On Easter

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Happy Easter – Buona Pasqua
(in Italian, if you couldn’t deduce that ☺)

We are in Italy and alone. I feel like I should feel sad or lonely, but I don’t. And that in itself has me reflecting, because Easter hasn’t felt like much of a holiday to me for a long time.

And yet here I am, in the hills of Tuscany on Easter morning.

When I was a kid, I went to Catholic school—St. Brendan’s in Brooklyn, New York. I loved Holy Week, beginning with Palm Sunday all the way through Easter and the vacation week that followed.

It wasn’t because of Jesus, exactly, or even religion. I loved the tradition, the pomp, the feeling that spring was on its way, the dressing up.

Being in Catholic school made it all feel special. The church was right next to the school, and for religion class we were often inside—looking around, practicing music, getting familiar with it. I knew what it looked like during Mass and in between. I loved how, in preparation for Easter, everything got cleaned and polished. The priests, who lived in the rectory on the block and were always kind and involved, would bring out their special robes. I had a crush on one of the younger priests—Father Michael.

Starting on Palm Sunday, the church was all dolled up. There were special Masses all week that were different and, to me, kind of fun—even if the topic was somber. For the short time I was in the youth choir, there were lots of practices and lots of reasons to go to church and hang out with my friends. By Wednesday of Holy Week we had a half day, and then were off for the next week and a half. As a kid, that felt magical.

Easter itself was always a little anticlimactic. The build-up was over. But there were egg hunts around the apartment, Easter baskets, and those gigantic Italian chocolate eggs my dad always found for my brothers and me—each with a toy inside. The toy was never anything special, but as a kid, any toy lit up my heart.

When we moved from Brooklyn to Long Island in middle school, Easter and Holy Week were never quite the same. I went to public school and didn’t spend time around church anymore. We still went to Mass on Easter, but we became the kind of Catholics who mostly showed up on Christmas and Easter. Going to church now required a car instead of a three-block walk, and we didn’t know anyone there.

Still, Easter was fun. We colored eggs, got baskets, received those chocolate eggs from my dad, gathered with extended family, and had a special meal that included rabbit—yes, rabbit, like the Easter bunny.

Years went by. I grew up and had children young. Until then, I hadn’t really experienced Easter without kids involved—either being one or having them. It was always about eggs, bread, a great meal, and extended family. Holy Week still carried that feeling of something special, even though I was no longer part of church festivities and rarely attended them.

And even though I no longer got those giant, mostly hollow chocolate eggs, my father always made sure my kids and their cousins did. I’m not even sure if the toy was still inside—my kids might know. What I do remember is trying to get the egg home intact and usually finding it cracked from the car ride. It always felt like too much chocolate, so I’d break it into smaller pieces, freeze it, and use it later for cookies or some other dessert in the spring.

It wasn’t until I got divorced and the family split up that Easter really started to lose its shape. Different traditions. Not always having the kids. The standard divorce agreement doesn’t even count Easter as a holiday.

And as I got older, I started to notice that Easter isn’t really considered a holiday at all. It falls on a Sunday, so there’s no time off from work. Even people who work that day don’t get special pay like they do on actual holidays. In the United States, Easter comes with plenty of fun—egg hunts, baskets, the Easter bunny—but the day itself doesn’t carry the same weight. It feels more like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.

Over time, it started to feel less special. Holy Week stopped registering, the kids never really loved it, and somewhere along the way it became just another Sunday—one where I might text people, but didn’t make plans or go to church. Not because I didn’t want to, exactly, but because I’d feel like a total hypocrite showing up.

My father, who passed away last August, always loved Easter. Being here now, in his mother country, I can see it from his perspective. It feels like a bigger deal here—no Easter bunny, no egg hunts—but the bakeries are full, and those giant hollow eggs he always brought us are everywhere.

I can’t help but look at them and tear up a bit. He wasn’t always my favorite person, but once he was just a young boy excited about chocolate and toys like the rest of us. That’s what he passed on.

Those eggs feel different to me now.

And yet this morning, I sit far from family in the hills of Tuscany. An Italian sauce simmers on the stove. I hear birds outside. Soon we’ll pack up lunch and head down to the pool to celebrate Pasqua with other expats who also have no family here.

Today—between the sauce simmering, the quiet hills, and sharing pranzo with others who are also far from home—I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Not the old version of Easter.
But something just as real.

Happy Easter to my pops in heaven.

A young girl in a pink and black jacket stands smiling on the grass, while a man holding a colorful basket stands next to her. In the background, another man in a black hoodie leans against a tree, overlooking the scene.
A close-up of an orange Easter egg labeled 'Koji' next to a decorated mug featuring a black dog. In the background, a bowl of colorful Easter eggs is visible.

Beef Stew

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

By Esterina Anderson

A week or so ago, I was on an email string with an amazing group of women back home who meet semi-often—sometimes with a question or a theme to contemplate so we can keep the conversation flowing, expand our minds, and get to know one another on a deeper level. One of the women who will be hosting soon asked the group to bring their favorite childhood recipe.

I can’t attend (you know, being in Italy and all), but I did consider contributing to the conversation from afar with my own favorite childhood recipe. Two came to mind, and if I had responded, the other likely would have won out—but this week, Beef Stew is what I would choose today.

Let me backtrack to Thursday.

I woke up as happy as I have been almost every day since we arrived in Italy. It had been nearly four weeks.

One of my less healthy habits is checking my phone first thing in the morning. Thursday, there was a routine email from our realtor—but something about it didn’t feel routine after everything that had happened with renting our home in Connecticut. For some reason, it set me off. It felt jarring. My body reacted instantly, and I could feel myself mentally spiraling.

I tried to sit and meditate, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t focus on anything useful. My mind was off to the races, my throat tight.

At the same time, I realized we had planned to bring the dog to the vet, and a plumber was supposed to be coming. Daren was out walking the dog and had been gone for a while—with no phone. I started to worry: What if he forgot about the vet? What if he didn’t realize the overlap with the plumber? (I barely realized it myself since we hadn’t scheduled it—the landlord had casually mentioned it, which somehow made it feel even more chaotic.)

Then my mind went further—visions of the dog chasing a wild boar (which is actually a thing here), or Daren falling somewhere in the woods with no way to call because he left his phone at home.

Yeah, as I write this it sounds ridiculous, but it was where my mind was at the time, when suddenly, everything felt like too much all at once and I felt like I was coming undone.

Nothing is actually new or different just because we’re in Italy. The same patterns of panic and spiraling—triggered by big or small things—are still here. But underneath it all, I realized that morning that I was really missing home.

The first few weeks here were busy—setting up the house, figuring things out, getting settled. But now that things are quieter, the absence is louder. I realized I miss my friends. I miss seeing people. I miss having conversations that aren’t just between my husband and me.I haven’t had any real time to myself. I haven’t watched a show. I haven’t done anything creative. At home, I had built-in space for that—my weekly craft group, walks with friends, book talks, dinners or coffee with girlfriends, meeting up with other couples. Just going outside into the garden and getting my hands in the dirt. Connecting with people as I got mail from the mailbox. Those things grounded me. They gave me connection and a sense of rhythm. That morning I felt lonely.

Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE what we are doing. I love shaking things up. But in that moment of panic, I was craving the ability to kvetch with friends, take a long hot bath, and prepare something that feels like home.

I have been anxious most of my life. It wasn’t until 10 years ago [this month actually] that I even realized it, and that awareness only came because it escalated into panic attacks. Ten years later—after experimenting with medication and lifestyle changes—I’ve never been more in touch with myself or more content. But anxiety still exists.

When I get anxious to the level I did on Thursday morning, I start to fear there’s something wrong with me. I worry that I’ll never be happy. I mean—how can I be in Italy, in this beautiful place, and feel anxious? It must be me. I must be the problem.

But it’s not me. It’s life.

This is life. It’s a fluctuating feeling that will pass. An old blog on this topic: On The Fluctuating Gunas.

It’s not about where you are physically, or where you are in life. Trying to change the world around me so I feel less anxious isn’t the solution—it’s not sustainable, and quite frankly, it would be exhausting. The only sustainable solution is learning how to live with what comes up in a way that isn’t harmful, and sitting through the discomfort knowing it will pass.

I had to figuratively slap myself out of feeling like a failure—or fearing writing about this because someone who knows me might feel disappointed that every moment in a new country with a beautiful view isn’t bliss. I want to wear my heart on my sleeve and let the world know that I love my life—but I’m human. And human emotions don’t disappear just because we change our circumstances.

When I see other people being human, it gives me permission to be human too. I want to offer that same permission.

Daren got home safe. No wild boars attacked Koji, and Daren was standing upright. The plumber came early. We made it to the vet and communicated in a bumbling but ultimately successful way with our broken Italian.

I couldn’t help but think of something I’ve said just recently to a friend (and can never remember when I need it): most of what we worry about never actually happens.

Everything was fine—but the emotional flooding lingered. I still didn’t feel right.

By about halfway through the day—after the vet, some rest, petting the dog, and a fair amount of complaining—I found myself craving comfort. Food, scent, shelter. It was a windy, rainy day—the perfect setting for comfort food.

I pulled out a piece of beef I had bought earlier in the week, intending to make beef stew at some point (thanks to my friend’s prompt about childhood recipes). The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

As I started browning the beef and the scent rose from the pot, I felt my stress begin to melt away. I chopped carrots, onions and celery, remembering how I used to feel as a kid when those same smells filled the kitchen while my mother cooked. We didn’t have beef stew often, but when we did, it was usually on a cold, unpleasant day—when the warmth and smell inside felt like a protective, loving blanket.

With each ingredient I added, I felt better. By the time everything was in the pot and simmering, I felt lighter—like the heaviness was leaving my body.

Chocolate felt necessary too. I converted an American brownie recipe into the European measurements and pans we had, and made a tray of warm, gooey brownies to go with it.

As everything cooked, I felt so much better that I was able to sit down with Daren and talk through one of our consulting projects. I even went upstairs, wrapped myself in my weighted blanket (another reliable stress reliever), and got some focused work done.

Later, one of the kids called and really needed to talk. By that point, I felt clear again—steady, present. I closed my computer and was able to give my full attention to the conversation.

Somewhere in there, I had pulled myself back together. Not perfectly, not magically, not with grace! – but enough. And it felt really good.

Later, we sat down to eat the stew and brownies, which turned out amazing—and were exactly what I needed.

Nothing had been fixed. It had just been felt… and it passed. Sometimes that’s all it is.
You sit with it… and let something warm simmer until you come back to yourself.

A thank you to my friend who knows who she is. I’m calling this Beef Stew.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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When You’re the Stranger

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

By Esterina Anderson

When I went for a morning run today along the path that follows the water from Santa Margherita to Portofino in Liguria, I felt so alive. So happy. So free.

My body was thanking me for running. The sun felt amazing on the few parts of my skin that were bare. I felt the thread of life all around me and deeply connected to my surroundings.

I’ve often felt this way while running or walking. Most often, it happened at home—in my neighborhood or during the lunch break walks I took nearly every working day since 2003. During those walks, I’d pass people and smile—sometimes say hello or good morning. If I was too out of breath, I’d just smile. If the other person noticed, there was almost always a small, lovely connection. Just human to human. A brief moment.

Smiling begets smiling. I always think of the line: “A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.”

Today, on this particular run—alone in a new place, but along the same path Daren and I walked yesterday—I felt that same connection for the first time here in Italy. And for the first time, it felt normal to run by people and say, ciao, buongiorno, scusi, grazie, permesso…

People smiled. People greeted me back. Some were lost in their own thoughts and didn’t notice. It was no different from my lifelong experience at home in the United States.

This simple, beautiful act got me thinking: we are all the same. Everywhere. Humans are the same.

But a day or two earlier, I don’t think I would have had this experience. I would have been looking down at my phone, trying to figure out the route. I thought at first it was just that—being in an unfamiliar place.

But it’s more than that. Just a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t have enough words under my belt to greet strangers or make a passing comment, like “what a beautiful day.” Not that I’m any expert now—but having even a few phrases that I know I’m saying correctly creates connection.

And then, somewhere along the run, The Doors’ People Are Strange started playing in my head—and that sent me down another path of thought.

People really are strange when you are the stranger.

I am new to this land. Definitely a stranger. A foreigner. The one who doesn’t quite fit. So, of course, people feel strange. But as I get more comfortable—as I learn the paths—people become less strange. And I start to see how similar we all are, how people respond to me the same way whether I’m running here in Italy or on the familiar roads outside my home.

My mind then made a further leap—to all the things friends and family back home have told us or asked us, based on their assumptions about Italy and Europe in general.

I have to say… a lot of it just isn’t true.

Our lives, our stores, our people, our systems—love, power, corruption, generosity—you name it… they are far more similar than different.

There are three assumptions I’ve heard over and over again—one of which even showed up in my husband’s blog this week. There are more, but for brevity, I’ll stick with these:

  • The food is better
  • People are more put together and always well dressed
  • The roads are strange and driving is more difficult

These are often shared as facts—based on a single trip or experience.

So what’s actually true?

Food: Some food is better. But I’ve also had some really bad meals here, to be honest—especially outside of tourist areas.

Grocery store food? Hit or miss. I’ve bought the same items from Lidl or Coop and had completely different experiences—likely depending on delivery or the crop. Tomatoes and lettuce have ranged from absolutely incredible to completely tasteless.

Well-dressed people: On past trips to Italy, I noticed how put together everyone seemed. But now that I’m living here, I see plenty of pajama pants, yoga pants, joggers, sneakers, messy buns, and chipped nail polish. Sound familiar?

Driving: The roads are smaller, yes—but so are the cars. It actually feels pretty similar. The signs are slightly different, but very understandable if you’ve driven in the U.S. And the drivers? Same story. Tailgaters, slow drivers, unexpected moves… different place, same cast of characters.

So why do we think it’s all so different—and better?

Because most of us experience Italy as tourists.

And in tourist areas, the food is better. People are more dressed up. Everything is curated.

Think about major U.S. destinations—New York, D.C., Las Vegas, Orlando, New Orleans, Chicago, Miami, Seattle, San Diego, San Francisco. When I’ve visited those places, I’ve had the same experience: great food, well-dressed people, chaotic driving that feels totally different.

But what’s actually different in those moments?

Me.

And what’s the same?

They’re all tourist destinations.

Tourist destinations are designed to impress—better food, cleaner streets, people dressed for work or presentation.

Step outside those areas—whether in Italy or back home—and it’s the same story. Food is hit or miss. Roads are wider and quieter. And people are out living their lives in whatever is comfortable… sometimes not exactly stylish.

So back to my run. I realized that when I feel comfortable—when I know what to say—I connect more easily with people, and in turn feel more connected to that thread of life around me.

People aren’t all that different. They respond in much the same ways, no matter where I am.

And when I take that a step further, I see how this extends beyond just brief interactions. It challenges the assumptions we carry about entire cultures—about how friendly people are, how they live, what they value. Even the things we romanticize most—the beauty, the clothing, the food.

It’s not that these things aren’t special.
It’s just that they’re not as different as we imagine—and maybe neither are we.