Falling in love in Italy

I did it.

I made the biggest mistake any traveler can make.

I fell in love while living abroad.


I guess it’s not all that crazy. I met an American guy in Italy (even better, a Midwestern guy!). A guy who treated me with kindness and respect. As many of you know, a guy like that isn’t always easy to find. We would Skype at night or during his lunch breaks and the hours would pass without either of us realizing. There was no denying our connection.  Nonetheless, I just wanted us to be friends. It was great to have someone here who spoke English, understood my jokes, and made me feel special.

Our first “date” was watching the Super Bowl with a few of his friends. He had access to American television and I did not, so it was the perfect excuse to finally get together. Plus, you can never go wrong with a football date.

blogphoto2.jpgBefore the game, he came to my host family’s house and had dinner with us. He was so polite, it was easy to see that he was exactly the guy that I should want to be with. The rest of the night was perfect as well, it was as if we’d known each other for years.  Still, l was cautious. Don’t date someone here. It’s only temporary.

A couple days after the Super Bowl, I flew back to America and it was only about a week after that, that he asked me to be his girlfriend. Don’t say yes, I told myself. This is too good to be true. But I couldn’t help myself. I said yes. And so it began.

That first month was difficult. I was in the States and he was back in Italy. I couldn’t wait to see him again. I couldn’t wait for my plane to land and for him to hold me in his arms. How could I miss someone so much after spending so little time with them? Actually, I was kind of nervous. What if he’s not as great as you remember? But, of course, he was. He opened doors for me, carried my luggage, walked on the outside of the sidewalk as if he could protect me from all sorts of danger.


We spent the rest of that day in Verona, one of the most romantic cities in the world. We had gelato and I took him to some of my favorite spots. He kissed me on the Castelvecchio Bridge. It was perfect. I felt happy and safe.


Things just got better after that. He never complained about the long drives to pick me up, which was good, because I was always looking forward to our weekends together. I could just walk around the cobblestone streets for hours, holding onto his arm, never believing that this could really be my life. We went on a lot of weekend adventures to different towns, but we tried to spend time with my host family in Small Town, Italy as well. Even they had fallen under his spell, and they welcomed him to the family just as they had welcomed me. Eventually, all of our plans included each other. We spent his birthday with his friends and Easter with his family.

Sometime at the end of April, I told him I loved him (on accident) and he told me he felt the same way (on purpose). Everything was good. For the first time in my life, I didn’t care about what would happen in the future. That is, as long as he was in it.

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We had our challenges, of course. The month of May was especially hard. He had to leave for a month and time went by so slowly. Though he was always quick to reassure me, I worried that he would forget about me or that he wouldn’t love me when he got back. Eventually, though, I was in his arms again, feeling happy and safe. Then, it was my turn to leave for a couple of weeks. I traveled around Europe, the whole time wishing he was with me. Everything I experienced didn’t feel real because he wasn’t experiencing it with me. I was almost happier to fly “home” to him than I was to visit all those new places. I’d never felt so drawn to someone before. Sometimes I actually hated myself for caring so deeply about a person I’d gone my whole life without. But this guy… this guy was special. He made me feel worthy and beautiful and loved. He made up for every shitty guy who’s ever hurt me.

And that’s what makes writing this so hard. Because I was right, it was too good to be true.


I honestly wish I could say that he cheated on me. Or that he hit me. Or that he stole from me. Anything. But none of that would be true. Let me reiterate: he always treated me with kindness and respect.

So, what happened? I wish I had a good, concrete answer for you, but I don’t. All I can do is walk you through what I will always remember as the best, and worst, week of my life.

In mid-June, we decided to take a weekend trip to Croatia. Our first vacation together. It started with a romantic night in Venice, drinking wine and eating pasta, walking along the canals. Later on, we got in a little fight. After all, we weren’t perfect. But in the end, I went to bed happy. He never wanted me to go to sleep upset and we were good at talking things out. We spent the next four days in Croatia and I truly can’t express how amazing it was. We would spend our days at the beach, just laughing and talking, never running out of topics. He made me feel confident wearing my swimsuit because he knew I hated being seen in one. At night, we would get dressed up and go out for dinner in Old Town. He would tell me, again, that I looked beautiful in whatever dress I was wearing. I would tease him for whatever hideous Hawaiian shirt he decided to wear (though I secretly loved it). Everything felt right. This is how it should be.

Anyone who saw our photos from those evenings would be able to see on my face how content I was, just being there with him.



Even the drive home was fun. Listening to him loudly sing 90s songs and making plans about what we would do when we both returned to America in July (we even coordinated our visits home). I wanted that car ride to last forever so that our perfect trip would never end. I was sad when he dropped me off at home and I was forced to accept that the weekend was over. I didn’t want that goodbye kiss. Little did I know, it would be the last kiss we ever shared.

Later that night, four hours after he dropped me off, I got a phone call from him. I instantly smiled. “You miss me already?!”

I don’t remember how he responded, but I instantly knew something was wrong. I always knew when something was wrong. He told me he didn’t feel good, but I could tell it was more than that. Eventually, he said it.

“Ally, I think we need to pump the breaks on this whole thing.”

Wait, what? What did he just say?

It’s hard to remember the conversation that followed. It felt like the room was spinning. He told me he didn’t see a future with me. That he couldn’t go home and meet my parents or have me meet his family if he didn’t see this going anywhere in the long run.

I asked him what changed. I asked him how this could be happening. I asked him if he just wanted us to end things and I hoped he would say no.

But he said yes and I hung up.


I was shocked. The next two days were a blur. My host mom tried to comfort me, but I still would erupt in tears at any given moment. I couldn’t eat or drink. I couldn’t fall asleep because then I would dream that everything was okay. But it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. My heart had been ripped out. I didn’t know why any of this was happening.

Two nights after our perfect vacation and that nightmare of a phone call, we agreed to talk on the phone again. I wanted an honest answer. I wanted closure. And, if I’m honest, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could change his mind. I asked him if there was something I was doing that was bothering him, that made him change his mind, he said no. I asked him if there was someone else, he said no. I asked him if he’d always felt this way, he said no, of course not. I asked him if he felt this way in Croatia, and again, he said no. He said he still loved me, that he really was happy with me. Yet, something had obviously changed. He didn’t see himself marrying me.

For the first time since I met him, I was actually mad at him. What does that even mean?! How does this make sense?! How can you do this to someone?! I tried to see things from his point of view. I tried to understand what he was saying. But it was useless. He had no concrete reasoning for why he wanted to end things, he just felt it was right.

So, that’s it. We said goodbye. We will not remain friends. I’ll never again hold his hand as we walk down cobblestone streets, sharing gelato. I’ll never again see that smile I’ve come to love so much. There will be no more firsts for us, no more plans. My perfect Italian romance is over just as quickly as it began. And I have zero closure.IMG_5162-2
I know it’s time to move on. Time to delete pictures that, until now, never got to be posted. Time to get that “revenge body” Khloe Kardashian is always talking about. Time to write more. Time to travel by myself. Really though, I’m lucky. I have an amazing support system at home and amazing friends all over the world who are never more than a phone call away. They tell me that I deserve better, but I’m not so sure about that yet.

Trust me. I want to hate him. I want to make this post a big “screw you!” to the guy who, ironically, was always pushing me to write more blog posts. But I can’t. He’s a good guy and I still love him. He’s the guy I wanted to show off to the world. I can’t say for sure that I saw myself marrying him, but I knew I wanted to spend as much time with him as I could. We were good together, we had fun, and we were in love. For him, that wasn’t enough of a reason to stay together. And now I’m left feeling like I wasn’t enough. Nonetheless, he doesn’t deserve to be hated. He was what every boyfriend should strive to be.Image-1-1-2

I mean it. The point of this post is not to make you hate him or to make you feel bad for me. And if he’s reading this, I hope he understands why I felt the need to write it. My hope is that anyone reading this won’t make the same mistake that I did. I’m not telling you to not fall in love. Fall in love with your travels. Fall in love with the food and the culture. Fall in love with the scenery and the language. And meet people. Meet people who make you smile and who make you feel worthy. But don’t fall in love with them.

I know this is probably controversial. I know a lot of people have met the love of their life while traveling abroad. I just ask that you be sure of what you are getting yourself into. Because now, whenever I think of Italy or Croatia or Slovenia, I’ll think of the guy who broke my heart. The guy who wrote in my birthday card “Ally, I am so incredibly lucky to have you in my life. I love you!” and then a week later decided I wasn’t the one for him. All of my memories are tainted. Even when I wasn’t with him, I was thinking about him and where we would go next or what we would see.

Everything is different now, because I let myself fall in love in Italy.




Out With the Old, in With the FOMO

Ciao a tutti! Hello everyone!

I know, I know. It’s been a while, but I’ve finally managed to get my act together long enough to write another post. I wish I could say I’ve been super busy, but as you know, I just love to procrastinate (See: For Real This Time…). Here in Italy, the winter cold is far behind us and Easter is just around the corner. Spring is, and always has been, my favorite season. I’ll admit, I’m even more thrilled to be spending it in Angiari, where I don’t have to worry about surprise blizzards in May. Regardless of where you live, there’s something so beautiful about this time of change and new beginnings. There are the obvious changes, like the snow melting, flowers blooming, students graduating, and of course, baseball starting up again (sorry, had to “toss” that in somewhere). There are also changes that aren’t as easy to see, changes that occur within ourselves.

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March looks good on Angiari!

I have experienced a lot of these more personal changes during my time abroad. Some of them I’m very happy about: gaining the confidence to travel on my own, learning a new language, and relying on my family less. I mean, don’t get too excited, there is still plenty of room for improvement in all these areas, but I definitely have made some progress. There have also been changes that I’m not exactly thrilled about, and I’m not just talking about six hour time changes or changes in my pant size (lol, thank you, pasta). The hardest change I’ve had to overcome is the change of traditions. Out with the old, in with the new.

Right now, back in the Midwest, my family is making plans for Easter–who’s hosting it, what kind of potatoes to make (cheesy, duh)–and placing bets on whether or not Nick will make it through lunch without taking his shirt off (you’re welcome for that shout out, big bro). If I were at home, I would be making arrangements to sing in church or I’d be picking out the perfect Easter dress, preferably one that hides my inevitable food-baby. Of course, this year, my Easter will be a lot different. Furthermore, as spring speeds past us and summer arrives, my friends will hang out more.

200.gifThere will be music festivals, baseball games, and days spent on the lake. They’ll have new inside jokes and they’ll make new memories. Though I am incredibly happy and blessed to be living in Italy, I can’t help but think about these “new memories” and how I won’t be apart of them. While I am living my life here, everything is still going on back home. I have a severe case of F.O.M.O.
giphy-3In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, FOMO is the fear of missing out. It’s something you’ll inevitably experience when you live 5,000 miles from home. For me, it’s the hardest thing about living overseas and this is probably due to my ADHD. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to be in the current moment, it’s constantly interrupted by an explosion of thoughts about what’s going on back home. Don’t get me wrong, I knew that I would get homesick, but I didn’t know I would miss so many things. It’s as if my homesickness is amplified by my ADHD.

Now I don’t mean to be *that person* and complain about living in Italy, but as I read more and more blogs about other people’s experiences as au pairs, I’ve noticed that this is something that is often ignored. We all try to create this illusion that we are perfectly happy living abroad and being away from our family and friends, but the truth is, we think about it everyday. Well, I do at least.

That being said, the point of this post isn’t just to tell you how much I’ve missed my mom’s baked corn and my brother’s wacky sense of humor. It’s also meant to show you how I’ve learned to enjoy new traditions and experiences, even though I’m missing out on the old ones. To explain, I’ll have to take you back in time a few months, to where my FOMO was the strongest: the holiday season.


I could write an entire blog post purely devoted to the Klug Family Thanksgiving. I usually look forward to it all year, but this year, I was dreading it. I wasn’t going to be able to watch the parade with my grandma or eat the amazing meal prepared by my mother (seriously, this latter part is very important. I know everyone thinks their mom, or maybe their grandma, is the world’s best cook, but I’m going to let you all in on a little secret: my mom is better. Especially on Thanksgiving). Besides missing out on the amazing food, I also wouldn’t be able to participate in our post-dinner traditions, like playing “Up and Down the River” while watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation or Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

While I am sad to have missed out on these traditions this year, I really can’t complain too much. As always, my host family had my back! Francesca and her teacher invited me to come to the school and teach the third grade classes about Thanksgiving in America. Processed with VSCO with e5 presetI had to review a few things before hand (American history has never really been my area of expertise), but this experience pushed me out of my comfort zone, in a good way; I never thought I would be standing in front of a room full of Italian eight year olds, talking about turkeys and the pilgrims. It also allowed me to reflect on what this holiday is really about. This year, I was reminded that it’s not about where I celebrate or who I celebrate with, but to be grateful for what I’ve been given and the opportunities that lay before me. IMG_0690The weekend after Thanksgiving, Elisabetta and I spent the day making (or attempting to make) my mom’s usual recipes. There were a few ingredients we couldn’t find and neither of us had cooked a turkey before, but I wouldn’t change a single thing if I could. Elisabetta festively decorated the dining room table and Francesca and I displayed the paper cornucopias we had made earlier that week.FullSizeRender-6 It was the perfect meal and it was spent with my favorite Italian family. We even watched Home Alone, a more kid-friendly movie favorite of the Klug family. I might have missed out on a few things back home, but I will forever have a new Thanksgiving memory and my host family might even have a few new traditions of their own.

**EDIT: While visiting home this March, my mom was wonderful enough to throw a second Thanksgiving dinner. I guess I got the best of both worlds!


I honestly thought being away from home during Christmas time would be harder than it was. There were a few things I definitely missed: the snow, singing in church on Christmas Eve, and of course, my family’s holiday traditions. For the most part, however, I was just excited to experience Christmas in a different part of the world. Each Italian city I visited was perfectly decorated with hanging lights and giant Christmas trees. It didn’t matter if I was in Florence, Milan, Venice, Verona, or even small town Angiari, each was as beautiful as the one before it.

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Christmas tree in Piazza della Repubblica, Florence


Santa Race on the Grand Canal, Venice


Christmas tree in Piazza San Marco, Venice

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Christmas tree in Piazza del Duomo, Milan

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The Christmas Star outside the Arena, Verona

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Finally: the decorations in the center of Angiari

I was able to experience some of my favorite holiday traditions while also enjoying new ones. I watched my Christmas movies with Francesca (she may or may not be afraid of the Grinch now). I drank hot chocolate after a day spent ice skating or shopping. I taught Francesca and her classmates the words to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I even got to hear a recording of this year’s Christmas at Luther (shameless plug for my Alma Mater), something I was worried I would miss out on. We celebrated the arrival of not only Santa Claus, but also Santa Lucia and Befana. I even saw Sinterklaas during a weekend trip to Amsterdam!

However, the distractions could only last for so long. My FOMO eventually came back. Christmas Eve had its ups and downs. I loved celebrating with my host family and exchanging gifts by the Christmas tree, but it felt strange to not be getting ready for church or eating oyster stew with my family. Instead of dwelling on this, I decided to spend part of my night rereading the story of Jesus’s birth and listening to my favorite hymns. The rest of my night was spent with my friends in a nearby town, celebrating in the streets and cheering when the clock finally struck midnight. On Christmas day, FOMO hit me once again. My dad sent me a text wishing me a “Merry Christmas!” followed by photo of my brothers and cousins. Again, I refused to worry too much about what I was missing back home and decided to instead have a little fun. Refusing to be left out of any family photo, I sent my dad a series of new ones, with me photoshopped into them. My family had a good laugh and I was able to be (somewhat) a part of their Christmas celebration.

The holiday season was definitely a little rough at times. I cried more than I’m willing to admit. Easter and the summer months will bring along their share of challenges as well. However, I’m learning that I can’t let FOMO interfere with what’s going on right in front of me. I also can’t allow myself to feel guilty about not being able to physically be there for my family and friends. Italy is where I’m meant to be right now and I hope they understand that. In the spirit of springtime, I refuse to be sad about what might be different here or what I am missing out on back home. This is the time to celebrate every new beginning and cherish all the little changes, whether they are big changes, like searching for my first “big girl” job; or small, like celebrating Easter with a new friend.

I’m excited for whatever comes my way this primavera. Sometimes, it’ll be hard. Sometimes calling my best friend or FaceTiming my mom (and dog) won’t be enough. I’ll dread seeing Facebook posts and Instagram photos shared by my friends. I’ll want to go home; but FOMO will be there no matter where I go, it’s a part of life. Our happiness depends on how we decide to deal with it.  

I hope you all have a blessed Easter, full of change and new life!

See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come…” (Song of Solomon 2:11-12). 

Small Town, Italy

Well, it’s been a while, but as a famous Italian plumber once said, “Imma back!”

A lot has happened since my first post: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, trips to various cities…and I promise, I’ll write about all of that soon! But first, I think I should explain where exactly I have been living for the past few months. Anyone who follows me on social media has, by now, probably figured out that I am in Italy. However, there’s obviously more to a place than its name and its coordinates on a map. It’s made up of the people who live there, the various sights and sounds, and even the feeling you get as you walk down the street. These are the things that make a place special. And for me, these are the things that make “Small Town, Italy” feel like home.


I don’t think I ended up in Angiari by chance. Before you roll your eyes, this post isn’t going to be one of those “God has a plan for all of us” speeches. I’m just saying… I don’t think I ended up here by chance.

When I decided to become an au pair, I received over 200 offers from families all over the world. For a month I looked over the various applications, what the families were offering, where they lived, how many kids they had, etc. It was a little overwhelming and, eventually, all the families started to blend together. However, for whatever reason, the first offer I received stood out to me the most.


We live near Verona, between Milan and Venice, in the North of Italy.
I have a small family; we are 3, me, my husband and my little girl Francesca (7 years old). We’d like to know if you would like to come with us for a period (6-12 months or more).
And what about you?

Ciao, Elisabetta

There’s nothing necessarily “special” about this message. Sure, I was excited because it was my first offer, but it was also more than that. A lot of families immediately jumped into the logistics of their offer: how much they would pay me, where I would live, how many kids I would look after, other jobs I’d be expected to do… However, the more I talked to Elisabetta, the more I realized that she wasn’t trying to hire me as an “employee,” she was inviting me to be a part of her family.

I had the unique opportunity of meeting Elisabetta, her husband Roberto, and her daughter Francesca a few weeks later, while my family was on vacation in Italy. After having dinner together, I knew this was the family I was going to choose, and sure enough, two months later, I was flying back to Venice to meet them once again! 

It wasn’t until I was flying over the Atlantic Ocean that I realized I didn’t actually know where Elisabetta and her family lived. All I knew was that they lived “near Verona, between Milan and Venice.” So… I started to panic a little. How could I have been so stupid as to not ask them where they lived? Or maybe they told me and I just forgot? Wouldn’t be the first time… Either way, my mind was racing. Between that and the guy sitting next to me on the plane who talked for eight straight hours and kept referring to me as his “wife,” I was too paranoid to sleep.giphy

By the time I arrived in Venice, I had been awake for 24 hours, I smelled bad, and I was cranky. While I was still excited to meet my host family, I was dreading the idea of trying to act like a functioning human being. As we drove away from the airport and closer to what would be my new home, the same questions continued to scroll through my head like a news ticker:

Where are we going? What if I don’t like it there? What if they don’t like me

As we drove, Roberto and Elisabetta calmed my unspoken nerves by telling me about Verona and other cities as we passed by them. Francesca didn’t say much, but I could tell she was excited for me to be there, which made me feel better as well. That is, until 30 minutes later, when, on top of my anxiety and lack of sleep, I started to feel car sick.  I was about to ask Roberto to pull over when Elisabetta pointed out her window and said, “We are arriving in the big city of Angiari!” I remember laughing along with Roberto and Francesca, but it wasn’t until we turned into town that I actually understood her joke. Angiari was in fact not a “big city” but rather a small village. And just like that, all of my anxiety and crankiness and nausea disappeared. I looked out the window as we drove through the main part of town and something in the back of my mind told me, “This is it. This is home.”


It wasn’t until later that day, after a much needed nap and some lunch, that I realized why exactly Angiari felt like home as quickly as it did. As Elisabetta, Francesca, and I walked down the cobblestone sidewalks, I felt like I was walking in my own small town, back in Wisconsin. Okay, so maybe the buildings of Spring Valley aren’t as colorful as those in Angiari and maybe there’s no cobblestone sidewalks or large tower standing near the church. However, the feeling I got as I walked down the street was exactly the same.  

As we walked, Francesca would tell me the names of the dogs that belonged to each house. When we walked past the small elementary school, she pointed out which classroom she would be in that school year. At the park, Elisabetta introduced me to a few of the mothers of Francesca’s classmates. I listened as they spoke in Italian to one another, and even though I understood almost none of what they were saying, I could tell they were gossiping. For some reason that made me smile. Typical small town. During the walk home, I could sense the community around me, like one big family. It all seemed familiar and safe. 

That will always be my first impression of Small Town, Italy.

With a population of only about 2,200 people, I know that Angiari might not be perfect for every au pair. There’s no train that runs through town, taking you to bigger cities. There’s no shopping center, movie theatre, museum, or gym. In fact, when I returned to the States after my first month in Italy, my family and friends all asked “So, what do you do in your spare time? Don’t you get bored? Aren’t you lonely?”

They’re all good questions. I often wonder if I made the right decision in coming here. After all, I love cities just as much as I love small towns (before deciding to be an au pair, my plan was to move to Minneapolis or Chicago). And It’s not that I don’t get lonely or bored. Meeting people my age has definitely been one of the biggest challenges for me. I’m a social person, I like to meet new people and make friends. I read blogs about au pairs becoming good friends with other au pairs that live in their city, but in Small Town, Italy, it’s not so easy. There aren’t a lot of 20-somethings hanging around, especially during the school year. However, the friends that I have made in Angiari are amazing people who always make me feel welcome, from simple get-togethers to celebrating Christmas Eve and New Years Eve. There’s no denying that, at times, it can be difficult and, well, awkward. I don’t speak enough Italian and only a few of them speak English, but they try to translate as much as they can and I try to learn more and more every time we hangout.


As far as boredom goes, it is very rare. My host family is great about making sure I experience as much of Italy and Europe as I can. We often go to the nearby town of Legnago for coffee and tea or to see movies at the cinema or to go to AquaGym at the pool (my personal favorite, we go twice a week!). We also take a lot of day trips to various cities, some that I never would have thought to go to. Roberto often tells me about the history of the cities and Elisabetta always makes sure there’s time for shopping. Francesca and I take a lot of photos together and for the first time in my life, I have a little sister. I don’t think every au pair is lucky enough to work for a family that cares so much. I’m so thankful for all of our adventures. I will write about some of our trips in upcoming posts, but here are a few highlights:


Our first trip to Verona


Roberto and Elisabetta during our trip to Lake Garda


On the boat that took us around Lake Garda


Cobblestone street in Mantova


Francesca and I in Florence


The view after we finished iceskating in Bosco Chiesanuova


Another trip to Verona after Christmas


Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan

All of these cities have been great, but the best feeling in the world is returning home to small Angiari after a long day. Living in Florence or Milan is, of course, very appealing, but I know deep down that they wouldn’t be a good fit for me. There would be too many distractions, too many noises, too many people… and while I love to visit, I know they aren’t places that I would thrive in. At least, not yet.

In Angiari, I am able to concentrate on being a good au pair for Francesca, to teach her as much as I can, while I can. In my spare time, I go for walks by the river, study Buddhist psychology, play piano and sing, read (for fun, what?!), practice Italian, and think about what I’m going to do when my time in Italy is finished. I’m happy in Angiari because I’m comfortable here; I do things I would normally do at home. I don’t feel like a tourist trying to fit in, but rather a part of the community.

I don’t think I ended up here by chance. It’s almost too perfect of a fit. Between the friendly people, my caring host family, and the romantic scenery that Italy is known for, I really couldn’t ask for more. I don’t know where I’ll be years from now, but I know that I will always love my home in Small Town, Italy.


For Real This Time…

I’m doing it. I’m finally doing it. No more excuses. No more anxieties. I’m freaking doing it.

I’m starting a blog.

Okay, but if I’m honest with you guys, even as I type this, my inner dialogue is going something like:

Me: Just take it one word at a time

Me to me: Go to bed and finish tomorrow morning. 

Me: But I promised myself I’d finish toni-

Me to me: You have 8 more days before the Gilmore Girls revival and you’re only on season 4 of the original series…

So, the evil Kermit won. I started writing this on Thursday night and it is now Monday. You win some, you lose some. As I was saying…

I’m starting a blog (for real this time).

I know this doesn’t appear to be much of an endeavor. Lately it seems like everyone and their dog has a blog of some kind (there’s literally a show on Disney Channel about it. Spoiler: it’s terrible). For me, however, blogging is a challenge; it is the mountain that I am never ready to climb.

Why? I guess you can *blame it on my ADD, baby* (sorry, even I hate that I said that).

I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was in the second grade. If you somehow have never heard of it, ADHD stands for attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder and just in case there is any confusion: YES it is a real thing, YES it is a chronic illness that, for some, requires lifelong treatment, and NO this is not up for debate. Moving on…

You might be thinking, “What does this have to do with her struggling to start a blog?” and my response is “Everything.” But for the purpose of this post, my reasoning can be summed up into a single word:

I know, I know. Now and then, everybody is guilty of procrastinating. It’s human. However, I, ladies and gentlemen, am the Beyoncé (read: queen) of procrastination.

It is my superpower, given to me by the radioactive spider that is ADHD. And my weakness? Anything that requires time and commitment. Do you know what takes time and commitment? B L O G G I N G.

Is this starting to make sense now? Let me break it down a little more.

For me, starting a blog is like starting a college research paper. At first, I’m excited and I promise to get started right away. Inevitably, seven weeks will pass, and not a single word will be written. To avoid failing, I’ll work like a crazy person for two days–not stopping to eat or sleep–until I have produced a decent paper. But this isn’t a college research paper. There are no deadlines or final grades. In other words, there’s no extrinsic motivation. It’s all up to me and THAT is what makes this so difficult. Without some sort of external reward or consequence, I will continue to put this off.

Now you might be thinking, “Ok, so just don’t do it? Find a new hobby? Move on with your life?” And, yeah, I guess that is an option. But here’s the thing: today’s “starting a blog” is tomorrow’s “running a marathon” or next year’s “finding a job.” If I continue to succumb to my procrastinating ways, I will never learn. I will never progress. More importantly, I want to do this. I want to write about my travels and my experiences abroad. Fifty years from now, I want to be able to remember the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done. I want to share these stories with my family and friends. I finally have enough intrinsic motivation and I am ready to give up my procrastination superpowers.

Basically, this blog is an “assignment” that is six years overdue.

The first time I thought of starting a blog was after my Junior year of high school as I was getting ready to go to Spain. It was my first trip abroad and I wanted to document everything. I was already an avid writer and lover of social media, so I thought it would be easy. However, saying “I’ll do it later” turned into “maybe on my next trip…” and eventually, the pictures were all filed away or lost on old USB sticks and many of my experiences in Spain were quickly forgotten. Now, six years, seven countries, and countless forgotten trips later, I am finally learning my lesson.

About four months ago, I decided to move to Italy to work as an au pair. Not only would this give me time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, it would also allow me to travel more. Upon hearing this news, my close friend and fellow globetrotter, Molly, recommended that I write about my adventures abroad. I thought YES. I’m finally doing this. If the Cubs can win a World Series, I can start a blog.

Even though I was finally ready to start climbing ‘Blog Mountain,’ it took me a couple months to decide what I really wanted to write about. There are thousands of travel blogs out there, written by people who are much more talented and worldly than myself. I wanted to find a way to make mine different. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my experiences are, in fact, different.

In my blog, you won’t find an organized list of museums to visit or restaurants to avoid. You won’t find a detailed history of the last city I visited. Actually, you’ll be lucky if I even remember the name of the city! No, I can’t write about that stuff, but I can write about traveling with ADHD.

During a tour, I’ll forget most of what the guide says because I’ll be distracted by the noises around me, but I’ll be able to tell you everything about the other tourists. Most days, I’ll get lost, probably because I forgot to pack a map, but I’ll be able to tell you about the perfect café I discovered as a result.

Sometimes, I’ll be emotional. I’ll cry and I’ll freak out in public places, but I’ll be able to tell you about traveling with depression and anxiety (disorders that co-occur with ADHD). I’ll write about all of my experiences, the good and the bad; when I fail and when I succeed. I’ll write about what I’ve learned and how I’ve grown. Maybe it’ll be good, maybe it’ll absolutely suck, I don’t know. That’s the fun of it.

So. This is it. This is me turning in my assignment after six years of saying “I’ll do it later.” This is my blog. Like my mind, it’s going to be ~all over the place~.  I’m okay with that.