I move with life. Sometimes voluntarily, sometimes like luggage
I have always been someone who moves with life, sometimes by choice, sometimes by circumstance. This has created a double feeling in me. Sometimes I feel proud of my spontaneity and willingness to try something new and adventurous, and sometimes I suspect I just did not have the courage to decide, so I let others decide for me.
Love: the riskiest relocation package
Love is something worth exploring. I am sure about that. And I ended up marrying the person I moved countries for. Was it easy? God no.
The moment I decided to move from Croatia to Italy felt like something inside me was whispering that if I did not try, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I would rather try, regret it a little, and move on than live forever with a dramatic internal monologue titled What If.
So I did it. I moved to Milan. Sounds fancy, right? Fashion, cocktails, aperitivo, beautiful people who look like they were born knowing how to pose. And yes, it was a bit of all that. But sometimes it was also none of that.
The honeymoon phase ends: reality does not bring flowers
After two or three months, my wow effect expired. My normal life was ready to start, except I had no idea how to start it. I missed my friends and family badly. Traveling back to Zagreb was a logistical nightmare. Seventeen hours on a FlixBus or unpredictable rides with BlaBla drivers. I tested all options. All exhausting. All slightly soul crushing.
I needed a real job. Not just two or three months of waitressing like at the beginning. I needed to belong there.
My private life was going well. My relationship with my then boyfriend was good. I was learning about him, his culture, his life.
But I was missing myself.
The “Ragazza Croata” phase
At some point, I realized I did not want to be the Croatian girl anymore. I wanted to be someone with her own story. Someone who belonged. The problem was that it was their environment, not mine. And I was kind of pretending it was mine.
Since my Italian vocabulary had not progressed much beyond come stai, I decided to accelerate things. I signed up for a two week event organizing course in Italian. Nine to six every day. Because apparently I enjoy suffering with a schedule.
It was one of the biggest learning experiences of my life.
I threw myself into it. I was the only foreigner. Everyone spoke fast, confidently, and intelligently, which is a terrifying combination. The course was not easy either. I made friends. They accepted me. Meanwhile I was silently panicking because I had so many ideas but no words to express them.
So I smiled. Smiling became my defense mechanism. When I do not know what to say, I smile. It is charming, confusing, and linguistically convenient.
At home, I cried. Existing there felt damn difficult. But my Italian improved, and I discovered I could absorb information like a slightly stressed sponge.
When insanity becomes a strategy
After that course, I signed up for another one. Same schedule from nine to eighteen for four more weeks. Even more intense. This time I had to present things, speak, exist publicly. I was convinced what I was doing was borderline insane because I clearly could not do it.
Every day I talked to my boyfriend, now husband, about what I was going through. He tried to understand, but he could also see my Italian improving.
Then one day after class, we did not switch to English anymore.
We just kept talking in Italian.
Integration speedrun
That was it. I integrated in less than two months of intensive learning. In under a year, I could joke at the cash register, do small talk, and function like a socially acceptable adult. I got a decent job. Then another one. An even better one.
I was one of them. I finally belonged.
Plot twist: belonging can be weird
But sometimes it felt like my resilience almost made me lose myself. When I went home, my humor was different. My reactions were different. I was different.
Which makes sense. When you speak multiple languages, you do not just translate words. You translate personalities.
Looking back now, I know I fit in. I really did. But was I truly myself?
I remember staying quiet in meetings because I was not completely sure what they were talking about and I was afraid I might say something stupid.
And now I know I was not being fully myself. I was playing a role I had assigned to myself.
Why do we all want to fit so badly
Why do we try so hard to blend in? What’s wrong with thinking differently or standing out?
Belonging isn’t becoming like everyone else. Along the way, I lost pieces of myself, like cracks forming in porcelain. But maybe that’s the point. Life repairs you like kintsugi: the broken parts filled with gold, not perfect, not the same, but stronger and uniquely yours.
Exhausting? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely.