My personal blueprint on how (not) to move abroad for the first time

Cremona used to be home. For those who don't know it, it's a small city in the northern part of Italy, not far from Milan, something I've repeated so many times lately that it feels like part of my introduction now.

After spending 22 years in the same place, you almost reach a point where moving abroad feels like the only logical next step, a way to breathe, to get some fresh air.

And from the outside, it looks simple. You think that once you finally do it, it'll be a walk in the park.

I've always liked to come prepared for new things. Whether it's a new class, a new sport (that's how I justify spending all my savings on new gear), or just anything unknown. But this time, despite all my good intentions, I somehow landed in Stockholm two months ago full of naive enthusiasm.

I was at my friend's place (yea, he made the same choice to move to Sweden, just a few weeks before me, and be prepared, there's also another one who did), sitting on his couch, actually my bed for the first month, still in my travel clothes, my suitcase untouched beside me, when one thought crossed my mind: what mess did I just get myself into?

The couch I slept on for the first month, the same one that witnessed my first breakdown.

How was that even possible? Just a week earlier, I was the one complaining about my hometown, desperate to leave, to finally be independent. Wasn't this exactly what I wanted? How could I feel so out of place, so unsure, now that I had it?

There have been moments in my life when I've had to stop, take a step back, and breathe. Situations where I felt so uncomfortable that the only thing I wanted was to run away, and I actually did sometimes. That's exactly what scared me the most, the idea of buying a return ticket to Italy and not even giving myself the chance to really try living this experience.

It felt surreal at first and my brain had to switch to survival mode. I realised that if I kept resisting everything that felt off, I'd never settle in. So I tried to stop labeling every strange, lonely, or heavy feeling as something negative. Instead, I started to just let them exist. I began to look at them with a bit more patience and started accepting their presence rather than immediately fighting back.

I also tried to let go of the need, and the quiet arrogance, of wanting to keep everything under control, even my emotions. I started allowing myself to feel anger for feeling this way, nostalgia for what was left behind, and the weight of loneliness in certain moments. And for once, I didn't rush to cover it up with quick fixes or pretending.

All of this translated into long walks in the woods, thinking a lot by myself and feeling just a little less lost with every walk.

Some things simply need time and ask for patience. The key was not forcing clarity, but to let the meaning behind unfold on its own, day by day.

To conclude, I believe these two months have taught me that every day stands on its own, that you make it through by taking one step at a time, that Swedish is incredibly hard and I'll probably never learn it, and that even in Scandinavia, the metro runs late sometimes.

If you ever find yourself facing that same unbreakable wall, I hope this makes it feel a little less scary.