After eleven months in Florence without seeing my family due to Covid, I transitioned overnight from living alone in a studio apartment to living in a big house with five people, three Christmas trees, plenty of rooms and no privacy.
Relatives, friends and strangers continually ask me what it’s like to be home. I can never formulate an honest response in the moment. So I decided to write one.
Each time I come home, I experience something like culture shock. Except the culture is technically my own and the shock is more like finding a lot of old things I recognize in a trunk I’d long forgotten.
Every hour or so, my dad comes to find me just to give me a hug. It’s sweet and mildly annoying, but I’d never dream of asking him to stop. Three women I know lost their fathers this year with varying degrees of warning, and mine is right here, healthy, and on his way to hug me.
He calls me “little girl,” even though I’m 26, and I alternate between finding it endearing and irritating. He also seems to think my job belongs in air quotes.
You can’t really blame him. I work for an influencer.
My mom grins when I emerge from my room in the mornings. “You’re here!” she exclaims. She doesn’t try to hide her relief over the fact that I’ve broken up with my longtime boyfriend.
You can’t really blame her. He represented a reason I might never come home.
Then there’s my older brother and his girlfriend, five years deep in their relationship and clearly in love. They have the life I always thought I would want.
Between them lies a history of road trips, a pile of savings, a shared affinity for hikes and well-made fleece jackets. They know where they stand, what they want to do next and what they’ll do eventually.
You can’t really blame them. Certainty is comforting.
And then there’s me, the tumbleweed.
Chronically changing jobs and addresses, a straight A student that waited until after college to rebel. Moving to Italy, going freelance, country-hopping by myself, living most of my life in another language. Trying to understand my resumé is like trying to read Sanskrit.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel the need to live overseas. It’s complicated and messy and doesn’t make much sense. Kind of like falling in love.
It’s a battle between two identities, Italian Megan and Indiana Megan. If we could only do away with the first one, things like health insurance and taxes wouldn’t give me tremendous anxiety. My relatives would know how to talk to me at Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t have to spell out my address, letter by letter, over the phone to my bank teller.
I wouldn’t feel so rotten when my mom cries as she hugs me goodbye at the airport and my dad stares down at his shoes. I’m breaking their hearts, I think to myself, as I get in line for security.
But when you fall in love with a place, a person, a lifestyle, an idea – when you feel that desire so sure and steady – you don’t really have a choice. You can ignore it and deal with the pain of what could have been. Or you can go for it, and deal with the pain of what you left behind.
You can’t really blame me.
Right?
