Why I left Italy early (and don't regret it)

If you’re thinking of asking me, “How was your time studying abroad?”, read this.

TW: Mention of panic attacks, anxiety, depression, dissociation.

No one told me that when I got back from studying abroad in Europe, I’d immediately have a panic attack in a Walmart.

It’s not my fault. I’d quickly adjusted to the tiny grocery store in the hospital across the street from the university I was attending in Florence, Italy. The grocery store was maybe the same length as a single aisle in Walmart, and the width of two of those. It consisted of food and toiletries and nothing else. Perhaps some cups and espresso makers, but that’s about it. So I think it’s safe to say it’s not my fault that upon arriving back in Chattanooga, Tennessee, after a semester of going to that two-aisle grocery store, I had a panic attack staring at where I could’ve sworn the agave used to be. 

By now, I was on the verge of tears. I’d gotten a ride to the nearest Walmart from a friend and promised it would be a quick trip. 10, 15 minutes tops, I said. But my eyes flickered through these aisles, endlessly scanning and never finding what I was looking for, and then my chest felt too tight and my breath quickened and my face got way too warm. There were just too many options, and none of them was the one I needed. How could anyone ever make a decision in this place? 

I snapped out of it when my friend called me to tell me she was checking out. I sucked it up and left without my agave that day, walking to check out while trying to even my breathing and hold back the tears I felt brewing. I didn’t know why I was crying for agave and too-full aisles, but I felt ridiculous for it.

I often had the same experience of ridiculous tears during my time in Italy. I remember dreaming of it since I was 17 years old and a college freshman: “When I’m a junior, I’ll take the year off to study abroad in Italy. I’ll drink coffee and get an art minor and meet wonderful people. I’ll belong there effortlessly.” I just knew I would.

However, two years later, I found that I wasn’t at all the same person. In my sophomore year, I’d finally made a home out of my university in Tennessee. I felt like I truly belonged and had grown a loving community I’d dreamt of having for years. But I was stubborn, and despite being in a really good place, I still set out to fulfill my teenhood fantasy of a year in Florence. Much to my disappointment, I could barely make it through one semester.

Over summer vacation in the months leading up to my travels, I was a bit of a hobbit. I was working remotely, studying remotely, and only went on two different week-long trips that summer. Otherwise, I barely left the house. I didn’t go to therapy, I wasn’t on meds, and my insecurities brewed within me. I thought I was fine, but that fine-ness was only a facade that lasted while I was alone. Venturing back into the real world, and onto a whole different continent, right after months of seclusion, was a recipe for a breakdown. But at the time, I never saw it coming. 

“I think going to Italy is going to be really good for your anxiety,” my mom had told me before I left. To my immigrant parents, if the United States had once been the promised land, Europe was the holy land. Italy had been a dream for my mom her whole life. She always said that she imagined visiting would feel like going home. “You’ll find peace there,” she assured me. I don’t think either of us expected my mental health to fall as far as it did. So, at the time, I believed her.

My descent into self-proclaimed madness was slippery and immediate. My mental health was on one of those water slides where the floor is ripped from beneath you. You’re waterboarded and dropped into a dark tunnel of twists and turns, all while bumps continuously beat into you, leaving you with red, swollen lines across your back by the time the ride ends, but not before you’re waterboarded one last time, one worst time. That last drowning came about one month after my initial move to Italy, and it hit with a sense of finality I could only define as rock bottom. 

I began to suffer from extreme bouts of disassociation to the point where I had to hold on to a friend’s arm in public places for fear of getting lost due to an inability of recognizing my surroundings. I had panic attacks every day, multiple times a day. I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed for class and skipped full school days, spending most of my time crying in my room, overwhelmed by everything and nothing. I knew I should’ve been happy. I’d wanted this since I was 17. But I just wasn’t.

I temporarily found peace on a weekend retreat in the mountains, in a place called Poppi. While there—staying in a cabin with my closest friends, hiking up to an abandoned chapel on the top of a mountain with a view of the city below us, and petting stray cats on a private road that I could’ve sworn belonged to a witch—I felt like myself for the first time in months, maybe all year, even before Italy. I mention this because I’ve never been much of a nature person—I’ve considered myself to be a city girl through and through until this experience. Poppi made me realize, “Wait, taking walks actually helps,” and I’ve been searching for peace in little things, in the outdoors, ever since then. 

Poppi also gave me the push I needed to find lasting peace instead of temporary peace. Finally, shortly afterward, I reached out for help. I was taken to an English-speaking psychiatrist who prescribed me medication, and my path to recovery began. I saw a therapist weekly online as well. My panic attacks lessened. I could finally bring myself to get out of bed in the morning most of the time. However, none of this took away from the exhaustion and overall emptiness I felt. My online job had also begun to pay less, thus causing me to miss out on many experiences I’d once been looking forward to. Due to a lack of money and mental stability, I was nothing but a bundle of stress pulled apart at the seams. 

Lila, my friend who had also originally intended to stay a full year, felt similar to how I did. We had back and forth discussions on the topic: “Should we go back? Should we stay? What are the pros and cons?” We felt selfish, lesser than the other students around us who seemed to be having the time of their lives. We were just too broke and too drained to appreciate this the way we wanted to. So, finally, we gave in: we’d go back a semester sooner than planned. 

The moment we decided this, relief rushed over me. It felt right, through and through, and the days began to feel lighter. Here’s the thing about time: once you know there’s less of it, you make the most of everything. I began to push myself to go out more, spend the last of my money on experiences I didn’t know I’d have again. When we opened up to others on the trip that we’d be leaving at the end of the semester, they admitted to us, “Me too. This is a lot. I couldn’t commit to this for a full year.” 

Lila and I often reflect on our single day of peace. We were both going to see our families for Christmas and had to take our finals early to be able to do so. Because of this, we had a day off while everyone else was still taking their tests, and we decided to dress up and go into the city to get brunch at our favorite breakfast spot with the little money we had.  We talked endlessly that day, and I don’t remember a single topic. We had pancakes with pomegranate seeds, sweet potato fries, and iced coffee (one of the only spots in Florence with iced coffee). At some point, I remember thinking, “This is nice. Have we been dumb this whole time? Has there been joy here all along?” I verbalized these thoughts, and Lila laughed. I don’t remember her exact words, but I know that I concluded that there was always joy here, as there is everywhere; we just weren’t in a position to embrace it. And that’s not a thing to feel guilt or mourn for. It’s just what it is.

A part of me wanted the answer to be more complex. During my lowest points, I wished there was something “actually” wrong with me, so I had something to blame my depression on. I felt like if it was just my anxiety to blame, then I was a failure. “You can’t enjoy the smallest things because you’re too anxious. That’s pathetic,” was my train of thought when I was angry at myself. But there were days when I would just cry and say, “It can’t just be me. This can’t be all on me. There has to be more.” But there wasn’t. It took me time to learn and accept the conclusion I eventually came to: I don’t wish I had stayed. I wish I had been someone different who could stay.

I think that if I had been there a lot less time—say a month or two—I would’ve had the time of my life. I just wasn’t in a position to be away from familiar things and people I loved for so long, and I didn’t realize that until too late. But just as the relief of my decision was immediate, so was the relief as I moved back to Tennessee for the upcoming winter semester. I changed my minor, added classes I knew I’d love to my curriculum, and embraced my city in its entirety. I began acting on things I’d been wanting to and finally had the opportunity to—actively working on getting my poetry collection published (coming soon), selling my coffee and matcha at pop-ups and markets, seeing my long-distance boyfriend more often, working on music, crocheting, making a short film, getting back on YouTube, etc. My creativity thrived in the familiar. I was never in the place for a challenge. After my experience abroad, I learned that that was something I needed to work up to, not jump into headfirst, blind. 

I continued taking my medication in my recovery. Walmart doesn’t give me panic attacks anymore, but I feel comforted by Target’s organization. I often miss Italian cappuccinos and do my best to recreate them whenever possible. I built up my extroversion slowly, as I should’ve done in the first place. I try not to see my time abroad as a wasted opportunity, but as a lesson.  

I was not okay, and I eventually accepted the ugliness in that not-okayness and gave up on something that had been on my mind for years. I don’t say giving up negatively, but factually, simply as something I needed to do for myself with no further implications. Sometimes we want things to be complicated, but ultimately, we need to accept things for what they are, as they are. Sometimes we have to put aside what we want for what we need. The funny thing about that is, most of the time, what we need ends up being what we didn’t know we wanted. 

Reflect on yourself and your desires and necessities. Where are you now? Where do you want to be? Are you happy? Are you okay? How can you be okay? Take a breath in the Walmart aisle. The agave bottle sits on the shelf before you, politely waiting next to the honey. Open your eyes and grab it before you head to check out.