Forty-five days.
Forty. Five. Days.
October 2nd, 2016.
Forty-five days away.
Excuse me while I have a nervous breakdown.
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...okay.
So. Yes. In forty-five days, I'll be boarding a plane aimed for Europe.
Amsterdam, Italy--north to south--and Paris.
Just over three weeks.
By myself.
People tell me I'm brave.
I don't feel brave.
I feel terrified and crazy and anxious. But not brave.
I had a meltdown the other day. It occurred to me that, once I arrive in Europe, I'll have no idea where anything is. My exact thought process looked a little something like this:
"What if I can't find the grocery store in Florence? I'm gonna starve. I'M GONNA STARVE TO DEATH IN ITALY!"
Right. Starve to death. In Italy.
This is what my brain has become. A constant stream of nonsensical fears and neuroses.
I'll be fine. I know this. I'll be fine and I'll come home stronger, more confident. Changed.
I'm looking forward to it.
You know, in between the meltdowns.
I read a quote somewhere the other day. Pinterest, probably. It was something like, "Feel the fear and do it anyway."
Well, that's what I'm doing. Each step of the way. From buying that first ticket to booking my hostel in Amsterdam. I'm terrified, but I want this more. I want to see and experience new things. I want to venture out all by myself, to discover new things about myself and the world. I want to claim the independence and confidence that has been just out of reach for most of my adult life.
I want to come home changed. Stronger. Braver.
And, dammit, I want gelato.
And so, in forty-five days, I'll get on that plane.
But that doesn't mean I won't freak out until then.
Forty-five days, guys.
Shit.
Forty. Five. Days.
October 2nd, 2016.
Forty-five days away.
Excuse me while I have a nervous breakdown.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
...okay.
Amsterdam, Italy--north to south--and Paris.
Just over three weeks.
By myself.
People tell me I'm brave.
I don't feel brave.
I feel terrified and crazy and anxious. But not brave.
I had a meltdown the other day. It occurred to me that, once I arrive in Europe, I'll have no idea where anything is. My exact thought process looked a little something like this:
"What if I can't find the grocery store in Florence? I'm gonna starve. I'M GONNA STARVE TO DEATH IN ITALY!"
Right. Starve to death. In Italy.
This is what my brain has become. A constant stream of nonsensical fears and neuroses.
I'll be fine. I know this. I'll be fine and I'll come home stronger, more confident. Changed.
I'm looking forward to it.
You know, in between the meltdowns.
 |
| The quote. Yes, it was Pinterest. |
Well, that's what I'm doing. Each step of the way. From buying that first ticket to booking my hostel in Amsterdam. I'm terrified, but I want this more. I want to see and experience new things. I want to venture out all by myself, to discover new things about myself and the world. I want to claim the independence and confidence that has been just out of reach for most of my adult life.
I want to come home changed. Stronger. Braver.
And, dammit, I want gelato.
And so, in forty-five days, I'll get on that plane.
But that doesn't mean I won't freak out until then.
Forty-five days, guys.
Shit.