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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