The 2026 Blog

Lesson 16: Sufjan Stevens

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The terracota-topped yellow houses zoom past my eyesight as I rest my head on the hard inner cavity of my Italo train car. Sufjan Stevens softly narrates my emotions and thoughts.

I have been in northern Italy for about a week now. Welcomed by my uncle and aunt, true Italians (though my uncle is a transplant from rural Maryland), they guided me through the customs and subtle traditions of northern Italy. Fresh off the plane, I broke bread with my aunt’s parents, Italian natives living in Milan. I felt lucky to have an immersive experience into my temporary home.

Now, I travel from Milan to Florence, expanding my flavor palate of Italy.

Sitting to my right is a new friend. I have only known her for about a week, but I feel seen by her. An instant understanding of each other is comforting in a new place. We both agree to look out the large windows of the train and listen to music in our headphones. We are not ignoring one another; we are absorbing the new scenery and reflecting on our pasts. A silent understanding envelopes and warms me.

In Florence, we wander through densely-populated streets and talk about anything and nothing over cappucinos and wine.

After the Florence getaway, I come back to Milan to resume my studies. After work, my uncle and aunt pick me up in their small white Skoda. We swim in icy lakes and rivers, walk through castle ruins, and talk with locals in small northern towns. The warmth of the Italian sun shines upon the new memories as I make them.

Sufjan’s mandolin brighten the painting of these new memories. I feel a connection to this country growing like weeds in my heart.

Now, as I stare out at the glistening Charlottesville snow, visions of my romance with Italy flash in my mind. I was not born in her warm sun nor spent my childhood racing through her yellow-colored streets, but my connection to her is undeniable.

I plan to go back this summer. Back to Milan and Parma. Back to my uncle and aunt’s pottery studio in the Italian countryside. Back to pistachio gelato. Back to conversations with strangers and taxi drivers in Italian. Back to people mistaking me for being Italian (a benefit of inheriting my mother’s dark features and her ability to pick up languages fast). Back to the slow dance Italy and I had as we got to know each other.

There are many other places in the world I want to explore. But Italy’s beauty will always remain a tempting green light across the ocean.

Lesson 15: Three Years Later

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“Have you thought much about your mom today? Since, you know…”

The silence on the phone grew louder and louder as the guilt in my heart washed over me like a tsunami.

I forgot today was my mom’s three-year death anniversary.

“Oh, yeah, I have. Can’t believe it’s been three years.” I said to my dad, trying to convince him and myself that I am not a terrible person for forgetting the death of my own mom. Holy fuck.

Each anniversary that passes gets easier than the last. Granted, the 20 mg of Lexapro definitely helps. Regardless, I have processed her death and accepted her reality.

A year after her death, I began to feel safe enough to realize that she was a flawed person and mother.

When she was alive, I catered to her every need and became (or at least tried to become) the perfect daughter. I could decode every expression, every glance, and every silence and react at the speed of lightning to adjust my behavior or environment to suit her better. I was afraid of the consequences otherwise. Consequences I felt, heard, and seen too often.

My mom herself came from an abusive household. However, no amount of therapy, reiki, nor energy healing could have totally healed her. Although I never woke up to my mom better me with a hanger like her mom did her, I still lived in fear of my mom. I didn’t know how much I feared her until she was physically gone and thus could not harm me anymore.

The intense abuse she went through was an object of her attention for much of her life. She worked on it so hard and tried not to pass it on to me nor my sister. However hard she tried to block the abuse from passing onto the newest generation, the dam she built to protect us had cracks in it. Abuse seeped through.

As a mom, she had good and bad moments. She was heavily flawed, but I still love her. This paradox induces a sense of confusion and guilt within me that I am still working on. How can you love someone who has done and said things no child should ever have to endure?

Overall, she raised me to be a motivated, empathetic individual. But, her passing allowed me to become my own person. I could explore what I truly wanted without the fear of pleasing my mom. I explored my mind, my world, and my relationships. I wandered with unbridaled freedom. My mom was no longer in control of my reins.

So, some days go by during which I never think of my mom. Other days, I think about her once an hour.

And yet, on the day of the anniversary of her death, I forgot about her until prompted.

She remains in my heart and still I am aware of her faults.

As each year passes, I know I will feel differently about my image of her and my missing her, at least to some degree. The same goes with each passing day. It is something I will always meditate on.

I am not sure how to make this lesson relatable to everyone, but I feel this reflection is good for people to understand the complexity of human nature. It is a case study into which the development of the human psyche and interpersonal and familial relations can be studied. It is a complicated, messy, and yet quite model of the abstractions of human existance. It is a reminder that growth and perception are constant. It is a reminder to look inwards sometimes and understand your person and your feelings.

Lesson 14: Fragility of Life

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