I remember saying that I wanted to live abroad, and specifically in Italy.

I had no idea about Italy by then. I hadn’t even been once, let alone the language, the culture, the cities. But I guess that was my intuition.

And the interesting part is that the lady reading my cards said yes, I was going to live abroad but somewhere overseas, and that wasn’t Italy.

My first arrival to the land of Great Britain was as an overseas student.

Go figure. Or go tarot.

I want to write about this without overthinking it, and without making it look like something different than it actually was.

Since I’m on the same journey, I’ve naturally come across a tremendous amount of “starting over” content. Everyone gives you advice on something, or teaches you something, or puts you in a box of “40+ starting over.”

And maybe I’m doing the same. I don’t know yet.

What I’m aiming for is to tell you my story without a filter. The vulnerable parts as much as the joyful ones, the struggles, the learnings, the sense of failing and the sense of winning as well.

I’m going through this live, so I’m stopping for a second, looking back at where I started, and noticing what I would actually tell myself a few months ago or even further back, when the idea was first planted.

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The decade in between

Obviously I started building my life in the UK, and in all the survival mode of setting up a life in a different country, I wasn’t thinking of Italy at all.

(A small detour, because it makes me laugh now: I was a university student but I’d already started working while I was studying, and funnily enough I was an editor for a tech magazine. Then I started my career as a digital marketer, mostly at tech companies. My bachelor’s was in journalism, my master’s in communications. And hey, now I’m writing. How surprising life is.)

Anyway, I diverted.

Then in 2017 I had a brutal break-up with my boyfriend at the time. As much as I was sad, I’m not going to hide that it was actually the best thing that happened to me, because since then the trajectory of my life changed.

This is the Eat Pray Love part. After the break-up I threw myself into solo travelling for the first time in my life, while literally being so fearful. Thankfully my friend was getting married in Italy at that time, so my travel adventures had a soft start, and I think it was the first time me and Italy met, on the most beautiful destination of all, the Costiera Amalfitana. I’ve spent a week or two in different parts of that coast almost every year since. Except this year, which I’ve mostly dedicated to Rome.

This isn’t a piece about my solo travels. But there was one thing: after that year I was in Italy more than once a year, every year.

Then I met Rome. Honestly, love at first sight, and we became attached to each other. I was back and forth, and at times I spent extended periods there.

There was always the thought at the back of my mind: I see myself living in Rome.

There’s a phrase in Italian: mi sento a mio agio. I feel at ease. That’s exactly what Rome did to me. Nothing more complicated than that.

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But…

It’s not always easy to leave a life you built over more than a decade. Or your career. Or your family and friends. Or even yourself because once you’re out of your comfort zone, or in a zone that’s not your home, or that’s now your new home, voluntarily or involuntarily, you’ll see a different version of yourself.

And that version is different from the version who moved abroad in their 20s.

I was raised to purely believe in life’s only path. Study, master the studies, find a job, master the career, climb the career structure, build the life, the home, the family. With that mindset, after decades of it, making a move on something you truly dream about and desire is the hardest thing you could ever do.

But then there comes a time. At least in my experience, there arrived the time.

I didn’t necessarily have to choose between a life I hated and one I dreaded. On the contrary, I was working a really good job, with really good people. I genuinely had a peaceful life, a healthy and productive routine.

But once something else is calling you, it is calling you.

Which also created fear. Fear of the unknown, of uncertainty, of the what-ifs, fear of regret.

And in between the good and the bad, after years of wanting it, I decided to do it. One of the videos I watched from a movie helped with that decision, too. I simply didn’t want to end up in my 50s saying I should have done that.

But let me be brutally straight and honest. I’m not selling a dream here, or telling you that once you’re out there it goes amazingly well. On the contrary it’s not an easy feat. But it’s not impossible either.

If not now, when?

I’m not writing this only for people who want to move somewhere else. This is for everyone, even if you want to change the smallest, simplest piece of your life. Because whether it’s starting over or changing one thing, there’s a commonality in the process.

And the question I’d start with is: if not now, when?

The answer may genuinely be “later,” and that’s fine. We’re all on a different journey and the timings differ for each of us. And unlike what social media tells you, you don’t need to start over once you hit your 40s. It may well be in your 20s — in fact I met brilliant people in Rome in their 20s who, in some form or shape, were starting over.

It’s not a spiritual injection or a piece of encouragement. It’s a genuine question, and in my case I literally did the maths. Here’s what that looked like for me, and what you might want to look at in yours.

Career: I was in a strong position, with decades of tangible marketing work experience, which made my anxiety a bit calmer in terms of future planning. If it doesn’t work out, I’d go back to my career. Knowing you have a tangible asset behind you makes it a little bit more relaxed.

Worth asking yourself: what’s the thing you’d go back to, and is it still there in a year?

Family: I’ve lived apart from my family for more than a decade now and they’ve become immune to me living and travelling in different parts of the world. So I’ve got their full support, but realistically I had to take a few things into account. They are ageing, and in fact my mum had cancer a few years back, when I had to spend most of my time in Istanbul to take care of her. Thankfully in this season of our small family everyone looks healthy and they’re getting along with their own life.

Worth asking yourself: what season are the people around you in right now, and are you deciding inside it honestly?

My sister: She needs her own section, because she’s the only family member in London. We’ve lived together and separately over the years, but she’s been a huge part of my life there. The decision of leaving her had to be thought about carefully, and I want to be honest that it didn’t resolve. It’s a cost I decided to carry.

Worth asking yourself: who’s the person this decision costs the most, and have you actually said it to them out loud?

Finances: “Quit your 9–5” is the most dangerous advice social media could ever give anyone. I won’t say it. On the contrary, I’d say assess your financial and logistical position in detail. If your change is like mine, I gave myself a year of run rate before I moved. If your change is something different, assess the logistical requirements instead. Even if it’s starting a diet, what would that mean for your shopping routine?

Worth asking yourself: what’s your runway, in months, written down as a number rather than a feeling?

Life: It will change, as I said, voluntarily or involuntarily. How resilient are you is a good question to ask and maybe developing a bit more resilience, maybe 1% more resilience, is the honest answer. It entails leaving your friends, your routine, your habits. The change you’re making will look different across all of those. Can you build new ones? What would it take?

Worth asking yourself: which one of those would you miss first, and what’s the smallest version of it you could rebuild?

Then look at the question again. If not now, when?

The answer may well be “yes, now.” Or “I need a bit more time.” And if it’s the second one, what I’d suggest is working out what that time actually looks like as a tangible plan.

Next up: where do I feel most misaligned?

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We all want a sugarcoat sometimes, it’s helpful, isn’t it? Particularly for the situations we’d rather not look at straight on.

However I’m not going to do that. Sadly no bright sides, no silver linings, no “everything happens for a reason” (a sentence I’d like to retire, personally). It’s just me, reality and the two camps of my mind. It’s a Thursday, it’s precisely 21:31 on a hot, rather sticky Rome evening, and life has just thrown one of those curveballs my way. It is the kind that doesn’t break anything visibly but quietly rearranges the furniture, and for some reason you don’t really get to have a say on where the sofa goes. No, we are not talking about the sofa here — more the question of where “home” is even allowed to be for the next few months.

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Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you’d like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I’m deeply grateful.

I won’t bore you with the details. They’re admin-shaped and specific and yours would look different anyway. What I want to talk about isn’t the curveball. It’s the part nobody sells tickets to: what you do in the hours after one lands in your world.

Because here’s what actually happened tonight. I sat down at 17:30 to work on something, a content plan to be precise, and I looked up at 21:30 having made nothing except a decision I didn’t choose and a small pile of admin dread.

Oh well... life, isn’t it?

And in that gap — the 17:30-to-21:30 gap where the plan quietly changed shape — two sides of my mind started talking. Both of them love chatting, but the question is which one I’d rather listen to.

So let me do this. I’ll write out the questions passing through two sides of my mind (and it has already answered some of them loudly, unhelpfully) and you help me decide which side I should actually believe.

Is this a failure? Or have I just not learned to count what I’ve actually done?

Is this a rejection? Or the kind of redirection you only recognise years later, looking back, wondering how you ever wanted the other thing?

Is there something worse waiting on the other side? Or the thing I’d never reach if I clung to the current plan?

Is this a question of my capability? Or am I actually capable of creating an even better outcome?

You already know where I’m heading with this. I can hear it too. But knowing the answer and living it are two different skills, and the second one is the only one that’s ever mattered.

The secret is in the real moment, in the ability to see clearly my pattern of thinking which one comes from the past and which one actually belongs to the new version of myself I’m embracing.

It is hard and I’m not going to sugarcoat this one either. But once you start building it, almost like a muscle, it gets slightly easier.

So this evening I’m not choosing to sugarcoat my reality, but I’m choosing to believe in the redirection.

And the real question, the one under all the others: in the middle of the redirection, can I keep betting on myself?

For now I just want your answer to one question: when life reshuffles your plan, which side of your mind do you let win?

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Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you’d like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I’m deeply grateful.

So this morning I went back to my messy Canva files. The handwritten wordmark, the little gold star, the half-finished draft with a quiet promise attached to it: I’ll do this properly one day. You know the file. You probably have one too.

Turns out one day was today. It took about an hour or two.

I know this one is a little off my usual track. I don’t normally write about tools. But sit with it for a second and it fits perfectly. In another life, the corporate one, a project like this would have meant a designer, a brand team, a deck, three rounds of feedback, a timeline. A whole department to build the thing that’s supposed to represent your brand.

And they’d have done it beautifully, better than I can, honestly. But that’s not the situation I’m in. When it’s just you, building a new life from scratch, the question isn’t “how do I make this studio-perfect.” It’s “how do I make it exist, and still have it feel like me.” This is the answer I found to that.

And now? It’s me, myself, and Claude. Building a new life, and building the brand for it at the same time. The reinvention and the thing that reflects the reinvention, happening in the same hour.

That’s really why I’m sharing this knowing it’s not a ground breaking invention. But if you’re somewhere on a similar road, leaving the structure behind, figuring out how to be the whole team now this is what it can actually look like.

So I wrote down exactly how I did it. The prompts, cleaned up so you can copy them, and the handful of things I wish I’d known before I started. You don’t need design skills. You need a rough starting point and the willingness to give honest feedback. That’s it.

One thing I held onto the whole way through: as with everything in this reinvention, a personal brand should reflect who you actually are. So I didn’t hand it over and ask for a brand. I guided it. We built it collectively, mainly me leading, so that what came out the other side still sounded like me.

There’s a version of this story that’s just about a tool, and honestly that version bores me. The version I care about is the one where you realise you are the team now, the strategist, the designer, the editor, the person deciding what feels like you and that turns out to be less frightening than it sounds. You just need something to hand to, and the nerve to say “no, not that, this.”

And if you build your own brand with this, reply and show me. I’d genuinely love to see it. 🤍

For a very long time, I was terrible at letting people go. Did I not feel the distance growing? Did I not see what was happening? Oh yes… I did. But I genuinely believed that the length of a friendship was proof of its value. That walking away, even quietly or even with love, was somehow a failure. Mine, specifically.

I’ve since learned that this is not true.

It just took a while. And a few goodbyes I wasn’t prepared for.

There was a time when my phone was full of names I spoke to regularly. People I travelled with, celebrated birthdays with, cried with, laughed with, shared entire chapters of life with. Today, many of those people are no longer part of my everyday. It’s a strange thing to sit with. But it doesn’t feel like a tragedy. It just feels like what happens.

For the past few years I’ve gone through a tremendous amount of change. Well… I intentionally chose to reinvent my life. But some of the biggest shifts in my circle happened precisely during the periods when I thought everything was stable. Which is the thing about life, isn’t it!? It doesn’t really wait for our permission. Even when we desperately want things to stay the same, life keeps moving.

People move cities. Careers evolve. Priorities shift. Hearts break. New dreams appear. Old ones disappear.

And in my experience, one of the quietest places all of this shows up is in friendships.

I grew up in a culture where friendship is almost sacred. Friends are not simply people you spend time with, they become family. They are invited into your home, your celebrations, your heartbreaks, your ordinary Tuesday evenings. It is one of the most beautiful things I inherited from my culture.

And I still believe in that kind of friendship. Genuinely. But I’ve also learned something harder to sit with.

Here’s the part I haven’t admitted yet.

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I used to be quite vocal about the idea that friendships are seasonal, that people grow into different versions of themselves, that not everyone is meant to travel the whole road with you. I believed it, and I said it out loud. Probably more than once. I thought I was being honest. Evolved, even.

Then I lived it, with someone I would have called my best friend.

She told me she never thought she would be one of those friends, the ones I’d described so freely, so theoretically. And yet there we were. She blamed me for not fitting the notion of friendship she had in her mind. And the truth was simpler than any accusation: we had just stopped being aligned. No villain required. No crime committed. Just two people who had grown into versions of themselves that no longer fit together.

It didn’t shake me the way I think it was supposed to. If anything, it confirmed something I’d already suspected that the theory was never the hard part. Living inside it, when it’s someone you love, is.

Because in each episode of my life, I’ve lost friends differently. With some it was quiet, a slow, almost imperceptible fade until they became memories rather than active characters. With some there was blame. With some I was the one who walked away, no scene, no drama, just a quiet recognition that something no longer fit. And with some, like this one, I was reminded, plainly, that what I believed was true all along.

I used to think every friendship was supposed to last forever. Now I think some friendships are meant to last exactly as long as they do.

The hardest part, honestly, has been accepting that longevity alone is not enough reason to hold on. The older I get, the more I find myself craving depth over shared history. Genuine connection over obligation. A friendship that still fits over one we’re both maintaining out of habit, or guilt, or the sheer weight of years.

Because time is precious, but time is not the same thing as alignment.

Many of the friendships I’ve outgrown were once incredibly meaningful. They shaped me. Loved me. And I loved them. But eventually I became someone different, and so did they. What once felt effortless started feeling forced. What once connected us quietly stopped existing.

The conversations changed. The values shifted. The paths diverged.

And as plain as that sounds, it’s also just life. Nobody failed. Nobody needed to become a villain for the story to end.

Maybe maturity is understanding that not every goodbye needs a dramatic reason. Sometimes people simply reach different destinations. Sometimes love remains while compatibility disappears. Sometimes gratitude replaces closeness. And sometimes the kindest thing we can do — for them and for ourselves — is allow someone to become part of our story rather than forcing them to stay in our present.

I don’t think losing friends always means something has gone wrong.

Sometimes it simply means you’ve continued the journey. And so have they.

Tell me — have you ever let someone go and felt both the grief and the relief at the same time? Because that particular combination is what nobody really talks about. And I’d love to hear if you’ve been there too. 💜

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Because here’s the thing that genuinely confuses me that we all seem to feel the same way. We’re all having the same disappointing experiences. Yet somehow it keeps happening. Which makes me wonder: should we look in the mirror and honestly ask ourselves if we’re playing our part genuinely, or are we just… going through the motions?

With absolute honesty I don’t know any of the answers and this is not a piece to point fingers at anyone. Or dissect my past relationships. Or explain my attachment style… No no no… I’m genuinely seeking answers on how we are connecting these days — or whether we’re connecting at all. And if any of you want to come forward and share your own views or stories, I’d actually love that.

I’ll start first…

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I now intentionally set the tone of “dating” even long before it’s labelled as a “date”. And I intentionally frame things as a friendship first, before anyone gets deeply caught up in their attachment style.

As someone who has always been utterly romantic and romanticised almost every encounter in life, I was sadly forced to learn to be more rational when it comes to relationships. I won’t lie though I’d still love butterflies in my stomach, or that deep pull toward someone.

I can already hear some of you saying “that’s just your nervous system attaching to the familiar and it’s not necessarily healthy.” I know, I know… And I know in my case it hasn’t always been healthy. But that’s life and I’m still learning. Still quite a lot to learn.

Anyway. Here we go.

So I met this guy online. In the past I would have been ashamed to say that, for some reason, which is ridiculous given the digital era we now live in. I think it’s more than fair that I met him through an app, though not a dating app exactly, more of a social platform.

My rational self looked at him as a potential nice encounter. I assessed the data points, that’s the growth marketer in me. Similar Mediterranean background, but also years of living abroad, specifically in the UK. Because I know that makes a real impact on your personality. There’s a reason why Brits are very particular about being British, and honestly I appreciate certain aspects of that.

Yet I’ve always missed that Mediterranean way of connecting… collective rather than individual, messy and spontaneous, a little last minute, dinner at ten pm. Almost a love-hate relationship.

So I proposed we have a coffee and a walk in the park on a Saturday morning at 10am to be precise. I thought it was a decent, low-pressure way to get to know someone. Friendly. Mature. What could possibly go wrong at 10am on a Saturday morning?

So we had the coffee. A nice chat. I learned a lot about the differences between northern and southern Italians. Then we went for a walk in the park. Very easy, very relaxed.

I didn’t have butterflies — I know for some people that’s a red flag — but somewhere between forcing my rational self forward and gently suppressing my romantic one, I promised I’d give it a chance. My sister would have been proud.

There were a couple of minor red flags or rather, things I personally wouldn’t bring up and find a little strange in a first meeting. He asked my religion, for instance. I don’t know why, but I often come across this question in Italy — I hardly experienced it in London. Maybe it’s cultural, maybe it’s just coincidence, but I always freeze when that question arrives so early. And then there was a stretch of conversation about what things cost whether they were cheap or expensive. Anyway. Sensitive topics, I won’t dwell.

Overall, a relatively nice coffee and walk. We even talked about next time — a Lebanese dinner, because we both love it, and because London has completely spoiled us with the richness of its food scene. Rome is a different kind of richness, purely, deeply Italian, but variety is harder to find here.

Again, I wouldn’t call it a date. I deliberately don’t label anything a date.

Then came the moment of saying goodbye.

Only it wasn’t a friendly goodbye.

At the crossroad, I gave him an almost-distant, perfectly friendly hug — and this guy, for some reason, decided he could kiss me. Leaned in. And I was like — BLIMEY.

No.

I mean… how on earth did a Saturday morning coffee walk near a traffic light suggest that was welcome? Since when did you decide you liked me enough to kiss me? And even if you did, why would you waste what could be a genuinely special moment at a crossroads in front of a red light?

I stepped back. ‘No.’ And just like that, the moment changed. I tried to soften it with a friendly ‘see you next time,’ but he just said ‘chissà’ (who knows) with this defensive edge. And I remember thinking: of everything that just happened, that’s what you’re defensive about?

And that was that. Another moment of quietly losing faith, and I returned to my sacred space — home.

This is just one example of the fast-food style connections we’re trying to make without really paying attention to the full picture. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve had other experiences where everything seems to go well and then you’re simply ghosted. But I can only tell one story at a time.

This isn’t a piece to analyse this one encounter specifically. It’s more of a genuine question: why are we struggling to make real connections built on solid foundations? Is it the overwhelming amount of choice we now have? Our scattered attention from three-minute Instagram reels? And I’m left wondering: did we trade the mess of real connection for the convenience of swipe-and-see? And if so, what exactly did we gain?

The only thing I know is that I don’t know anything. And the more I think about how people used to meet, messy and imperfect as that was too but deeply human, this new era feels so deeply at odds with the hopeless romantic in me.

There we go. Here I am, 42, caught between a romantic heart and a rational mind in an era that rewards neither.

Tell me yours.

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This is my story. At 24, I made a decision.

It wasn’t a decision out of fear (if you read my letter to my fear, you know how it played a role in certain areas of my life). This one came from somewhere deeper. A strong, almost stubborn pull toward something I couldn’t fully name yet.

I wanted to live abroad. To experience life abroad. Just for a short while, of course. At least, that was the intention.

So I resigned from my first job, (editor at a technology magazine) sorted the visa, the language school, the accommodation, and before I had time to fully process what I was doing, I was on a plane to London.

Thankfully not alone. A friend came with me. Small mercy.

Our destination was actually Shrewsbury, in the north of England. And my journey started with a few months of English school, a few months of growing, learning, and navigating a near-constant state of cultural shock. Those months passed faster than I expected.

I came back to Istanbul. Spent the most fun summer of my life at home. (Fully, completely, embarrassingly in love, as a side note.) And then in the autumn, I was back in the UK. Cambridge this time. A Master’s degree. In a language I was only barely comfortable in.

Before I left, everyone was certain I’d return home once I finished my studies. So was I. I was so deeply attached to my family and friends that I was surprised at myself for even taking this step.

But life, as it tends to do, had other ideas.

After Cambridge came a London internship. The internship turned into a full-time role. The role turned into a promotion. The promotion turned into a career. A real one I hadn’t even dared to imagine. I made friends. I bought a flat. I built a life entirely my own, entirely on my own terms.

100% mine.

In those first couple of years, I was always tearful on the phone home. I kept telling myself — and everyone else — that I’d be back at some point. Then at some point got extended. And then extended a little more. And a little more after that.

I visited home every three months. Sometimes more. But each time I flew back to London, the weight of leaving was almost physical. The hugs with my parents at the airport were the most emotionally loaded moments I knew. (Honestly? That part hasn’t changed.)

But something else did.

Slowly, quietly, the visits started to feel... different. A little distanced. And then one day I noticed something that genuinely unsettled me:

I was missing home.

But which home?

My London home.

The one I’d built from scratch.

And that’s when the confusion moved in. Permanently. Rent-free.

I would ache for Istanbul whenever I hadn’t visited in too long. And the moment I landed there, I’d quietly begin to miss London.

I felt detached from my homeland, not from the people I loved, but from a version of myself that used to live there. My teenage years, maybe. The girl I was back then. Before all of this.

It’s hard to name exactly. But it’s there. It has always been there.

And then, after a while, I outgrew London too.

Now I’m sitting in my London flat where “I’m visiting only for a week”. One week away from a flight to my home in Rome.

I’m already thinking about my plans for when I’m back home in Rome.

Three cities. Three versions of myself. All running simultaneously.

Did anyone ever ask any of them what they actually wanted? Exactly.

Here is what I know:

I miss Istanbul.
I miss London.
I miss Rome.

All at once. All the time.

And you know what? I think I might be one of the luckiest people alive to feel this way. To have loved so many places so completely that none of them will let me go.

I don’t have a clean answer to the question of where home is.

But maybe that’s not actually the question.

Maybe home isn’t a place you return to.

Maybe home is everywhere you’ve had the courage to begin. Maybe it’s everywhere you’ve left a piece of yourself behind.

If this resonates, I’d love to hear your stories in the comments. 💜

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You know the ones.

And for the record… do I believe in manifestation?

Loosely.

Okay, okay… Yes, I do.

But what I believe in more is this: the power of the mind you walk into situations with.

This is a story about that.

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Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you’d like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I’m deeply grateful.💙

If you’ve ever spent time in Italy, or even heard whispers of it, you’ll know one thing: bureaucracy here is… an experience. In my case, it’s the permesso di soggiorno. Thanks to Brexit, even staying longer requires navigating a system that feels, at best, clumsy. You apply for a visa in the UK, arrive in Italy, and then… start all over again.

But this is not a guide on how to survive Italian admin.

This is about how I decided to approach it.

Everyone I spoke to had a horror story about the questura. Words like chaotic, slow, stressful came up a lot. My Italian teacher simply called it: inferno. So by the time my appointment came around on 20th April, I wasn’t just practically prepared.

I was mentally prepared.

Because I’ve started to notice something about myself: when things feel like they could go wrong, my instinct is to get ahead of it, not by controlling the situation, but by choosing how I enter it.

Not toxic positivity.

Not pretending everything is perfect.

But a quiet, stubborn belief that things will work out smoothly.

Even more than that, that they already have worked out.

Did I fully believe it? Not always. Some mornings I’d say the words and my body would almost laugh at me. But I kept saying them. Not because I was sure. Because I was choosing.

So I told myself, repeatedly, before I even stepped in: This will be easy. This will be smooth. People will be kind.

And then I went in.

Open. Observing.

Because here’s the thing; everyone in that building is carrying something. Some chose to be there. Some had no choice at all. There was a woman next to me holding a folder so thick it told a whole life story without her saying a word. And somehow that made my nerves feel... smaller.

Everyone has a story.

Even the people working there, imagine doing that job every single day.

It shifted something in me.

So… what actually happened?

It went well. Suspiciously well.

Yes, I waited. Yes, it was crowded. But I worked while standing, people-watching, and — I’ll admit — got mildly entertained by a very “serious” (hmmm and I think, very handsome) military officer.

When it was my turn, the officer I sat with was kind, quick, almost… effortless.

He barely checked my documents which I prepared months ago. Five minutes later, I was done. I asked him repeatedly if that was actually it.

I even made it back to my Italian class.

Ciaoooo!

And then — a few days later — my mind reminded me it still has a personality of its own.

You’d think after the questura I’d trust myself a little more. That the evidence would be enough. But that’s the thing about the mind, it doesn’t care about evidence when it decides to spiral.

I was flying back to London after months away. And for absolutely no rational reason, fear crept in.

“What if I can’t enter the country?”

“What if something’s wrong?”

“What if… my passport just… stops working?”

Ridiculous, right?

Well…

My passport was BROKEN.

I got stuck at biometric control in Italy.

Ten minutes in a tiny glass cube, repeatedly placing my fingers on a machine that refused to recognise me. If you want to test your nervous system — I recommend that. Somehow, I made it through.

Arrived in London.

I went through UK Borders this time. Tried again. Didn’t work.

Oh dear…

This time I was redirected to an immigration officer to “seek advise”. Thank God, just as quickly, someone helped me retry, and… it worked. Voila!

And just like that, Welcome back home - to London.

So what’s the point of all this?

It’s not “just think positive.” It’s definitely not “manifest harder.”

Because clearly my mind can still spiral into absolute nonsense when it wants to. But I am learning this:

The way I enter an experience shapes it more than the experience itself.

Not always.

Not perfectly.

But more often than I used to believe.

Sometimes things go smoothly because they just do. And sometimes… maybe, just maybe, it’s because you met the moment differently.

And that, for now, is the only kind of “manifestation hack” I trust.

I’m not manifesting a perfect life. I’m just practicing walking into rooms differently.

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Because for years, I was chasing one in particular: Head of Marketing.

It wasn’t just a role I aspired to; it became something far more symbolic than that. A destination. A form of arrival. A quiet promise that, once I reached it, everything would make sense.

If I am being completely honest, the idea of the title itself slowly became more important than the work it was meant to represent. More important than the process. And, perhaps most concerning of all, more important than who I was becoming along the way.

So I did something that feels very on brand for me these days… I let it go completely.

But here’s the twist: I did make it to “Top Performer across EMEA” repeatedly within the marketing organisation.

On paper, that sounds impressive, something worthy of being underlined, perhaps even celebrated. And yet, I find myself asking: does that actually count? And if it does, what exactly does it count toward?

Did people like “Top Performer EMEA” more than me?
Did my family trust “Top Performer EMEA” more than me?
Did my friends believe in that version of me more than… just me?

And also, what was her blood type?
Her heart rate?
The colour of her hair? Her star sign?

And more curiously, did anyone ever stop to ask that version of me anything real? What she actually wanted from this one unpredictable, beautifully complicated life.

Exactly.

So… what is a title, really?

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I suspect this will resonate with a lot of us: the corporate women, the ladder climbers.

Because I was one of them. Fully. The one who knows what it means to move with intention up a ladder that always seems to extend just a little further. We call it ambition. We call it growth. We refresh LinkedIn like it’s a personality trait.

And to be clear, I was not an unwilling participant. I climbed with genuine passion. I cared deeply about the work, the people, and the outcomes. I was invested in all of it.

And do I regret it? No.

I loved my roles.
I loved my colleagues.
I loved what I was building, and even the chaos of campaigns and deadlines and “quick syncs” that were never quick.

I was good at it too.

The skills I developed during those years did not disappear; they came with me. They continue to shape what I am able to do today. But somewhere along the way, something subtle shifted.

What began as something I did gradually became something I was.

Burcu = Principal Marketing Manager EMEA

Or maybe, if I’m really honest:

Principal Marketing Manager EMEA > Burcu

And hey… here we are: 42 years of life on this earth, currently spending this particular year in the Eternal City, Rome.

No job title. No shiny labels. No carefully constructed identity tied to performance reviews or quarterly results. No achievements attached to my name in a way that feels easily measurable.

Perhaps I’m the Top Performer Italy, Figuring It Out now. (If anyone wants to give me a performance review, you are more than welcome. Just send me the forms I need to fill out, along with my metrics.)

I am building something, although I cannot always explain exactly what that something is. I write. I share my journey. I help people with their marketing — without the polished decks, without the five-year strategies, without the “growth hacking,” without pretending I know what Q4 of 2028 looks like.

There is simply me, my experience, and what I know.

And perhaps surprisingly, this is the most liberating place I have found myself in for the past fifteen years.

Or maybe, more accurately, it is the most liberating place I have experienced in 42 years of being Burcu.

There is something almost childlike about it. The freedom to create something entirely your own, to shape it without constraint, and — if you choose — destroy it for fun. Not because it failed, but because you can. Because it’s yours.

And you get to start again.

Except this time, it’s my voice, my pace, my rules. No stakeholders. (No offence, stakeholders.)

But let me not romanticise it too much. This isn’t an “I quit corporate and now I only drink matcha and journal at sunrise” situation.

There is grief here too. Real grief.

The quiet kind.

Not a dramatic or overwhelming kind of grief, but something softer, more subtle. The kind that appears unexpectedly, in small moments. It shows up in questions that do not always have clear answers. In fleeting doubts about direction — like opening LinkedIn, almost applying for a job, and gently closing the laptop again.

The kind that whispers: “What am I actually doing?”

The kind that misses the certainty. The structure. The recognition. Even when you were the one who chose to walk away.

It is the experience of standing between two versions of yourself. One that is familiar, structured, and clearly defined. And another that is still forming, still uncertain, still finding its shape.

This is the in-between. The wobbly bridge. Slightly unstable. Mildly chaotic. Questionable at times. A bridge that shifts beneath your feet, that asks you to trust your balance even when you are not entirely sure where it leads.

And yet, standing there, in the middle of that uncertainty, I find something unexpected.

A sense of alignment. A quiet recognition.

A feeling that, despite the instability, I am closer to myself than I have been in a very long time.

So perhaps this is where the question of titles comes to rest.

If I were to name this chapter, if I were to give it a role, a definition, something that could sit neatly beneath my name, it might look something like this:

Head of Becoming

Not a title designed for recognition. Not one that translates particularly well in a corporate setting.

But one that, for now, feels entirely true.

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Last time I left you hanging: what happened when I finally opened my mouth?

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Well... I have actually finally met someone.

What a surprise, right? At an unexpected timing? They say you meet the person when you least expect it. I can confirm—it happens when you least expect it, when you’re going through a tremendous amount of change, when you’re tackling real-life chaos.

And then there they are, right there, looking back at you in the mirror.

Oh hello, it’s you… oh sorry, it’s me—hidden in the deep layers of “introversion” (or should I say “fitting in” or “lack of self-confidence” or… I don’t know, please tell me if you know other names for it).

Let me introduce you to “the little extrovert” I met during this journey of reinventing, becoming, unlearning. They all exist as a package deal, apparently.

I have a lot to say about this. And the more I write, the more I notice how complex we are as human beings!

Before I moved to Rome, I kept telling myself “I’m gonna put myself out there.” But telling and doing are worlds apart. And each time I said this, I felt resistance coursing through my veins.

My mind would go: “Oh but I’m shy.” “Oh but I struggle with confidence.” “Oh but…” Fill in the blanks.

So many labels. So many excuses.

But then—intentionally and unintentionally—I did it. And I keep doing it. (I have to give credit to all the kindest people on earth I’ve met here, who made this fairly comfortable for me.)

Between the idea of “putting myself out there” and “the resistance in my veins,” I said hello to my hidden extrovert.

Warning: I’m not suddenly an extrovert. But I’m slightly more outgoing than I was in London. I should actually say: more outgoing than I was in my comfort zone.

If anyone is thinking, ”but last week you were talking about ordering a coffee and how your cheeks blushed”—yes, you’re right.

This is exactly the point.

In every stage of this new life, I’m meeting a version of myself and feeling a version of myself from the past even more intensely. My labels. How I call myself. How I interpret myself. All of it.

And there’s this resistance pulling me sideways, trying to drag me back to the ways I’ve known (or should I say, the ways I’ve been taught?).

But every day I show up—more or less—with the tools I’m learning and with all the contradictions that exist in me.

This morning during my walk, I was thinking about this contradiction.

As much as I’m meeting this extroverted version of myself in certain moments, I’m still very much attached to my introvert. (I love her, by the way.)

But then the question came: “Okay, I’m loving this outgoing person too... so why am I resisting her sometimes? Am I allowing her to come out and play completely? Or are we still half-hearted about this?”

So what happened when I opened my mouth at the bar?

I did open it. I ordered my cappuccino. And in doing so, I met someone I’m really starting to love—this bolder version of me.

But here’s the dilemma: Am I allowing that version to come out 100%? Or not really?

Yeah. Here we are with all the questions again.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe meeting yourself isn’t a one-time thing. Maybe it’s showing up each day and asking: which version of me am I choosing today? And can I love all of them—even when they contradict each other?

To be continued... (because apparently, I never run out of questions)

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I have the Italian words ready.

“Un cappuccino di soia per favore”

Or with extra kindness: “Vorrei un cappuccino di soia per favore”

I’ve practiced this exact phrase dozens of times. A few words. Simple.

But for some reason I’m frozen.

A few racing heartbeats, slightly blushed cheeks and the heat radiating from my head. The barista is waiting. There’s no logical reason for this paralysis. I know the words. I can do this. And yet, here I am surrounded by those terrifying thoughts that sometimes ambush me out of nowhere, making me question everything about myself.

Is this even about self-confidence?

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-confidence lately. And I can honestly say I’ve struggled with it most of my life. It’s changed form in each stage—shape-shifting, evolving, sometimes hiding, sometimes screaming at me from the inside.

But I can also proudly say that I’ve always challenged myself, voluntarily and involuntarily.

I’ve been the quiet person. Very obedient, disciplined, hard-working... most of my life I didn’t have my voice. I would rather keep quiet than speak up. And yet, somehow I joined the theatre group at high school. I wanted to be a dancer and for a while I danced with an amateur group (we even managed a small performance). All of these were actually against my nature at that time, in terms of being bold, showing yourself.

But I did it anyway. And I have to say, I had fun.

Those were the best years of my early adulthood.

Then I moved countries. I moved to the UK. I went through a lot of life stages there (which is another story), but in the end, I started my career in another language, in a city that wasn’t mine in the first place. And knowing my quiet self, that added another layer of challenge.

But I survived. I made it through. And day by day, I actually became 1% more confident. Or would I dare to think so?

In any stage of reinventing your life, you meet a version of yourself. Sometimes it’s the girl you hid deep inside. Sometimes the girl you neglected. Sometimes the one that wants to be too much but just cannot be—because of all those subconscious beliefs screaming NO!

Throughout my career, I have to say I was quite good at building strong relationships with my colleagues, with my managers (probably that high-performing small child inside me helped a lot with this). And even in those circumstances, asking a question in a meeting... OH DIO!

I would prepare for team meetings and rehearse multiple times even if I’m only presenting for one minute.

Still…

I would blush, heat up, stumble over my words.

Though did I do it? Yes.

Though was I anxious? For the sake of my life, what a question...

Fast-forward: we’re in Rome now. I’m learning Italian. I’m in a setting where speaking is natural, necessary, unavoidable. I have enough Italian to order a caffè at a bar. I’ve done it before without thinking twice.

But today, standing here, all of a sudden I’m that girl in the meeting room again. Fumbling words. Burning cheeks. Heart pounding.

Over a few words I absolutely know how to say.

I always envied people who had a loud voice, who are bold, who are comfortable even just walking into a place for the first time.

But me? Here I am, thinking about ordering a caffè which I can perfectly structure in Italian (even make the sentence sophisticated with all the grammar I’ve been learning).

And I’m wondering: what is it that makes us doubt ourselves most when we’re actually capable? Why does the voice inside get louder exactly when we need it to quiet down?

Maybe self-confidence isn’t about having it. Maybe it’s about doing the thing anyway—trembling hands, racing heart, and all.

And after a while, your nervous system familiarises itself with it and calms down naturally.

Here I am, as if I’m building a muscle. I’m opening my mouth each and every time with “confidence”.

To be continued…

Next time: What happened when I finally opened my mouth, and what I learned about the gap between knowing and doing.

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For as long as I can remember, I’ve known fear. I’m not even sure what my “conscious self” really is, but I think it’s the part of me that’s always been able to feel it—and recognise it.

I was a small kid and I was scared of the dark. I know—it sounds like a cliché. Every kid is scared of the dark, right? But this felt different. It wasn’t just a “leave the light on” kind of fear. I couldn’t sleep alone. Even sharing a room wasn’t enough—I needed to be right next to my sister, close enough to feel safe. Nights felt long. Heavy. Honestly… terrifying.

And yet—I have to give myself some credit here. I’ve lived alone for years now. I actually prefer dim lights; I sleep in complete darkness. So yes, at 42, I guess I can say… I got over that one.

But did I?

Because if I’m being honest, the fear was never just about the dark. It was just waiting for a more sophisticated stage. Over time, the fear of the dark simply shape-shifted into the fear of uncertainty.

And if you think about it, they’re not that different. In both cases, you don’t know what’s lurking there. You don’t know what’s coming. People love to say, “just trust.” Trust the uncertainty. Trust the unknown. Sure. Sounds great. But it’s easier said than done.

The fear didn’t disappear; it just changed its form. It became the overthinking, replaying past conversations like a Netflix series no one asked for. It became that voice whispering, “maybe don’t say too much,” or “maybe just chill.” It showed up in different areas of my life. It showed up in the moments that actually mattered. (As if that strategy worked brilliantly… clearly 🙃).

And the annoying part? It sounded reasonable—not dramatic or loud. It was just logical enough that I listened. For a long time, I thought the fear was helping me—that it was keeping me safe from rejection, from awkwardness, from failure.

But it was also keeping me in “almosts.”
Almost saying what I feel.
Almost going for what I want.
Almost becoming who I could be.

Love that for me 🙃

And now… here I am. New country. New language. A life I chose—fully, consciously. It’s very exciting. Very brave. And also, occasionally, a massive dose of “what the hell am I doing?” energy.

And of course, the fear is with me, too. It shows up when I try to speak Italian and suddenly forget every word I’ve ever learned. It shows up when I hit “publish” and immediately want to delete it. It shows up in the quiet moments…

“Was this a mistake?”
“Should I have stayed?”
“Is this actually going anywhere?”

Very supportive. Thank you.

But here’s what’s different now: I see the fear. I actually clock it. I’m not trying to evict it anymore because clearly, that hasn’t worked for 42 years. But I’m not taking it that seriously, either. I’m just not building my life around it anymore.

Because the truth is I can be excited and terrified. I can be confident and unsure. I can be happy and questioning everything in the same breath. Apparently, we can have a full emotional buffet now.

So no… fear doesn’t go away.
It grows up with you. It gets smarter.
But so do you.

And these days, it’s less about “how do I get rid of fear?”
and more about—

“You can come along for the ride… but you’re not driving.”

Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you’d like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I’m deeply grateful.

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You’ve built a great career, why would you leave?
You have your home, your stability… why would you walk away?
Your life is settled… why start over?

Ohhh… so there’s someone in Rome?

And my personal favourite:

Why Italian? It’s not even one of the most spoken languages in the world.

And then, quietly slipped in, wrapped in concern:

Aren’t you thinking about starting a family?

(Because that was supposed to be the natural path.)

Mic drop.

And my answer?

I’m sorry…
but it’s just a gut feeling.

I do understand these questions. I really do.

Because most of us are raised to follow a certain path. A logical path. A safe one. A path that makes sense on paper.

Study. Build a career. Settle down. Buy a home. Find a partner. Start a family.

And especially as women, there’s often an invisible timeline quietly ticking in the background.

So when you step even slightly outside of that… people look for a reason. A justification. A story that makes sense to them.

And to be clear—I respect that path.
There is nothing wrong with it.

But the truth is…
we are not all built for the same life.

Some of us feel it. That quiet discomfort. That whisper that says:

There is something else for you.

For me, that “something else” was Rome.

Not because of a job.
Not because of a person.
Not because of a plan.

Just… a feeling.

The first time I came here was in 2019. And something shifted.
I couldn’t explain it logically—and trust me, I tried.

But emotionally?

It felt like something in me exhaled.

Since then, I kept coming back. Staying a little longer each time.
And every time I arrived, there was this strange, almost immediate sense of:

I’m home.

No big dramatic moment.
No fireworks.

Just a quiet knowing.

Now, let’s be honest.

Visiting Rome and living in Rome are two completely different things.

And I am not here to pretend it’s all aperitivos, sunshine, and effortless beauty.
There are challenges. There are frustrations. There are moments where I question everything.

(And I will share those too—honestly.)

But this story… this part… is about why I chose it in the first place.

And the truth is: I didn’t choose it logically.

I felt it.

And then there’s Italian.

Another question that confuses people.

Why Italian?

Again… I wish I had a more impressive answer.

But it’s the same story.

It’s about how it makes me feel.

I lived in London for 17 years. English became my daily language—my professional language, my thinking language.

But if I’m honest…
English has always felt like a tool.

Efficient. Clear. Functional.

But not fully… me.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t quite land in English emotionally.
Like I’m expressing myself—but not entirely feeling myself in the expression.

And Italian?

Italian feels different.

There’s something more alive in it.
More emotional. More expressive. A little chaotic, a little dramatic… a little closer to who I am.

It reminds me of Turkish in that way.

I’m not fluent (yet).
Sometimes I struggle. Sometimes I feel shy.

But when I speak it—even imperfectly—it feels… closer.

And that’s enough reason for me.

—

So yes…

I moved to Rome because of a feeling.
I’m learning Italian because of a feeling.
I’m building a completely new life… because of a feeling.

And every single day, when I step outside and walk through these streets, it hits me:

I actually did it.

There is a deep sense of gratitude in that.
Even on the hard days.

But I won’t romanticise one thing:

This decision was not easy.

For someone like me—who built a life in structure, in corporate, in certainty—this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made.

Walking away from stability…
Choosing the unknown…
Trusting something I couldn’t explain…

That part deserves its own story.

And I’ll tell you.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you’d like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I’m deeply grateful.

Support this journey ✨

With the reassuring sense that everything was… under control, structured, and organised.

BUT…

I’m actually writing this from my kitchen in Rome — with Italian worksheets scattered around, coffee from my moka pot, and the tunes of instrumental Italian favourites playing. I need to leave for my Italian class in an hour and, hey, I’m not working.

I know this sounds glamorous when you say it quickly. It sparks images of bold decisions, brave reinventions, cinematic train rides to beautiful cities.

But I have to be brutally honest with you — and with myself — that it comes with challenges, both emotional and logistical. Especially for someone who has lived in structured settings for years.

Strangely though, I think I prefer this!

There’s the quieter reality we don’t often talk about. Moments where I question my own decision. Days where I wonder if there’s a manual for starting over, complete with quick how-to videos. And the messy conversations in Italian that inevitably end in English (però è facile, no?)

There’s this strange mixture of freedom and responsibility that comes with realising: you’re actually designing a life that’s 100% yours, on your own terms.

Some days this feels exhilarating.

Other days it feels like standing in the middle of a room where someone has removed all the furniture.

There’s space.
But also… where do you sit?

E allora, io comincio…

This space — this Substack — is where I want to explore that in-between place.

Not the polished version of starting over.

But the real one.

The thoughtful mornings.
The doubts.
The unexpected joy.
The lessons you only learn when you step slightly off the path you were supposed to follow.

If I had to give a title to this whole thing… I’d say “Figuring It Out.”

If you’re also somewhere in the middle of a life shift — whether it’s a new city, a new career, a new version of yourself — you might feel at home here.

And if nothing else, we can at least compare notes on how confusing and oddly beautiful it is to start again.

Or just… life.

Welcome.

Thank you for reading. Your support—in any form—means everything. If you'd like to contribute to this journey of words and becoming, I'm deeply grateful.

Support this journey ✨