Cleveland, Ohio, early fall of 1976, in a discotech:
A 5’9 23-year-old Italian man with an afro, wearing platform shoes, flares, and gold chains over his hairy chest, spots a long-legged, bleached-blonde bombshell sitting at a table, looking at him from across the room as he instructs a group of women on how to line dance.

What that Italian man didn’t know was that she was checking out the guy standing next to him. And even if he had known, knowing him, it wouldn’t have changed much.

The Italian man walked over to her table and asked if he could buy her a drink. The bombshell accepts: “You can get me a beer.” So the Italian man goes over to the bar to place his order. In the meantime, the man she was checking out walks over to her table. The Italian man, seeing the interaction, leaves the drinks at the bar, interrupts their conversation, and asks her if she’d like to talk outside.

Not everything adds up in this story because there are two versions of it, and the details get a little muddied because of it.

Anyway, the first version goes like this:
The man takes the woman outside and kisses her. She says, “Why did you do that?” in an annoyed tone.
He responds, “Can I have your number?”
She answers, “Look it up in the phone book.”

The 2nd version goes like this:
The man takes her outside and kisses her. She looks at him for a very long time, and then in a soft, sweet voice says, “Why did you do that?”
He asks her for her phone number, and she responds, “It’s in the phone book under Zeman.”

The first version of that story belongs to my mother, the second to my father.

I’ve heard the two versions a million times. My father’s ending makes more sense because, otherwise, how would he have found her?

There are still so many question marks.

Like, why would my mother agree to go outside with a stranger she had just met?
At what point did she say, “Hi, I’m Kathy?” Before or after the kiss?
And why did my mom tell him to get her a beer when, at the time, she didn’t like beer?

What is certain is that at 27, my mother was ending her marriage to Wayne and taking a real chance on that Italian immigrant. They tied the knot 5 months later, one week after her divorce was final.

Because I’ve been hearing that story forever, my mind just always accepted it as my parents’ story. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I really started to think about how daring it was.

I mean, if someone had come to me as an adult and said that, at the age of 27, they had two small children, a nice home, a husband with a good career, and they were leaving it and marrying a 23-year-old broke college student 5 months after they had met, I don’t know… I’d think, “Oh boy.”

Well, those two crazy “kids” somehow managed to stick together.
And while, like most long-lasting marriages, they’ve had their (very) questionable moments, nearly 50 years later, they’re still going strong.

At 24, my father took on the emotional, logistical, and financial responsibility of two small kids. At the time of the wedding, my brother was 6, and my sister was 3.

Soon after, my father graduated from the Cleveland Institute of Arts and landed a job as an automotive designer at Ford. And from there, the new family of 4 moved to Michigan.

My siblings’ father opted to spend occasional weekends with them. I have only a handful of memories of them leaving to visit their dad.

My brother and sister grew up with the same rules as I did. We sat around the same dinner table, and were all disciplined the same way.

And yet, we’re completely different, pretty much in every single way imaginable.

This isn’t a story where I tell you that we don’t get along. Quite the opposite. I love my brother and sister immensely, and when we see each other, it’s like no time has passed. But as I said before, it’s like we’re from different planets.

Eat and Shut Up Methodology

Some nights could be torture, for one of us, two of us, or all three of us, depending on what was on the evening’s menu. My father didn’t let us leave the table until our plates were clean, and what was on our plates wasn’t up to us.

My brother and sister hated raw tomatoes (and still do). I, for one, have always considered tomatoes one of the main reasons that life is worth living.

I hated onions, and a few other things that I’ve since changed my mind on.

When backs were turned, we’d swap onions for tomatoes. We had developed a technique: The tomato or onion would magically land on the napkin beside the plate. Then the napkin would be passed under the table to the sibling willing to eat whatever was in it.

That elaborate underground onion-and-tomato trafficking operation was a bonding experience.

My father never tolerated hearing, “I don’t like it.” In his mind, “I don’t like it” was the complaint of a spoiled child who didn’t understand what it was like to be uncertain about whether or not there would be food on the table the next day. “I don’t like it” was a lack of gratitude for being provided for.

His automatic response to that complaint has always been, “Too bad. Eat and shut up.”

We kids didn’t get it, and, truth be told, maybe we didn’t need to. Some things you don’t get to understand until you too become a grown-up.

Think about it: since when has explaining to a child that “there are starving people somewhere else on the planet” been effective in convincing a kid to eat the food on their plate?

My father has always lived by the philosophy that you don’t always need to explain why to a child. You teach a child to just do as they’re told. The why will come later.

My father grew up in a post-war home in Italy, where making ends meet was sometimes a real struggle. His own father lived through a time when there wasn’t always food on the table.

So, for my papá, it was important to drive home the lesson that you don’t take for granted the luxury of having an abundance of available food.

It’s sacred. It’s to be respected. It’s to be cherished.

So cheese doesn’t get thrown in the garbage just because it has a little mold on it. You cut it off.

You don’t put more food on your plate than you’re sure you can eat. Take less, and maybe seconds.

Don’t assume that just because you don’t like the color, it’s no good. Try it anyway.

If you have leftovers, turn them into something even better the next day.

You can apply those same rules to many things in life. And on me, it certainly worked. On my brother and sister… well, maybe a bit less.

Same house, same table, two totally different outcomes

Objectively speaking, my siblings were quite young when they first came into contact with my father’s Italian philosophical ecosystem. And yet, nearly 50 years later, they remain largely unaffected by it.

I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to live without Italy. I spent the entirety of my teen years convincing my parents to let me go to college here. Apparently, I succeeded.

In 1996, I attended the “Istituto Europeo di Design” in Turin, Italy, where I got my fashion design degree in 1999. My ex-husband Stefano and I had been together for about a year when I graduated. We had decided months prior that we’d move to Michigan right after school was over.

We got married that fall at the little wedding Chapel in a strip mall in Southfield, Michigan. By Christmas, I was dreaming up ways we could move back to Italy.

It’s a long, complicated story that I’ll get to later on, but let’s just say, Emilia and Michigan never quite jived.

I’ve been back in Italy for 15 years now, and I don’t see leaving anytime soon.

My brother and sister don’t share my sentiments on Italy and Italian culture at all.

They go to Vegas, Cancun, and on cruises. They enjoy Disney World and Cedar Point, sometimes several times within a single year.

Not on my top priorities list whatsoever. Maybe if someone offered me a free trip.

My siblings have started visiting more frequently in recent years, about every 18 months, give or take.

While my sister Karen is here, she orders a Rum and Coke Zero starting as early as 10 a.m. If you know anything about what Italian baristas are like, you know they’re muttering something judgmental under their breath, and if they’re polite, they’ll at least try to hold back the sequential eye-roll. They do the same thing when tourists order a cappuccino after lunch or dinner.

Karen does this multiple times throughout the day for the entirety of her trip. When she’s here with my brother, fuhgeddaboudit. It’s a marathon. Consequently, I’ve come to know bars that I wouldn’t have otherwise ever even noticed.

When I moved to Italy for those two years in 1986, my siblings decided to stay with their father. My brother lasted only a year with him before showing up at the Turin airport.

It was mostly fun having my brother Paul around, but the dynamic was a lot different without my sister in the picture.

When I was little, my brother and sister would playfully beat each other up, and I was always used to help one get back at the other. It was a blast!

At 9, I was no longer the accomplice; I was the target.

Paul learned to speak Italian during that year and made friends. He’d disappear for hours on his motorcycle and drive through the hills and mountains with them. He recalls his time here with fondness, but when we moved back to the States in 1988, that was it. He didn’t return for a visit until the summer of 2023. Thankfully, he’s since visited more than once.

To this day, they both go occasionally to Italian-American restaurants. I’m not certain, but I suspect that they’ve yet to blacklist the Olive Garden. They will still order Little Caesars or Domino’s Pizza (I can’t tell you which they prefer these days), eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and, if you open their fridge, Miracle Whip and “Italian” salad dressing can likely be found in the door.

And when my sister called me from “Italy” while at Epcot in Florida, and said she was enjoying a nice “Lemoncello Spritz,” I looked at my mom standing in front of me, and she just shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me, you can’t take the ‘Wayne’ out of them.”

While sharing only 50% of our genetics explains some things, like why my sister has a retirement plan, and I have enough shoes to fill a museum, it doesn’t explain why her list of foods deemed unsafe for human consumption includes...

Anchovies.
Raw tomatoes.
Most seafood.
Anything with visible organs.
Half the vegetable kingdom.

Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs.

Technically, I lived in the United States until I was 8. But our household was essentially an Italian Embassy.

During the first 8 years of my life, I fell in love with Wonder Woman, She-ra (He-Man’s sister), Rainbow Bright, and... SpaghettiOs. Well, at least the idea of it. Those commercials showing happy kids eating “O” shaped pasta with its special sauce coming out of a can! What a novel idea!

I specifically remember asking my mom and papá if we could get some SpaghettiOs. My papá bluntly replied, “We’re not buying that crap.”

Disappointed, I archived the hope and categorized it as “someday.”

Someday finally came after us moving back from Italy in 1988. It was the summer before 5th grade began, and my parents let me stay at my childhood BFF’s house for a week. The first few days were so much fun. I got to enjoy being with all my friends from my old neighborhood, doing the things we used to do before I moved to Italy.

I called my mother to ask if I could extend my stay by a few more days, and she agreed. After I hung up the phone, I walked over to the lunch table, and what was being served?! SpaghettiOs!

I was so excited. I had waited my whole life for them, and finally, there they were waiting for me on my plate!

I took one bite and thought, “Uh-oh. I’m going to vomit.” Surely there had been some mistake. Maybe this particular can had gone bad.

I could not fathom how millions of people were voluntarily eating this.
The memory of its flavor still traumatizes my taste buds.

Within 30 minutes, I broke out into a fever, feeling violently ill. So after lunch, I called my mom and asked her to come get me.

The minute she arrived and kissed my forehead, I began to feel better.
I was safe. No more SpaghettiOs. Civilization and decency had been restored.

During the 30-minute drive home, my hunger returned, and my request for dinner was, “Real spaghetti with tomato sauce.”

The same simple sauce that appeared on our table countless times growing up, and the one I still make today.

Basic Italian “Pasta al Pomodoro”

Serves about 4-5 people

About 2-3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil + 2-3 tablespoons (or more) for final garnish

1 fresh garlic clove

1 can of stewed tomatoes (15 oz. whole or diced)

3-4 fresh basil leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

100 grams (3.5 oz.) of dry pasta per person (this is traditionally the serving size in Italy)

Place a large pot of water on the stove for your pasta (approx. 1 liter, or 34 oz., per serving). Once you get that going, you can start your sauce (This may sound obvious, but the pasta goes in after the water starts boiling).

In a saucepan, pour in enough olive oil to coat the bottom.

Crush the garlic clove or chop it up. This comes down to a question of preference. Some people sauté the clove and remove it at the end, or just chop it up and leave it. Personally, I alternate between the two options, but if I choose to leave the clove whole, I eat it before anyone else tries to steal it.

Remove the saucepan from the flame once the garlic is cooked, and let the oil cool for a few seconds; otherwise, if you dump your tomatoes into the oil when it’s too hot, everything will splatter everywhere. If my laundry room could talk, it would tell some dramatic stories.

Once the tomatoes come to a simmer, turn the heat down so they don’t boil. Boiling isn’t necessarily bad; it’s splattering we’re trying to avoid.

If you opt for whole stewed tomatoes, break them up with your spoon so the chunks aren’t too big. Add your salt. Don’t overdo it until you’ve cooked your pasta. Sometimes the water is too salty, so give yourself some grace to adjust the final outcome accordingly.

Simmer your sauce for about another 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. You don’t want to overcook your sauce; the tomatoes should taste fresh, just not uncooked.

If your sauce is slightly tart, you can add a pinch of baking soda, and I mean it, just a pinch. More than that, you can taste… well, baking soda. Anyway, baking soda is great because it naturally removes just enough of that acidity without altering the intended flavor.

Some people advise using sugar or milk. I’ve done both; it does change the flavor of the food in a way that isn’t always ideal, and it doesn’t always effectively eliminate the acidity. From experience, the safest option is just that tidbit of baking soda.

Add the fresh basil leaves (whole) in the last minute or two. You don’t want to overcook them; you’ll kill the flavor. In a pinch, people will add dry basil. It tastes nothing like the fresh; it’s not nearly as good, but if you really have no other option, then go for it.

Once the water starts to boil, dump a couple of handfuls of large rock salt into it. Fine salt is fine if you don’t have rock salt. Whether you should add it before or after the water boils is a huge ongoing topic of debate.

I choose to do it after the water boils because, in theory, it’s supposed to keep the salt from corroding your pans.

You can tell if the water has the right amount of salt by tasting to see if it tastes like soup. If it tastes like soup, then it’s perfect.

If you’re making spaghetti, don’t snap it in half. It’s considered a sin.

Boil the pasta until it is “Al Dente” (to the tooth). I’ll explain in the next chapter the implications of cooking your pasta beyond that state.

Do not rinse the pasta. That’s another sin.

Mix it all together in a large bowl with the last couple of tablespoons of raw olive oil at the end. Place your servings into individual bowls that people can opt to top with grated Parmigiano Reggiano (not Kraft Parmesan cheese, it’s basically sawdust in a green can).

That’s it. No adding tomato paste, no cooking it for 36 hours, or whatever urban myth you may have heard that was passed down by someone’s grandmother.

Nothing more, nothing less. So the next time you want fast food, there you go. Now eat and shut up.

Sabato pomeriggio mi trovavo davanti a diverse scatole piene di vecchi ricordi. Ho sospirato pesantemente. Era l’ultimo grande pezzo dell’infinita organizzazione iniziata dopo mesi e mesi di traslochi l’anno scorso.

Alla fine avevo deciso di mollare tutto, chiudendo un capitolo che comprendeva una cascina del Seicento dove avevo accumulato animali domestici e quantità industriali di drammi.

Gli animali resteranno con me finché respireranno. I drammi, invece, ho deciso di lasciarli andare e di arrendermi a una vita ragionevole.

Ora ho 48 anni e, a quasi un anno dal trasferimento dai miei genitori, la nostra casa è composta da mia figlia di quasi 24 anni, 5 gatti e 5 cani di grossa taglia. No, gli animali non erano tutti miei.

Dietro questa quantità assurda di pelo da aspirare quotidianamente c’è una storia fatta di cambiamenti familiari, relazioni finite, traslochi e decisioni discutibili. La situazione degli animali meriterebbe un capitolo a parte.

Quello che non mi aspettavo erano le scoperte esaltanti dentro quelle scatole. Dovevo decidere cosa tenere e cosa buttare, proprio come con tutte le altre scatole aperte nei mesi precedenti.

Questa volta, però, è stato quasi sconvolgente. Ho trovato fotografie, lettere, vecchi passaporti risalenti addirittura alla mia nascita… e due diari appartenenti a due fasi molto importanti e di transizione della mia vita.

La prima lettera significativa era di mio nonno. Bologna, 16 febbraio 1978. Indirizzata a mio padre, spedita due giorni dopo la mia nascita. Sei pagine piene di umorismo ed emozione.

Mio padre aveva sposato mia madre un anno prima, quasi lo stesso giorno, il 15 febbraio 1977. I miei nonni non avevano ancora conosciuto mia madre e i miei due fratellastri americani.

Nella lettera parlavano della gioia di aver sentito la felicità nella voce di mio padre durante la telefonata del mattino in cui ero nata.

In Italia esiste la tradizione di dare ai figli il nome dei nonni. Se fossi nata maschio, mi sarei chiamata “Francesco”. Mio nonno scrive: “Tua madre ci teneva che ti dicessi che sul nome ha vinto lei.”

Mio padre era convinto che sarei stato un maschio, ma mio nonno gli fece notare: “Vedi? In fondo è la stessa cosa, no?” Disse tante cose affettuose e commoventi che mi piacerebbe condividere, ma credo di aver reso l’idea.

Era conosciuto come un uomo irascibile e dal carattere difficile, ma quella lettera mi ha dato un senso molto più profondo del cuore della nostra famiglia, una vera fotografia emotiva di quel momento. Mentre mio padre leggeva le pagine con la voce leggermente incrinata dall’emozione, mi sembrava quasi di vivere quella scena in prima persona.

Dentro quelle scatole era tutto buttato insieme alla rinfusa. Ho riso davanti a pettinature terrificanti, rare foto venute bene (davvero poche), alla bellezza di mia madre durante gli anni “Barbie Doll”, ai periodi imbarazzanti di mio fratello e mia sorella… e ai miei.

Ho iniziato a fotografare alcune vecchie immagini col telefono e a mandarle a persone con cui sono ancora in contatto dopo 25 o 40 anni. Le risate e gli emoji che ricevevo in risposta erano impagabili. Tra lettere e fotografie c’erano momenti esilaranti e altri più malinconici.

Alcune lettere erano di amici che purtroppo non ci sono più. E mi sento immensamente grata di aver conservato tutto questo così a lungo, perché per un momento ho avuto la sensazione di stare ancora un po’ con loro.

Poi sono arrivati due diari. Il primo mi era stato regalato poco prima di tornare negli Stati Uniti dall’Italia.

Mio padre lavorava come designer automobilistico per la Ford. Nel 1986 ci trasferirono a Torino per permettergli di fare la sua “esperienza internazionale” presso la sede Ghia.

Mio fratello e mia sorella decisero di restare in Ohio con il loro padre.

Noi affittammo una parte di un castello medievale chiamato Castelvecchio, sulla collina di Moncalieri. Quando arrivai, non parlavo italiano. I miei genitori decisero di mandarmi in una scuola elementare pubblica italiana, la Scuola Santa Brigida, una scelta piuttosto insolita per una famiglia straniera, soprattutto considerando che la scuola americana era letteralmente dietro l’angolo e la Ford si era offerta di pagarla.

Sono felicissima che non abbiano scelto quella strada. Gli anni alla Santa Brigida sono stati tra i più belli della mia vita.

La mia maestra, Rossanna Bargis, era una figura tondeggiante e materna. Alta circa un metro e quarantasette. Portava lunghi capelli grigi raccolti in uno chignon francese e aveva una voce dolcissima.

La ricordo con un twinset blu navy di lana media, una gonna dritta sotto il ginocchio, collant color carne arrotolati appena sopra l’orlo (visibili ogni volta che si sedeva) e scarpe stringate nere da suora. Vestita così tutti i giorni, in tutte le stagioni, senza eccezioni.

O almeno… così la ricorda la mia mente di bambina di otto anni.

Avevo sei compagni di classe: Barbara, Fabio, Jonathan, Claudio, Paolo e Mohammed. Dentro la scatola ho trovato lettere di tutti loro.

Le prime settimane nella mia nuova scuola furono piene di gesti e disegni. Nel giro di tre mesi avevo già raggiunto il livello dei miei compagni. Era come se avessi parlato italiano per tutta la vita.

Rossanna Bargis era affettuosa ma severa. Ci riempiva di racconti e attenzioni. Ci portava nei boschi a cercare funghi, ci faceva salire fino a casa sua sulla collina e ci insegnava a fare le tagliatelle. Avevamo compiti tutti i giorni e quando non li facevamo… beh, lei aveva una lunga bacchetta sottile.

Un mio compagno, Claudio, sembrava essere sempre quello in piedi davanti alla lavagna. Raramente sapeva rispondere a qualcosa. Dopo lunghi silenzi e lui che si tormentava la maglietta, lei finiva per trascinarlo via per un orecchio. Tirava fuori quella bacchetta e chiedeva alla classe di rispondere alla domanda. Quando diventava evidente che nessuno aveva studiato… BAM! Colpiva uno dei nostri banchi con la faccia rosso fuoco e lo chignon mezzo disfatto, facendoci prendere un colpo per la forza con cui faceva rispettare i suoi limiti.

Incuteva rispetto e, anche se oggi certi comportamenti sarebbero impensabili a scuola, ricordo quel periodo con il cuore pieno. So che ogni suo studente se l’è portata dentro per anni. Ogni tanto passavano ex alunni a raccontare episodi divertenti.

Mentre le ore scorrevano, lettera dopo lettera, fotografia dopo fotografia, sentivo arrivarmi addosso quella dolce malinconia dei ricordi.

Essere chiamata giù per pranzo sembrava quasi un’interruzione del mio viaggio nel tempo.

Quel sabato si stava rivelando molto più divertente di quanto avessi previsto. Non immaginavo che leggere vecchie lettere e pagine di diario della fine degli anni ’80 e dei primi anni ’90 potesse essere un’esperienza così immersiva.

Mi ricordavo che alcuni amici mi scrivevano spesso, ma finché non inizi a mettere tutte le lettere in pile separate non ti rendi conto di quante siano davvero. Era travolgente. E la me adulta, sapendo quanto il tempo sia prezioso, ha capito quanto valore ci fosse nel tempo e nell’energia che quelle persone avevano investito per scrivermi. Pensavano a me. Si prendevano il tempo di scrivere pagine intere, mettere un francobollo e andare in posta. Se questo non è affetto…

Appena tornata alle scatole, mi sono ricordata di un periodo in cui mi sentivo meno fortunata dei miei compagni italiani. Io ero rimasta lì solo due anni. In Italia, quando inizi le elementari, resti con la stessa classe per tutti e cinque gli anni. E lo stesso succede alle medie e alle superiori.

Può essere un’esperienza terribile e traumatizzante oppure, come nel mio caso, un’esperienza così piena di felicità da definire per sempre il tuo standard di ciò che la vita dovrebbe essere.

Quei due anni in quella classe furono pieni di avventure, comicità e amore, e sullo sfondo c’erano il Monviso e l’intera catena montuosa circostante. Non ricordo un solo momento noioso.

Con il passare della giornata trovai il mio primo diario. Era un regalo di Claudio ricevuto poco prima del mio ritorno negli Stati Uniti. Ognuno dei miei compagni e la mia maestra avevano scritto un pensiero con calligrafia curatissima e un bellissimo disegno, dicendomi quanto gli sarei mancata e sperando che mi ricordassi di loro. Hanno ottenuto quello che volevano.

Quando tornai negli Stati Uniti, passai il resto delle elementari a sentire la mancanza della vita che avevo lasciato in Italia. Credo di averne parlato praticamente ogni giorno della mia vita. Ed è stata una delle tante ragioni per cui sono diventata una specie di pesce fuor d’acqua.

La vita nel castello, con giardini ovunque, alberi da scalare e amici che rincorrevo tutto il pomeriggio, era molto diversa dalla classe di 27 bambini in cui mi ritrovai in quinta elementare a Northville, Michigan. Non avevo ancora realizzato che, come dice Dorothy nel film Il Mago di Oz, “non siamo più nel Kansas”.

Cercavo ingenuamente di salvare ogni emarginato della classe senza capire che esistevano le dinamiche di popolarità. All’inizio abbracciavo e baciavo la maestra il venerdì, proprio come facevo con Rossanna Bargis, e non facevo i compiti perché la mia insegnante americana non me li chiedeva il giorno dopo. Pensavo semplicemente: “Fantastico, qui nessuno controlla.” Una pagella di metà semestre piena di zeri per compiti mancanti mi fece capire che non funzionava esattamente così.

Dato che aevo fatto amicizia con tutti quelli considerati “sfigati”, mi ritrovai automaticamente con la stessa etichetta. E baciare la maestra dava agli altri bambini materiale preziosissimo per prendermi in giro.

L’unica cosa che sembravo saper fare bene a scuola era non riuscire a integrarmi.

Riguardando oggi quelle fotografie mentali ed emotive di quel periodo, leggendo i temi scolastici e le pagine del diario, mi rendo conto di quanto vivessi completamente nel mio mondo.

Le mie pagine sono piene di riferimenti al pianoforte, al flauto, alla cucina e alla colatura delle bambole di porcellana. Sì, a dieci anni facevo questo.

Verso le tre del pomeriggio trovai una busta contenente una lettera del 1994 insieme alla foto di un ragazzo e una ragazza adolescenti. Non li riconoscevo, ma apparentemente il ragazzo mi conosceva. Nella lettera spiegava che la ragazza era la sua migliore amica. La lettera arrivava da Novara. Citava la mia migliore amica Summer e proponeva che la sua migliore amica Veronica diventasse sua corrispondente. Poco dopo trovai persino una lettera di Veronica indirizzata a Summer.

Quelle lettere mi lasciarono completamente perplessa.

Mi misi a cercare online e alla fine trovai su LinkedIn una persona con il suo nome che poteva davvero essere lui. Fotografai la vecchia immagine, feci uno screenshot della sua foto profilo e chiesi a ChatGPT se potevano essere la stessa persona. Chat mi disse che era possibile. Così gli scrissi su LinkedIn: “Ciao, non ci sentiamo dal 1994.”

Lui rispose poco dopo: “Scusami… ma ci conosciamo?”

Gli mandai la foto che avevo in mano insieme alla busta con il suo indirizzo di Novara e gli chiesi: “Sei tu?”

Confermò che sì, era lui, e mi chiese come facessi ad avere quella roba.

Gli risposi: “A quanto pare ci scrivevamo nel 1994, ma io non me lo ricordavo minimamente.”

Dopo un po’ di messaggi avanti e indietro trovai una terza lettera, e lì finalmente comparve il contesto. Ci eravamo conosciuti nel 1993 in spiaggia a Gabicce, vicino Rimini. Lui frequentava un gruppo di amici di mia cugina quando io avevo quindici anni.

A un certo punto mi chiese: “Ma noi avevamo una storia?”

Io: “No, avevo una cotta per Pierre.”

Lui: “E Summer cosa c’entra?”

Io: “Non ne ho idea. Evidentemente parlavo sempre di lei. Era la mia migliore amica.”

Continuammo a scambiarci messaggi su dove vivevo all’epoca, dove vivo oggi e così via.

Ore dopo mi scrisse: “Fammi capire bene. Nel 1993 ci conosciamo in spiaggia. Non succede niente perché tu avevi una cotta per Pierre. Mi parli continuamente della tua amica Summer, io provo ad appiopparla al mio amico Veronica… Trentadue anni dopo vivi sulle colline di Torino, stai svuotando scatole durante un sabato pomeriggio pigro che ti sei trascinata dietro per tre decenni e attraverso un oceano. Trovi le mie lettere, trovi me online, mi scrivi e… quello che tu non sai è che proprio mentre mi mandavi il primo messaggio su LinkedIn io ero con alcuni amici di Cattolica che venivano in spiaggia con noi, e stavamo parlando delle estati del 1993 e 1994.”

Forse ci vedremo tra qualche mese. A questo punto entrambi ricordiamo il periodo, ma nessuno dei due si ricorda davvero dell’altro. Magari vedendoci di persona scatterà qualcosa.

Quella sera finii a leggere le vecchie pagine del mio diario. Non ridevo così forte da anni. Mi facevano male i fianchi e mi scendevano le lacrime dalle risate ancora all’una di notte, davanti all’assurdità e alla terrificante coerenza della mia mente.

Alcuni passaggi li lessi ad alta voce a mia figlia, che rideva insieme a me — e del mio spelling terrificante. Tra i momenti migliori: “Caro Diario, scusa se non ti scrivo da un po’.” Oppure: “Caro Diario, come stai?” Oppure: “Caro Diario, stasera non posso scriverti perché vado a leggere.” O ancora: “Caro Diario, buon Ringraziamento!” alla fine di un lunghissimo sfogo sui miei compagni di scuola.

Avevo una vera e propria relazione con il mio diario. Gli chiedevo come stava? Spesso. Mi scusavo con lui? Anche.

La cosa che mi ha colpito è quanto il mio rapporto con il diario assomigli alle conversazioni che ho oggi con l’AI. Il diario era un testimone. Un posto dove elaborare pensieri, emozioni e infinite osservazioni sul mondo. L’unica differenza è che l’AI risponde.

Quando mia figlia raccontò a mio padre quello che avevamo scoperto, lui rispose: “Ci sono voluti alcuni anni prima che tua madre atterrasse sul pianeta Terra.” E non stava scherzando. Vivevo davvero nel mio mondo.

Quello che ho capito è che fin da piccolissima ho sempre guardato il mondo in termini di significati profondi e storie. Uno dei miei esempi preferiti è un compito di quinta elementare.

La maestra aveva scritto sulla lavagna: “Who is Rumeal Robinson?”

La mia risposta fu: “Penso che Rumeal Robinson sia una persona che ha conosciuto Cristo. E penso che il suo nome sia stato menzionato perché forse amava Cristo. Forse era uno dei pochi romani che gli volevano bene.”

Dopo aver cerchiato tutti i miei errori ortografici, la maestra scrisse sotto: “È un giocatore di basketball dell’University del Michigan.”

Direi che questo riassume abbastanza bene il mio mondo interiore.

Da tempo volevo scrivere della mia esperienza biculturale. Non avevo mai davvero capito come affrontarla fino a ora. Forse doveva aspettare proprio questo momento, perché trovare quelle lettere e quei diari è diventato un portale verso la versione più giovane di me stessa.

Dopo aver aperto quelle scatole riesco finalmente a vedere quei ricordi sia con gli occhi della bambina che li ha vissuti, sia con quelli dell’adulta che oggi riesce finalmente a capire quella bambina.

Ci sono temi ricorrenti ovunque, come una pagina di diario scritta a dodici anni in cui scrivo: “Ho aspettato un uomo che mi amasse per tutta la vita”, riferendomi al fatto che tutte le mie amiche avessero il fidanzato. Leggendolo a fatica ad alta voce tra le risate, mia figlia commenta: “Beh, mamma, direi che alla fine non è cambiato moltissimo.”

La quantità di progetti e interessi che porto avanti da sempre.

Il modo in cui ho sempre affrontato il mondo con speranza, gratitudine e il desiderio di trovare un significato più profondo.

Le persone fanno moltissime supposizioni su di me. È quello che facciamo tutti: riempiamo gli spazi vuoti quando non sappiamo qualcosa. E io sono sicuramente una persona che genera parecchi punti interrogativi.

Mi rendo conto che il mio modo di vedere il mondo non è comune. Le ragioni per cui ho scelto di vivere in Italia non sono quelle che la gente immagina facilmente.

Sono una vera romantica. Nonostante tutto, continuo ad affrontare la vita con curiosità, speranza e con l’idea che da qualche parte, dentro il caos, ci sia sempre un significato nascosto.

Restare con i piedi per terra richiede uno sforzo extra, ma guardandomi indietro non cambierei nulla. È stata la mia ricetta per scoprire un mondo pieno di verità che raramente vengono riconosciute.

Per tutta la vita ho sentito mio padre dire: “No matter where you go, there you are.” Pensavo fosse una battuta. A un certo punto ho capito cosa intendesse. Quel fine settimana ho trovato le prove.

*Caro Diario,

la mia vita adesso è molto confusa. Due giorni fa Joe ha fatto chiamare un suo amico per lasciarmi. All’inizio ho pianto ed ero arrabbiata, ma adesso non mi sento ferita perché ho appena capito che era quello giusto. Per tutta la vita ho sperato e aspettato che arrivasse l’uomo giusto e che fosse romantico.

Ho appena finito di guardare la mia miniserie preferita, Anna dai Capelli Rossi e Anna di Avonlea. Ho sempre desiderato una vita così, ma credo che non succederà mai. Tutti e tre i fidanzati che ho avuto non sembravano interessarsi al romanticismo.

Non credo di appartenere al presente, ma al passato. Tipo all’Ottocento. Ho sempre sognato il romanticismo, gli abiti bellissimi e le cittadine piacevoli. Mi rendo conto che la vita di nessuno è mai stata perfetta, soprattutto la mia.

Odio la vita moderna che stiamo creando. Probabilmente sono un’altra persona del passato. Ma ho solo una richiesta: chiunque tu sia (non una ragazza), amami per favore… e dammi un po’ di romanticismo.

On a Saturday afternoon, I stood before several boxes full of old memories. I sighed heavily. It was the last big bit of endless pieces that needed to be organized after months and months of moving last year.

I finally decided to walk away from it all, closing a chapter that included a 17th-century farm where I had accumulated pets and heaps of drama.

While the pets will be with me as long as they are breathing, I decided to let the drama go and surrender to a reasonable life.

Now 48, nearly a year after moving in with my parents, our household consists of my nearly 24-year-old daughter, 5 cats, and 5 large dogs.

No, the pets weren’t all mine. There is a “Brady Bunch” story behind the absurd amount of fur that needs to be vacuumed on a daily basis. My pet situation deserves its own chapter.

What I didn’t expect were the exhilarating finds within the boxes. I had to decide what to keep and what to get rid of, just as with every other box I had opened in the months before.

This time, it was life-changing. I found photos, letters, old passports, dating back to my birth... and two diaries from two very important transitional phases in my life.

The first significant letter was from my grandfather. Bologna, Feb 16th, 1978. It was addressed to my father. It was sent 2 days after my birth. A 6-page letter full of humor and emotion.

My father had married my mother one year prior, almost to the day, on Feb 15th, 1977. My grandparents hadn’t yet met my mother and two half-siblings.

In the letter, they talked about the joy of hearing my father’s happiness in his voice during the phone call the morning I was born.

In Italy, there is a tradition of naming children after their grandparents. If I had been born a boy, I would have been “Francesco.” My grandfather writes, “Your mother made sure I mentioned that regarding the name, she wins.”

My father had been sure I was going to be a boy, but my grandfather pointed out, “See, it’s all the same, isn’t it?” He said so many loving and endearing things that I’d love to share, but I think I’ve illustrated my point. He was known for being an irritable man with a short temper, but the letter gave me a deeper sense of our family’s heart, a first real glimpse at an emotional snapshot of what that moment was like. As my father read through the pages with a somewhat emotional voice, I could almost feel as though I were experiencing the moment firsthand.

Everything in those boxes was just thrown together. I laughed at horrible hairstyles, better pictures (although those were few and far between), admired my mother’s beauty during her “Barbie Doll” years, my brother’s and sister’s dorky periods, and mine, too.

I used my phone to take snapshots of some of the old photos and sent messages to people I’m still acquainted with, 25-40 years later. The laughing emojis and comments that came back were priceless. Between the letters and the photos, there were both laughter and some sadder, more melancholy moments.

Some of those letters were from friends who had unfortunately passed away. I’m filled with gratitude for having kept all of that after so long because I got the opportunity to be with them once again.

Then came two diaries. The first one I received as a gift shortly before moving back to the United States from Italy.

My father was an automotive designer at Ford. In 1986, Ford sent us to Turin, Italy, to live so my dad could have his “foreign experience” at their Ghia office.

My brother and sister opted to stay with their father in Ohio.

We rented a section of a medieval castle called “Castelvecchio” in Moncalieri, in Turin’s hillside. When I arrived, I didn’t know how to speak Italian. My parents decided to send me to an Italian public elementary school (Scuola Santa Brigida), an uncommon choice for transferring families, since the American school was right down our street and Ford had offered to pay the tuition.

I’m glad my parents didn’t go for that option. My years at Scuola Santa Brigida were among the most beautiful in my life.

My teacher, Rossanna Bargis, was a round, grandmotherly figure. She was about 4’ 10” tall, or 147 cm. She had long gray hair that she rolled into a French twist every day, and had a very sweet voice.

I remember her wearing a medium-weight navy wool twinset, a straight skirt that fell below her knees, nude nylons rolled just above the hem (visible whenever she sat down), and black leather lace-up shoes like the ones nuns wear. She dressed that way every single day, every season of the year, without fail.

At least, that’s how my 8-year-old self remembers it.

I had 6 classmates: Barbara, Fabio, Jonathan, Claudio, Paolo, and Mohammed. In my box, I found letters from all of them.

The first weeks at my new school were filled with a lot of gestures and pictures. Within 3 months, I was caught up to speed with my classmates. It’s like I had been speaking Italian my entire life.

Rosanna Bargis was both loving and strict. She filled us with affection and stories. She would take us out into the woods and show us how to hunt for mushrooms, march us up the hillside to her house, and teach us how to make tagliatelle. We were assigned homework daily, and when we didn’t do it, well, she had a long, thin whip of a stick.

One classmate, Claudio, seemed to always be the one standing facing the chalkboard. He rarely knew the answer to anything. After prolonged silence and his fidgeting with his shirt, she’d eventually haul him off by his ear. She’d pull out that stick and ask the class to answer the question. When it became apparent that no one had studied, wham! She’d strike one of our desks, her face beet-red, her French twist falling apart, scaring the bejesus out of us with the scope of asserting her boundaries!

She commanded respect, and while her actions are contrary to what modern school systems allow today, I look upon that time with a full heart. In fact, I know that every single one of her students carried her in their hearts long after she was their teacher. We used to get visitors from ex-alumni who shared some fun stories.

As the hours flew by, letter after letter, picture after picture, I felt the bittersweet memories coming over me.

Being called downstairs for lunch felt like an interruption of my immersive time-travel experience.

Saturday was turning out to be much more fun than I had planned. I hadn’t expected that reading old letters and diary entries from the late 80s and early 90s would be such a transporting experience.

I remembered specific friends writing me lots of letters, but until you start putting them in dedicated piles, you don’t realize just how many. It was overwhelming, and the adult me, knowing how precious time is, made me understand what a treasure it is to hold the time and energy those people invested in writing me. They held me in their thoughts, they took the time to write it on multiple pages, to put a stamp on it, and to take it to the post office. If that isn’t affection...

As soon as I got back to my boxes, I remembered a time when I felt less lucky than my Italian classmates. I got to be there for only two years. In Italy, when you enter grade school, you enter a class that you stay with for the entirety of elementary school. When you switch to middle school or high school, the same thing happens.

It can be either a miserable, traumatizing experience, or, as in my case, an experience so filled with happiness that it defines what your standard for what life should be.

Those two years in that class were filled with adventures, comedy, love, and a scenic backdrop of Monviso and the surrounding chain of mountains. I can’t recall a boring moment.

As the day went on, I found my first diary. It was a gift from Claudio that I received shortly before I returned to the United States. Each of my classmates and my teacher had written an entry with careful penmanship and a beautiful drawing, each telling me how much they’d miss me and hoped I’d remember our time together. They got their wish.

When I got back to the United States, I spent the rest of my grade school education longing for the life I had left behind, so much so that I think I talked about it every day of my life. That was one of the many reasons I had become a misfit.

Castle life with surrounding gardens, climbing trees, and friends I chased around all afternoon was very different from the 27-kid classroom I found myself in when I got to the 5th grade in Northville, Michigan. I hadn’t quite realized that I wasn’t, as the American expression goes, “ in Kansas” anymore.

I naively tried to save every underdog in my class, not realizing that popularity contests were a thing. I initially gave my teacher hugs and kisses on Fridays, just as I had with Rosanna Bargis, and I didn’t do my homework because my teacher never asked me about it the next day. I just thought, “Cool, no one is checking.” A mid-semester report card with a bunch of zeros from missed assignments let me know otherwise.

Because I had befriended every kid that was labeled as a “loser,” I was awarded the same label. Hugging and kissing my teacher only gave the other kids valuable material to rip on me with.

The only thing I felt capable of at school was not fitting in.

Throughout all of that, looking at mental and emotional snapshots of that time, reading through my school assignments and diary entries, I realize now how much I was in my own world.

My entries are full of me talking about playing the piano and flute, cooking, and porcelain doll pouring. Yes, at the age of ten, that’s what I was up to.

At around 3 pm, I found an envelope containing a letter from 1994 along with a picture of a teenage guy and a girl. I didn’t recognize them, but apparently, the guy in the picture knew me. He explains that the girl is his bestie. The letter was shipped from Novara. He mentions my best friend, Summer, and suggests that his best friend, Veronica from the picture, become pen pals with Summer. Then, I find another letter from Veronica to Summer.

I was so puzzled by the letters. I looked online and finally found someone with his name on LinkedIn who looked like it could be him. I took a picture of the old photograph and a screenshot of the guy’s LinkedIn profile pic, and asked ChatGPT if they could be the same person. Chat tells me it could. So I message the guy on LinkedIn and say, “Hi, we haven’t exchanged words since 1994.”

He replies shortly after with, “Excuse me, but do I know you?” I replied with the photo I was holding and a picture of the envelope with his Novara address, and asked, “Is this you?”

He confirms that it is and asks me how I have that. I respond, “Apparently, we were corresponding in 1994, but I don’t remember either.”

After some back-and-forth, I found a 3rd letter, and there it was. We met in 1993 on the beach in Gabicce, near Rimini. He was friends with a group of my cousin’s friends when I was 15.

Then he asked, “Did we have a thing going?” Me: “No, I had a crush on Pierre.” Him: “What does Summer have to do with this?” Me: “I don’t know, I must have talked a lot about her, she was my best friend.”

We exchanged more messages about where I was living at the time, where I live now, and so on.

Hours later, he writes, “Let me get this straight, in 1993, we met on the beach. We had nothing going on because you were crushing on Pierre. You talked my ear off about your friend Summer, I tried to pan her off to my friend Veronica. 32 years later, you’re living in the hills of Turin, unpacking boxes on a lazy Saturday that you had kept and moved overseas with over the span of 3 decades. You find my letters, you find me online, write me, and... what you don’t know is that, coincidentally, as you wrote me your first message on LinkedIn, I was talking to some friends from Cattolica, who used to go to that beach with me, about the Summers of 1993 and 1994.

We might meet up in a couple of months. At this point, while we both remember the period, neither of us remembers meeting each other. Who knows, maybe when we meet face to face, memories will get triggered.

I ended that night reading through my old diary entries. I haven’t laughed that hard since I can remember. My sides were hurting, and tears rolled down my face, still at 1 am, at the absurdity, yet my wildly consistent mind.

Some of it, I read out loud to my daughter, who laughed with me and at my terrible spelling. Some highlights included me writing, “Dear Diary, I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while.” Or, “Dear Diary, how are you?” Or, “Dear Diary, sorry I can’t write you tonight, I’m going to read.” Or, “Dear Diary, Happy Thanksgiving!” at the end of a long rant about my schoolmates.

I had a full-blown relationship with my diary. Apologizing to it? Asking it how it was doing - often?

What struck me was how similar my relationship with my diary was to my conversations with AI now. The diary had been a witness, a place to process my thoughts, feelings, and endless observations about the world. The only difference is that AI answers back.

When my daughter told my father what we had discovered, my dad’s response was, “It took your mom a few years to join planet earth.” He wasn’t kidding. I really was living in my own world.

What I’ve realized is that, from a very young age, I saw the world in terms of deeper meaning and stories. For example, a personal favorite was a 5th-grade journal entry.

My teacher had written on the blackboard: Who is Rumeal Robinson? My response: I think that Rumeal Robinson is a person who met Chist . And I think his name has ben menshoned because maby he loved Chist. Maby he was one of the few Romans that loved him.

After circling my many spelling errors, she comments below: “He is a U of M basketball player.” That pretty much sums up what my inner world looked like.

I’ve been meaning to write about my bi-cultural experience for some time. I never really knew how to approach it until now. Maybe it was meant to wait because finding those letters and diaries became a portal to my past self.

After opening those boxes, I can now see the memory from both the child’s perspective, the one that I’ve held on to all these years, and the perspective of an adult who now understands the child.

There are many recurring themes, such as in a diary entry at age 12, where I write, “I’ve been waiting for a man to love me my whole life,” in reference to all my friends having boyfriends. Barely being able to read that one out loud to my daughter as I grasped for air between laughs, she remarks, “Well, Mom, it looks like not much has changed for you so far.”

The multitude of projects and interests that have been going on since I can remember.

The way I approached the world was with a hope for universal goodness, gratitude, and a desire for deeper meaning.

People make many assumptions about me. That’s what we humans do: we fill in the blanks when we don’t know, and I’m certainly an individual who provokes a lot of question marks.

I realize my view of the world isn’t common. The reasons I chose to live in Italy aren’t the reasons that one would easily conclude.

I’m a true romantic. Despite everything, I still tend to approach life with curiosity, hope, and the assumption that there’s meaning hidden somewhere inside the mess.

Grounding myself takes extra work, but looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing. It has been my recipe for discovering a world full of rarely acknowledged truths.

Throughout my life, I’ve heard my father say, “No matter where you go, there you are.” I used to think it was a joke. At some point, I got it. That weekend, I found the proof.

*“My sweetest Tempesta (Storm),
Your serene exuberance, your joy for life, your warm humanity, and your affectionate presence illuminated our school days.
May our friendship survive time and distance, remaining forever fresh and loyal.”

— Rosanna Bargis, June 13, 1988

I recently watched I Don’t Know How She Does It, a 2011 flick starring Sarah Jessica Parker.

Anyway, I had two reactions at the same time.

While it was cute, funny, and inherently true on many fronts, it still felt distant from my personal experience.

The forgetting of the school fundraisers, and scrambling what to do at the last minute, showing up late for the thousandth time, with that side look of disapproval from the teachers, to the perfect smiling moms that turned to talk crap about me the minute I was down the hall… all rang true.

Here’s where my story was different.

I was trying to build a life across the ocean, in a country I’d lived in as a kid but not as an adult, raising a child alone while trying to build a professional career (as a freelancer) at the same time.

I used to brag, “I’m a one-man band.”

A friend once looked at me when I said that, and asked, “Yeah, but how good is your music?”

I’ll never forget that. How the truth stings.

There was no system; there was just getting through the day, the week, the month.

I’d love to share what led me to a life choice most people reacted to the same way: “You’ve got balls… but that sounds insane.” But that’d be too long a footnote.

Once upon a time, when roles were clearly defined, family life generally made sense. Being a stay-at-home mom while your husband is at work all day isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Of course, the arrangement was (and still is) logical for many reasons; it worked well, and in many ways, it was also unfair.

Kudos to those who still happily enjoy a good old-fashioned household, as long as everyone is on board with it. My family was set up that way growing up, and, admittedly, I, the kid in the situation, loved having my mother home to cater to my needs.

She made my siblings and me the best costumes, and our lunches and after-school snacks were always ready. When we got sick, no problem, there she was, ready to kiss our forehead.

A few months ago, I walked into a deep conversation at a party between a few men and women. I think a few of them had small children. One person turned to me and asked me in front of everyone,

“Do you think women or men should stay at home with the kids?”

I replied, “Wow! The luxury of having such a choice! Well, I think healthy couples have a good partnership. If I had had an ideal partner for my needs, I think we would have done what made sense for us as a couple. I don’t think there is a right or wrong answer to that question; there is only what makes sense for two people with shared goals.”

It sounded good. It’s actually what I believe, and certainly a good theory.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a reality I had experienced.

I thank the women who took a stand to get us what we wanted and deserved: to be treated as equals, to step into the world professionally, to build something of our own, to contribute, to compete, to not be confined to a single role even if we choose to have a family.

It’s totally amazing, and amazingly complicated at the same time, because the roles haven’t disappeared.

They’ve just overlapped. And guess who carries that overlap?

In Italy, they say, “You wanted the bicycle, now pedal.”

And so the women who want a career and still opt to have children pedal—and hard.

In my case, it felt more like dragging large stone blocks up a hill with a rope over my back.

When people talk about single parenthood, they usually imagine two people who had a child together, split up, and still share the responsibility.

That’s one version.

And it’s hard, of course it is, but there’s still a rhythm to it. There are breaks, handoffs, even if imperfect, there’s some form of shared responsibility.

Then there are other, more intense versions.

There’s the one where one parent isn’t physically present but contributes financially, so at least one part of the equation is held.

There’s the version where someone chooses to do it alone, but does so with enough stability, or enough support, to build something around that decision.

And then there are situations where one parent is neither present nor financially supportive, yet somehow still manages to remain involved just enough to complicate things.

That was closer to my reality.

Kids, do not try it at home.

It’s not the kind of situation you even consider until you’re in it.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

There’s a reason families were designed around two people, and it’s not just about logistics.

Because yes, juggling (at some point) you get the hang of it.

You become efficient in ways you didn’t know you could be, and sometimes it even gives you a strange kind of confident energy, because it proves to you that you can pull off what once felt impossible.

I’m not saying help wouldn’t have been nice, of course it would have been. It would have been great!

But what’s missing isn’t just help.

It’s having someone there to interrupt you when your own mind and emotions start running too far ahead of you.

Someone to say,

“You’re overreacting,”

or “You’re tired,”

or “Maybe don’t make that decision right now.”

When the other 50% is missing, it means that everything runs through a single channel.

And that gets exhausting in a very specific way.

Every parent knows how triggering kids can be. Our human lives are deeply shaped by our primal wiring, and I think most moms feel like a lioness with her cubs every once in a while.

It’s almost funny when you look back at it.

Almost.

If I had to name the most consistent emotion I felt as a parent, it would be guilt.

Not in a dramatic way, just… constant.

Guilt for getting too angry sometimes.

Guilt for not keeping promises I fully intended to keep (that one I really hate).

Guilt for working too much.

Guilt for not working enough.

Guilt for not being able to give my daughter the experiences I wanted her to have.

Guilt for the choices I made.

Guilt for the family I couldn’t recreate.

And I could probably keep going, but at some point it starts to sound ridiculous, even to me.

Time, I think, is the only thing that softens that.

As kids become more independent, you get to become, ironically, the workaholic you never had the luxury of being before.

Well, you can always count on them needing money. That gets worse, not better, with age.

At one point, you start to feel lucky if they choose to spend any time with you. And if they do still want to spend time with you when they’re independent enough, then it’s probably because all of your screwups weren’t bad enough for them to disown you.

Our life was a lot of figuring things out as I went, trying to be everything at once: provider, parent, decision-maker, emotional anchor.

What that looked like wasn’t impressive.

It felt like I was good at almost everything, but an expert at nothing, and I couldn’t clearly define what it was I did.

It looked like a hot mess most days, and still moving forward anyway.

Life has taught me this lesson many times over. There are infinite shades of gray between black and white.

Today’s younger generations have a strong desire to make clear distinctions between right and wrong.

I didn’t always have work conditions where my boundaries were respected, and rather than make decisions I couldn’t be proud of, I dove into the abyss of unknown consequences, trusting that I’d land on my feet with at least one of my other 500+ skills.

Being resilient like that gives you something most people don’t talk about:

the ability to choose, even when the options aren’t good.

Even if your kids aren’t directly involved in the decisions you make, they pick up on it. Maybe not consciously, but it’s there.

And at some point, it hits you that all of those decisions, big and small, are shaping the person who’s looking at you as their reference point for how the world works.

And maybe that’s part of the story too.

Because when you spend years living in that kind of tension (making decisions without a safety net, constantly switching roles, constantly second-guessing yourself) you don’t come out of it “balanced.”

You come out of it… adapted.

So when we talk about giving women equal rights, I think it’s fair to say that simply flipping the script and calling it progress is just two sides of the same coin.

It’s more of a reaction than a solution.

Effective solutions come from honestly assessing what doesn’t work and responding to it accordingly. I don’t know how far you can get just doing the opposite of what’s broken.

Talk of masculine and feminine energies has become a bit of a pop culture thing at this point.

I don’t see that as a man-versus-woman conversation.

If anything, I think we get stuck when we turn it into a question of who embodies what.

The point is that different qualities exist, and they tend to complement each other. And when they do, things tend to run more smoothly.

The structure matters less than the dynamic.

I’m not saying any of this to criticize the changes that have taken place; those changes were necessary.

Still, the world we live in isn’t as obvious as we sometimes present it.

Reality lives in the decisions people make quietly, in the trade-offs they carry without announcing them, and in the versions of strength that don’t look impressive from the outside.

So what was left for me?

The luxury (if you can call it that )of finally going full throttle on my career goals.

A lifetime of never-ending interruptions eventually gives way to a life with fewer interruptions.

And now that I’ve become masterful at functioning inside chaos, it’s baby steps towards learning how to walk down a quieter path.

There’s no elegant version of motherhood.

Not the ambitious one.

Not the present one.

Not the “balanced” one.

Just different ways of carrying the same weight, sometimes going a little mad in the process.

Design by Newton Design Co. (via LogoBucket)

Yesterday morning, I found myself explaining something to my daughter that most people never stop to think about.

There are fundamentally four ways people earn a living:

• Employment

• Self-employment

• Owning a Business

• Entrepreneurship

This idea became popular through Robert Kiyosaki, the author of the well-known book Rich Dad Poor Dad, who introduced the concept of the four income quadrants.

However, the more years I spend working, the more I realize that the real story is more complex. None of these roles is inherently better than the others. They simply attract different personalities, different tolerances for risk, and different ways of thinking.

The Role People Often Forget: The Intrapreneur

My father spent most of his career as an employee, but he was never “just an employee.”

He was Chief Designer at Ford Motor Company and one of the people quietly involved in bringing digital design technology into automotive design in the early 1980s. At the time, computer-aided design was already being used in certain engineering fields, but the creative side of automotive design was still heavily reliant on traditional tools such as clay modeling, drafting boards, and manual processes.

Instead of waiting for permission, he simply worked behind the scenes, moving from department to department and experimenting with ways to integrate emerging digital tools into the design workflow. In other words, he made big things happen when no one was looking.

Over time, those early experiments helped pave the way for the widespread use of digital design systems that are now standard across the automotive industry.

Other companies followed Ford’s footsteps shortly afterward, and the rest is history.

Today, we might call someone like that an intrapreneur: someone who behaves like an entrepreneur within an existing organization, experimenting, innovating, and pushing ideas forward from the inside rather than building something entirely new from scratch.

My father always told me something interesting about himself. He would never be a good entrepreneur.

The reason was not that he lacked bold ideas. Anyone who has ever met the man might chuckle at that suggestion, because if you looked up synonyms for my father, you would probably find the word bold written right next to it. Let’s put it this way: when he enters a room, people notice.

When he leaves, the room suddenly feels empty.

When it comes to business, my father is a finisher and an over-analytical perfectionist. What that really means is that nothing is ever quite perfect enough. That is also one of the reasons employment suits him well, because when hard deadlines do not really exist, nothing ever truly gets completed.

To this day, I swear my mother is a saint. My father’s siblings call her “Santa Kathy,” though being Italian, they pronounce it “Santa Ketty.”

We have lived a life of infinite home improvements since… forever ago.

No hole in any system or judgment — or a slightly crooked wall, for that matter — ever gets past him. He probably would have made a very good lawyer or interrogator as well. As a child, none of my little white lies survived his questioning, and the big ones certainly did not stand a chance.

In many ways, I inherited some of his personality traits, though the instinct to polish things endlessly was never one of them.

Those traits proved extremely valuable to Ford during the many years he worked there. He loves taking ideas, integrating them into systems, refining them, and pushing them to the next level. Personalities like that often thrive inside organizations where ideas already exist but need someone capable of turning them into reality.

Job vs Career

Another thing some people might not think about is the difference between a job and a career.

A job is simply work you do to earn money. A career is a long-term path in which skills deepen, responsibilities grow, and opportunities evolve.

As my own young adulthood proved many times over, those jobs are often temporary. Personally, checking the clock every other minute was not something I could withstand indefinitely.

Yet some people with patience and dedication have used their McJob experiences to step into careers spanning decades. Some people famously took those experiences to unimaginable places. Just look at Jeff Bezos and Jay Leno.

Personally, the only thing I got out of endlessly folding clothes on display tables is that I consciously hang clothes back on the hanger after trying them on, and that those types of jobs are not for me.

Still, there are those who start out as servers in a restaurant chain and eventually become regional managers.

I think the lesson here is that a dead-end job need not remain a dead-end.

Freelancers: The Most Misunderstood Category

For most of my life, I worked as a freelancer.

I recently saw a poster that read “Freelance isn’t free — pay up.” Anyone who has spent time freelancing knows exactly what that means.

Although “freelancer” is a generous description of what I was doing for a while, I would more accurately describe myself as a gig worker, taking on whatever odd jobs came my way: design work, catering, sales, web development, and anything else that appeared. My accountant would look at me each tax season and ask, “What are we saying your business did last year? Catering, fashion design, or web development?”

Freelancing can mean very different things. Some freelancers struggle financially, while others build extremely successful careers and become well-known experts in their field. Architects and therapists are common examples.

However, one thing many people misunderstand is that freelancing is not entrepreneurship.

Freelancers trade their time for money.

Freelancing also comes with a number of hidden realities:

• No paid vacation

• No sick leave

• No guaranteed income

• No employment benefits

• No company equipment

• No consistent schedule

Life is lived as though on a roller coaster. Making long-term financial commitments is extremely risky because it is often a feast-or-famine scenario.

One day, there are infinite amounts of “sure work” ahead in the near future, the next, none of those projects pan out due to unforeseen events.

A freelancer’s time is available on demand, which means the work itself must compensate for the periods when there is no work. Most people who hire them do not take that into consideration and do not understand why rates seem so high.

A freelancer might work five billable hours in a day, but that does not mean the rest of the day is free. Those remaining hours are often fragmented between appointments, administrative tasks, preparation, and time spent looking for the next client.

Sometimes clients cancel at the last minute. Technically, you could bill them, but sometimes maintaining a valuable relationship matters more. Not everyone has luck with finding cooperative, reliable, and honest clients, so it is a good idea to hold on tight to the good ones.

When you care too much about the outcome, it can start to hurt the income.

No pun intended. Well… maybe a little.

Freelancers are deeply attached to their work. They are hands-on, highly invested in the outcome, and often go far beyond what was originally requested because they genuinely care about the result, thereby exceeding the original time estimate by a long shot.

This lifestyle is not for the faint of heart.

So it is natural to question why someone would consciously work under those conditions.

It takes a certain kind of madness to be a freelancer. Those who have lived a life of uncertainty know that freedom is addictive, and it is hard to imagine being in constraining circumstances, even if you benefit from not having to worry as much. You do not need vacation time to escape from life the same way people who only get a couple of weeks out of the year do.

Freelancing feels a lot like gambling. You are always hopeful you will get the next big hit, the next big opportunity. So you move forward with the belief that the next big thing is right around the corner.

For people like me, who are somewhat polymathic, freelancing is one of the few ways to satisfy the many facets of our talents and personalities. There are not many institutions that offer minds like ours the novelty and flexibility they require.

The Entrepreneurial Dream

Freelancing often lives in the same psychological neighborhood as entrepreneurship.

Many freelancers have an entrepreneurial mindset. They see opportunities everywhere, they experiment constantly, and they enjoy building things from scratch. It is not unusual for freelancers to believe they are only one good idea away from becoming entrepreneurs themselves.

For many years, I believed exactly that.

But having ideas is only one part of the equation. As the wise Italian expression goes: Between doing and saying, there is the ocean.

Entrepreneurship also requires something else: the obsession to see one specific idea through, and that obsession is often tied to building a functioning financial engine behind the idea.

I work with several highly successful entrepreneurs, and spending time around them has taught me something interesting about how differently they see the world.

One entrepreneur in my life is constantly starting new ventures. You can mention an idea in passing, and within seconds, he has already decided whether it has potential — or more importantly, whether it could generate massive income.

One week, he might be researching carbon credits and negotiating with the Tanzanian government about managing thousands of kilometers of protected land. The following week, he might be investing in specialty farms that produce luxury eggs for extremely wealthy clients.

The fascinating part is that he does not particularly care about eggs or carbon credits. What he cares about is the market opportunity and the leverage.

Every social event becomes a business conversation. Every vacation becomes an opportunity to meet someone new, shake hands, build relationships, or explore a deal.

He may visit the farms from time to time, but he is not there to hang out with the chickens.

Entrepreneurs like him are not necessarily attached to the product. They are attached to the system that produces value.

I have to admit that I admire that ability. It takes a very particular kind of instinct to spot unobvious opportunities and build ventures wherever the conditions are right.

But there is more than one type of entrepreneur.

Some entrepreneurs are builders over the course of a lifetime. They start something, nurture it, and gradually turn it into an institution that grows alongside a community. Their work becomes part of a larger ecosystem that can continue to flourish long after they are gone.

Henry Ford and Camillo Olivetti are excellent examples of this type of entrepreneur. They both built large, thriving companies that helped shape industries, communities, and the way people lived and worked.

Other entrepreneurs are wired like the one that I mentioned earlier. Their talent lies in constantly spotting opportunities, launching ventures, and moving on to the next one.

Richard Branson would be a classic example of this type.

Personally, if I had my choice, I’d go with the first version of entrepreneurship.

The idea of building something slowly, surrounded by a community, and creating something that could continue to grow long after I am gone — that feels meaningful to me.

Hey, if I’m going to dream, I may as well dream big.

The rapid-fire version of entrepreneurship, where businesses appear and disappear like chess moves on a board, requires a kind of emotional distance from the work that I know I don’t possess. Call me sentimental, I am what I am.

Plus, many good ideas also require resources that are not always easy to access:

• funding

• networks

• partners (and more importantly, partners that are a good fit)

• infrastructure

• time

Time is a big one. “Time is money.” Time is often eaten up by life’s demands.

Single parenthood — or parenthood in general — does not go hand in hand with free time. No matter how hard you try and how willing you are to sacrifice sleep, life happens, and priorities shift.

And even when people have those resources, success is still far from guaranteed.

Entrepreneurship demands resilience, tolerance for uncertainty, and the willingness to carry enormous responsibility for long periods of time. Not everyone wants, or can afford, that life.

It’s not a flaw. It’s just life. If it were easy, everyone would do it.

Business Ownership

The category that often gets blurred together with both freelancing and entrepreneurship is business ownership.

From a legal or administrative standpoint, governments tend to classify almost anyone who is not employed as a business owner. The moment you register a company, open a tax position, or operate independently, you are technically running a business.

In that sense, freelancers, consultants, and small operators are often grouped under the same label. Structurally, however, there is an important difference.

While freelancers primarily sell their own labor and their income depends directly on the time and effort they personally invest, business owners operate a structure that can produce value beyond their individual labor.

That means when a business owner is sick or on vacation, the business can still operate.

Think of it this way:

An independent plumber is essentially a freelancer. Someone who owns a plumbing company that sends plumbers out to do the work is a business owner.

A private chef catering events personally is self-employed. Someone who owns a catering company or restaurant with a staff is a business owner.

The history of McDonald’s illustrates how these roles can evolve. When Richard and Maurice McDonald first opened their hamburger stand, they were business owners. When they later developed the Speedee Service System — the operational model that became modern fast food — they stepped into the role of entrepreneurs.

Ray Kroc recognized the larger opportunity. By turning the concept into a franchising system and building a massive real estate structure behind it, he expanded the entrepreneurial vision far beyond the original restaurant.

The people who buy McDonald’s franchises today are not reinventing the system. They are business owners operating within a model that has already been designed.

Know Thyself

Some people thrive with stability. Others thrive with autonomy.

Some people want to build companies. Others want to master a profession.

Many people base their choices on money and identity.

Understanding and accepting who you are, and building your life around that, is a good place to start. It’s honest, and it doesn’t have to be a limitation. It may simply mean spending your life not denying what you need or what’s important to you, and managing your expectations accordingly.

Now, if you’re basing your decisions on something that goes against what feels right to you, that’s an entirely different conversation.

It’s probably the years of me bashing my head against the wall over and over again talking, but one thing is clear: living a life that goes against your own nature is not fun.

It’s easy to dream big about going down fashionable and prestigious roads that promise lots of money.

The real challenge is figuring out which path is aligned with everything that makes you, you — and ultimately happy.

A little over twelve years ago, I had what I can only describe as a quietly loud identity collapse.

From the outside, nothing dramatic had happened. I hadn’t endured any significant losses at that time. In the far past, yes — but not then. I hadn’t been publicly disgraced; I wasn’t “famous” enough for that. I hadn’t been fired from some prestigious role. Let’s be honest, I didn’t have a prestigious job to begin with.

And maybe that was part of the problem.

I was surviving between things, taking odd jobs to make ends meet, trying to figure out which version of myself was supposed to win.

The real discomfort wasn’t the work; I’ve never been afraid of work. It was the absence of enough of what I was truly good at — and the absence of a label that felt impressive enough to justify my existence.

I had accumulated so many skills over the years that I thought I should be able to point to one clean title and say, “That’s who I am.” Instead, I felt scattered and undefined: Designer? Culinarian? Businesswoman?

None of them were consistent enough to make me feel like I had arrived. The only title that remained front and center was “Single Mother.”

At the time, I believed the problem was that I didn’t know who I was. In reality, the problem was that I didn’t have a label that satisfied my pride.

We all collect labels. Some are practical, and others are ego-driven. We need names, roles, titles, ways to introduce ourselves so that people know how to relate to us. Without them, we’d spend our days pointing at each other.

Identity definitely has a purpose. The trouble begins when we start storing our worth inside those labels.

CEO.

Famous.

Beautiful.

Republican.

Democrat.

Non-binary.

Vegan.

Wife.

Founder.

Victim.

Victor.

Labels become more than mere descriptions. They become proof of our worth. When we carry labels that are admired, we feel steady. When those same labels crack, we unravel.

Most of us have seen executives collapse after a scandal, even when they weren’t personally at fault. The title disappears and suddenly life feels unrecognizable. I’ve personally witnessed some of them break down completely.

I’ve seen people cling to political identities so tightly that they sacrifice decades-long friendships just to protect the badge.

I’ve watched soldiers struggle when they are no longer soldiers, as if the uniform carried their entire reason for being.

This is human nature; it isn’t weakness. We want to feel capable and seen. We want our efforts to translate into something tangible, and it’s comforting to point at a title and say, “Here. That’s the proof of my worth.”

I fell into the same trap.

I grew up unpopular. I didn’t fit with the popular kids, the burnouts, or the nerds. I was so unidentifiable that even the outcasts didn’t adopt me. I left high school on a plane to Italy to attend fashion design school with one clear thought: “I’ll show them!”

Twelve years ago, I looked around and realized that “someday” hadn’t arrived. It probably wasn’t going to.

Yes, I had worked with famous people. Yes, I had done impressive projects. But they were sporadic, and I had often carried out those experiences under different titles. None of it felt stable enough to define me or comfortably put food on the table.

The moment I finally told myself the truth, something erupted inside me. Weeks of emotional chaos ensued. I compared my reality to curated images of classmates’ vacations, families, and polished careers on social media. I was a divorced single mother in Italy, living month to month with no support system. I concluded that my life was a mess.

Who was I? Where was I going? What had all the talent and sacrifice been for?

For years, people had asked me to teach English. My ego wasn’t having it. I had worked too hard on my “real talents.” I viewed teaching English as something anyone could do. I was attached to an image of success that looked and sounded a certain way. Teaching English didn’t fit that image, and I was determined to be extraordinary.

Eventually, desperation softened my resistance. I accepted those jobs, believing I had no other choice.

Oh, the stories we tell ourselves…

I felt like I had failed my own destiny. When my tears were finally exhausted and desperation grew bored, I faced the simple and honest truth: I was the only one responsible for authoring my life. There was, in fact, no divine conspiracy against me.

Since I was finally acknowledging that I was my own obstacle, I could also conclude that I was my own solution.

Letting go of the pressure to prove something was a memorable relief, to say the least.

The tears turned into humility, and then into gratitude. I realized that surviving conditions many wouldn’t was a success.

I had kept my promises. I had put my daughter first. I had behaved responsibly. I had stayed honest, kind, and respectful. I remained flexible, willing to learn, and genuinely interested in others.

In other words, I never turned my back on my values. So I decided to keep doing that because that was something I could bank on.

I laughed at my own need to be revered as impressive. I committed to making decisions aligned with my values, and slowly, my professional identity formed on its own.

“You in English” emerged through coaching, and through coaching I began designing my own workshops.

The identity that once felt elusive grew organically out of the work itself. It was no longer something I chased, but something that followed.

Now, I see titles as useful. They help people understand what I do, but they no longer fuel me; my values do. If a title disappeared tomorrow, I would still know who I am and what I’m capable of.

Labels can vanish in the blink of an eye. When we invest our self-worth in them, we allow ourselves to be fragile. It’s like putting your life savings into something volatile and hoping the market never shifts.

You get to choose your values regardless of what life hands you. You can move across roles, industries, and seasons without disappearing.

CEO today. Stay-at-home parent tomorrow. President the day after. You still get to be you.

When identity rests on your internal compass, you become adaptable.

Success isn’t the enemy. I love success! I love building things and seeing effort turn into tangible results. It is absolutely exhilarating!

Success built on the need to feel important can wind up being a restless pursuit. You land on milestones already unsatisfied and ready to chase the next thing.

Success built in alignment with your value system is deeply satisfying.

One depends on other people’s applause. The other produces applause as a byproduct of impact.

I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone who hasn’t fallen into the label trap at some point, and some people never leave it. There is something seductive about believing that once we become the owner, the CEO, the famous one, the recognized expert, we’ll get our happy ending.

Spoiler alert: life doesn’t end the moment you reach a target, and life is messy, even when you get what you want.

It’s worth pausing long enough to notice what you’re truly chasing.

The label may come, and it may even fit beautifully.

Just make sure it isn’t the only thing holding you together.

Do you think you have imposter syndrome?

Congratulations. You’re not that special. So does the majority of the adult population.

This might sound blunt, but it’s meant to be reassuring.

Imposter syndrome isn’t rare, unusual, or a sign that something is wrong with you. It’s common enough that when someone insists they have it and assumes they must be part of a tiny minority, they’re already misunderstanding what’s happening.

Depending on how it’s measured, studies consistently show that a majority of adults experience imposter syndrome at some point in their lives, often hovering somewhere between sixty and eighty percent. Among people in high-responsibility, knowledge-intensive roles, the numbers tend to climb even higher.

So if you feel like a fraud, like someday you’re going to be “found out,” like everyone else seems more confident, more prepared, more legitimate than you are, you’re not defective. You’re statistically ordinary.

And that’s the whole point.

Who experiences imposter syndrome the most

Imposter syndrome doesn’t show up randomly. It clusters in very specific environments and personality profiles.

It’s far more common among those who carry a lot of responsibility, deal with complex systems, and are expected to make decisions without clear right answers. Specialists, leaders, experts, and people whose work isn’t scripted and whose performance is visible tend to experience it more than others, not less.

The paradox is simple. The more you know, the more you become aware of how much you don’t know.

Beginners often feel confident because they can’t yet see the full landscape. It could be argued that not knowing what you don’t know supports the belief that ignorance is bliss. As understanding deepens, awareness expands faster than certainty, and that gap between what you know and what you can see coming next is where imposter syndrome tends to live, and often fester.

This doesn’t mean something has gone wrong. It means that swallowing the red pill exposes you to a version of reality your ego now has to contend with.

Personality has something to do with it

Certain internal operating systems are particularly susceptible.

People with high standards, a strong sense of responsibility, intellectual honesty, curiosity, and empathy tend to turn their attention inward. Those with some of these qualities, or a cocktail of all of the above, notice nuance and gaps, and they hold themselves accountable even when no one else is watching.

That level of attentiveness turns into self-punishment when awareness is interpreted as inadequacy rather than information.

Why it shows up so often in leadership

Many people assume imposter syndrome should disappear with success. Au contraire mon frère, leadership often amplifies it.

As seniority increases, feedback decreases, and peers disappear. Decisions carry more weight, mistakes have consequences beyond the self, and certainty is expected even when the situation is anything but certain.

Leadership positions remove training wheels and safety nets at the same time. “It’s all on you, kid.” Blaming those below you won’t help, nor is it an option when things go down, and if you’re conscientious and in charge, knowing that carries a certain weight.

It’s no coincidence that a large percentage of people in upper management report imposter feelings during promotions, transitions, and periods of increased visibility. The doubt isn’t usually tied to a lack of confidence, it’s more often a response to complexity and consequence.

The English factor: Uh-oh. The jig is up.

For non-native English speakers with bigger job titles, imposter syndrome often intensifies with meetings, presentations, negotiations, or any context where language becomes public.

In Italy, English is a thorn in most people’s sides because it’s taught poorly in the public school system, and it’s drilled into people’s heads that if they want to get anywhere in their career, they have to perfect it.

Now let’s talk about the people in charge. Many of them work their way up the career ladder with maybe a B2 level, mainly because English was never really necessary, and therefore never practiced consistently. These are often the ones in the greatest panic. They want to keep up appearances, but believe they’re going to be exposed “for what they really are,” at least that’s what their head keeps telling them.

English, in this specific instance, doesn’t create insecurity. It reveals it.

What imposter syndrome really looks like

Imposter syndrome isn’t always obvious. In fact, it often hides behind behaviors that look admirable.

Over-preparing and working longer than necessary. Staying silent until certainty feels absolute. Minimizing one’s own success. Attributing wins to luck, timing, or other people. And perhaps the most glaring manifestation is the intense anxiety that appears before moments of visibility, despite a strong track record.

These behaviors frequently coexist with high performance, which is why imposter syndrome is so easy to miss, both from the outside and from within.

How people hide it

Many people become very good at masking imposter syndrome.

They lean into humor, over-function, and become indispensable. They perfect their professional image by appearing confident, composed, and sometimes even intimidating.

What looks like confidence is often armor.

Most people are far better at fooling others, and especially themselves, than they realize.

Learning, myelin, and scraped knees

There’s a biological piece here that matters.

Learning doesn’t happen through flawless execution. It happens through repetition, correction, and error (sometimes in form of scarped knees). Myelin, the insulation that strengthens neural pathways, grows through doing things imperfectly and then doing them again.

Mistakes are not detours. They are signals.

Avoiding error doesn’t protect competence, it simply slows development.

That uncomfortable feeling of being fake, exposed, or clumsy is often the nervous system in the middle of construction. Skills are still insulating and pathways are still stabilizing.

Discomfort isn’t evidence of failure, it’s an essential part of learning. What this boils down to is that by ripping off the bandaid and actually doing the thing, rather than hiding in a corner worried you’ll be “found out,” you gradually overcome the very weaknesses you’re so hyper-focused on.

Ego, confidence, and resilience

This is where imposter syndrome often gets misunderstood.

Imposter syndrome is not humility. It’s the language of a fragile ego.

Ego exists to protect identity. It fears mistakes because mistakes feel like threats to worth, and when ego runs the show, errors become dangerous and visibility becomes terrifying.

Confidence built on self-compassion works differently. It creates space, space to try, to fail, to recover, and to try again.

Real confidence isn’t believing you’re exceptional. It’s trusting that you can screw up, even badly, and not fall apart.

That ability to recover is resilience, and resilience is what allows growth to continue.

Cultural conditioning: Italy, the U.S., and the missing balance

Culture plays a significant role in how imposter syndrome takes shape.

In Italy, the educational imprint is deeply scholastic. Mistakes are treated as a kind of moral failure, excellence is defined by proximity to perfection, and perfection is never truly reachable, which explains why some teachers never give a 100% grade. Even when you do well, it’s often met with little acknowledgment because you simply did what you were supposed to do, or attention is placed squarely on what’s missing. “No one can possibly reach perfection.”

When mistakes are framed as something to be ashamed of, when effort is never quite enough, and when learning English means sitting behind a desk listening to grammar rules while being discouraged from speaking until you’re “ready,” the perfect storm is created. It’s no wonder much of Italian society experiences English as a massive headache.

In the United States, the conditioning swings in the opposite direction. There is far more permission to try, to speak, and to show up. There was an era where children were handed a medal just for participating, and confidence often came before competence.

This has real advantages. Innovation moves quickly, participation is encouraged, and the barrier to entry is lower, but so is the bar.

The downside is that standards soften, and constructive feedback is often experienced as a personal attack. When identity is closely tied to positivity and self-expression, correction feels threatening. “What do you mean what I did isn’t amazing?”

Other parts of the world emphasize different values, each with their own strengths and pressures. Some prioritize rigor and endurance. Others emphasize psychological safety and consensus. None have culturally mastered the balance between striving for excellence and embracing the courage to make mistakes at scale.

The issue isn’t values. It’s order.

Healthy learning requires permission first and rigor second. Most cultures reverse that sequence or abandon one side entirely.

Why imposter syndrome feels worse now

There’s also a very modern layer to this.

We live in an environment of infinite comparison, surrounded by curated success, filtered beauty, and public achievement without visible process. And let’s not forget those who are always waiting to point out how you’re doing everything wrong. Mistakes are archived, highlighted, shared, and weaponized.

Visibility often arrives before integration.

People are asked to speak and behave with certainty while still learning, to look expert while still becoming, and finger-pointing seems to be all the rage.

Imposter syndrome, in this context, is not a personal flaw. It’s a coherent response to a distorted environment.

What this article is, and isn’t, suggesting

I’m not suggesting you become less precise. Pushing beyond what you think is possible is healthy, it’s how limits expand.

Growth happens when you’re challenged. Think of it like lifting weights, but for your brain.

What matters is understanding that challenge in the round. When effort is seen as part of an ongoing process, you don’t plateau. You move past what once felt like the edge, again and again.

Achievements are temporary markers. They can always be surpassed. Perfection, however, will never arrive, because humans are not built for it, no matter how unwilling we may be to accept that.

The brilliance lies in knowing that you’ve gone as far as you can, for now, and allowing that to be enough without mistaking it for the end.

A closing thought

I’m writing this to say something simple.

What you’re experiencing is extremely normal. It won’t be fixed by becoming more of an expert, and in many cases expertise actually intensifies it, especially when self-image goes unexamined.

Imposter syndrome dissolves through self-acceptance and humility, through the ability to remain in practice without turning every imperfection into a verdict of self-destruction.

There is no arrival point. There is only growth, learning, refinement, and expansion, all the way to the last breath. It might not be a sexy thought, but it’s an honest one.

If you feel like an imposter, even when you’ve genuinely done your best, it may be time to acknowledge that most of us are holding onto distorted beliefs about ourselves. As Shakespeare put it, “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.” We’re a bunch of perfectly imperfect people playing at life, so you may as well join the fun.

A Masterclass, a Room Full of Twenty-Somethings, and the Moment Everything Needed to Be There at Once

The night before the masterclass, I didn’t sleep.

I went to bed at 1 a.m., still sorting through my slides, making sure everything was perfect.

Crap. I’d missed my 10 p.m. goal of going to bed early. Knowing I had to be downtown Turin by 8:30, I wanted to be out the door with enough time to find parking without adding chaos to the morning.

I seem to have an issue leaving my house on time. Every. Single. Day.

I know that about 90% of it is self-sabotage. What can I say? It’s my Achilles’ heel.

So when I know I have to get up early the next day for a flight, an important meeting, or a masterclass… fuggedaboutit.

It turns into a racing heart, half-formed thoughts, finally drifting into something like sleep, and then oops, awake again! It’s 2:30. Only X hours left.

How am I going to do this?

The clock advances.

3:15. 4:30. Five-something.

And the frustration, catastrophizing, and anger build.

If it’s a flight, fine. I can sleep on the plane.

Before a workshop or masterclass, I’m not going to lie. I’m seriously concerned and dreading the day ahead, knowing full well how lack of sleep affects my body.

When the outcome matters to me

Somewhere deep in my subconscious is the motto go big or go home. My big ideas and big imagination don’t always account for tangible reality. Somehow, I pull it off anyway.

The truth is, I’d be a lot richer and a lot more rested if I were more moderate in my expectations. But I’m not. I’m Emilia. This is how I’ve always rolled, and I doubt I’m going to stop anytime soon. It’s how I live life to its fullest, how I challenge ideas about what is and isn’t possible, and, when it comes down to it, how I do right by the people I show up for: clients, family, friends, or anyone else I give my word to.

In this case, a room full of twenty-somethings.

Doing it “right” becomes more of an undertaking the older, more informed, and more capable I become. I really do believe you never stop learning. I can teach the same class a million times, but time passes between those classes, and in the meantime, I’ve learned something new. Every iteration gets richer, sharper, and more to the point.

By the time I walked into the classroom that morning, I was exhausted and, thankfully, calm.

Forty students—that was a first, and probably the main contributor to my subconscious panic.

Gen Zers with their phones, skepticism, and that subtle here we go again energy that anyone who’s ever taught knows all too well.

My daughter is 23, and knowing I was going to interact with a room full of people around her age led me to believe I was going to be okay. Another part of me worried it would all go in one ear and out the other. In my mind, the real failure would have been eight hours of boredom, with everyone leaving at 6 p.m. exactly as they had arrived at 9 a.m.

I always say, “I hate school.” Maybe I shouldn’t announce that so shamelessly to a room full of people sitting in my class, or at least explain what I mean.

In reality, I love learning, and for me, it happens daily—just not institutional instruction–style. Listening to someone talk endlessly at the front of a room as if the audience doesn’t matter has never been quite my flavor.

As a student, in a setting like that, my attention span lasted maybe three and a half minutes before my mind was elsewhere. In adulthood, I find myself feeling exactly the same while sitting through lectures and boring, unrelatable presentations.

May mercy be bestowed upon me.

No way, not in my class!

I continue to live by the belief that learning is an opportunity for co-creation for everyone involved, including the instructor. The first thought I had just before I spoke was, “Buckle in, guys. We’re all in for a ride.”

I knew I had to let them know early on that they were in for something different, that acknowledged them, and that made it clear we were not in Kansas anymore.

When something else takes over

The day began, and all the buzzing junk noise in my head was just… gone.

Boom! This was happening.

Like a puppet animated from the inside, everything moved without effort. I was listening, observing, talking, joking, explaining, pausing, moving. I was everything I needed to be for them, all at once.

Science calls it flow, and my logical mind accepts that explanation. Inside, it feels like something beyond that.

I know flow well.

I’m a designer and a cook. I played piano and flute for years. I studied fine arts post-graduation, and I’m certainly no stranger to time melting away when you’re fully inside the moment. It’s a phenomenon I’ve experienced often, especially when behind burners with a hundred guests waiting to eat.

This felt like three levels above what I usually identify as flow. Not really doing, just being done through.

While my mouth was moving and my body was physically expressive throughout the day, I remember my mind observing what was happening, almost separately, thinking, “How am I producing these words and making it all come together so seamlessly?”

That separation between thought and voice was honestly fascinating—rather freakish and completely awesome.

Then I remembered that I’d experienced it before.

In fact, it happened every time I stood in front of an audience and took them down a learning path. But for whatever reason, I had forgotten.

Only once did I sabotage my own process. I gave myself speaker notes, afraid I’d forget something or miss a transition. I looked down often at that unnecessary crutch and read them, and a lot of the usual magic just didn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong—it went well, but since we’re being honest here, not my most brilliant execution.

Never. Ever. Again.

From now on, it is what it is. If I fall, it’s an opportunity to learn. That’s it.

Flow reaches its fullest expression when you remove the mud from your mind and trust your instincts. This was my clearest proof of that, and I’m writing it down so I don’t forget it again.

But enough about me—this story is really about them.

The moment that mattered

Near the end of the day, I gave them a simple exercise.

With everything we had talked about, they had reached some conclusions about what differentiation really means and how to understand their own unique abilities.

One by one, quickly, without overthinking, each student had to finish a sentence out loud:

“My superpower is…”

The instructions were simple: no explanations, no adjectives, no qualifiers, and just one sentence.

The shift in the room was immediate.

Posture changed, and the air filled with a slightly giddy excitement. Chatter died down, and each person prepared themselves to jump Geronimo-style.

It became official.

“Young and inexperienced” suddenly felt far less condemning than they had previously believed.

What came after surprised me

Towards the close of the day, I asked, “Now that we’ve gone over mindset, what fears are you still holding onto about the interview process?”

The questions were fantastic. They had real questions about portfolios and asked for direction, about what matters and what doesn’t, and how to manage content.

They were already applying the day’s insights to their own context, and realizing, “Yes, it’s working!” excited me.

Many of them had probably started the day confused about how to approach someone they deemed capable of making or breaking their future, and left understanding that they could provide tangible value to a potential employer.

I could do that because I know exactly what they’re up against.

Designing the workshop from both sides of the table

I coach the people who interview candidates just like them.

I have private conversations with those individuals behind closed doors and hear all about their frustrations and the red flags they notice when candidates say and do certain things.

I took all of that into account when I designed this masterclass, especially around portfolios and soft skills.

Day one was about mindset.

Day two will be about making that clarity visible under pressure.

Why this particular room mattered

I once sat where they’re sitting now, in a mixed group of aspiring Fashion, Interior, Graphic, Transportation, etc. designers.

I studied at a school very similar to theirs, in the same city. I graduated in fashion design. I’ve worked across design disciplines more times than I can count, and I grew up around automotive designers through family, family friends, and close relationships. I worked in the field myself in various forms.

In my case, it wasn’t impressive; it was just survival.

This workshop wasn’t special because everything I know came together. I’ve been composing symphonies like this for a long time.

It was special because I could truly be of service to this particular group. I had answers for them that many people wouldn’t, simply because I’ve lived a non-linear life and career and happen to know about specific things they need specific help with.

Loving their humanness

More than anything, I wanted them to stop seeing their humanity as a flaw.

At that age, it’s easy to confuse lack of experience with lack of value, to believe talent alone is what puts you in competition, and to feel behind before you’ve even begun.

I wanted them to see that they are already gifted in a way that can’t be replicated, like a fingerprint, and that being human isn’t a flaw.

We all have fears, and many of us feel like imposters. It mattered to me that they knew they already had some good stuff to work with and that they can do far more with it if they learn to redirect their attention to the less obvious, bigger picture.

The real gift

At the end of the day, I was exhausted, with a massive headache probably due to the adrenaline crash.

And then the LinkedIn connection requests started coming in, which was truly touching.

Being able to take a lifetime of experience and, in a few hours’ time, reduce doubt, restore orientation, and remind young people that they get to author their own path is a dream come true for me.

As I write this, my nose and eyes sting slightly from a mix of gratitude and thrill.

Every time I think I have it all figured out, life reminds me there’s still so much more to tap into. What a rush.

Every year, especially around the holidays, I fall for the same psychological trap.

I imagine long stretches of uninterrupted time where I’ll finally catch up on everything: reading, writing, thinking, exercising, and producing. I picture myself industrious and returning from the holiday season feeling accomplished and ahead of the curve.

Then there is reality.

Almost nothing gets done. There is no significant output to justify all that “free time.”

What does surface is my willingness to do everything but what I intended to do over the holiday. Distract myself with should-nots: shop (overspend), eat things I swore I wouldn’t touch, get lost online, binge-watch TV series, then sleep in the next day.

This year was no different, except that for the first time since I was a kid, I didn’t try to fight it. I allowed myself to intentionally become reacquainted with boredom and see what that was like.

Why “What Is My Purpose?” Is Everywhere

One concern I hear repeatedly from people, especially those in their forties and fifties, is simple and heavy at the same time:
“I don’t know what my purpose is.”

I’ve been hearing some version of this question for years, across different professions, different levels of success, and very different life circumstances. People who are accomplished, capable, and who have done many things “right.”

When I look at earlier generations, especially my parents’ boomer generation, I’ll sometimes hear remarks like, “People today just don’t know what they want anymore,” usually followed by a “When I was a kid, I had to walk 10 miles barefoot in the snow to school every day” speech.

I digress. If what earlier generations say is true, it’s hard to believe people were once “better” and now they are “worse.” Maybe it has more to do with the environment we’re living in.

Now we have more, and then we had less: options, comparisons, filters, technology, resources, information.

More. Faster. Better. Easier.

Careers, money, experiences, freedom, and all the comforts that come with those things don’t seem to resolve the underlying and intensifying restlessness.

It’s worth stepping back and asking why this sense of void, this obsession with life purpose, persists in people who, on paper, already have everything they need. If we’re bombarded with noise and constantly sold the idea that purpose is an external achievement, how surprising is it that people start looking for fulfillment in the next job role, the next city, the next relationship, or the next “new and improved” version of themselves?

People often dismiss phrases like “everything you need is already within you” as spiritual fluff. Fair enough. Taken at face value, they can sound vague or detached from real life. Stripped of mysticism, though, what those phrases are pointing to is far more practical than people give them credit for.

Clarity and strength do not arrive through accumulation.

As I approach my forty-eighth birthday, one thing has become obvious to me. A sense of purpose and life satisfaction doesn’t come from chasing more. It takes shape through consistently honoring a set of values in everyday choices.

Knowing what you stand for, what matters to you, and what you’re not willing to compromise simplifies life in ways that are difficult to appreciate until you’ve landed on your rear a few times. Over time, values tend to sharpen, especially if you allow life to teach the lessons it insists on teaching, rather than trying to outsmart, bypass, or avoid them.

It would be convenient if fulfillment came with a painless, step-by-step formula. It doesn’t. There is no universal sequence of actions that guarantees clarity, just as there is no single method that guarantees success, wealth, or satisfaction. Each life carries its own constraints, responsibilities, and trade-offs, and no one is exempt from difficulty.

What seems to make the difference is a willingness to make choices that align with personal values, even when those choices are inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unimpressive on paper, and even when more exciting alternatives are available.

Over time, this way of living produces concrete effects. Decisions require less internal negotiation. The mental chatter dies down. Confidence stops being something you try to perform and starts being something you simply are. Purpose tends to show up quietly. I stayed stubbornly ignorant of it for years, and then there it was, all along.

From Chasing to Consequence

It is January, which usually brings an urge to fix everything at once. Gym memberships, language courses, financial spreadsheets, and ambitious plans suddenly feel urgent.

None of these things are inherently wrong. They can be genuinely useful when they serve a clear intention.

A gym membership can be about external validation, or it can be about wanting a body that feels strong and capable enough to share life with the people you love. Learning a language can be an attempt to compensate for a sense of inadequacy, or it can be a way to engage more deeply with others and expand perspective.

The good news is that purpose does not require grand gestures or dramatic reinvention. The less flattering news is that it often asks for acceptance of realities that don’t align with our fantasies about what life should look like. What tends to follow, though, is a form of satisfaction far more interesting than the imagined happiness we project onto alternate versions of our lives.

Life may be stranger than fiction, but given the chance, it can be more compelling too.

Where I Am Now

As I write this, work continues to arrive from different directions.

That’s been true since 2005, when I became a single mother, and even more so since 2011, when I moved to Italy with my daughter and no real support system. Taking on different roles wasn’t a strategy. It was necessity. For a long time, I wondered and worried about what my purpose was.

There was a period of my life when, if people asked what I did for a living, my most honest answer was some version of:
“What month, day of the week, or time of day is it?”

At some point, I labeled myself a multipotentialite. At least it was a word that helped give shape to something that otherwise felt undefined.

Looking back now, I remember those years with a mix of fondness and relief that I never have to live through them again. They were often rough, but full of curiosity and exploration.

I still move across different kinds of work, but something fundamental has shifted inward. I’m no longer preoccupied with trying to define myself. My sense of achievement gradually became a consequence of keeping my word and honoring the commitments I chose to take on.

When I brought a child into this world, when I took animals into my care, when I accepted responsibility for people, work, and situations, I made a promise to follow through. Most adult decisions since then have been shaped by that.

It isn’t glamorous or always enjoyable. It would have been easier to walk away more than once. I didn’t. Over time, that consistency does its work.

I’m not in a phase of chasing momentum or trying to manufacture inspiration. I’m allowing the consequences of those choices to unfold. So far, I haven’t felt the need to interfere.

Produced by Ideal

Creative & Production Credits belong to the Ideal team (2021).

In loving memory of Valeria Tunzi

A bright, warm presence and a wonderful part of this experience. Thank you for always being a friend — it meant a lot to me. You’ll always be a part of us.

Before we even get into turkeys, chaos, English, experiential learning, or the sixty Italians who were terrified to speak in front of each other… you should know one thing:

This is what the agency eventually turned my Thanksgiving project into — their official holiday video.

But the part no one sees in this polished, cinematic greeting

is the absolute creative insanity that made it possible.

So let me tell you what really happened behind that video —

starting with two turkeys, a castle’s worth of cooking, an English program that spiraled into mythology, and one idea that went way too far (in the best possible way).

1. The Turkeys and I Have a Word

At the end of the night, I found myself standing in an industrial kitchen, staring at two enormous roasted turkeys—a combined forty kilos of golden poultry resting like heavyweight champions who had finally surrendered. I hadn’t slept, I hadn’t sat, and I certainly hadn’t stopped. And in that quiet, stainless-steel moment, I swear both turkeys had something to say. Honestly, so did I.

Mushy sentimental side note: I’m a vegetarian at heart. I always give my spiritual blessing and thank the turkeys that give their lives for us. I always feel a sense of sadness and guilt every year. Why I’m not officially a vegetarian (yet) is a story for another time and another mood.

In the meantime, here’s how I roast butchered turkeys while reconciling it all in my head.

2. The Lady Who Does Thanksgiving

In Torino, I seem to have acquired several unofficial titles, but the one that matters most during the month of November is this:

I’m The Lady Who Does Thanksgiving.

In castles, villas, Michelin-star restaurants, and penthouses.

If I’m going to do something, it’s going to be over-the-top — otherwise, what’s the point? I live by the mantra: Go big or go home.

The first year I hosted Thanksgiving here, there were sixteen people, then thirty, then fifty… and eventually, circa 2015, one hundred guests attended a Thanksgiving feast at Castello Canalis, in Cumiana, Pinerolo.

Every year, Italians ask me questions that make me laugh:

“È la festa con i fuochi d’artificio?”

(Is it the party with fireworks?)

No.

“È quella col tacchino patriottico rosso-bianco-blu?”

(Is that the one with the red-white-blue patriotic turkey?)

Absolutely not.

“È tipo Ferragosto ma col purè?”

(Is it like Ferragosto but with mashed potatoes?)

Not even close.

For reasons I can’t fully explain, I never get tired of shedding light on their unknowns—maybe because I love talking about food and how to cook it. And maybe because Thanksgiving here isn’t a tradition—it’s an experience. And certainly not an experience for the lazy.

3. Enter: Sixty Italians and an Opportunity

In the summer of 2022, a major advertising agency invited me to install an English program for sixty out of their one hundred employees. By September, the CVO (Chief Vision Officer) —who knew my creative style, my English programs, and my culinary chaos—came to me with a question:

“Emilia, would you do a Thanksgiving event for us?”

I said yes, because at that point, saying yes had become a lifestyle. And while all my “yessing” has gotten me into plenty of complicated situations (“in a pickle,” as we say), I don’t regret any of them. My life might have been easier had I taken a more linear path, but easier has never been my brand.

And then my imagination—my lifelong accomplice—sat upright in my mind and whispered:

What if this weren’t just a dinner? What if this became a full-scale experiential English event?

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain was exploding with ideas. This usually happens either when I have a genuinely genius idea or when I’m experiencing a moment of manic creativity and just think I’ve had a genius idea.

Either way, I knew something big was coming.

4. Let’s Talk Turkey

I opened a new Google Slides deck and typed one sentence on the first slide:

“LET’S TALK TURKEY.”

Then I left everything else blank.

The next day, I assigned roles to my students based on the actual jobs they held within the agency:

• Account managers

• Strategists

• ATL/BTL copywriters

• Designers

• Photographers

• Event planners

• Musicians

They weren’t going to study English — they were going to marinate in it.

5. The Fake Product That Should Never Exist

Elena—my then twenty-year-old daughter—and Max, her twenty-two-year-old boyfriend, handed me the seed of the idea:

A motorcycle-shaped turkey-roasting stand.

I should have known then that we were heading into madness. Those two are brilliant at many things, but their brilliance in the art of ridiculousness is unmatched.

Then the agency took the idea and went full throttle. As the weeks went by, teams added their slides. The evolution was happening in real time, and everyone was inspiring everyone else.

Together we built:

• a complete 360° communication strategy

• naming proposals

• visual identity

• audience analysis

• social media plans

• an ATL creative campaign

• a full brand backstory (involving retired Sons of Anarchy bikers who now forge kitchen tools)

• and even a cinematic interactive video concept

All real, all documented, all cited, all magnificent.

They named the product:

Featherless Knight.

At that point, I realized my team didn’t do “halfway.”

They did mythology.

Credits: Nick Fioni & Matteo Divenere Thank you for your beautiful storytelling, creativity, and sense of humor.

I also realized I was strangely qualified to lead them into this creative insanity. Over the years, I’ve worn almost every hat imaginable: music student, fashion designer, graphic designer, copywriter, web developer, international account manager, chef, coach, and the woman who kept ending up with an empty bank account but an overloaded skill set.

“Hi, my name is Emilia, and I’m a recovering multipotentialite.”

All joking aside, the mix of hope, disappointment, learning, reinvention, and survival that built my unconventional career has also given me the ability to dream up things like this project without flinching.

6. Born to Be a Wild Turkey

For the music component, I coached a team of musicians as they developed an original parody of Born to Be Wild — which became:

Born to Be a Wild Turkey.

We booked a studio session, rehearsed pronunciation, and recorded vocals. The result was a full song, complete with outlaw biker energy and turkey-death poetry documented in the deck.

Check it out below — I’ve placed the track and lyrics at the end of the article.

Then we created:

• a turkey mascot

• a biker-themed photo booth

• sunglasses, bandanas, and fake tattoos

• props

• and a motorcycle sidecar setup for photos

At this point, it was no longer a Thanksgiving dinner — it was an interactive simulation.

7. The Fear → The Breakthrough

Creatives can be fearless when generating ideas, but ask them to speak English to someone, and they shrink and hide. And to be fair, that’s a cultural issue here. Italians who learned English through the traditional school system were often conditioned to believe they were fundamentally flawed and would never be “good enough.”

When my daughter was in grade school, I noticed that some teachers would never give a perfect grade — ever. The top score was always nine out of ten. Why?

Because, “No one is perfect.”

How is anyone supposed to feel good enough, let alone successful, when you already know going right out of the gate that you’ll never be acknowledged for excelling?

Naturally, the thought of presenting in English in front of the entire company terrified everyone. But as soon as they realized they weren’t alone in their fear, everything shifted. (Plus the open bar at the event played its part too.)

Shared fear became:

• solidarity

• empathy

• courage

• community

This is experiential learning.

You don’t learn English passively. You pick up the tools you have, step into the lion’s den, and you fight your way into becoming who you’re meant to be.

8. Four Days, Two Turkeys, and Zero Sleep

Four days before the event, the madness began:

• Special-ordered two 20-kg turkeys

• Wholesale warehouse runs

• Open market missions

• Baking whole pumpkins

• Evaporating milk

• Packing a van (full of tools, equipment, and food for 100 people — including our featherless friends; needless to say, my body was feeling a bit broken)

• Driving to Turin from my farmhouse in the hills

• Arriving at a hotel with no heat

• Sleeping (or attempting to) fully dressed like a pilgrim experiencing central-heating trauma

By 6 a.m., our event space — an ex–Michelin-star kitchen — was glowing in stainless-steel brilliance. Four industrial ovens, two massive turkeys needing nine hours in the oven each, and students popping into the kitchen between meetings to prep vegetables and learn how to make foods they had never even heard of.

The pumpkin pie alone inspired at least 100 questions.

Let me say this clearly:

You do not carry forty kilos of raw turkey across Piemonte without questioning your life choices.

But somehow, we pulled it off.

9. It’s Showtime, Baby!

By 7:30 p.m., guests were arriving from Milan and Turin.

By 8:30, dinner was served.

By 9:30, presentations began.

Every group delivered:

• the ATL campaign

• the social strategy (“Italians Do It Better… Or Not?”)

• the “Save Italian Turkeys” movement

• the “Abso F*****g Happily Ever After” engagement phase

• logos, visuals, and mood boards

• a jacket-potato personality quiz

• the official introduction of Featherless Knight

• and the world premiere of Born to Be a Wild Turkey

Every person got on a microphone and spoke English in front of one hundred people. The room exploded with laughter, warmth, and applause.

Then my father, Giuseppe, got up and sang.

A full operatic moment.

People held up lighters.

A few were emotional.

Until that moment, he was simply “Emilia’s dad who occasionally substitutes for her.”

Of course this was happening — because only a night like this could produce a finale like that.

10. What the Turkeys Taught Us

Later, back in the kitchen, I looked at the two roasted turkeys — fallen gladiators resting after their final battle — and clarity hit (or rather, delirium).

Experiential learning is not a concept.

It is a collision of:

• heat

• pressure

• stakes

• creativity

• vulnerability

• community

Here’s what the turkeys taught me:

1. Learning sticks when the stakes are real.

   (Like roasting forty kilos of poultry in a foreign country.)

2. People grow when they’re slightly terrified but deeply supported.

3. Community dissolves shame.

4. Creativity lowers resistance.

5. Embodied learning beats grammar 100 to 1

   (even though I still firmly believe adults need at least some structure to know what’s going on).

6. People are highly motivated when they have specific goals attached to a specific deadline.

And finally, the turkeys delivered the simple truth:

Transformation requires heat. And if you can’t take the heat… stay out of the kitchen. But if you can? Step in. Because you can take what you’ve got and turn it into something delicious.

11. What This Actually Did for Them

This wasn’t a party.

It was:

• a confidence accelerator

• a company-bonding ritual

• a creativity catalyst

• a real-world English immersion

• a demonstration of what “You in English” really is

• a memory built with enormous smells, emotions, and laughter

This is why my experiential programs work.

I don’t teach English in isolation — I teach people to integrate it into what they already are. And they end up gaining far more than they expected.

12. Cultural Notes for Italians

“Let’s talk turkey”

→ Significa: “Andiamo al sodo.”

“Born to be wild”

→ La canzone rock americana famosa; la nostra versione col tacchino è… indimenticabile.

“In a pickle”

→ Significa: essere in un pasticcio / una situazione complicata.

“If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen”

→ Significa: se non sopporti la pressione, evita le situazioni difficili.

Thanksgiving

→ Nessun fuoco d’artificio.

→ Nessun tacchino patriottico rosso-bianco-blu.

→ Nessun hamburger.

→ Solo cibo, gratitudine, e persone — di famiglia o di scelta.

13. And Off I Go…

Now I’m grabbing my bag, kissing my five dogs and five cats, loading up the car with food, and heading out the door.

I’m off to Milan with Elena and Max to do Thanksgiving in a penthouse. The two turkeys are already waiting on site.

🎵 Born to Be a Wild Turkey — Audio + Lyrics

Credits

Vocals: Guido Callegari, Fiorella Forneris, & Alessandra Reyneri

Thank you for your beautiful voices and supporting the insanity.

Born to be a wild turkey

Get your motor running

Head out to the oven

Looking for some pleasure

In whatever fries your way

Yeah darlin’, go and make me crispy

Spin me round in spice so nice

Fire all your flames at once and

explode me with taste

You like smoked and juicy

Dripping gravy wonder

Greasy in the pan

and you’re smelling what you hunger

Yeah darlin’, go and make me crispy

Spin me round in spice so nice

Fire all your flames at once

and explode me with taste

I’m a bird tasting wild

I was born, born to beguile

I can’t fly so high

so, I’m gonna bang, bang, bang, die

Born to be a wild turkey

born to be a wild turkey

Get your taste buds goin’

head out to the table

looking for some servings

of whatever comes your way

Yeah, darlin’, she made me crispy

cooked this bird that you wanna taste

Give thanks all at once cuz

I’m explodin’ with taste

Like a true nature’s child

I was born, born to taste wild

I couldn’t fly so high,

so I had to die

Born to be a wild turkey

Born to be a wild turkey

Before you dive in…

This is a long-form story — the real, unfiltered version. It’s best read with a coffee, a glass of wine, or while hiding from your responsibilities.

It’s broken into mini-chapters so you can read it in pieces, come back to it later, or get lost in it all at once.

Here’s what’s inside:

– The Cinematic Punch (the photo, the chaos, the true opening scene)

– The Neurodivergent Root System (where this whole saga really begins)

– Three Elenas (and only one of them was quiet)

– The Clueless Pediatrician

– The Diagnosis I’d Never Heard Of

– The Castle Years in Italy

– Why Bilingual ND Kids Learn Differently

– What I Actually Did Right

– What Society Still Gets Wrong

– And how it all turned out

Settle in.

This one’s a ride.

The Cinematic Punch

There’s a picture of me and Elena in the car — late, again — and honestly, it tells you everything you need to know about raising a bilingual, neurodivergent child while being neurodivergent yourself. A freelancer single mom in a country where it’s just the two of you, figuring everything out from scratch.

Two brains. Two languages. Zero predictability (or practicality, for that matter). And absolutely no one in that vehicle knowing what day of the week it is or what time we were supposed to be at school.

I can’t tell you how many times I sped down narrow Italian streets with Elena’s backpack — heavier than she was — bouncing in the back seat while I chased a bus full of her classmates on their way to a field trip they definitely weren’t expecting us to catch.

People love to say bilingualism is a “gift.”

Sure. Bilingualism, biculturalism — by God, nothing in our life has ever been easy, let alone free.

If by “gift” you mean a ten-year treasure hunt with no map, no clues, and a screaming GPS pronouncing Italian street names with a thick American accent while repeatedly announcing “Recalculating route…” like it personally disapproves of your life choices.

Welcome to our life.

The Neurodivergent Root System

If you look at my family tree, the signs were all there. Neurodivergence isn’t a branch — it’s the trunk.

It starts with my father, the undisputed king of ADHD. I have suspicions about my mother, too, but she’s foggier to decode.

Papá, though… he’s a masterpiece. A brilliant designer, wildly talented, endlessly creative — and yet if you hand him literally anything — a pen, a brochure, a freshly made sandwich — it immediately disappears into another dimension.

He’s also powerfully bombastic, using in moments of tension what he calls his “opera voice,” borderline OCD (our walls were always resurfaced smoother than marble), and now enjoys retirement by yelling at podcasters on YouTube for their poor English grammar and lack of logical reasoning.

And his sense of direction? Forgheddaboutit. If he says something is “half an hour away,” pack snacks and survival gear. When I was seven, he came to pick up my mother and me from an airport in Frankfurt, Germany. It was supposed to be a short drive. Five hours later, we were still lost, still in the car, and still listening to him swear creatively in two languages. It was 1985. Pre–Google Maps. We were basically hostages.

Then there’s me: a hyperactive chatterbox living in my own fantasy world. I hated school with my entire being. Sitting still while a teacher droned on was torture. Unless the person speaking was genuinely worth listening to (rare), everything went in one ear and out the other. I spent most of ages five through eighteen in a fog of distraction.

With that genetic cocktail, Elena never stood a chance at being “standard issue.”

Three Elenas: Sleeping, Silent Destruction, Screaming

By the time she was three and a half, Elena had about thirty words.

Yes, thirty.

I wasn’t upset; I was grateful. Thirty words meant thirty brief, glorious moments where she wasn’t screaming.

Screaming wasn’t a phase. It was her medium — the way some artists choose clay or paint. Elena came with three modes:

1. Sleeping

2. Awake and quiet (which meant she was dismantling household infrastructure)

3. Screaming

Sleep was rare. She didn’t sleep through the night until she was five.

When Elena was three, I was twenty-seven with no real frame of reference for child development. I wasn’t around other moms. I never liked the whole mom-group thing, and Elena was never the “sit nicely for story time” child anyway. One teacher was convinced she was deaf because while the other kids sat quietly on their little carpets listening to picture books, Elena was running laps around the room or rearranging furniture with the confidence of a tiny interior designer.

That was our normal.

The Clueless Pediatrician

The language delay isn’t what made me seek help. It was the expulsions. Elena was kicked out of three preschools before age three. By the third one, even I had to admit something wasn’t adding up.

So at two and a half, I had the talk with her pediatrician. She never knew what to make of us, so she reached for the easiest explanation:

“Just speak English. She’s one of those rare cases of children who get confused by two languages.”

Elena wasn’t confused.

The doctor was.

But when you’re clueless and desperate for answers, you try anything. So we switched to English full-time. Unfortunately, that didn’t fix anything.

So, after still no results and no further insight, we set off in search of something that actually made sense.

The Diagnosis: A Word I’d Never Heard Before

At three, we saw a psychologist who specialized in “syndromes.” He took one look at Elena, one look at me, and explained everything I didn’t know I needed explained: her screaming, the sleepless nights, her brilliant chaotic constructions made from IKEA packaging, her nonstop running, the unsolicited parenting advice from strangers in malls and restaurants — all of it.

Then he dropped a word I had never heard in my life:

Asperger’s.

(Umm… the “ass-what!?”)

Suddenly the puzzle pieces stopped floating in space.

By three and a half, she still had thirty words — but now I understood why. And none of it had anything to do with bilingualism.

Her brain was wired uniquely. Her development ran on its own timeline. And in plenty of ways, she was already miles ahead of everyone else (and still is).

I wasn’t worried. My attitude was:

“Cool. Now I know what we’re working with. Let’s do this thing.”

Normal was never my lane anyway.

The Bilingual Myth Cracks Open

Once I understood Elena’s profile, the bilingual issue was off the table. People love repeating the myth that bilingualism “confuses” kids. It’s rampant, and it’s untrue, even for ND kids.

What shaped Elena’s language development wasn’t the number of languages — it was the way she processes information. She’s an intensely visual thinker with shaky auditory memory. If you talk at her for ten minutes, she’ll catch maybe two words. Show her something once, and it’s there forever. Her language didn’t unfold on a bilingual schedule — it unfolded on an Elena schedule.

And just to make this clear, it’s not just my opinion — science backs this up.

What Science Actually Says About the Matter

If you take all the studies, all the meta-analyses, and all the clinical observations and boil them down to one idea, it’s this: neurodivergent children don’t learn less — they learn differently. In some ways, they develop more slowly; in others, they’re practically superhuman.

Kids on the spectrum often absorb language through patterns and visuals, not noise. ADHD kids learn in bursts, not steady streams. And late talkers, whether bilingual or not, are like slow cookers — it feels like it takes forever, but what comes out is unbelievably good.

Science has never found evidence that speaking two languages causes confusion, delay, or harm. Not once. In fact, ND bilingual kids often grow into adults with phenomenal strengths: perspective-taking, problem-solving, adaptability, creativity — the mental tools you actually want in a functioning human navigating a complex world.

Raising Elena has been a trip: bilingual with friction, unpredictable in every direction, and the kind of adventure you can’t wait to retell later in life. That’s some good stuff — and not many people get to say they’ve lived it.

Anyway. Let’s keep going, because the story definitely didn’t end there.

The Move to Italy: Two Vagabonds in a Castle

When she was nine, we moved to Italy — just the two of us slumming it in a castle on a hill. Picture it: a 33-year-old American with her kid, a lot of stone walls, not a lot of money, and a mountain of uncertainty.

And honestly, with a pair like us, none of that felt unusual. The “How on earth did we end up living in Italy in a castle?” part has its own entire backstory — one I’ll save for a rainy day — but for now, let me carry on.

I learned Italian quickly as a kid. My father threw me into an Italian school with a simple philosophy: “Figure it out.”

And I did.

So I assumed Elena would, too.

That was… optimistic.

It took her nine months to start speaking Italian, and she didn’t become fluent until middle school. Each of us has strengths and weaknesses. Linguistic communication isn’t her strongest asset. Mine is — I can strike up a conversation with a wall. But her difference taught me a lot about human intelligence diversity. No matter how naturally talented you are or aren’t, skills can be developed. People don’t always share the same timeline or learn in the same way.

Why Italian Took a Year (and Middle School) to Land

People assume bilingualism is absorbed like osmosis. But ND bilingualism isn’t NT bilingualism.

Elena needed stability, visuals, predictable routines, repetition, and context.

Unfortunately, half that list didn’t line up with my ADHD.

Stability?

Predictable routines?

Repetition?

I don’t even have the same breakfast two days in a row.

But she figured it out anyway. Thank God she’s resilient.

The Yippee Ki-Yay Method™

I didn’t follow any official parenting style. There was no OPOL (“one parent one language”), no charts, no laminated speech routines, no curated immersion strategies.

It was just:

Me.

Her.

Life.

Whatever worked that day.

How late are we? Shit.

ADHD parenting is basically one long improvisation.

We used English for almost everything, Italian with teachers and friends, and some days we barely spoke at all.

But the house had rules that mattered: respect, kindness, and integrity. And rules that didn’t: like skipping school once a month for lunch and a movie — a ritual we started when she was nine and never really stopped.

Structure where it counted. Freedom everywhere else.

What I Did Right

Looking back, there was a lot I didn’t know. But here’s what I did do right: I never saw the cards we were dealt as a loss. People dramatize diagnoses; I saw opportunities and challenges to navigate. We made lemonade — aggressively at times, but still.

I raised her my way, not the way others insisted. I took responsibility for my own shortcomings. We grew up together. I wasn’t perfect, but I stuck to my values, even when it wasn’t convenient.

I taught her early that we’re a weird pair — so we might as well enjoy it. I was strict about the right things: respect, honesty, trying your best, trying every food at least once, and healthy confidence. Our household wasn’t a democracy — that had to be earned with age and experience. Everything else was negotiable, including the occasional movie-day escape.

I acknowledged her label without letting it define her. It was information, not identity.

And honestly, I think I just got lucky. I couldn’t have had a different kid and made it through.

The Part No One Tells You

And just to be clear, this whole jumping-from-doctor-to-doctor thing didn’t end in preschool. It went on for years. Every specialist had a theory. Every school had an opinion. Every teacher painted doomsday scenarios for her future. Every report card included complaints about my parenting. Every evaluation said something different from the last one — and none of it actually filled the bill.

It wasn’t until after high school that everything finally settled into place, and not because we found the “right expert,” but because I always chose based on her and her needs. Every school decision had criteria: small classrooms, teachers who actually cared, and environments where her talents mattered more than her challenges. I treated her like a human being with incredible potential — not a diagnosis to manage — and I certainly didn’t make it about me.

That’s what made the real difference, and because of it, she blossomed beautifully.

Today, Elena is so put-together that most people her age could learn something from her. She’s grounded, talented, socially competent, thriving in school and in her relationships. And no one — I mean no one — would ever guess she was once labeled neurodivergent.

To me, the label was just information — the same way knowing I have ADHD is just information. We take it for what it is and roll with it.

Where She Is Now

Elena is twenty-three and about to graduate as an aesthetician practitioner — and she’s good. Focused, routine-driven, disciplined. She studies like a machine. She passes difficult exams — written, verbal, practical — with calm precision. Her peers call her “the accountant” because she’s always so particular about how things should be done.

Around the time she graduated from high school, she was re-diagnosed with ADHD. Fine. Asperger’s. ADHD. Call it what you want. The point is: she knows who she is. We know how she works. Her strengths are undeniable.

And watching her now makes the whole wild journey make sense.

What Society Gets Wrong About Neurodivergence

If there’s one thing I’ve picked up on in this world, it’s that most humans have trouble relating to anything that doesn’t resemble what they already know. Neurodivergence gets treated like everything else that isn’t “like everything else” — with a sense of unease. People don’t know what to do with what they can’t immediately categorize, so they default to two predictable reactions.

The first group is honest about their discomfort, and unfortunately, that honesty often shows up as unkindness. Sometimes intentionally, mostly unintentionally, but always unmistakably: “What do we do with that one?” They treat the ND person like a glitch in the system rather than someone running a different operating system.

The second group overcompensates. They tiptoe, excuse, and wrap “divergents” in soft padding. This creates a different problem: the ND person starts seeing themselves as a helpless victim in a society that doesn’t understand them. The world becomes something happening to them rather than something they can interact with, influence, or navigate.

Both approaches miss the mark.

Mankind has a long way to go, but the hope is that both the “you suck, fix it” and “boo-hoo, life is unfair to you” mindsets become passé. What people need to learn — and teach — is that every human being comes with their own OS and equipment. The goal isn’t to treat them as separate or alien. It’s to understand how their system works, assist where needed, and hold them accountable, as you would with anyone else. Incentivize good behavior, disincentivize harmful behavior. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Different doesn’t mean fragile, and it certainly doesn’t mean exempt. It just means different. And different can be leveraged if you actually take the time to understand it.

P.S. My thoughts on this aren’t limited to neurodivergence… and I’ll just leave it at that.

The Real Gift of a Neurodivergent, Bilingual Life

“Neurodivergent and bilingual” doesn’t mean anything more than what we make it mean. The path is simply more interesting than what you might expect. Less predictable, often more chaotic, and full of the kinds of stories you only get from living life slightly off the beaten path. We had to figure out for ourselves why people tell you not to do certain things, like just moving abroad with your nine-year-old to a country without a family support system.

(Yeah, it was rough and tough, but I wouldn’t change a moment of it.)

If Elena and I could navigate all of this — the screaming years, the expulsions, the language-confusion myths, the move across the ocean, the castle-survival era, and Italian post offices — and still come out strong, then trust me: if you’re even half normal, you’ve got a real shot.

The more languages, the merrier.

Thank you for reading.

If anything in this story made you laugh, nod, cringe, or breathe a little easier, feel free to share your thoughts below — I genuinely love hearing other people’s stories.

And if you know a parent who’s worried their kid is “behind,” “different,” or “not fitting the mold,” pass this along.

Their kid isn’t broken. Their future isn’t doomed.

And if they need reassurance, they can always reach out to me.

I’ve got plenty to share.

C’è un momento, per chiunque studi una lingua, in cui la domanda arriva inevitabile: ma davvero serve imparare la grammatica?

Come per molte cose nella vita, la risposta non è né bianca né nera.

Chi mi conosce lo sa: io non amo gli assoluti.

Preferisco le sfumature, l’esperienza, e soprattutto il buon senso.

Il grande dibattito sulla grammatica

Da una parte c’è chi dice:

“Non puoi costruire nulla senza fondamenta. La grammatica è tutto.”

Dall’altra, chi ribatte:

“La grammatica non serve. L’importante è lo speaking!”

Questa discussione va avanti da sempre: teoria contro pratica, libro di testo contro conversazione reale.

La verità, come quasi sempre, sta nel mezzo.

La mia convinzione di allora

Per anni ho pensato che la grammatica non fosse indispensabile.

Sono americana, cresciuta da un padre perfezionista con un debole per le regole linguistiche, che ama dire: “Non sono politicamente corretto, sono grammaticalmente corretto.”

Eppure, un po’ di quell’atteggiamento tipicamente americano — “va bene così, basta che funzioni” — mi è rimasto addosso, soprattutto quando si trattava di grammatica.

Dicevo ai miei studenti: “Lasciamo stare la grammatica, concentriamoci sul parlare.”

E in effetti, è proprio quello che i miei clienti italiani desideravano: dopo anni di studio ossessivo sui verbi irregolari, molti avevano sviluppato una sorta di trauma grammaticale.

Ogni volta che dovevano parlare, si bloccavano.

Anch’io avevo imparato l’italiano a otto anni senza studiare regole — solo vivendo, ascoltando, sbagliando.

E quindi pensavo che fosse lo stesso per tutti.

In realtà, funziona… fino a un certo punto.

Poi arriva una fase di stallo, e l’apprendimento rallenta.

Quello che non sapevo ancora era quanto l’età influenzi il modo in cui impariamo una lingua.

I bambini imparano a parlare per istinto, e solo più tardi, a scuola, studiano la grammatica.

Gli adulti invece hanno già un linguaggio strutturato nella mente — con regole e schemi propri — e quando iniziano una nuova lingua, non partono da zero: devono tradurre un intero sistema mentale.

È come se avessi giocato a baseball tutta la vita e un giorno decidessi di passare al golf.

Prima di tutto dovrai disimparare alcune cose (per esempio, non esiste lo smart working in inglese), capire le nuove regole, e poi provare ad applicarle — magari mentre cerchi ancora di colpire la pallina senza farla finire nel lago.

Quindi, studiare grammatica sì o no?

Non è obbligatorio.

Ma sì, è utile — soprattutto se abbinato all’apprendimento esperienziale.

La grammatica e la meccanica del linguaggio sono come il processo di tostatura per un toast.

Un panino fatto con pancarré, prosciutto e formaggio è mangiabile anche senza tostarlo, ma quando è dorato e croccante… l’esperienza cambia completamente.

La grammatica aiuta perché:

1. Dà sicurezza. Quando capisci perché qualcosa funziona, smetti di dubitare di te stesso.

2. Accelera l’apprendimento. Un po’ di struttura ti permette di progredire più velocemente.

Ciò che non deve fare, invece, è paralizzarti.

Quando le regole diventano il centro del processo, la mente resta bloccata in modalità “pensiero lento” — e la lingua non fluisce più.

Il cervello che pensa e quello che agisce

Abbiamo due sistemi mentali che lavorano insieme:

🧠 Il cervello pensante — lento, analitico, riflessivo.

È quello che usi per calcolare 2343 × 2365.

⚡ Il cervello performante — veloce, istintivo, automatico.

È quello che risponde subito 1 + 1 = 2.

Quando impariamo qualcosa di nuovo, usiamo il cervello lento.

Quando lo padroneggiamo, entra in gioco quello veloce.

Ecco perché non si può imparare ad andare in bicicletta leggendo un manuale sull’equilibrio: a un certo punto bisogna cadere, sentire, e trovare il proprio equilibrio.

Con le lingue è la stessa cosa.

Se passi tutto il tempo a studiare le regole, non svilupperai mai la scioltezza.

Ma se ignori completamente le regole, continuerai a inciampare sugli stessi errori.

La soluzione? Entrambe le cose.

Impara le regole. Poi spezzale con l’esperienza.

La combo perfetta

Se hai più di dieci anni — e soprattutto se ne hai più di diciotto — la grammatica ti aiuterà a capire meglio ciò che ascolti e ciò che dici.

Ma non lasciare che il perfezionismo ti blocchi.

Buttati in conversazioni imperfette, goffe, vere.

Le persone non si soffermano sui tuoi errori: apprezzano il tuo coraggio.

Sii curioso. Fai domande.

Ridi dei tuoi sbagli.

Parla, anche male — ma parla.

È così che il cervello “veloce” inizia a danzare.

Un pensiero finale

Il mio punto di vista nasce da una curiosità infinita e da tanti, tantissimi errori.

Negli anni ho studiato scienze della comunicazione, letto linguisti come Steven Pinker, ascoltato podcast di psicologia cognitiva, seguito corsi di negoziazione e sperimentato metodi per aiutare i miei clienti a comunicare meglio.

Ogni errore, ogni momento di imbarazzo, ogni intuizione mi ha insegnato qualcosa.

Dagli errori imparo di conseguenza. Insegnando, imparo intenzionalmente.

Quindi, se vuoi davvero capire la grammatica — o qualsiasi altra cosa — prova a spiegarla a qualcun altro, con le tue parole.

Perché quando riesci a insegnarla, l’hai davvero capita.

Vuoi ballare? Allora, vai pure… fammi felice.

P.S. Era un invito a commentare. Non farmelo ripetere. :)

I used to think grammar didn’t matter. Then I learned Italian, taught English, and discovered that knowing the rules—and toasting bread—are simply tastier.

That’s the question every language learner wrestles with at some point.

And like most things in life, the answer isn’t black or white.

For those who know me, you already know I don’t do absolutes.

It’s a doggy dog world (yes, I thought that was the real phrase — until ChatGPT set me straight 😆), but somebody’s got to talk about it.

The Great Grammar Debate

There are two main camps.

On one side:

“You can’t build without a foundation. Grammar is everything.”

On the other:

“Grammar doesn’t matter. Just speak!”

These arguments have been around forever — textbooks versus street talk, theory versus practice.

Both are wrong — or rather, both are incomplete.

I’ve learned that the truth sits somewhere in the middle.

(Thanks for that one, Buddha!)

My Early Belief

For years, I believed grammar wasn’t essential — or even necessary.

I’m American. And even though I was raised by my overachieving, perfectionist-with-OCD father who likes to say he’s “not politically correct, but grammatically correct,” some of that classic American “it’s good enough for who it’s for” attitude still rubbed off on me — especially when it came to grammar.

“Let’s just focus on speaking,” I’d tell my students.

After all, that’s what my Italian clients wanted anyway. They’d been hammered with grammar throughout school and were paralyzed with what I like to call Grammar PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) whenever they had to speak.

Since that’s how I learned Italian at eight — through experience, not rules — I assumed the same would work for everyone.

It does... but only up to a point. That method works until the learning plateaus — and it’s not as efficient as it could be.

At the time, I didn’t yet understand how age affects language acquisition — how children, teens, and adults all learn differently.

Children learn to speak first and study grammar later. Young brains absorb patterns instinctively.

(If you want to get nerdy on this point, give me a ring — I’ll happily give you the lowdown.)

Adults, on the other hand, already have a complete first language — full of rules that shape how they think and speak.

When you add a new language on top of that, you’re not starting from scratch; you’re translating a whole system.

In other words, if you’ve played baseball all your life and suddenly switch to golf, you’ll need to unlearn a few things first (for example, smart working isn’t really a thing in English), then learn the new rules, and apply them while you’re still trying to hit the ball straight.

So, Should You Learn Grammar?

It’s not mandatory — but yes, especially if you pair it with experiential learning.

Grammar and mechanics are like the toasting process of a grilled-cheese sandwich.

Communication works without it — but it’s crispier, tastier, and way more satisfying with it.

It also helps with:

1. Confidence. When you understand why something works, you stop second-guessing yourself.

2. Speed. A little structure can dramatically accelerate your progress.

What grammar shouldn’t do is paralyze you.

If rules become the focus instead of communication, your brain stays stuck in thinking mode — the slow lane.

The Thinking Brain vs. The Performing Brain

We have two systems at play:

🧠 The Thinking Brain — slow, deliberate, analytical.

It’s what you use when you calculate 2343 × 2365.

⚡ The Performing Brain — fast, instinctive, automatic.

It’s the one that instantly blurts out 1 + 1 = 2.

When we learn something new, we rely on the slow brain.

When we master it, we move into the fast one.

That’s why you can’t learn to ride a bike by reading about balance.

At some point, you’ve got to fall off a few times and feel what balance means.

Language works the same way.

If you spend all your time memorizing rules, you’ll never develop fluency.

But if you ignore the rules entirely, you’ll keep tripping over invisible obstacles.

So — do both.

Learn the rules. Then break them through experience.

The Magic Mix

If you’re over 10, and especially if you’re over 18, grammar will help you make sense of what you’re hearing and saying.

But don’t let perfectionism stop you.

Throw yourself into awkward, messy, beautiful conversations.

People don’t care if you make mistakes — they care that you’re trying.

Be curious. Ask questions.

Laugh at your errors.

Speak imperfectly, often.

That’s how the fast brain learns to dance.

A Final Thought

My perspective comes from curiosity — and a lot of trial and error.

I’ve spent years studying communication science, reading linguists like Steven Pinker, diving into cognitive psychology, training with negotiation coaches, and experimenting with different ways to help my clients communicate better.

Every mistake, every awkward moment, every lightbulb taught me something.

Through mistakes, I learn consequently. Through teaching, I learn intentionally.

So if you want to truly figure out English grammar — or anything else — try explaining it to someone else, in your own words, in a way that makes sense to you.

Because when you can teach it, you’ve mastered it.

You want to dance? Then go ahead, make my day.

P.S. That was an invitation to comment. Make it happen. :)

Lascia che ti racconti com’è andata davvero…

Cosa succede davvero prima che nasca qualcosa di grande:

Un po’ di procrastinazione, tanti pensieri (troppi), e poi — GRAZIE AL CIELO — quel momento in cui finalmente tutto inizia a girare.

Prima di ogni grande progetto, io sono la regina della procrastinazione. E credo che quella parte sia piuttosto normale.

Quella un po’ meno normale è che… più il progetto suona grande, ambizioso, stimolante, più diventa irresistibile per me dire “sì”. Anche quando so che forse non dovrei.

È come andare al supermercato quando hai fame.

Sì, faccio anche quello.

Benvenuti nel meraviglioso caos della mente ADHD.

Una volta ho sentito un medico descriverla con un’analogia che non dimenticherò mai: un cervello ADHD è come una Ferrari con i freni di una bicicletta.

Ecco, non avrei saputo dirlo meglio.

Il dilemma è tutto lì: grandi idee, un’enorme voglia di fare — tutto — e poi… arriva la realtà.

Mi organizzo, pianifico quando e dove lavorare su quel progetto con una scadenza non troppo lontana, e poi arriva il momento di mettermi all’opera.

Solo che… aspetta! C’era quella crema viso che avevo visto online.

E forse dovrei passare l’aspirapolvere sotto il letto.

E quando me ne accorgo, è già notte. Sono stanca, rimando a “domani”… e poi il giorno dopo succede lo stesso.

Man mano che il tempo stringe, si stringe anche il petto — insieme a quel familiare cocktail di ansia, sensi di colpa e preoccupazione.

Il primo passo è sempre il più difficile.

Una pagina bianca non ispira nessuno.

L’unico modo per sbloccarla è fare un micro-passo.

Quando ho iniziato a costruire la mia ultima presentazione, Storytelling in Presentations, per la sede centrale della banca più importante d’Italia, è bastato copiare e incollare una vecchia slide — ed ecco, la macchina si è rimessa in moto.

Da lì in poi, giorni, minuti e secondi diventano un tutt’uno: il mio mondo si fonde con quello del mio pubblico.

Sì, sono davvero brava in quello che faccio.

Non lo dico per convincere nessuno — è semplicemente qualcosa che mi sono guadagnata.

Perché lavoro (e continuo a lavorare) tantissimo. Non solo per affinare competenze o “fare quel passo in più”, ma per capire me stessa e il mondo intorno, senza giudizi, senza paura, e senza pensare di sapere più degli altri — perché non è così.

Se fosse così, la mia vita sarebbe perfetta.

E come ogni altro essere umano su questo pianeta, non ce l’ho affatto tutta chiara.

Costruire qualcosa come Storytelling in Presentations è un processo di co-creazione.

Il mio pubblico è la mia ispirazione; le mie esperienze e le lezioni imparate a caro prezzo sono ciò che mi permette di trasmettere connessioni a chi non ha ancora avuto modo di metterle insieme.

Connessioni che aprono la mente, aiutano a crescere, a trovare la propria idea di successo, e — alla fine — a raggiungere un senso di soddisfazione autentico, anche quando la vita non sembra perfetta “sulla carta.”

La vera sfida non è spiegare che cos’è lo storytelling.

La sfida è farlo sentire sulla pelle.

È capire come far sì che le persone prendano tutto ciò che hai condiviso e lo facciano loro, fino a dire “adesso l’ho capito.”

Ogni volta che tengo un workshop, c’è sempre quel momento magico in cui le persone — professionisti, manager, dirigenti — lasciano cadere le maschere, e si accende qualcosa dentro di loro.

Da confusi, stanchi, a volte scettici, diventano improvvisamente presenti, curiosi, coinvolti.

E io posso letteralmente vedere i collegamenti accendersi nella mente di ciascuno.

Quando succede, tutte le ore infinite di lavoro, i weekend non vissuti, le notti insonni e l’instabilità del mestiere valgono ogni secondo.

Forse c’entra anche il fatto che i cinquanta sono dietro l’angolo, e che arriva quel senso di risoluzione verso la vita in generale…

Ma essere invitata, anche solo per poche ore, a entrare nel mondo degli altri — e vedere la trasformazione che si regalano da soli — è una sensazione che mi manda in estasi.

Let me tell you what really went down…

What really happens before something great comes to life:

A little procrastination, a lot of overthinking, and then, THANK GOD, when it finally starts to click.

Before anything big that I need to work on, I’m the queen of procrastination. I guess that part is normal.

The part that isn’t that normal is how the bigger it sounds, the more delicious, the more tempting it is for me to make commitments I probably shouldn’t be making. It’s like going to the grocery store when you’re hungry. Yeah, I do that too.

Anyway, welcome to the world of the ADHD mind.

I once heard a doctor speak on the subject, and I’ll never forget his analogy: an ADHD brain is like a Ferrari with bicycle brakes. That right there is the most accurate description I’ve ever heard.

So here lies the dilemma: big ideas, a great appetite to do—well, everything—and then reality hits.

I make all sorts of decisions about when and where I’m going to work on my project that has a deadline in the not-so-distant future. Then the moment comes when I know I’m supposed to be brainstorming and creating away… but wait! There was that face cream I saw online. Oh, and I should vacuum under my bed. And before I know it, night falls, and I’m too tired and decide to do it “tomorrow.” And then tomorrow comes, and the same thing happens. As time tightens, so does my chest, along with the familiar cocktail of worry and guilt.

Step 1 is always the hardest. A blank page offers no inspiration. The only way around it is to start with a baby step.

While building my last presentation, *Storytelling in Presentations* for the headquarters of Italy’s most prominent bank, all it took was copying and pasting an old slide—and then it all began.

Days, minutes, and seconds—my everything becomes consumed by the world of my audience.

Yeah, I’m damn good at what I do. I don’t say that to convince anybody of anything. It’s simply something I’ve earned because I’ve worked (and still work) really, really hard… and not just at developing skills or going that extra mile. I fight hard to understand myself and the world around me, unpolluted by judgment, fear, or thinking I know better than others—because I don’t. If I did, my life would be perfect. And just like every other human on the planet, I don’t have it all figured out.

Building something like *Storytelling in Presentations* is a co-creation process. My audience is my inspiration; my hard-learned lessons and experience help me pass on information to those who haven’t had the opportunity to connect those dots. Dots that open your mind, help you grow, achieve your own interpretation of success, and ultimately reach great levels of satisfaction—even when your life might not look great on paper.

The real challenge isn’t in explaining stuff, in this latest case, what storytelling is. It’s in showing people how to feel concepts and ideas on their own skin. It’s figuring out how they can take all that you’ve introduced to them for a ride so that they can *get it.*

Every time I do a workshop, there’s that moment when everyday people with high-level job positions drop their guard, and you see the light go on inside them.

From confused, doubtful, tired, and often skeptical, to suddenly energetic, attentive, engaged, and curious. I get to witness a lot of “clicking” going on in the minds of everyone in the room.

When that happens, all of the endless hours of work, funless weekends, missed sleep, and the inconsistent income stream pay off big time.

Maybe it has to do with fifty being just two years away, and a sense of resolve over life in general… but being invited to listen in on their world for just a few hours and witness the mental upgrade they just gave themselves sure gives me a high.

Molte persone si chiedono perché io parli così tanto di comunicazione, empatia e ascolto, quando in teoria il mio lavoro consiste nell’aiutare le persone a migliorare le proprie competenze in una seconda lingua.

La verità è che è tutto collegato.

Hai presente il detto “le cose o si fanno bene o non si fanno”?

Per me “bene” significa non continuare a fare sempre la stessa cosa aspettandosi un risultato diverso.

Quante scuole d’inglese, corsi online o app ti hanno davvero dato ciò che cercavi?

Questo messaggio è per chi ha sogni, ambizioni e obiettivi che vanno oltre ciò che ha ricevuto finora dai classici corsi d’inglese.

La lingua non è solo un insieme di parole: è il modo in cui ci connettiamo, comprendiamo e conviviamo. È lo specchio di come pensiamo, sentiamo e ci comportiamo.

Il linguaggio parlato è qualcosa che solo gli esseri umani possiedono — ma questo non significa che lo usiamo sempre con saggezza.

Spesso confondiamo il parlare con il comunicare, e l’ascoltare con l’attendere il nostro turno per rispondere.

Si potrebbe dire che gli esseri umani abbiano perso la capacità di empatizzare. Io non credo sia così. Non è una novità: è un tema antico quanto il mondo.

Il Buddha ne parlava. Anche Gesù, e innumerevoli altri maestri che avevano capito che ascoltare significa sentire senza giudicare.

Quel tipo di ascolto genera progresso, connessione — e influenza.

Ciò che è cambiato oggi è la visibilità della nostra “umanità”.

I social media hanno messo il nostro ego collettivo su un altoparlante.

Siamo tutti sommersi dal rumore — un flusso costante di opinioni, reazioni e performance.

I nostri istinti — la paura, l’ego, il bisogno di affermarci — vengono continuamente stimolati e amplificati.

L’empatia è sempre stata una scelta consapevole.

Ma in un mondo dove tutto ciò che facciamo viene amplificato, è una scelta che oggi ha un impatto ancora più grande — su noi stessi e sugli altri.

Ed è per questo che la comunicazione è al centro del mio lavoro.

Sì, insegno inglese. Ma soprattutto insegno a comunicare — perché lingua e mentalità vanno di pari passo, come in qualsiasi altra disciplina che valga la pena padroneggiare: lo sport, le arti marziali, la musica… vale lo stesso anche per le lingue.

Imparare una seconda lingua è solo una parte di un puzzle umano molto più grande.

Il vero successo non nasce dal rifiutare la grammatica o dal fingere che non conti (un po’ come nello sport: la tecnica serve eccome).

Nasce dal costruire le fondamenta psicologiche che permettono di padroneggiare qualunque cosa si ritenga importante.

Quelle fondamenta includono:

• la capacità di creare abitudini solide

• la responsabilità personale

• la consapevolezza di sé

• un autentico cambio di prospettiva

Una volta che questi elementi sono al loro posto, tutto il resto — compresa la grammatica e la precisione — diventa più facile da padroneggiare e molto più significativo.

E se la correttezza linguistica per te è importante (e probabilmente dovrebbe esserlo), saranno proprio queste stesse competenze a portarti lì.

Perché la precisione può darti un vantaggio nella comunicazione — non è mai un male sapersi esprimere chiaramente.

Ma nulla di tutto questo accade senza le fondamenta giuste: la tua mentalità, la tua disponibilità ad ascoltare e la capacità di comprendere chi e cosa hai davanti (e intorno).

Ecco perché parlo così tanto di comunicazione.

È la base di tutto ciò che insegno — nella vita e nella lingua.

Nei miei workshop aziendali c’è sempre un po’ di “inglese” nascosto qua e là. Ho un sistema ibrido, efficace, ma non posso insegnare una lingua in due giorni.

Posso però aiutare le persone a cambiare prospettiva — a trovare le scarpe giuste per percorrere un cammino più lungo verso i propri obiettivi.

Insegno alle persone a:

• capire cos’è la vera fiducia e come renderla visibile

• costruire abitudini sostenibili e mantenere la responsabilità personale

• imparare a bypassare gli ostacoli della propria mente per restare sul percorso (noto come “hackerare” la propria mente)

• riconoscere e utilizzare il proprio stile di apprendimento naturale

• comunicare in modo efficace — oltre le parole

• e sì, migliorare il proprio inglese in un modo che abbia senso per te*.*

Ecco perché si chiama You in English.

Non sono una guru dei social, né prometto soluzioni superficiali.

Offro un percorso che vale la pena intraprendere — e quando lo si fa nel modo giusto, i risultati arrivano presto: duraturi, concreti, profondamente trasformativi.

Attraverso verità, mentalità e pratica, puoi trovare la tua voce — anche in inglese.

People often wonder why I write so much about communication, empathy, and listening when my work is supposedly about helping people master their second language.

Here’s the deal: it’s all connected.

You know the saying, “Do it right, or don’t do it at all”?

I interpret “right” in this case to mean not doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

How many online courses, English schools, or apps have truly satisfied what you were after?

So here it is — for those who have hopes, dreams, and ambitions beyond what they’ve received so far from their English learning courses:

Language isn’t just words — it’s how we connect, understand, and coexist. It’s a mirror of how we think, feel, and behave.

Spoken language is something only humans possess — but that doesn’t mean we always use it wisely. We often confuse talking with communicating, and listening with waiting for our turn to speak.

One could argue that humans have lost their ability to empathize, but I don’t think that’s true. It’s not new — it’s ancient. The struggle to truly listen has been a theme since the beginning of time. The Buddha spoke about it. So did Jesus, and countless other teachers who understood that listening is the act of hearing without judgment. That kind of listening fosters progress and connectedness — and it leads to influence.

What’s different now is how visible our human “ness” has become. Social media has put our collective ego on loudspeaker. We’re all drowning in noise — a constant stream of opinions, reactions, and performances. Our instincts — fear, ego, the need to assert ourselves — are being triggered and magnified around the clock.

Empathy has always been a conscious choice. But in a world where everything we do is amplified, it’s a conscious choice that now carries greater impact — on ourselves and on others.

And this is why communication is central to my work.

Yes, I teach English. But more than that, I teach how to communicate — because language and mindset go hand in hand like anything else worth mastering: athletics, martial arts, music… you name it. In this case, language is no different.

Learning a second language is just one part of a much bigger human puzzle.

Real success doesn’t come from rejecting grammar or pretending it doesn’t matter — much in the way that being great at a sport requires technical skills. It comes from building the psychological foundation that allows you to master whatever you decide is important.

That foundation includes habit-building, accountability, self-awareness, and a genuine shift in perspective. Once those are in place, everything else — including grammar and precision — becomes easier to master and far more meaningful.

And if accuracy matters to you (and it probably should), those same skills will lead you there. Because precision can absolutely give you an edge in communication — it’s never a bad thing to express yourself clearly.

But none of that happens without the right foundation: your mindset, your willingness to listen, and your ability to understand who and what is in front of and around you.

That’s why I talk about communication as much as I do. It’s the base layer of everything else I teach — in life and in language.

I often do corporate workshops, and tucked in there is always some “English.” I have my hybrid system, which is effective, but I can’t teach anyone English in two days. I can help people see through a different lens — one that gives them the right shoes to walk a longer road toward their goals.

I teach people how to:

• Understand what real confidence is and how to make it visible.

• Build sustainable habits and hold themselves accountable.

• Hack their own minds to stay on track.

• Identify and use their natural learning style.

• Communicate effectively — beyond words.

• And yes, improve their English in a way that makes sense for them.

Hence the name — You in English.

I’m not a social media hotshot; I don’t offer gimmicky “fixes.”

I offer a road worth walking — and when done right, it happens fast, bringing long-term, life-changing results and genuine satisfaction.

Through truth, mindset, and practice, you’ll find your voice — even in English.

Molti di noi parlano di costruire fiducia: nei team, nelle relazioni, con i clienti.

Ma il senso di integrità — e il modo in cui ognuno lo interpreta — cambia da persona a persona.

Per alcuni, fiducia significa affidabilità: fare ciò che si dice, rispettare i tempi, mantenere la parola data.

Per altri, è apertura emotiva: essere sinceri, umili, e disposti a lasciarsi vedere davvero.

Per altri ancora, è discrezione: osservare più che parlare, e condividere solo quando viene chiesto.

E forse, per pochi, è un po’ di tutto questo insieme.

Tendiamo a pensare che gli altri si muovano secondo le nostre stesse “regole”.

E quando non lo fanno, pensiamo: Come hanno potuto?

Ma ognuno di noi ha percorso strade diverse, con scarpe diverse.

I nostri valori, le nostre convinzioni, le nostre virtù e culture — sia familiari che di origine — definiscono cosa riteniamo giusto o sbagliato.

È questo a rendere il mondo complesso… e meravigliosamente umano.

Parliamo tutti lingue diverse — verbali e non.

E finché continueremo a credere che la nostra sia quella “giusta”, resteremo intrappolati nello stesso ciclo di accuse, colpe e, soprattutto, giudizio.

Allora come si costruisce la fiducia — con il nostro pubblico, i colleghi, la famiglia, gli amici o persino gli sconosciuti — in un mondo che sembra sempre meno affidabile?

Tra intelligenza artificiale, fake news, propaganda, proiezioni… come possiamo distinguere il vero dal falso?

La risposta breve: impara ad ascoltare, e parti da lì.

La risposta lunga: impara ad ascoltare, e parti da lì.

In teoria, è semplice.

In pratica, saper ascoltare bene è una delle abilità più difficili da sviluppare.

Le nostre paure e i nostri ego — quel bisogno impaziente di avere ragione, di essere ascoltati, di difendere la nostra identità — prendono il sopravvento, soprattutto quando le emozioni salgono.

Ed è proprio in quei momenti che ascoltare diventa più necessario… e più difficile.

Ma se impariamo ad onorare la nostra umanità — a riconoscere le nostre tendenze e scegliere comunque di ascoltare, anche quando è scomodo — allora la verità, e con essa la fiducia, possono emergere.

Se vuoi essere considerato affidabile, ascolta.

Se vuoi essere compreso, ascolta.

Se vuoi avere impatto, ascolta.

E se questo articolo ha suscitato domande o persino obiezioni nella tua mente,

sono qui, pronta ad ascoltare.

Many of us talk about building trust within our teams, in our relationships, and with our clients.

But people’s sense of integrity (and their interpretation of what that means) varies.

For some, trust means reliability: doing what you say, delivering on time, keeping your word.

For others, it’s emotional openness: being honest, humble, and willing to let people in.

For others still, it’s discretion: observing more than speaking, and keeping things to yourself unless asked.

And maybe, for a rare few, it’s all of the above.

We assume others operate by the same “rules.” When they don’t, we think: How dare they?

But let’s approach this subject with the premise that each of us has walked a different path, wearing different shoes.

Our values, beliefs, virtues, and cultures — both ethnic and familial — shape our sense of right and wrong. That’s what makes the world messy.

We’re all speaking different languages, spoken and otherwise.

Until we stop assuming that our way is the “right” way, we’ll stay stuck in the same loop of finger-pointing, blaming, and the most lethal enemy of all: judgment.

So how do we build trust — with our audience, peers, coworkers, family, friends, and even strangers — in a world that feels less trustworthy by the day?

AI, fake news, propaganda, he-said/she-said, projection… how do we even know what’s true?

The short answer: learn to listen, and go from there.

The long answer: learn to listen, and go from there.

In principle, the answer is simple.

In practice, listening well is one of the hardest skills to master.

Our fears and egos — that restless need to be right, to be heard, to protect our identity — hijack us, especially when emotions run high. It’s part of being human.

It’s in those emotional moments that listening is most needed, and least accessible.

But if we can honor our humanness — notice our tendencies and choose to listen anyway, even when it’s inconvenient — then truth, and therefore trust, can surface.

If you want to be trusted, listen.

If you want to be understood, listen.

If you wish to be impactful, listen.

And if this post has sparked questions or even rebuttals in your mind, I’m here, ready to listen.

Parli. Ti spieghi Ripeti. Niente, ancora nulla.

Sei tentato di archiviarli sotto la voce “idioti che non capiscono”?

Fermati un attimo.

Mi capita spesso di notare che si predica molto, ma si ascolta poco. In molte conversazioni – che siano in una sala riunioni, sui social o nelle interazioni quotidiane – le persone sono impazienti di parlare, di esprimere il proprio messaggio, di far valere il proprio punto di vista. Le parole vengono lanciate come frecce al bersaglio, gli argomenti si accumulano, le voci si sovrappongono. Ma in quei momenti, in realtà, nessuno sta davvero comunicando.

La vera comunicazione inizia quando riusciamo a fermare mente e bocca abbastanza a lungo da capire le parole dell’altro. Una pausa intenzionale non è semplice silenzio: è dinamica, è un atto di riconoscimento. È come dire: Ti rispetto, rispetto il tuo punto di vista, e per me è importante capire ciò che stai dicendo. Ciò che condividi conta abbastanza da meritare la mia piena attenzione, prima che io risponda.

Essere empatici nella comunicazione non significa correggere, convincere o dimostrare chi ha ragione. Significa creare uno spazio in cui prospettive diverse possano convivere, senza competere. In quello spazio cresce la fiducia. Quando le persone si sentono comprese, si aprono naturalmente alla collaborazione — ed è così che si innesca la crescita.

Questo principio è cruciale soprattutto nei contesti professionali. Nel mio lavoro con le organizzazioni vedo spesso quanta energia si perde in cattiva comunicazione. Una negoziazione può andare a gambe all’aria perché entrambe le parti pensano solo a difendere la propria posizione invece di ascoltare. Una presentazione fallisce perché il relatore preferisce la trasmissione a senso unico di informazioni piuttosto che la connessione con il pubblico. Un team perde slancio perché il feedback si trasforma in un colpo all’ego — una critica costruttiva viene scambiata per un attacco personale.

Le dinamiche cambiano quando ascoltare diventa più importante che parlare. Non significa rinunciare al proprio punto di vista; al contrario, è ciò che dà profondità e autenticità alla comunicazione. Spesso si dimentica che è proprio l’ascolto a generare influenza. L’ascolto è la base dell’empatia, e l’empatia permette ai leader di comprendere davvero i propri team. I team guidati da leader che li ascoltano si sentono coinvolti, valorizzati, e sanno gestire i conflitti senza esasperarli.

Come communication coach, porto questo approccio nei workshop su leadership, negoziazione e dialogo interculturale. I metodi cambiano (dal role-play agli esercizi pratici), ma la base resta la stessa: comunicare in modo efficace non è una performance, è uno scambio consapevole e responsabile. È ciò che costruisce fiducia, connessione e collaborazione duratura. Le relazioni prosperano quando l’ascolto non è un’aggiunta finale, ma il punto di partenza.

In un’epoca in cui siamo circondati da un rumore costante di messaggi, la capacità di ascoltare è diventata una competenza rara — e quindi un potente elemento distintivo. Chi la sviluppa non solo entra in connessione più profonda con gli altri, ma apre anche la porta all’innovazione, alla fiducia, all’influenza e al cambiamento duraturo