We hear a lot of regurgitated platitudes online: “if they wanted to they would,” “what is meant for you will find you,” and of course, “you are never too much.”

But I’m here to tell you, the people are lying.

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I can’t remember a point in my life where I didn’t feel everything, even just in books or television.

As a kid, I’d cry after finishing a trilogy because I couldn’t bear being without the characters I’d become so attached to. In New York, I became an insomniac over the latest show I was binging because I needed to know what happened next. I’ve always needed to know what happens next.

I get unwarrantedly enthralled in these fantasy worlds that so closely resemble the real one, just with all the answers, and a conclusion that comes with a pretty bow.

See books and television shows make it so easy for certainty seekers like myself to feel safe. We lose ourselves in these stories because we know there is a safety net in their pages or the next episode. If we just keep reading, or watching, everything will be answered, resolved. It provides a sense of control we lack in the real world.

And why wouldn’t I want to escape reality when every obstacle feels life-altering, every wrong word stains my tongue with guilt, and every misstep feels like a catastrophe I could have avoided if I had just…done better.

I get so caught up in every moment, so obsessive, it’s no wonder I struggle to stay in the present. And when uncertainty finds me, I either shut down or ruminate aloud.

I have this habit of blowing things out of proportion. I waste minutes, hours, or days sulking and fixating on everything, often lathering my anxieties onto the people around me.

I’m an adult with next to no self-soothing skills, heavily relying on others to assuage my unease. And that’s how you become too much.

I was never talking about having a big personality or strong opinions—hell, I’d have been too much from the moment I learned to speak. I was referring to when you consistently let your intrusive and anxious thoughts take up others’ space.

There’s no denying that, in the moment, everything can feel like a big deal. And the craziest part about feelings is that they can be real without being true!

Your mind will return to its familiar loop, begging you to seek reassurance from others, but some things simply cannot be talked into certainty.

More often than not, the things that consume us are never bigger than we can handle. So I’m writing this as a reminder that feeling things intensely doesn’t always reflect the true weight of the situation.

Catastrophic thinking doesn’t protect you from catastrophe, it only metastasizes your fears.

You may feel like talking through your anxieties will help others better understand you and your behavior—why you’re so neurotic, why you’re seemingly distant—but maybe you just need to get out of your own head. Learning to carry your worries doesn’t mean unpacking them everywhere you go.

I know uncertainty is scary. I know how the feeling rots in your chest and balloons in your brain.

But sometimes, the only way through is to turn the page or play the next episode.

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More from Justine

I’m no superhero. I don’t have the power to be everywhere at once. Thus, distance and I have an ongoing love affair.

I’ve warmly invited it into my life, and while it’s a source of my happiness, it undeniably carries the weight of my guilt.

Dipping my fingers in the frosting

I’ve solidified this pattern of selfishly running towards dreams while consistently putting distance between myself and everyone I love.

I left my family in Chicago for a job in NYC. I left my friends in NYC for a life in Italy. And for the last three years, my boyfriend and I have lived in different countries. Everywhere I go, requires leaving someone behind.

Overtime, airports have become the four walls of my ever-changing bedroom, witnessing the turbulence of my early twenties—the first kiss in two months, the sobbed goodbyes, the screech of girlfriends reuniting.

Meanwhile, airplanes have become my greatest contradiction: the thing that takes me to those I love, while taking me away from whomever I left.

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See I’ve got an addiction to free will. With so many possibilities in this world, you think I only crave to be one thing? To stay in one place?

So I spread myself thin, creating little lives for myself in every pocket of the universe where the people I love exist. I juggle support systems like a stock trader and dip my finger in the frosting while musing on how I can have my cake and eat it too.

The ache of everywhere

But the older I get, the more the miles make stretch marks on my conscience.

In a never-ending lucid state of anticipation and nostalgia, I struggle to remain in the present, constantly yearning for the people, a place, the moment wherever I am not.

God I sound ungrateful.

The lives I keep leaving

This summer, I spent three weeks back home with my family. Living abroad, time with them feels all the more invaluable. Even so, my mind would wander to the city and the friends I had built my new life around.

Suddenly, it’s time to leave and I wrestle with whether I savored the comfort of stealing all my mom’s clothes, taking an eternity to choose which movie to watch with my stepdad, candid conversations with my father, and the aching love I feel being near my siblings.

I've never once cried leaving Chicago—not when I left for college, not when I left for Italy. I sobbed leaving this past month. Like a little baby. And as I soaked my mom’s T-shirt, I kept wondering why I do this to myself, willingly putting an ocean between us.

Then my best friends from New York came to visit in Italy. We’re still a perfect fit, the puzzle pieces of our personalities unchanged by time or distance. Seeing them in the place I now call home felt like slipping into my old life again, back when we all shared bedroom walls. Now we’re lucky if we remember to call.

Throughout all of this, Aleks and I make time to see each other, and I try to stretch everyday like taffy. We play house and live normal lives in whatever new city we’re in, but it only takes a few days before I remember we’re on a running clock. He hugs me and reminds me we’re together right now and I remind myself to be more like him.

If I were a superhero…

How lucky I am to have love in every corner of life. How tragic that no single place can hold it all.

I’m no superhero, but if I were, I’d choose the power to be everywhere at once.

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I’ve always been a cysty girl; my roommate even coined that title for me many years ago. The scar on my right eye and abdomen serve as proof. But even those were just the prelude to a chronic diagnosis of Hiddradenitis Suppurativa that promises a lifetime of bumps, boils and lesions for me.

So why am I publicly sharing about something that has steadily chipped away at my confidence, limited my mobility, and affected my quality of life? Because I know what it's like to spend years wondering what the hell is wrong with your body—and if someone had talked about this sooner, I might have found answers or a community a lot earlier.

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It all began in college

Ever since college I would get these large lumps in my armpit. They were uncomfortable and would oftentimes affect my mobility. During flares I could no longer do yoga with the pain, or sometimes even reach things on a shelf.

I eventually went to a dermatologist who told me I had a condition with a long, complicated name, prescribed antibiotics, and sent me on my way.

No one ever talked about long-term treatment options. The bumps would come and go, and so I only went back to another dermatologist when things got bad.

Each time, I’d hear the same thing: take antibiotics, it should clear. It felt like no one was taking whatever I had seriously, so why should I?

The catalyst cyst

About six years in, I noticed I had a small pimple-sized bump near my groin, right where my underwear sat. I went on with my day, even though I could feel the friction with every step I took. In two days it went from the size of a marble to a little under a pingpong ball. I was in tremendous pain. It hurt to walk, sit, or do anything that caused more friction than my skin on skin already created.

After years of cycling through different doctors, at this point it felt like I was blindly throwing a dart at every Manhattan dermatologist on Google Maps. That is, until I met a dermatologist who sat me down, recalled that terribly long diagnosis and told me this was something I’d be dealing with for the rest of my life.

She asked about my well-being, how I wanted to move forward, and gave me real options to consider. I cried in her office that day. It was such a relief to be taken seriously. And for the first time in years, I felt validated in my diagnosis after years of confusion and pain.

So what is Hidradenitis Suppurativa (HS)

Hidradenitis Suppurativa (HS) is a chronic, non-contagious, inflammatory skin disease that causes painful bumps or lesions found in high friction areas such as the armpits, groin, and inner thigh. They can also be found on the chest, back, and butt.

These lesions can turn into tunnels beneath the skin that drain fluid and chronically reappear, becoming debilitating, creating scarring, and disrupting everyday life.

Members of myHSteam, a community group for people with HS, have described the pain as “being branded with a hot poker and not being able to pull away” or a stabbing feeling “like knives.” I’d categorize it as if my nerves were ropes being violently yanked at any movement or pressure.

The cause of HS is still unclear. Some doctors believe it’s from an over-active immune response, hormonal fluctuations, lifestyle, imbalance of skin bacteria, or genetic predisposition. It’s often misdiagnosed as folliculitis, acne, a skin infection and so on. For those who are dealing with it, I want to remind you it has absolutely nothing to do with hygiene.

To shave or not to shave

There are a few things that become very clear once you get the diagnosis: absolutely no smoking, shaving, or waxing.

Giving up smoking? A breeze. I was mostly doing it to feel cool at a bar or while in Europe anyway. But no shaving???

With hairier arms than the boys in my elementary school, and my mom taking me to get my mustache waxed off every two weeks since I was 14, it’s safe to say I’ve always been self conscious of my hair. And since HS originates in the hair follicles, this meant my typical penchant for hair removal everywhere had to come to a stop.

It’s been interesting navigating being a hairy woman when you never wanted to be one. For those who embrace it, more power to you—I truly wish I had your self-confidence.

Laser hair removal can actually be beneficial for people with HS, but it’s expensive and still requires shaving beforehand—which sounds like my personal hell after razors have triggered flares for me. For the last few years, I’ve relied on hair removal cream and medical-grade prep razors instead, but those come with their own risks and limitations.

When you’re constantly weighing what might trigger a flare against what makes you feel comfortable in your own skin, something as simple as being naked or wearing a bikini can start to feel intimidating.

Find a routine that helps you

Again, hearing chronic and disease in the same sentence doesn’t do much to alleviate any of the panic, but over the years, my dermatologist and I worked on a routine that’s helped me: steroid injections, benzoyl peroxide body wash, Hibiclens, and clindamyacin.

Unfortunately, there’s no cure-all or universal remedy. And during moments like these past two months—when my usual routine isn’t working, I’ve seen four doctors across three different countries, and I don’t even have the mobility to pull up my pants or properly wash myself, let alone walk or sleep with my arm by my side—it’s hard not to feel the full weight of how debilitating HS can be.

The internet is not your friend—or your therapist

The internet will show you anything you’re looking for. It is not always a safe space. And if you go searching, you’ll find that the ways to calm your HS often seem to involve stripping your life of everything good—sugar, dairy, alcohol, non-alcoholic beer (brewer’s yeast), sweating (whether from simply existing in the sun or working out), white bread, nightshades (tomatoes, eggplant, potatoes)—you get the gist.

And you’ll be left confused about what to keep and what to give up because you’ve been HS-free while consuming or doing all of those things for months, and other times you haven’t.

Many dermatologists I’ve seen recently have suggested I’m a candidate for surgery and biologics—remember Humira, the drug you’ve seen in all those infomercials over the years? To say that doesn’t terrify me would be a lie. I don’t want to be on medication for the rest of my life. And at this point, not being able to shave seems like such a vain thing to worry about when the pain has reached an incapacitating level.

The more people know, the better

As the years have passed and I’ve begun to talk more about my HS, I’ve met more women than I ever expected who’ve shared similar experiences. Some remember being given a long, complicated skin diagnosis, others have been dealing with similar symptoms related to PCOS—a condition that often goes hand in hand with HS.

So I write this in case anyone is in the middle of their Reddit rabbit hole. You are ok. You are healthy. You are beautiful. I know you’re in pain. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this, but knowing what you’re dealing with can be half the battle.

Like any chronic illness, HS can take as much of a toll on your mental as it does on your body. It can feel incredibly isolating. And yes, there’s always someone worse off—that will never change just because you feel guilty about it. Don’t let that invalidate your own pain or frustration either. Trust me, I’m still trying to remind myself of that, too.

Anyone out there?

I thought I wanted to write this to encourage anyone dealing with the same thing to know that it gets better. But if I’m being honest, I need to hear that too.

If any of this resonated with you and you have more questions about HS, please leave a comment or message me. I’d love to chat more and have a little community.

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My mom alway says jealousy is the ugliest feeling. Well, call me hideous because I’m greener than your milked-down matchas.

I feel like I spend most of my days missing someone or something. I mean that in the lucky way, where there are so many people I love around the globe that I rarely—actually, I don’t think ever—have had them all in a room together.

To Miss Something You Left Behind

But to miss a city, now that’s a different kind of ache.

Missing a city is kind of like missing yourself, or the version you were in that place. That’s how I felt about about New York for the last few weeks.

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I lived in New York City for eight years, and eight months after I left, the Knicks clinched a championship. I’m beyond happy for the city—but I can’t help feeling a little jealous of the version of me who never got to experience it and everyone else still there who did.

Now let’s get a few things straight. Am I a devout Knicks fan? No. Have I always made sure to watch the games? No. Do I know more than a few players. No.

But you know what I do know? That fantastical feeling everyone sees on their screen of life in New York—and now I’m one of those people, sitting behind a screen, yearning for something I didn’t just imagine, but actually lived for almost a decade.

It’s the palpable energy that’s making people who’ve never even lived there write soppy Substacks about their love affair with NYC.

It’s hard to feel territorial when you’re the one who left. How is that fair? I know it’s not.

NYC Is the Worst Kind of Ex

If there’s one thing about NYC, it moves on without you—effortlessly.

At least with people, selfishly there’s some emotional residue. But nope, not for NYC. It will ultimately forget you even existed and I think that’s the scariest part. Because how could it forget me when I will love it forever?

I’ve lately found myself in a routine of asking whether I enjoyed something enough, be it my time in Florence, the vacation I just went on, or my life in NYC.

In a constant pursuit for more, I keep circling back to the past, wondering if I really let myself fully be in it. How do you know if you did? That’s the tricky part about nostalgia, it has a way of turning memories into questions, and sometimes, into guilt.

Seeing a community that was once mine, unified in a citywide celebration that I wasn’t there to experience, makes my chest ache. I know exactly what that air tastes like. It’s the addictive tang that everything is suddenly possible, the kind you only find in New York, because it really does feel like the best place on earth.

A Better Use of My Jealousy

And still, I can believe all that without wanting to live there for the time being. Two things can be true at once. But damn, what I would’ve given to breathe that air again.

Yet, I’m realizing that the more time I spend pining for a city I chose to leave is just more time setting my future self up to feel the same way all over again—jealous of the life I’m living right now.

It’s an endless, exhausting and ungrateful cycle. No wonder my mom called it an ugly emotion. So I’m trying to turn that nostalgia into appreciation. How lucky I was to live that life, and how lucky I am to be living a completely different one now.

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You reach a certain age where you have your choice between:

A. running a marathon

B. quitting your job

C. moving abroad

As I don’t even own a pair of sneakers, it was never going to be the first.

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The Gen-Z urge to reinvent yourself

After deciding to pencil in option D. both B and C, I’ve been grappling with the concept of ambition and success, and what both now mean to me.

Am I still ambitious without the structure I once had—and can I be successful without having anything new to share on LinkedIn?

For so long, I viewed success inherently tied to a career. It became a verb rather than a noun—something to chase, a moving target rather than a steady place. I thought ambition meant never being satisfied and that the constant restlessness was proof you were getting closer to success.

Who am I trying to impress?

I recently came across the article I did no work for a year and no one noticed. The author, Leyla Kazim, talks about the concept of “perceived performance.”

Over the past six months of unemployment, I’ve had to ask myself how much my idea of success depends on other people’s perception.

To answer honestly: more than I’d like to admit.

I used to measure my worth by how much my work seemed to impress others—my title, the press invites, the reactions. I let that validation define me until it became my identity.

When I left it all behind, I felt this immediate pressure to rebuild the same life I’d just walked away from. I stepped outside my world to expand it—only to reach for the version I already knew.

Success is no longer a moving target

But what if success isn’t something you chase, but something you finally allow yourself to rest in? What if it looks exactly like where you are?

That’s not to say you shouldn’t have goals and aspirations for the future, but what’s the point in achieving success if you can’t sit still and enjoy it.

I’ve spent too much time abroad feeling like I’ve regressed career-wise. But you wanna know what’s better than moving up the corporate ladder? Tanning on the beach in Barcelona on a Monday; practicing my German one weekend in Berlin and the next in Munich; getting aperitivo in my favorite piazza with strangers that have become family since moving to Florence.

I’m so rich in life I’ve been too caught up to notice that I’m exactly where I want to be.

Don’t be afraid to bet on yourself

Let go of the version of success built on impressing others. Real successes can look like waking up without an alarm, enjoying the sun on your face and the wind against your skin, having a healthy family, laughing with friends, traveling to new places, or simply giving yourself the time to learn what you truly enjoy.

And yes—many versions of success comes with trade-offs. Mine currently looks like a credit card bill that jump-scares me every time I look at it. I’m not above the reality of money; I’m choosing to believe that I can figure it out. I’m resourceful. I trust myself to build a version of success I actually get to live in.

Maybe your success looks different than mine. Maybe it should. Maybe, it’s even option A, and if so, I’m metaphorically cheering you on from the sidelines with a very witty sign.

Whatever it looks like, I urge you to redefine success without anyone else weighing in.

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Each time you scroll, it feels like another person on the internet is making it their new job to put you out of one. I’m here to tell you: not everyone needs to quit their jobs.

People promise a better life once you ditch the desk—hell, I’m one of them!—but what if, just maybe, it’s sexier to keep your 9-to-5.

Surely, we’ve all daydreamed about setting our own schedule and never again panic-checking Slack the moment we wake up. However, before you stick it to the man, here are five important questions to ask yourself.

1. How comfortable are you living above your means?

Living above my means has been a lifelong talent. People always used to ask me how I was affording the trips or dinners they would see on my feed. Spoiler: I wasn’t—I was living above my means.

I made choices that helped when money was tight, like living in an office instead of an actual bedroom, and fortunately my work paid for many of my meals.

I spent my money knowing more was steadily coming in. But when you quit, the money stops until you figure your shit out. Suddenly, living above your means takes on a whole new meaning. You’ll have to decide where to cutback, or get really good at stretching your savings.

2. Are you ok with having shitty insurance? And if not, can you afford a good one?

Under my job’s insurance, I’d go to the dermatologist every two weeks and wouldn’t dread looking at my bank account after booking an annual physical. Not anymore.

Leaving your job means leaving the insurance they provide you.

Of course, not all companies supply insurance in the first place. In that case, maybe you’re already used to handling it—or you could be headed somewhere (like for me, Italy) where medical care is more affordable. Just something to consider.

3. Humans love routine. Can you feel good without one?

After solidifying a corporate routine, what will you do when it ceases to exist? If you’re anything like me, you’ll find that tackling any task, no matter how small, suddenly becomes very overwhelming.

Think about how much time you put into your job everyday and how you’ll use all of those extra hours once you quit. As creatures of habit, it helps blocking out your time for what you want to accomplish, like finding a new job, picking up a hobby, or simply moving your body—your sanity will thank you.

4. How will you get your daily dose of social interaction outside the office?

Maybe you adore your coworkers, maybe you hate them; going into the office at least pushes you to use your voice once a day and get some steps in. Don’t forget office parties and events are amazing ways to meet new people.

If you’ve gone remote or hybrid, you know it’s easy for days to slip away without saying a word to anyone. Consider how you’ll keep your social life balanced without relying on the automatic interactions your corporate job builds into your schedule.

5. Do you want to prioritize stability or flexibility?

Your job doesn’t have to be your passion. It’s wonderful if it is, but it can simply be the means to providing yourself with a lifestyle you desire.

Quitting your 9-to-5 may give you more flexibility than you know what to do with. Meanwhile, keeping your corporate job gives you the security of a steady income. Understand your priorities and make your choice accordingly.

In the end, do whatever the f*ck you want

Do I crave the stability I left behind? Of course—but not as much as I crave the life I’ve begun building for myself abroad. That doesn’t mean there aren’t difficult days, money stresses and identity crises in between, but the choice was right for me.

So don’t let someone on the internet, including me, tell you what choice to make. Just remember, you’re resourceful and if you quit your job, it won’t be the end of the world—even if some days feel like it.

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I missed my flight last week. After 25 years of sprinting through airports because I’m too cheap to book anything direct, my strained exhales and I watched as the plane took off from the closed gate. I was five minutes too late.

As I cursed out AirFrance in my head, grasping to find any zen left in my body after a six-hour travel day, I realized why I was so upset: I had nothing to miss.

Is my life so dull that missing a connecting flight doesn’t upend my schedule? Surely, people who lead fulfilling lives have tons to miss if they don’t catch their flight.

But as I shoveled a disgusting amount of some sort of buttery béchamel into my mouth at the free hotel in Paris, I wondered why I wanted to complicate a situation that in retrospect happened at a perfect time. I mean thank god I didn’t have a friend’s wedding to attend, a pre-paid vacation to go on or some big family event!

We as people often metamorphose into our best versions on vacation. We’re reduced to a simpler self, one who doesn’t second-guess words in conversation and is unafraid to try new things. We’re more interesting to others, and inversely, more interested in others.

On vacation, the entire world seems to unfurl like a flower, begging us to savor the sweet nectar of cities we’ve only seen on postcards or saved on Pinterest boards, screaming at us to “taste the unknown!”

A world where unscripted detours often become the best parts of our trips. When we welcome the unexpected, instead of shaking our fists at it in frustration.

I often feel like I’m not doing enough—always looking ahead while trying to remind myself to enjoy the moment. I’m sure many of us are like this.

But on vacation, we’re thrust into the present. No one wants to look back when our entire environment is so spine-tinglingly new, nor forward, to a future where mundanities drag us back to boredom.

My point is, we all need to take a page from our vacation selves’ book. What a luxury it is to eternally live in the present. To embrace unexpected changes with an open mind, and even a little excitement.

Instead of a missed flight, I got a free night in Paris—a city most people spend their entire lives wishing to visit.

I refuse to become boring because I can’t learn how to be present. I want to live (and look) like Dua Lipa—eternally on vacation.

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Mom if you’re reading this, c*nty is a good thing

We all know I quit my job about five months ago to move to Italy (can you shut tf up about it already?). So when people asked me how I’d make money afterwards, I’d always throw out the delusional retort, “maybe I’ll get famous on social media.”

But let’s think about this. Is that so ridiculous when half of my day (sue me, I have a high screen time) is spent staring into the lives of “regular” people doing the exact same thing? Why can’t I post videos, have $10k brand deals, and break the chains of a traditional 9 to 5 too?

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And yes, I know creators claim it’s not an “easy” job, and I get it; I poured five years into helping grow my former company’s 2M following. It’s work that never truly lets you off the clock.

Yet, I saw first hand how a major following slipped me into rooms I always thought weren’t for me. A simple dispatch of DMs and I had access to the entire city of New York.

My unsolicited professional advice

My biggest regret and advice to emerging social media professionals is to cultivate your own personal following alongside your company’s. When you leave, you lose not only what you spent years building, but the fancy invites, comped meals and emails full of perks. Suddenly, no one cared about my opinion if it didn’t come with my company’s follower count—never mind that it was the same voice behind it.

So with unemployment banking eight extra hours into my days, I figured I’d try to post more on my personal accounts. Except, it wasn’t fun.

That’s not because it felt cringe (although sometimes it did), but the shameful hours spent editing, the embarrassing hope pinned on each post as my ticket to financial freedom—only for a few hundred views. In a world of instant gratification, the payout wasn’t matching the work, and I wasn’t interested in dedicating more time.

I’m tired of selling myself

No one gives a shit about me on social media, and more importantly, why should they? There’s a million other white, ex-New Yorkers living abroad.

Nothing about my situation is inherently special, nor am I willing to go to lengths proving it to strangers. We already do so much of that when meeting new people and applying for jobs. I’m tired of selling myself.

Instead, I was just screaming half-assed into the void, indirectly begging people on the internet to pay my bills with their engagement without offering any true value.

Who would I be if I stopped scrolling?

This concept of “true value” is explained as showing your personality, a.k.a exploiting your life in the name of a good hook. And with that, comes a never ending spout of judgements. You think I want to hear everyone’s criticisms of my life choices or opinions on my side profile—no thank you!

And could you imagine if I spent all of those hours editing and caring about what I could post next on actually studying Italian or reading the god damn news? I’d be a whole lot smarter and a sexy bilingual.

I want to be invited to the party

What I do want are the privileges that come with a creator lifestyle. I want the press trips, free meals, and excessive PR packages. I LOVE free shit and I’m not ashamed to say that!!

I want the ability to work from any country I please with the finances to support it. I want to get dressed up in expensive designer gowns and be invited to events I’ve always watched through TV screens. I want to be an internet sensation without giving what it takes. I want to be loved by all and criticized by none. I want the impossible.

Or do I?

But when I’m at dinner with friends giggling over our third bottle of wine, I’m so sick of seeing it as an opportunity for content. I’d rather memorize the feeling of a midnight wine buzz, tucking away the hilarious joke that got us laughing for later.

This is not to say I’m done posting or I’m morally superior to the claws in which social media hooks us all. I’m just as addicted to the aesthetic pursuit as the next 25-year-old girl (probably more so) and I’m sure as hell still sending the IG dump for committee approval in the group chat before hitting post.

My point is, it’s growing exhausting always trying to come up with ways to make my life look more appealing for others when the very effort is making it less appealing to me.

Social media was all so low stakes before it became a way to make a living. Now, it feels like financial literacy: analyzing algorithms and wondering why I’m not getting rich quick like everyone else.

So it’s time to get a real fucking job. Maybe then I’ll stop telling myself that every cent I’m spending will be paid back to me at the first brand deal I’m doing nothing to cultivate.

But if this goes viral overnight, I take back everything I said and you can consider me rsvp’d for the next trip to the Maldives!

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It’s been five months since I moved to Italy. If you’re dreaming of a new life abroad, consider these seven things before packing your bags.

1. Being comfortable isn’t a bad thing

Everyone mistakes comfortability for complacency. They are not the same. I say this because no one is forcing you to drop everything and reinvent yourself abroad. It’s a personal choice, and you really have to want it.

For example, if you love or even like your job, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to stay in that job. You don’t need to sabotage something that’s working for you just because you’re happy and comfortable.

Modern day society shoves discomfort down your throat as this sort of right of passage to growth. And though I believe that to be true, discomfort looks different to everyone. Moving abroad promises discomfort in every facet of your life, and there’s no shame in not wanting to put up with that.

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2. Be prepared for the financial toll

When I close my eyes, I stress about money. When I get out of bed, I stress about money. When I’m spending 12 euros on two negronis every Tuesday night, I stress about money. The truth is, unless you’re very well off, you will probably always worry about money.

It was a constant source of anxiety even when I was making 70,000x what I do now. Choosing to move abroad or not won’t change your money stress; one might just be easier to handle. If you’re resourceful, you’ll figure it out.

3. Remember you can always move back

What’s great about most decisions is that you can always make more. Don’t like where you’re living? Move! Took a risk and it didn’t work out? Pivot! Now of course this doesn’t minimize all of the work and money it takes to do such things, but that doesn’t mean they’re impossible.

4. Adopt at least one space as “your spot”

Whether it’s your bedroom, corner cafe, or a favorite bar, establish a place that settles your soul every time you return to it. For me, this is either my bedroom with its perfect lamp glow, bed tray (total game-changer) and projector, or the bar across from my apartment that sells $6 negronis and free Bugles from the bartender.

5. Don’t let your frustration kill your adaptability

No matter how much you’ve traveled, nothing compares to actually putting roots down in a new country. The way you move through your day will inevitably shift, whether minutely or massively. You’ll need to adapt and embrace the differences.

6. Keep that mouth moving

The best thing you can do for yourself is to talk. Be friendly, ask questions, learn about others. You might make a best friend, land a job lead, or hear a story that alters your worldview. None of that happens if you're shy.

7. Let yourself have bad days

I remember my therapist telling me “rest is productive.” That statement blew my mind. And when you pick up your life and start fresh in a new country, there’s this immense pressure to constantly explore, put yourself out there and try new things. You definitely should do that, but it’s ok to have down days. It’s ok to rot in bed every once in awhile and feel like shit. Avoiding those feelings only delays their appearance.

It’s crazy how different three months from now can look. When I first wrote this headline, I had hysterically left the NYC Consulate General of Italy in wretched sobs. I was on the cusp of being unemployed with a 13-month lease signed in a foreign country and no visa to get there.

The plan and the pivot

As I’ve said, moving overseas was an absolute. But the how and where was always a little fuzzy.

[October 2024]

Originally, I planned to relocate to the Secret London office and start my new life abroad with a pint and sausage roll in hand. Opportunities fell and changed, until the offer became something I unfortunately wouldn’t take.

After seven months of planning, I suddenly had to pivot. Going back to school became the most reasonable option for acquiring a visa, even though it felt like I was risking the five years I’d spent growing my career thus far.

Maybe this was my opportunity to pursue a more whimsical interest, like cooking or language learning. If I was already throwing away my NYC apartment, steady paycheck and successful career, why not go all in?

That’s when I found Italianforawhile, a program that offered 12-months of Italian language classes, fit for a student visa. It seemed perfect, never mind the fact that I had never studied Italian.

[April 2025]

I scheduled a meeting with the school to begin my enrollment and by the spring of 2025 I was checking the Consulate website at 2am in attempt to book my visa appointment (iykyk).

The waitlist was so backed up that the soonest they could fit me in was at the end of September—five months from when I was booking the appointment! Keep in mind my program was starting at the end of October, and visas can take anywhere from a week to a month to get approved, so I was already cutting it close.

Now language learning doesn’t necessarily come easy to me and since I had no prior experience with Italian whatsoever, this was my main concern about the process. Would I be approved as a beginner?

Rest assured, my program told me that the New York Consulate has approved beginner level speakers plenty of times and this was never an issue for them. They even registered me in eight preliminary Italian courses to give me a head start and to prove to the consulate that I had already begun learning.

Still, I couldn’t shake the mixed information I’d come across regarding beginner level speakers at the LA Consulate in my hours of TikTok and Reddit research.

[July 2025]

In the months leading up to my appointment, I meticulously combed through the Consulate’s website to ensure I had all of the proper paperwork, including the receipt for my plane ticket, health insurance, proof of lodging (hence my 13-month lease), and an official enrollment letter (tuition that cost me $10k).

I blindly threw my savings at these requirements, an easier thing to do when I still had an income and was desperate for the appointment to go smoothly. I mean I quit my job and gave up my apartment, it had to go well.

Jobless, apartmentless, and visaless

Instead, I ended up with everything I needed for a visa, but the visa. And it all unraveled so fast.

[September 2025]

The morning of my appointment I headed over to the Consulate on Park Avenue with 10x copies of every required document, all to be told in a matter of one minute that I wouldn’t be approved. They didn’t even look at one copy.

I was informed that the Consulate does not accept visa applications for beginners when I could study Italian at my current level in the States. It wasn’t unless I was at a B1 level (intermediate) or above that they could approve me.

It felt like the future I just risked everything for disappeared before I even got to see it. In taking a leap of faith I instead lost my grip and plunged into the exact situation I had feared.

I had no NYC apartment, no job, no visa, but a plane ticket and a lease for an apartment I wasn’t allowed to live in, promising to deplete whatever money I had left.

I remember thinking, “Where do I go from here?”

The world stays spinning

After the shitshow at the visa office, I felt, well, lost.

Should I have taken the London job? Why did I have to be so selfish and leave behind everything I worked for in pursuit of a silly little dream to live abroad? Would it have been better if I never left my company? Was it bad to want more? Am I going backwards?

In the midst of all my reflection, I still got on the plane and decided to move forward with the language program for however long I had left of my tourist visa.

[October 2025]

Americans have 90 days in a 180-day period to stay in the Schengen area. However, I had already spent the last month in Germany with my boyfriend since I no longer had my place in NYC. Therefore, I had six weeks to get a taste of what those 12-months with a visa would have looked like. And don’t get me wrong, the program was amazing and I’d definitely recommend it to anyone wanting to learn Italian. Consulates have simply gotten a lot stricter than they were before.

As for moving forward, I was faced with two options: get to a B1 level in a matter of weeks, or find a new visa route. I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses and reaching conversational fluency in such a short amount of time seemed near impossible to me. So I scoured the internet until I came across Lorenzo de’ Medici’s non-credit study abroad program.

There, I could enroll (for another fee that’s responsible for my ever-present anxiety) in their writing courses that could benefit my career.

[January 2026]

I just left the consulate this morning, visa in hand. It feels surreal to write that.

My writing program starts at the end of this month and although this looks a lot different than my original version of a British visa and steady income, it’s a version that I’m making work for me.

Who knows, maybe I’ll be surrounded in a classroom of 18-year olds where I’ll have become the oldest in the room. Maybe I’ll always wonder what would have happened if it worked out the first time. To be honest, I’ll still have to figure out my next move once my visa expires in May, because let’s not forget, I’m contracted to my 13-month lease.

Yet, it’s because it didn’t work out the way I had planned that I got to spend an extra month with my family (I can’t remember the last time I had that much free time to visit them), or a month with my boyfriend who lives in another country. I can even have small conversations in Italian now, and I began learning at a B1 level.

Moreover, I never would have met the friends I’ve made in Italy if I didn’t still get on that plane, or understood that being adaptable is an absolute necessity amongst life’s chaos.

So take that risk. It may not turn out how you expected, in fact, I’m sure it won’t. But watch as it turns out even better.

What I’ve lacked in taking an entire month off of writing, I’ve made up for in reading, opting to make progress through my ever piling saves on Substack rather than doomscrolling on TikTok.

In my pursuit, I came across Laura McVeigh’s article on what makes great travel writing, a roadmap for aspiring Bourdain wannabes to follow and how he utilized humanity to draw a reader in to whichever new city he was traveling through.

If you ask me what I want to be when I grow up (I’m 25), besides a TV host on a cooking show, my response is a travel writer (granted, I’m already a writer). That being said, I don’t think I’ve ever attempted a travel piece that actually felt like anything at all.

Sure, I’ve covered regurgitated airline deals or restaurant roundups, but never have I truly illustrated my thoughts on a city, detailed any of the euphoric or unpleasant feelings I’ve experienced on a trip, or my unfair biases and the beautiful cultures I’ve come across.

So where better to begin than untangling the complicated feelings that come up when I return to my hometown, Chicago?

Now before you get all righteous, of course I’m not from Chicago Chicago. Anyone who says they are rarely is.

I’m from the Northwest suburbs of Chicago, good old Crystal Lake, Illinois to be exact. But for the sake of this article, and for the sake of why so many people just answer “Chicago” instead of naming their Illinois town no one would ever know, I’m going to keep referencing it as Chicago.

It’s hard to tell someone you’re from Chicago without them bringing up the weather. In all honesty, I don’t think Chicago is that cold. At some point, you’re too numb to notice the temperature, only realizing it once the air hits the inside of your nose.

Instead, I recognize Chicago’s weather for its silence.

Have you ever noticed how quiet the cold can be? Like the entire surrounding world has frozen in time, besides the occasional snap of a branch or the wind whispering against your ear. I think Mother Nature likes Chicago winters best, when everything is peaceful and on the verge of rebirth.

And when I’m not outdoors, Chicago is waking up to the smell of eight candles burning at once. It’s shuffling down the stairs of the house where I first got my period, graduated high school, and decided to paint my childhood room chocolate brown because I thought it was moody and chic (it absolutely was not).

It’s opening my favorite cabinet in the kitchen to a museum-worthy collection of mugs acquired along our lifetimes, as I debate whether I should choose the blue one with my mother’s initials, or maybe the one with John F. Kennedy’s face printed on the front (I had a bit of an obsession in high school).

I’ll test each handle in my grasp before deciding which will hold my watered down Peets coffee that morning.

While the Keurig whirs and the bitter smell of my caffeine addiction pours from the spout I'll attempt a double pirouette in the socks I slept in to see if I’ve still got it—I haven’t danced in ten years.

Chicago is staying up late and taking an edible with my family (we’re all adults, calm down) as we play games in what we like to call “the lounge.” Imagine a room filled with eclectic selections of antique chairs, gold draping, vintage standing ash trays and over 30 bottles of bourbon.

I like to think each piece of furniture came from a household like mine, where the family all sat around in a circle like we do, giggling until they forget what they were laughing at.

It’s breaking out my rusty skills behind the wheel after living in a city for the last seven years and failing my first driving test.

I’ll take the tire-streaked streets I once knew like the angle of my nose that got me to 6am speech tournaments, friends’ houses I haven’t stepped foot in since 2018, or old jobs, like the town’s boutique coffeeshop with prices that have since doubled from the time I was eating blueberry lemon scones before every shift.

Chicago is my tried and true recipe. An Italian beef made of comfort, sandwiched by nostalgia and dipped in a whole lot of bittersweet. It has an acquired flavor profile, but one I never want to forget.

Yet, the feeling of guilt has always been inescapably attached to Chicago, knowing I’d always leave. And as a result, live far from the people I love most.

Unlike me, both of my siblings live close enough to drive home for smaller holidays or simple whims of missing our parents, and that leaves me hungover from a cocktail of jealousy and FOMO.

Chicago is feeling selfish and comfortable and like I’m 15 all over again in a 25 year old body leaving my dirty dishes out for my mom to deal with like an unruly child. It’s being a self supporting adult who immediately forgets she is until she leaves feeling regretful for always letting her parents pick up the tab.

I wrestle with the act of taking a microscope to my life thus far, wondering if I’ve done enough to make myself proud. If my achievements have proportionately amounted to everything my parents have done for me.

Chicago is my unadulterated love and respect for where I was raised and my undeniable need to leave it and see other places.

Is this what growing up feels like?

Living with OCD is like having the devil and angel on your shoulder, except the devil never magically poofs away like it does in the movies. No, instead, my devil stays perched around the clock, feeding me fears and consequences involving the imminent death or danger to those I love if I don’t turn a light switch on and off an even number of times.

Sounds silly, no? I’ll be the first to agree. That’s the thing about OCD—no matter how insane you know it is, how illogical your thoughts become, these irrational fears can become debilitating, and your compulsions, a crutch. My therapist calls this having a sticky brain.

Many of you that know me probably don’t realize I have OCD, or maybe you’ve heard me mention it in passing. But if you knew what to look for, you could see it in my cracked hands from over-washing; the way I repeat words or cut off my sentences, afraid that voicing any unsavory thought—even hilarious ones (because let’s be so for real, every funny person is a little mean)—could bring bad juju upon me; or how I sometimes retrace my steps because the path I took just didn’t feel “right.”

OCD has everything to do with a lack of control and safety, and nothing to do with one’s true thoughts or intentions. Read that again.

To illustrate how the process plays out in my mind, let’s say there’s a possibility I get hit by a bus tomorrow. To me, if there’s even a slight chance that tapping the table four times before leaving the house could save me, why wouldn’t I do it?

This bus scenario exemplifies my fear of death and how its reality is inevitable and out of my control. Tapping a table, though futile, gives me some sense of control, some sort of deity cosplay, that I can stop the cosmic forces of nature or sheer randomness at play, and protect myself against my own terrifying morality.

But remember: tapping the table won’t save me from a bus, nor will skipping the compulsion doom me to one. Touching a fucking piece of wood, no matter how many times, can’t alter nature’s course. I’m not God, and no ritual can stop it.

I know this is true, but you better believe I’m still tapping that table.

What is OCD — no it’s not (necessarily) being a clean freak

Sure, we all have intrusive thoughts. However, OCD is having intrusive thoughts that overdosed on steroids and grew so large that you begin to wonder if they’re no longer intrusive but actually a part of you.

Let’s get professional for a second. According to the International OCD Foundation, the disorder impacts people of all ages and backgrounds and “occurs when a person gets caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions.” To further clarify:

Obsessions = “unwanted, intrusive thoughts, images, or urges that trigger intensely distressing feelings.”

Compulsions = “behaviors an individual engages in to attempt to get rid of the obsessions and/or decrease distress.”

Now let’s get into the various types of OCD that exist, because why have just one when your brain wants to give you multiple?

People often jump to the conclusion that having OCD means you like things nice and tidy. Although this can be true, it often refers to a few branches of OCD that are called Ordering OCD, which is the intense need to have symmetry or maintain order (hence, keeping a cleanly space) and Contamination OCD, which is an intense fear of germs or harmful substances (leading to acts like obsessively washing your hands).

Other common categories of OCD include, but are not limited to:

• Checking OCD

• Rumination OCD

• Relationship OCD

• Hoarding disorder

• False memory OCD

• Sexual orientation OCD

• Health OCD

• Responsibility OCD

What OCD I have

*Many categories of OCD overlap with others.

My specific concoction of the illness includes:

• Incompleteness OCD, the need to act on a compulsion until something feels just right in order to ease my irrational fear of death, disease, failure or crisis falling upon myself or my loved ones (this also mixes into my Health OCD)

• A splash of Contamination OCD (remember the cracked hands?) P.S. I haven’t touched a toilet flush handle with my bare hands in over 10 years—I know none of y’all disgusting people wash your hands lol

• A sprinkle of Checking OCD, which I’m sure most readers could commonly say they’ve experienced (wondering if I’ve turned off the oven or locked the door, and letting that fear metastasize into the idea that I’ll burn down my apartment because of that, kill the neighbors in the fire, or come home to find my place robbed)

• And a tablespoon of Harm OCD, which is the fear of harming oneself or others (for example, I avoid leaving a knife on the counter overnight out of fear I might accidentally harm myself or someone else)

Now that last one is right about when you readers are probably thinking, holy shit, she’s insane. Trust, before I really knew what OCD was, I thought so too. After years of therapy and understanding OCD, rest assured: I’m no psychopath, and if any of this resonates, neither are you.

Remember, your OCD in no way signifies your character or true intentions, if anything, it signifies your fears: of being a bad person, of failure, of death, of hurting others, the list goes on.

Let’s take a trip down compulsion memory lane…

As a kid, one of my earliest interactions with my own OCD, alongside waking up in the middle of the night calling for my mom because my own thoughts were scaring the shit out of me, had to do with the word “curse.”

From ages seven to twelve, I never let the word leave my lips out of an intense fear that saying it would somehow draw a curse upon myself (a rather inconvenient compulsion for a kid who loved fantasy, magic and dystopian).

Years passed, and as one compulsion fell away, many new ones arose.

I remember trying to do my school reading assignment and having to re-read one page 20 times just because I didn’t believe I actually read it the 19 times before.

In sixth grade my fear of failure manifested into a compulsion that made me widen my eyes every time I looked up at my math teacher to avoid a life of being horrible at math. Ridiculous? No shit! It not only made me look like a freak and left my eyes constantly strained, but resulted in me rarely looking up during class to avoid having to carry out the compulsion my brain begged me to do.

For two years straight, I made my mom say “see you tomorrow” every night before bed or else I’d stay awake, terrified I wouldn’t make it to the next morning.

In college I had this charger cord that was always on the floor and if I stepped on it before getting into bed I’d have to start back at my bedroom door and successfully avoid the cord before going to sleep.

I still avoid walking over projected lights on city streets for no particular reason besides that they make me uncomfortable, and I definitely won’t wear certain clothes depending on what happened to me the last time I wore them.

All of this can make simple tasks like getting dressed or walking to work draining before my day has really even started.

Find people who see you

My roommate got really good at noticing my compulsions and took it upon herself to help me through exposure therapy. We had these certain bowls that I would never grab, they simply oozed bad luck. Were they actually? Of course not, they were plastic bowls.

But every time she made dinner, she served it in those bowls. My immediate reaction was that it seemed I wouldn’t be having dinner that night—but let’s be honest, she’s a really good cook and I’m always hungry. By pushing me to face my discomfort and irrational fear that using a certain set of plastic bowls could somehow ruin my life, I eventually began reaching for those bowls myself.

It was one of the first times I’ve felt deeply seen and I’ll forever be grateful that she cared enough about my silent struggle to get me out of my own head. She never shamed me for how silly my fears were; that they were real to me was enough.

What helps me when I have a sticky brain

This constant battle of recognizing the rational but giving into the irrational is exhausting. I’m tired of playing God, fearing that every thought could manifest into reality, especially when half of them aren’t real, they’re intrusive.

Reminding myself that my thoughts hold no power and won’t trigger a butterfly effect in the real world is what helps me most. To some people, that might make them feel small and insignificant. To me, it’s liberating proof I’m powerless against the universe’s chaos, and that quiets my brain.

No reminder will ever be a cure-all. OCD is a lifelong disorder. But finding ways that help you manage it in your day-to-day life is crucial.

Fortunately, my OCD has never kept me from getting out of bed or boarding a plane, though it came close. For those who struggle with these daily tasks, I offer my deepest empathy. And for those who weren’t quite familiar with the disorder, I hope baring my chaotic, irrational soul helped shed a new light on something you didn’t know much about.

Resources, books and more

In my opinion, the best way to get on top of your OCD is to understand it.

After reading the book Obsessed: A Memoir of My Life with OCD by Allison Britz (a wonderful gift from my mother), I felt understood. Although Allison’s story is much different and more severe, the patterns reflect the experience of living with OCD and I strongly recommend it to anyone currently struggling.

I’ve also found certain OCD workbooks to be helpful in identifying and unpacking certain thoughts and feelings. You can find these in your local bookstore or on Amazon.

Otherwise, in my experience, it’s great to have a therapist/psychiatrist. There’s something invaluable about someone entirely removed from your life not reacting in fear to your thoughts but identifying them and showing you how to coexist.

Oh, and overshare more! Not the annoying kind, but the honest stuff that will make you understand you’re never alone in a feeling. There are too many humans on this earth for there to be an original feeling.

Now go ahead and read this all over again because we both know it has to be an even number of times for it to really sink in. :)

I like being the best. Who doesn’t?

Even before social media swallowed five hours of my day searching for who knows what sort of validation I apparently lack, I’ve always searched for recognition by trying to be exceptional…at everything. I used to view perfection as a tangible destination—thankfully, I’m no longer that diluted.

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It’s strange because I didn’t grow up in a strict household. My brother and I didn’t get grounded or have curfews. There was simply always this trust between us and our parents: trust to be on time, to do what was right, to not make dumb or dangerous decisions (obviously, all teenagers have their exceptions and my parents accepted those too). In return, my brother and I weren’t assholes.

We were, of course, scolded when necessary and praised when deserved, but overall, we were treated with the respect of autonomy, as if we were capable of deciding how to behave and understanding the consequences on our own. In many ways, this approach taught us self discipline—and in my case, sometimes a little too much.

I was always particularly hard on myself. I still am. My grades had to be perfect, my work had to be memorable, and in my relationships, whether as a friend, daughter, or girlfriend, I always want to be the best. At times when I feel like I’m not (which is inevitably often), it eats away at me.

But over the last few years at my job, I had grown comfortable. I knew what to do and how to do it well. As a result, I stopped struggling, sometimes unconsciously avoiding growth, and steering clear of uncomfortable situations. I never dreaded work because I knew that whatever came my way, I could handle it and handle it well.

Flash forward to now, I’ve quit said dream job, and I feel more uncomfortable than I’ve felt in years, not to mention, dumb.

I’ve always known learning another language is challenging. I’ve already spent five years learning French, yet I can barely order a coffee. Two years into German, and mein Deustch ist immer noch schlect, but it’s still as frustrating as ever for someone who wants to be good at everything.

I used to look forward to the nine-hour days on my laptop, writing my cutesy stories about NYC’s best hidden gems. But now, a three-hour Italian class that’s over before 1pm has me dreaming of playing hooky every morning I wake up. Why? Because I’m shit at Italian.

Being bad at something, now that’s what really scares me.

Although I don’t think in extremes, I live in them. I’m very much an all or nothing person, and my entire life I have struggled to find the elusive concept of balance.

Everyday after class I wonder why I’m not better, why it feels like I’m not progressing at a rate that would make me happy. Part of that is simply because learning a language is hard, especially the older you get. The other side of it is that I’m nowhere near studying enough for someone who wants to learn quickly.

I’m constantly wedged between this conflict of feel guilty whenever I’m not studying, and trying to enjoy my time abroad. Yet, when progress feels slow, I’m reminded of this ongoing tension between studying and living.

Everyone says I need patience, but it’s never been my strong suit.

@justinegolataAiutami

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I saw this quote on TikTok that I’ve found a lot of solace in lately. It reads: “Here is just another version of there.” My Italian may not be where I want it to be yet, but I’m still waking up every morning and trying. Whether it’s at 100% or 30%, I’m showing up.

I remember when I first started dating my boyfriend—he’s charmingly smart for a man so pretty—and we were playing a game that involved guessing what country each flag belonged to. Traveling may be my biggest love, but it was embarrassing how few I could name.

He couldn’t believe that it wasn’t second nature to me, while I couldn’t believe it was second nature to him. In that moment, I was so thankful for his brain and that ours work so differently.

What sticks with him, like languages, flags, and random facts about history, doesn’t necessarily stick for me, and vice versa. But that’s the whole point. What’s a relationship if there’s nothing to learn from one another, to fill up each other’s weaknesses and counter each other’s strengths. I believe the same goes for life experiences. Why do things you’re only good at? Where’s the growth in that?

I try to think of this example when I get hard on myself for being so bad at Italian. It’s good to feel dumb! That only means there’s room to flourish. And frankly, if you haven’t felt that way in awhile, I challenge you to do something that changes that. Sometimes, you’ve gotta feel dumb to get smart!

I always thought couch surfing was a dirty word. A stigma I carried because I’m chronically guilty, and because, as I see it, (though my friends insisted otherwise), it feels like a burden to someone else.

So no, couch surfing wasn’t something I ever imagined doing—until I spent the last few months bouncing from one best friend’s sofa to the other.

My move abroad had been in the works since October 2024, giving me one full year to plan things out. Shocker, things didn’t go as planned.

My lease was up by July 31st, 2025 and my flight to Italy wasn’t until the end of October. That meant I had three months to figure out where the hell I’d lay my head every night.

Of course, anyone could say that subletting was always an option, but after paying for a storage unit in Ridgewood and planning to travel right as my lease ended, it didn’t make sense to move all my shit into a new place just to move it again a few weeks later.

The first month was easy. I’m always on the go and I spent a week or so at home with my family before popping over to London to stay with a friend.

From there, I only had a day or two back in NYC before leaving to spend a full month at my boyfriend’s place in Munich. Again, these were all the easy bits.

Flash forward to the end of September. I returned to NYC and had 27 nights until my flight. What seemed manageable quickly became a major learning curve—one with a very limited wardrobe might I add.

I lived out of my carry-on suitcase, wearing the same five items of clothing (don’t worry, I always kept up with my laundry) and pair of shoes on rotation since August. Unpacking now, I forgot just how many shoes I own. But none of that mattered. It was the mental strain of a nomadic lifestyle during a major life change, quitting a job and moving countries, that I was completely unready to meet.

Fortunately, over those next 27 days, my incredible friends welcomed me as if having one extra person and all of her luggage in an NYC apartment was “no big deal.” So here’s what I discovered.

10 things I learned after three months of couch surfing

1. Friends are EVERYTHING. The reason I had somewhere to sleep and could keep working in NYC during this time of limbo was thanks to my kind and patient friends who opened their homes to me.

2. Privacy should not be taken for granted. Now I see its true value.

3. Personal space is a privilege, and one I will be more grateful for moving forward. All I could think about was locking myself in my own bedroom as soon as I got the keys to my apartment.

4. Not paying rent rocks—but not when you spend money like me. I realized that I spend money knowing a paycheck is coming, and now that it’s not, there’s a lot I need to adjust.

5. The way people talk about third spaces is true. Always have one.

6. Take more walks. Sunny day? Walk. Feeling anxious? Walk. Moody? Walk.

7. Never stop thanking the people who lift you up when you need it. My situation wasn’t permanent and everyone kept reminding me it wouldn’t last forever.

8. Constantly feeling in the way is draining.

9. I’ve never tried so hard to make myself smaller, and that begins to wear on you.

10. Maybe I should live closer to family. Growing up, I always knew I wanted to travel. Even on family vacations, I’d sit alone at the airport gate, telling my family I was practicing for the day I left for college 😂 (talk about a drama queen).

It was never because I wanted to get away from my family. My family is everything to me. In my ideal, selfish world, they’d always just be wherever I am. Reality’s different, and no matter how much I want to be near them, that doesn’t change my desire to explore new places and live in other cities.

That said, most nights during the in between from one couch to the other, all I wanted was to hug my mom and have her tell me I wasn’t making one giant fucking mistake. I would have loved my dad and stepdad to help carry my luggage up the 12 flights to my storage unit, to grab a drink with my brother and stepsister before my flight, and to have all of them drop me off at the airport. The reason I couldn’t do any of that was because I chose, and still choose, to be somewhere else. And that will always be a difficult fact for me.

Although my job title was Senior Staff Writer, I might have spent more time stuffing my face than typing on my computer.

I was tasked with staying tapped into the best new openings across NYC—from a high-end Korean omakase hidden in the subway station to dining in a chef’s actual apartment.

Over the years, I’ve narrowed down a quick list of the best of the best for whenever a certain craving hits.

Let’s be clear, some of these picks are basic, but some things are basic for good reason (like pumpkin spice and Love Island). Even in a city with endless places to eat, I kept coming back to these—and I usually feel guilty repeating spots.

☕ Best Coffee in NYC

• Dayglow 📍Bushwick

  • Totoro

    • black sesame, charcoal, distilled coffee, orange blossom, coconut, honey, creamy coconut-salt topping

• Le Phin 📍East Village

  • Pandan Latte

    • espresso, milk, and homemade pandan syrup

• Caffe Paradiso 📍SoHo

  • Salted Brown Butter Oat Latte on tap

    • espresso, oat milk, homemade salted brown butter syrup

🍵 Best Matcha in NYC

• Dayglow (clearly, I love this spot) 📍Bushwick

  • Alyssa Lynch

    • Harry’s Berries Gaviota strawberries, Tache Pistachio Milk, and Nekohama ceremonial matcha

• Kijitora 📍Williamsburg

  • Strawberry Matcha

🥐 Best Bakeries in NYC

• L’appartement 4F 📍Brooklyn Heights & West Village

  • Le Framboise

    • raspberry croissant

• Radio Bakery 📍Greenpoint

  • Focaccia

• Pi Bakerie 📍SoHo

  • Fresh Greek Yogurt with blackberries, granola, and extra honey

• Librae 📍East Village

  • Pistachio Croissant

  • Bread Plate (comes with the saltiest butter)

• Breads Bakery 📍Various Locations

  • Chocolate Babka

  • Olive and Cheese Breadstick (THIS!!!)

• La Cabra 📍Soho & Bushwick

  • Cardamom Buns

• Ovenly (when I was a barista in the city this is where we got our pastries from, however it’s temporarily closed at the moment and I’m crossing my fingers it returns) 📍Greenpoint

  • GF Peanut Butter Cookie

  • Rosemary Currant Scone

🛏️ Best Hangover Food in NYC

• Streecha 📍East Village

  • Pierogi (with grilled onions and sour cream)

  • Borscht

  • Kielbasa

• Brooklyn Bagel & Coffee Company (the only NY bagel you’ll ever need, and I stand by this) 📍Chelsea & Greenwich Village

  • Everything Bagel with Lox Scallion Cream Cheese and a fresh squeezed orange juice

• Dea Burek 📍Belmont, the Bronx

  • Meat Pie

  • Homemade Yogurt

• Win Son 📍East Village & Williamsburg

  • Rice Noodles (only at East Village location)

  • Fan Tuan

  • Mortadella Scallion Pancake

• Barney’s Greengrass 📍Upper West Side

  • Matza Ball Soup

🍴 Best Under-the-Radar Restaurants in NYC

• Honey Badger 📍Prospect Lefferts Garden

  • Foraged Fare (their menu changes seasonally)

• New Asha (Sri Lankan food, my current obsession) 📍Staten Island

  • Mutton Kottu Roti

• Jeong Yuk Jeom (KBBQ) 📍Koreatown

  • Beef Tartare Sushi

• Palma 📍West Village

  • Bolognese

🥡 Best Takeout in NYC

• Woori Kitchen 📍Fort Greene

  • Soondubu

• Xi’an Famous Foods 📍Various Locations

  • Spicy Cumin Lamb Noodles

• Nenes Taqueria 📍Various Locations

  • Combo Meal

Again, these are all my personal recommendations, but I hope this helps anyone chronically undecided about where to eat. Let me know what you would have put on your list in the comments.

I didn’t want to go to college for my degree. Marketing & Advertising Communications at FIT was a means to an end of getting to New York City—and a hell of a lot cheaper than NYU Journalism.

I didn’t want to quit my job. I was living the dream, writing in New York City under my own byline by the age of 20. Who would let that go?

I didn’t want to leave New York City. For as long as I can remember, I imagined myself living in New York. It’s just that I have this unbearable itch to see and be everything, that leaving was the only way to scratch it.

That’s what’s difficult about chasing dreams and reaching them quicker than you expected. At what point do you let yourself be proud of what you’ve achieved, and trust that it’s okay to find out if there’s something more?

Does that make me ungrateful? Restlessly Gen Z?

At what point do you let yourself be proud of what you’ve achieved, and trust that it’s okay to want something more?

It can feel like exploring something “more,” regardless of whether you know what that means, is asking for too much. Call me greedy and a romantic all the same; I’d like to believe there’s always something more to love, to learn, to see.

That’s why living abroad was as inevitable to me as moving to New York City. It was an absolute.

So no, I didn’t want to get my specific degree, or quit my job, or leave New York. It was all just a means to an end.

The dream job

I was the first U.S. intern at my company in 2020. When the position was offered to me I was already committed to another internship at the time—so I did what any sane workaholic would do: I did them both. I graduated early to save some money and I was hired full time thereafter.

I was young (still am, of course) and I would do anything to standout or be noticed for my good work. “No” and I didn’t keep company at the time.

Work gave me tangible evidence that I was in my own terms, “making it” in New York City.

While people sat at a desk from 9 to 5 everyday, I was out trying the hottest new restaurants, getting exclusive invites, media preview privileges, and slinging back as many cocktails as I could handle, because passing on a free drink is practically losing money in your early 20s.

It was everything I ever wanted—and I was getting paid to do it (I mean not substantially, I’m still a writer, but I could at least afford rent).

I was 22 when I was invited as a VIP for the Rockefeller Center Tree Lighting (it sounds as flashy as the Swarovski star tree topper but it’s an experience I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy), 23 when I became the first “Senior” Staff Writer in the company across our 200+ global cities, 24 when I got to cover the VMAs and became a frequent TV guest, and 25 when I went on an all-expenses paid trip to the Dominican Republic to explore the beautiful country and slurp Piña Coladas seaside.

Although my resignation letter is already accepted, I can’t help but wonder what 26 would have brought if I chose to stay. It’s weird accepting the fact that I’ll never know.

What’s next

What I will know, however, is what it’s like to move across the world to a place I don’t speak the language. I’ll know the highs and lows of being an expat who can’t properly express themselves, or prove how funny I am (I swear, I’m hilarious!).

But I’ll know that I took a chance and did everything I could to see what more meant to me.

So I quit my job and I’m moving to Florence to study Italian (although it’s proving to be much harder than I expected—both the move and learning Italian, but that’s a whole other story I’ll share eventually).

I’ve decided I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far—but I know there’s still more ahead. So come find out with me!