortable territory where judgment might await, but choosing kindness and standing confident in your self-worth allows you to move through the world without apologizing for being beautifully, uniquely you.

Chapter 5: When Homesickness Strikes: Navigating Emotional Challenges

I didn't fully understand how crushing homesickness could be until six months after moving to Italy, when I found myself on my bathroom floor at 2 a.m., curled up and silently sobbing to avoid waking Dario. It wasn't that I wanted to hide my feelings from him—we had promised early in our relationship to always be communicative and honest. This wasn't even my first bout of homesickness. A month after moving, when I felt unexplainably "bummed," Dario had disappeared and returned with a bag of my favorite American snacks—Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and crunchy Cheetos—from a tiny store called "My Little America." But this time felt different. I knew there wasn't an instant cure, no easy fix. I had to simply feel my emotions, and I wanted to spare Dario the worry of seeing me in this state. He had once confessed his fear that one day I might decide Italy wasn't worth it anymore, that he wasn't worth it anymore. But there was more to it than protecting him—I was experiencing the complex emotional landscape that comes with living abroad. I receive countless comments daily saying, "Girl, you are living the DREAM." And living abroad is wonderful—traveling is wonderful. But there are also really hard parts that deserve honest discussion. When living abroad, you essentially become a three-year-old again, relearning how to "do" life with new customs, traditions, cultural norms, and possibly a new language, all while dealing with homesickness, loneliness, and feeling like you've lost your independence. Despite having Dario's friends become my friends and his family accepting me with open arms, the language barrier prevented deeper connections. As an extrovert who thrived in group settings, I craved meaningful conversation. Though studying Italian five days a week and using language apps, the reality of group conversations was mentally exhausting. My brain worked overtime translating everything, and by the time I formulated what to say, the conversation had moved on. Eventually, my brain would "tap out" from exhaustion. The aftermath of social gatherings often left me completely drained—far from the image I had pictured of effortlessly chatting with my new Italian friends. The language barrier walked hand-in-hand with cultural barriers. Simple tasks that I never would have thought twice about at home suddenly became complex and overwhelming—fixing a broken computer, filling out legal documents, navigating Italian bureaucracy, finding an English-speaking gynecologist. Though Dario was always eager to help, this presented new emotions, as needing guidance for mundane tasks left me feeling guilty and dependent. Little by little, I became acutely aware of how I didn't fit in—my curly blonde hair, my height (unusual for Italian women), my colorful clothes. I wanted so badly to belong, to wake up one day speaking perfect Italian and knowing all the cultural nuances. I craved to be part of the pack, a primitive instinct for survival, which naturally led to missing home—where I did feel like I belonged. I missed my family more intensely than when I lived in New York. I felt guilty for moving far away, especially when my Nana passed and I couldn't attend her funeral. I watched friends celebrate life milestones without me, wishing I could be present for their moments and have them present for mine. Homesickness means more than missing home—it's missing all you once knew. It's your brain in constant overdrive adapting to a new way of living while verging on breakdown. It's longing for familiar comforts—food, customs, language—so your brain can relax momentarily. It's missing people who understand every part of you. What made it worse was the guilt—what excuse did I have to feel sad? I had an incredible partner, lived in a beautiful country, and was my own boss for the first time. I chose to come here and could buy a plane ticket home anytime. Yet the feelings persisted: I wanted to speak my language, express myself fully with friends and family, handle daily tasks independently, know where to get things fixed, find familiar food, walk into stores without rehearsing conversations, go dancing with friends to 90s hits followed by late-night Taco Bell. I wanted my culture, my language—I wanted the person I once was. That's the complexity of homesickness—it comes in waves, striking unexpectedly. One minute you're on top of the world, the next, devastated by loneliness, isolation, and guilt. Guilt for leaving family and friends, guilt for leaving your country and customs, but perhaps most surprising—guilt for feeling guilty. The pressure to feel constantly grateful because "people would kill to be in your shoes" is overwhelming and unrealistic. If you move abroad, you will miss life's big moments—weddings, births, graduations, funerals. You'll feel lost, stupid, and dependent. You'll feel lonely and guilty. At times, it will be sad, scary, isolating, and uncomfortable. But among these difficult moments, you'll also experience incredible beauty. You'll do things you never thought possible, have your mind expanded, and realize your own resilience. You'll see how vast the world is and your small part in it. You'll begin to shape the life you truly want, living without regrets. I still experience homesickness occasionally. The episodes have become easier with time, but they may never completely disappear—and that's okay. I've learned to show myself kindness in these moments, giving my body whatever it needs, whether that's a walk, video calling loved ones, or binge-watching Netflix with comfort food. Interestingly, when I visit New York now, I find myself homesick for Italy. It's a beautiful realization—that I can deeply love two places and call both home. Whether you're studying abroad, transferred for work, or entering a new life phase, remember: you're allowed to mourn your old life while embracing your new one. You aren't alone, weird, or ungrateful for your feelings. While it might not seem so now, one day you'll look back on these challenging times with immense pride for persevering. Above all, be kind to yourself—you're doing much better than you think.

Chapter 6: Building Connection: Community in Foreign Lands

Why can it be so scary to approach strangers, especially as adults? Is it fear of rejection, vulnerability, or both? When I first moved to Italy, making friends was a major concern, just as it had been before my solo trip. I'd heard hostels were ideal for meeting fellow travelers, so that's where I planned to stay during my solo journey. My friend Brett, an experienced solo traveler, told me how easily people connect in hostels, eager to interact and immerse themselves culturally. The thought excited me—like-minded travelers waiting with open arms to welcome newcomers. So when I arrived at my Venice hostel at 8 p.m., I was ready to dive in. The common area was lively, with travelers cooking together, laughing on couches, and sharing stories in multiple languages. One group particularly caught my eye—about 15 people who switched effortlessly between four different languages, bonding over shared experiences. It was exactly the atmosphere everyone had described. And I was absolutely terrified. Though typically outgoing and social, I found myself paralyzed, unable to approach them. I'd always been comfortable meeting new people within my comfort zone—in my country, language, and familiar social cues. I hadn't considered how being abroad would affect my confidence, especially regarding the very experiences I'd looked forward to. Despite having already taken the arguably hardest step—buying the ticket and arriving—I sat frozen in my corner, unable to utter a simple "hi." I didn't introduce myself to that group that night. The next day, I spotted them across the canal while exploring Venice, feeling regretful not for exploring alone—which I enjoyed—but for failing to push beyond my comfort zone as promised. I learned my lesson though, and at my next hostel in Florence, I marched up to my roommates and introduced myself, albeit nervously and loudly. I kept this momentum, saying hi to fellow tourists at restaurants, joining walking tours to meet other solo travelers, and introducing myself to young women at bars. The fear remained with each interaction, but I stopped letting it control me. Making friends while traveling is challenging, and making friends while living abroad is even harder. Cultural differences, etiquette variations, and language barriers can make meaningful connections seem impossible. As children, we're naturally trusting and open to learning. As adults, we're weighed down by past rejections and lost trust, unconsciously guarding ourselves against potential hurt. This defense mechanism makes approaching strangers difficult, especially outside our comfort zones. After my solo trip ended, moving to Italy presented new friendship challenges. While Dario's friends became mine by default, the language barrier prevented deeper connections. In group conversations, my brain worked overtime translating, and by the time I formulated responses, the topic had changed. After social gatherings, I felt completely drained—a far cry from the image I'd pictured of engaging effortlessly with Italian friends. I began using social media to find connections, joining groups like "Foreigners in Florence" and reaching out to people I'd met virtually. Still, those first six months were intensely lonely. Adult friendship-making resembles dating—you meet potential friends through tenuous connections or organized meetups, hoping to "click" during coffee dates where you share your life story in an hour. And like dating, I accumulated funny, sometimes cringey stories—like the 24-year-old who told me I "looked great" for being 28, or accidentally spilling wine on a potential friend's fiancé. In a transient city like Florence, many friendships were temporary—people would move away when study-abroad semesters ended or relationships concluded. I found myself seeking commitment in a city of fleeting connections. Sometimes I accepted people into my life who didn't deserve to be there, figuring any acquaintance was better than none. As my social media following grew, I became self-conscious meeting new people who already "knew" me through my content, and occasionally discovered someone had already decided they disliked me because of my online presence. Everything changed when Danae, another content creator who had moved to Florence for love, reached out. We met on a rooftop café, laughing about our similar journeys. She became a mentor for navigating social media challenges—the first person who truly understood my situation. She later introduced me to Sofie, another creator who quickly became a close friend. We attended Venice's Carnival together, dancing through canals in historical gowns too wide for the narrow streets. Over two years, I focused on nurturing positive friendships while shedding negative ones. I joined activities that interested me—yoga studios, fitness classes, cooking workshops, language lessons—and met people like Erik (who shared my love of dancing), Gina (a fitness instructor from NYC), and Jannah (who simply shouted "hi" to me on the street). These friendships developed after many lonely days and false starts, but eventually, they came. If adult friendships are like dating, we should apply the same standards: Don't settle, know your worth, be with people who respect you. Pay attention to those who show up for you, show genuine interest in your life, and lift you up. Focus your energy on people who cheer for you, fight for you, cry with you, and make you laugh until tears flow. It might take time—a lot of time—but they're out there, and one day your paths will align so perfectly that the lonely waiting period will feel worthwhile. At our second Thanksgiving celebration in Italy, twice as many friends gathered around our table—Italians and internationals alike, proving that Italians will happily join any excuse to celebrate with good food and company. As we shared our gratitude, I looked around at this diverse gathering of friends from across the world who had come together on this cool fall evening. It had taken time and courage to overcome many fears, but in that moment, I realized the wait had been worth it. These friendships that made me feel this way were friendships worth waiting for. It felt like warmth, like love, like home.

Chapter 7: Independence and Vulnerability: The Power of Asking for Help

The first time I went to the gynecologist in Italy, I wore a romper. This might not seem significant, but wearing a romper to an Italian gynecologist is completely different than in the U.S. In America, the nurse gives you a thin gown and privacy to undress before the doctor enters. In Italy, the doctor stays in the room and simply tells you to remove your bottoms and hop on the table—no sheet, no privacy. With a romper, this meant being completely naked. That's how I learned Italians are quite comfortable with their bodies. This was just one of countless culture shocks I experienced. Around age eight, I first understood the value of money when my mom balked at $40 jeans I wanted. This early awareness sparked a fierce drive for financial independence that shaped my core values. Working summer jobs as a teen evolved into juggling multiple positions throughout college and my New York years. This self-reliance had benefits—teaching me resilience, problem-solving skills, and boundary-setting. But it also created a profound resistance to accepting help and deep shame when I couldn't solve problems independently. After moving to Italy and losing my sense of independence, I decided a solo day trip might help reclaim it. I chose Pisa, an easy 50-minute train ride from Florence. After visiting the leaning tower and enjoying traditional cecina (chickpea cake) at a local pizzeria, my phone died. Without a portable charger, I headed to the station for my return train to Florence. Exhausted, I accidentally fell asleep aboard what I thought was my train. Waking up, I sensed something was wrong. Looking out the window, I saw the sea and unfamiliar landscape. When highway signs for Rome appeared—the opposite direction from Florence—I realized my mistake. Finding the conductor, I learned the last train back to Florence would depart from the next station in 90 minutes. When he discovered my phone was dead, he pointed to a small town visible from the platform, suggesting I might find a charger there. Standing alone at dusk on a rural train platform, surrounded by woods with no way to communicate my whereabouts, adrenaline kicked my brain into problem-solving mode. I walked along the tracks, passing closed shops until spotting someone entering a small bar. Inside, I faced three staff members who likely spoke as little English as I spoke Italian. The panic rose as I fumbled for words, but the older man smiled reassuringly, and we began communicating through charades and single Italian words. When I indicated my dead phone, the younger man said, "Vieni con me" (come with me) and led me to a convenience store. After purchasing a charger, he accompanied me back to the bar, where they plugged in my phone, offered me beer and snacks, and chatted patiently while waiting for my train time, speaking slowly as I formed broken Italian responses. They refused payment for the beer and offered to walk me back to the station. This experience revealed something profound about Italian culture. For all their pride, Italians aren't afraid to admit when they need help or accept support when offered. They depend on each other in a beautiful dance of independence and interdependence, understanding that we cannot walk through life alone. When someone needs help, they step in, knowing the situation will eventually be reversed. I saw this daily yet hadn't embraced it myself. When living or traveling abroad, relying on others is inevitable. Vulnerability in these moments isn't weakness but strength. Just as five-year-olds rely on adults to understand the world, we find ourselves in similar situations years later. The difference is that adults have experienced independence, making its temporary loss more painful. We cling tighter, afraid to let go of what we closely tie to our sense of self. After that day, I began putting pride aside and accepting help. When facing health issues unfamiliar to Dario, his mother would drop everything to get medicine or call her doctor for prescriptions. When struggling with website design for my business, I finally accepted help from Dario's friend who built websites professionally. I hired my friend Meredith to design graphics, accepted language correction from Italians, and even sought therapist recommendations—perhaps the most intimate form of asking for help. And Dario—that man selflessly helped with everything imaginable without question or judgment. He stepped in when I needed help but was too proud to ask, and stepped back when he knew I could manage alone, always ready if needed. Having a partner in a new country presents unique challenges in asking for and accepting help. Though also independent, Dario grew up in a culture where interdependence is normal and healthy, giving him a different perspective when he lived abroad. I began to understand that true independence isn't never seeking help, but recognizing our strengths and limitations without fear of admitting them. Ironically, opening myself to vulnerability by asking for help developed a more balanced form of independence than I'd previously known. I can't remember the name of that small town or the people who helped me that day, despite searching train routes many times. What I do remember is their kindness and the crucial reminder that someone will always help if needed—at home or abroad—if you first let them.

Summary

The journey beyond your comfort zone is where life truly begins. Whether boarding a plane to a foreign country, starting a business that terrifies you, or simply saying hello to a stranger in a hostel, facing your fears is the greatest catalyst for personal growth. The lessons gained from these experiences—resilience, cultural understanding, self-compassion, and the courage to be vulnerable—transform not just how you travel, but how you live. Don't wait for perfect circumstances or permission to pursue what calls to you. Start today by taking one small step toward what scares you, whether that's researching a solo trip, learning ten phrases in a new language, or reaching out to someone different from yourself. Remember that asking for help isn't weakness but strength, that failure is your greatest teacher, and that the world becomes infinitely richer when experienced through an open heart and mind. The magic isn't in avoiding discomfort—it's in discovering who you become by moving through it anyway.

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Kacie Rose

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