My mom thinks time stopped when I took that plane. But it hasn’t. I’m closer to my mid-twenties than to my teenage years. I’ve made sacrifices along the way, and now, I’m building the life I once dreamed of as a little girl.
I’m living la dolce vita — with everything that comes with it. Coffee is a must in my sweet breakfasts. I order a small caffè al banco (coffee at the counter) at least twice a day. I’ve learned to enjoy the calmness of doing things at a slower pace. And my biggest joy? Savoring every meal.
But I hesitate before picking up when I see my mom calling. Not because I’m a terrible daughter, but because, in her eyes, I’m still fifteen. No matter how many conversations we’ve had, every call goes the same way:
“How are you, and why haven’t you called me?”
“I was busy. I study, remember?”
“The whole day?”
“No, I clean, cook, and have hobbies too.”
“That’s why you come home so late! Who are you going out with? Send me
their numbers in case I need to reach you.”
“Are you planning to text them in Italian?”
Silence.
And let’s not even talk about what happens if I say I’m not doing “very good.” It’s always been like that, but moving abroad has made it worse. The seven-hour time difference makes it even harder to reply in real time.
I left home at twenty, eager to explore, to carve my own path, to find myself. For the past two years, I’ve been living in Italy. I’m not on an extended vacation — this is my life now. Italian isn’t just a casual language I struggle with; it’s the local language of my home. Instead of hiding in my cave — my monolocale, a flat shared with my significant other — I’ve joined Pilates groups, associations, and volunteering communities.
I understand the untranslatable jokes now. I use dialect words to emphasize a point. And last month, I made it official: I changed my WhatsApp number to +39.
I’ve dealt with never-ending bureaucracy, waited outside the questura (local police station) for hours, struggled to explain symptoms at the pharmacy, and faced the loneliness that comes with starting over. And yet, every time I call home, I’m still her little princess.
What’s more adult than moving abroad on your own? Moving abroad without a mother telling you to be strong.
It’s been rough. There have been good days. Bad days. Just days. Moving abroad is often romanticized as adventurous, thrilling, full of opportunities. And while it is all those things, it’s also a process of grief.
You mourn your past life — the ease of your native language, the comfort of old friendships, the familiarity of home. Every new experience is exciting but also slightly foreign. The first time you navigate the local supermarket, order coffee without hesitation, or save a new friend’s number in your phone, you realize you’re slowly building something new.
Adulthood doesn’t come with a clear marker. It’s not just turning eighteen or paying bills. It’s making decisions no one else can make for you. It’s standing in a foreign country, trying to explain your symptoms to a doctor in a language you’re still learning. It’s crying the night before a job interview, doubting yourself, and showing up anyway.
Moving abroad in your twenties is amazing. And it sucks. At first, I felt an intense need to call my mom. But I knew if I told her everything, she’d worry. The first time I broke down, she would have told me to take the first flight home. That wasn’t an option.
What’s more adult than moving abroad on your own? Moving abroad without a mother telling you to be strong. I filter out the hard days, the doubt, the exhaustion. Because if I tell her the truth, she’ll feel helpless — and then I’ll have to comfort her too.
I love my mom. I know she misses me. I miss her too. But I don’t want our relationship to be built on nostalgia for who I was; I want her to see me for who I am. She can still call me baby, but I hope she also recognizes that I’m no longer one.
So, Mom, please let me live my way, and I promise I’ll call more.
