Romanticizing Rome
Italy had been my dream for years—the food, the history, the beauty. But living there wasn’t the same as the Italy I had built in my head. When I moved to Italy, I was nervous about what it would mean for my future and where it would lead me. The whole experience—living in a new country, learning a new language, immersing myself in a new culture—is something I wouldn’t trade for the world. But those first weeks were an adjustment I completely underestimated. At first, it felt like a holiday: I was wandering through cobblestone streets, exploring piazzas, and pinching myself that I was living the dream I’d had for so long. It took me time to realize that this wasn’t a trip—it was my new reality.
And when reality hit, it hit hard. I began to feel just how much of an outsider I was. In my neighborhood, I often noticed the unwelcoming looks when people overheard English. At times, I was even heckled by older men. As a young American girl in a country that wasn’t my own, I realized quickly that I needed to be careful. This created a constant undercurrent of unease in my daily life.
Luckily, during this time my roommate and best friend became my anchor. Together, we started taking weekend trips around Europe. Experiencing different cultures and cities made us reflect on what “home” really meant. Why did we choose Italy? What were we searching for? And more importantly, what were we learning about ourselves?
Five months later—and after a short trip home for Christmas—I finally had the answers. I realized I hadn’t gone abroad just for Italy, but for discovery: to learn about the world and, even more importantly, myself. My year abroad was incredible. I met amazing people, learned how to solo travel, and uncovered passions I didn’t know I had. But I also discovered that when you romanticize a place, you risk setting expectations no reality can live up to.
In my head, Italy was supposed to be endless glamour and friendly faces. I imagined croissants and cappuccinos in sunny cafés, evenings filled with pasta and wine in Trastevere, laughter and dancing under twinkling lights. And yes, I did all that—but the croissant came with rude service and secondhand smoke, and Trastevere’s streets were so crowded I often couldn’t even move. The glamour I had pictured didn’t exist the way I thought it would. What did remain, though, were the connections: the late-night laughter, the dancing, the friendships that shaped me in ways nothing else has. That alone makes me recommend this kind of experience to anyone feeling lost at university in America—it’s a reminder that struggle shared creates a bond unlike any other. It wasn’t all bad I had many days and nights that made me never want to leave, but we’ll save those stories for the podcast.
Of course, there were deeper challenges too. The cultural differences—smoking on every corner, the constant nightlife, the pace of life—were things I never fully adapted to, and they quietly took a toll on my mental health. But even those challenges taught me something important: growth doesn’t come from the glossy version of life we imagine, but from learning to exist in the real one.