How Rest, Reflection, and Tears Shape Who We Are
It’s 9 pm.
I just woke up from one of those deep, heavy sleeps where you disappear for a while — where your body finally shuts down, and time stops existing.
I woke up in my soft bed, buried in pillows and blankets that still smell like home — that warm, safe smell that makes you feel protected, almost loved. I needed this.
Five hours of surrender after being awake for nearly two days straight.
This morning, at 8, I landed back in Milano. I didn’t sleep last night — just lay in bed for a bit before leaving for the Copenhagen airport.
And when I finally arrived, after a month and a half away, the feeling of being back hit me so quietly, so deeply, that I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed it until I stepped inside.
I made it cliché — pizza in bed, of course. But instead of an aperol or wine, I had herbal tea. I finished the last episode of a psychological series I’d been hooked on, and then I just… let myself fall.
I didn’t realize how much I missed my home until I walked through the door. Everything was perfectly clean, exactly as I left it. I found a note I’d written to myself back in July — a small reminder of who I was then — and for a moment, I felt this enormous, quiet peace.
Like my whole body exhaled: You made it. You’re back. You deserve to rest now.
So I did.
What I thought would be a 12-hour coma turned into just five and a half hours of recharging.
I woke up smiling — but a few minutes later, sitting there in bed, trying to “update my software” back into Italian life, a strange emptiness crept in. Sadness, too.
I called my person.
The one who knows me better than almost anyone — besides my mother. My safe place. My forever confidant.
My favorite human to talk to whether I’m overflowing with joy or drowning in doubt.
I started talking about how I was feeling, not even looking at the camera, just letting the words spill — and then I noticed she was smiling, trying not to laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked.
And then we both started laughing.
Because she knew me. Of course she did. She knew I’d sleep a few hours, wake up, and spiral into this exact emotional monologue.
She called me out on my pattern — how I don’t know how to rest, not even for a little while. How every time I finish something big, I ride this roller coaster of emotions, restless and uncertain when I finally have space to breathe.
And God, I felt so loved in that moment. Loved enough to be seen, teased, and understood all at once.
Two days later, I crashed. Hard.
Because I feel everything so deeply — the joy, the longing, the weight of my own dreams.
When I reflect on who I am, who I’m becoming, and where I’m heading, it stirs something inside me that’s hard to hold.
I called her again, this time in tears. It wasn’t sadness exactly. It was happiness tangled with introspection, mixed with a quiet fear I couldn’t quite name.
I realized something: for me, it has never been about the destinations. Sure, I’m proud of my achievements — but what truly keeps me alive is the journey.
The uncertainty. The creating. The becoming.
And when a journey ends, I feel lost until I find the next one to build.
But then the questions come:
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Will I ever truly be happy if I’m always running?
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Will I ever learn how to just be?
I wasn’t unhappy. I was just exhausted. And a little untethered.
Sometimes, this life feels lonely. Chasing dreams, pushing limits, carrying this endless drive — it isolates you. Ambition comes first, and friendships, relationships, even your own sense of belonging, often fall behind.
It’s lonely because most people won’t understand you.
It’s lonely because sometimes you don’t even understand yourself.
And yet… this is the only way my soul knows how to live.
I’ve wondered if it’s wrong — this hunger for more. If my inability to settle means I’ll never feel fulfilled. If society will ever accept someone who refuses to fit neatly into the idea of “enough.”
But then there are moments of beauty. The rare people who see you — truly see you — and love you for it. The ones who walk with you for a while, or wait patiently for your return, excited for the stories you’ll bring back.
It’s beautiful, too, to grow wild and free, even when it scares people who don’t understand you.
It’s painful when others try to use your fire against you, making you feel wrong for being different, for not belonging to their mold.
But there’s power in finally saying: no more.
There’s power in embracing yourself fully, in realizing your depth and intensity aren’t flaws — they are your greatest strength.
Don’t dim. Don’t shrink. Don’t apologize.
Be proud of the restless, dreaming, unstoppable person you are.
Of course, you’ll cry sometimes. We all will.
And when you do, I hope you have someone — that someone — who will sit with you in it. Who’ll tell you: Feel it all. Don’t hold back. It’s okay. It’s a lot, but you can carry it.
That’s what I did. I cried until the weight softened. Until my body remembered how to breathe again.
And then I made coffee, grabbed a pen, and began sketching the outlines of a new dream.
Not because I have to.
But because this is who I am.
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