treadmill of life.

Ciao. It’s been a while.

I’m currently writing this on a plane back from Washington, D.C. to Rome after a long, quite adventurous break. I’ll talk more about that some other time, but in this edit of my life, I’d categorize my time into five sections: school, work, sleep, going out, and plane.

As an international student, so much of my time is spent on a plane. I purposely never download movies. Instead, I download ‘gut-wrenching’ music so I can feel a little sad. While I’m only half joking. I’ve realized that 99% of my ideas come from being on a plane, usually while listening to ‘Beach House’ or ‘Cigarettes After Sex’.

Think about it. Traveling, whether by plane, train, car, or some other form of transport, perhaps teleportation depending on when you’re reading this, is all about anticipation. You’re going somewhere. It’s one of the few moments in life where you’re forced to sit and think about the future, the past, and the present. Reassessing your life. Replaying moments. It’s the one time you either feel completely empty or overwhelmingly full.

One of my favorite ways to pass the time, other than struggling to write in my notes app through horrible turbulence, is clearing my photo gallery.

Growing up, I was truly obsessed with Marie Kondo, the organization queen circa 2019, if I had to guess. ‘The art of letting go’. For so long, I’ve been fascinated by what we choose to keep versus what we’re willing to release.

Her methods have constantly made me question: Why do we take photos? Is it because we want to remember these moments, or because we want the world to know we experienced them? With each photo, I ask myself a few things. First: what is my initial emotion, happy, sad, or neutral? Second: is that emotion coming from the moment I’m in now, or from how I felt when I took the photo or video? Third: will I ever think of this moment again if this image is erased?

For example, my flight from Washington, D.C. to Rome in Summer 2024. I have a photo of my breakfast, served toward the end of the flight. I chose to keep it. At first glance, I thought, airplane breakfast? Absolutely not. I remembered getting no sleep for the past eight hours, lying down, wrapped in blankets, my head sinking into a flat pillow. But then I noticed my mom’s reflection beside me, faintly visible in the TV screen just above my breakfast.

Pure joy. Happiness.

I thought back to that moment, hopeful, about to start my new life in Rome. My parents there to drop me off. The full-circle feeling of two Americans who met in Italy, now bringing their son back.

(Also just to note. Something I love to do, especially on long-haul flights, is giving the cabin crew a small gift, chocolates, gift cards, just something to spark a little joy. Their job isn’t easy, and if you’ve traveled as much as I have, you’ve seen every kind of passenger imaginable. I never expect anything in return, but sometimes they give you some extra wine or something. Point is, show some love to your flight crew!)

In that moment, I felt the presence of my grandmother, who had passed a few months prior. Like her prayers were still protecting me. All of these emotions, I would have never revisited them if I hadn’t noticed my mother’s reflection above an airplane breakfast. So I chose to keep it.

The next photo was a screenshot of my home screen. An accident. Deleted immediately, of course.

It’s scary to let go, but to have lived at all is what life is about…

One of my favorite films is Call Me by Your Name by Luca Guadagnino. Sure, a bit cliché, especially if you know me. But there’s a reason this film resonates with so many people. It’s ultimately about the joy of being alive. About desire, time, youth, and the fleeting feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I wanted to study in Italy in the first place.

For anyone who hasn’t seen it, the film is set in Northern Italy during the summer of 1983, following Elio, a 17-year-old spending the season at his family’s villa. His world shifts when Oliver, an older American student, arrives to work with Elio’s father. The story is slow, sensual, and human. Nothing is rushed, and that’s what makes it so devastating. It feels like life. Like something that happened to you, not something you watched.

My favorite quote from the film is:

“Remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. And before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. Pain. Don’t kill it and with it the joy you’ve felt.”

Whenever I watch this movie, which is a weekly occurrence at this point, keeps me grounded. I always replay this part multiple times. It’s deep. Truly gut-wrenching. Not in a dramatic way, but in the way that quietly reminds you that time is very real, and your life is actually happening.

Seeing death, or even just being close enough to it to feel its presence, is terrifying. Yet it is also the reality. It is the one thing we all share, no matter where we come from or what we accomplish.

Losing my grandmother was the first time that reality truly settled in for me. It happened just before I left for Rome, and whether I realized it then or not, it shifted how I entered this ‘edit’ of my life. She taught me how to love, quietly, generously, without expectation. And I came to Rome with baggage, carrying both excitement and grief, learning how to build something new while still holding space for something that had ended.

Because of that, so much of what once felt heavy began to feel misplaced. So much of life ends up being dictated by things that do not matter. What do they think of me? If I do this, will people talk? Will I look stupid? Will I regret it?

When you have already felt loss, especially from someone who shaped the way you love, those questions lose some of their power. They still exist, but they no longer get to decide everything.

It’s exhausting how often we shrink ourselves just to be digestible.

Of course, our opportunities in life are different. Some might argue unfair, and trust me, I’m aware. I know what my life looks like from the outside. International student living in Rome, running a blog, posting every other day, going to dinners, traveling, living inside this beautiful, curated bubble. I know. I acknowledge it. I’m grateful for it. But privilege does not cancel out emotion. It does not make you immune to fear, or to pressure, or to the quiet feeling that you’re wasting something you once begged the universe for.

That’s the scary part.

When you get too used to something, you start forgetting how special it is. There’s a term for this, actually. It’s called hedonic adaptation, also known as the hedonic treadmill, basically when you adjust to your circumstances so much that even the best parts of your life start to feel normal. You stop noticing. You stop feeling lucky. You stop living inside the moment, because you assume there will always be another one.

And maybe there won’t.

Last semester was a stretch for me. I was doing a lot, but it didn’t feel like I was doing anything. Looking back, it went by in the blink of an eye. I remember feeling like time was slipping through my hands, like I was constantly catching up but never arriving. I think I was burnt out in a quiet way, not the kind where you fall apart, but the kind where you go numb. Where you stop being present. Where everything becomes routine.

And I hate admitting that, because I’ve wanted to be where I am my entire life.

There were moments where I felt like I didn’t take advantage of what beautiful Roma has to offer. Like I was living in a city that people pray to visit once, and I was treating it like background noise. Like I forgot that this is someone else’s dream. That this was my dream.

But that’s also what I love about being an international student. These breaks force perspective. Going home reminds me where I come from. My family. My friends. My roots. It pulls me out of the Rome bubble and makes me remember that my life is real, not just an aesthetic.

And also, when I’m honest with myself, I did do so much.

I expanded The Expat Editorial in ways I never thought I could. I worked with dozens of brands for the first time. I attended Fashion Week. I networked. I created constantly. I grew. I built something. All while being in university, all while balancing life, deadlines, travel, everything.

There comes a point where you have to let yourself be proud. You have to pat yourself on the back. Not in a cocky way, not in a performative way, but in a human way.

Because confidence and arrogance are not the same thing.

And grounding yourself is part of that. Knowing who you are, without needing to prove it every five seconds.

This semester, and honestly this year as a whole, I’ve made it a point to push myself, but not past what I can handle. That’s how burnout happens. That’s how you lose the joy completely. Instead, I’ve been trying to focus on the long-term. The end goal. The bigger picture. Not just building a life that looks good, but building one that actually feels good.

And maybe that’s what this edit is really about.

Not rushing. Not wasting. Not killing the joy just because life also comes with pain.

Just living.