The Bittersweet Cost of Chasing a Dream Abroad

It’s a strange feeling, being a day away from a life-changing event. A relocation overseas is not just a change of address; it’s a redefinition of self, a gentle rupture in the fabric of daily life that forces you to step into a new rhythm, a new culture, and a new set of expectations. Even when the logistics have been meticulously sorted, the COVID booster jabbed into my arm, the suitcase weighed (and reweighed) and the endless lists checked off, there is a current of nerves that cannot be neatly packed away. They linger, quietly insistent, whispering reminders that no matter how prepared you are, life will always retain an element of the unknown.

I’ve been here before. Two years ago, I embarked on my first overseas move with a cocktail of blind optimism, naïveté, and a generous splash of rose-tinted trust that everything would unfold perfectly. I imagined myself slipping seamlessly into my new life, effortlessly adapting to Florence, its language, its rhythms, its nuances. And in many ways, I did adapt. I explored, I studied, I wrote, I wandered cobbled streets in awe, and I learned more about myself than any tourist guide could ever promise. But it wasn’t without its friction, its unforeseen challenges, its moments of quiet panic that arose when bureaucracy, logistics, or simple human error collided with my expectations.

This time, things feel different. I arrive armed not just with my suitcases, but with experience, with knowledge, with a clearer sense of what I need to do when I land. I have a plan, yes, but also a flexibility that comes only from having been through the first attempt and emerged wiser, more attuned to the rhythm of adaptation. I have friends already in Florence, familiar faces who can guide, advise, and perhaps even laugh at the minor catastrophes that inevitably come with relocation. There is comfort in that network, in knowing that the city that once felt so foreign now has familiar corners, familiar smells, and familiar human touch points.

I think about the process differently this time. Before, the move felt like stepping into an entirely blank canvas, with every expectation built from imagination and aspiration. Now, it feels more like returning to a canvas I’ve already touched, a place where I know the texture of the paint, the angle of the easel, the way light falls at different times of day. I can approach it with intention, not just hope. I have a sense of the practicalities that await but I also have an understanding of the intangible: the patience required, the grace to allow myself to feel homesick without judgment, the humility to accept that some days will be slower than I’d like, and the courage to move forward anyway.

Packing has taken on a different shape. In 2023, it was a frantic exercise of over preparation, fear-driven excess, and last-minute panic purchases. I packed every “just in case” item I could think of. This time, my packing is surgical, intentional and pared back, guided by lessons learned. And yet, the nerves remain. Even with experience, there is a quiet, persistent undercurrent of trepidation. It’s a recognition that no matter how organised, how prepared, how well-networked I am, the act of uprooting oneself is inherently vulnerable. You are placing yourself in a situation where familiar routines vanish, where language barriers, cultural differences, and unforeseen hurdles await. The mind flips between excitement and caution, between anticipation and the shadow of “what if.”

But today, that nervous energy feels different. It feels like a spark rather than a weight. It’s a reminder that I am on the cusp of something expansive, that life’s most meaningful chapters are often written outside of comfort zones. The uncertainty that once felt intimidating now pulses with potential. I can see that the trepidation itself is a form of respect for the adventure ahead, a signal that I am stepping fully into life rather than simply drifting along its edges.

I reflect on the city I am returning to. Florence, with its rich history and its quiet moments of magic hidden in unexpected corners, has already captured a part of me. The city is alive, a living gallery, a classroom without walls. I’ve wandered through the cobblestone streets, tracing the outlines of buildings that have stood for centuries, and felt a humbling sense of continuity. I’ve sipped coffee in cafes, notebook open, capturing thoughts that seem to find clarity in the hum of life around me. I’ve stumbled through language missteps that left me embarrassed, discovered markets that overwhelm the senses with colour and fragrance, and built friendships which have survived the distance of continents and months apart. Returning now feels like a continuation, a deepening, rather than a first step into the unknown.

Emotionally, I have learned to hold multiple truths at once. I can acknowledge the sadness of leaving behind family, the bittersweet final moments of farewells, and the logistical stress without letting it overshadow the larger picture. This time, leaving feels harder. My 91 year old Nonna has finally lived in the same town as me since I was 21 months old. Dementia will inevitably consume my dear Nonna, but these moments together have meant everything. There’s a deep ache in knowing this could be the last time I see someone I love so fully. Life offers no guarantees and changes every second, but age and illness make the inevitable surface sooner. I’ve learned that grief and excitement are not mutually exclusive, that longing and anticipation can coexist, and that every goodbye carries within it the promise of a new hello.

As I prepare to leave, I also feel a profound gratitude. Gratitude for the chance to start again, for the lessons that brought me to this point, for the support network that exists across continents, and for the inner resources that I have cultivated. Gratitude for the city itself, with its layers of history and art and life, that will welcome me once more into its embrace. Gratitude for the person I am becoming, someone who can navigate change with curiosity rather than fear, with excitement rather than hesitation.

I think about the future and the stories yet to be written. I imagine waking up to mornings in Florence, sunlight spilling through shutters, the hum of scooters and church bells blending into a rhythm uniquely Italian. I imagine afternoons spent wandering markets, discovering hidden cafes, and writing in the small hours, letting words flow onto the page in the quiet magic of early evening. I imagine friendships deepening, collaborations forming, and unexpected opportunities arising from the act of simply being present in a place I have chosen as home. These images are not fantasies, they are possibilities, tangible in their potential because of the leap I have taken and the courage I carry.

The act of relocating, I realise, is a continual practice of openness. It is a willingness to let the old shape the new without being bound by it, a capacity to blend experience with curiosity, planning with spontaneity. Every challenge becomes an opportunity for creativity, every misstep a lesson, every small victory a reinforcement that I am capable of more than I often give myself credit for. The city, the job, the apartment, the network of friends - they are the scaffolding, but the true essence of the experience lies in how I choose to inhabit it.

As I zip up the suitcase for what I hope is the last time, I notice a subtle shift in the way I feel. The nervous energy, once tinged with anxiety, now hums with possibility. It is no longer just a reminder of uncertainty but a signal of life unfolding, of adventure approaching, of a story in progress. I feel a readiness that goes beyond logistics and planning; it is a readiness to engage fully, to participate deeply, to embrace the unknown not as a threat but as a canvas.

On this final day, I take moments to savour the familiar. I make notes of the small rituals I will miss, I say words of gratitude to those who have supported me from afar and nearby, and hug my family and friends that little bit more fiercely. I reflect on the journey so far and the one that awaits, and I realise that relocation is not a punctuated event but a continuous unfolding. It is not the fear of what might go wrong that defines it, but the awareness of the potential for growth, connection, and discovery.

And so, I step forward with intention. Not with blind optimism, not with naïve expectations, but with a measured, joyful anticipation. I know challenges will come; I know moments of doubt will surface. But I also know that I have learned to meet them with resourcefulness, with humour, and with resilience. I have learned that the act of moving, of choosing to live fully in a new context, is itself transformative, reshaping the way I see the world and the person I wish to be.