It’s a funny thing to be “an American in Italia.” To be American, period, is an identity fervently contested in the media and in social circles these days. I am an American citizen. I went to school with “Proud to Be an American” resounding over the intercom before all of us little Americans, of all different ethnicities, stood and pledged our allegiance to our nation. “Proud,” we said. “Indivisible.”

I’m 21 now, and it has been more than two months since I left the United States for Italy. Two-plus months since my last iced coffee, hamburger, or jam session in my automatic car. I am living in Milan, studying media production at the epicenter of international sports as the Paralympics and, earlier, the Winter Olympics receive their Italian makeover in the fashion capital of the world. To my earlier point, sometimes it feels funny to be American here. It does not feel fashionable, not when our mistakes make Italian news. Not when some Italians have more to say about American politics than I do. Not when I fumble through my coffee order and am met with perfect English from the Italian server.

I can’t lie. I always feel a twinge of embarrassment whenever I respond to the question, “Di dove sei?” The truth is, despite the intention we recited daily in my youth, America feels quite divisible now. Sometimes, I feel as if I have abandoned ship, dividing myself from my home country to build a life here.

At the time of writing most of this essay, about a month in, I explored this new guilt. The day of the Opening Ceremony for the Winter Olympics arrived. It was the first sunny day in what felt like ages in misty Milan. I could not help but think of the Florida sun and swear never to take it for granted. Wearing my Team USA sweatshirt, which features both the American and Italian flags for this year’s Games, I and my cohort from the University of Florida and made our way to San Siro stadium for the ceremony.

Here, there was no embarrassment. No division. It was the true embodiment of what we Americans pledge or sing: one people, indivisible. Even the tragic news streaming in from back home, or the boos aimed at my vice president from the Italian crowd at San Siro, could not mask the beauty of this opportunity to represent my home country on an international stage. It was a reminder that, in those exchanges from one person to another, love really is always an option. I could represent my country for what I know it to be: a place that is messily trying to champion freedom, a place that, at its best, can be a place of unity.

It was a reminder that my guilt, my concern, and even my desire to explore the world, and the bravery it takes to work in a new country, all stem from a love of my country and the character America built in me. I learned that my national pride may evolve and that it is a choice I make to be proud to be an American. I made that choice at the Opening Ceremony, jumping out of my seat and cheering for the American athletes as they courageously stepped out, waving our flag.

After all, no matter how much Italian I learn or how much pasta I eat, while I am here, I will always be “an American in Italia.”