Despite being an only child, I’ve never felt comfortable being alone in public. If I had to guess, this discomfort is learned, not innate: my parents, protective to a fault, often policed where I went when I was younger. I was rarely allowed to go to Boston and was never allowed to go alone, despite living only an hour away from the city. I couldn’t go to certain areas in the towns surrounding my hometown; even if it was safe now, it hadn’t been a safe place in the 1970s.

When I left for my junior year abroad, it was the first time I had ever navigated an airport by myself. Saying goodbye to my parents at security, not knowing when I’d see them again, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I spent a solid hour before my flight crying in the bathroom, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

During my first few months in Florence, I’d rarely leave the house on weekends without establishing a set plan to meet someone. My lifelong stigma against eating alone in public meant that if my housemate ate lunch without me, I’d skip the meal entirely. I wasted so much time trapped in my own head that could have been spent exploring my temporary home.

On one Saturday night, after saying goodbye to my friends and getting off the bus, I found myself in my neighborhood alone after dark for the first time. Unfortunately, a nearby man noticed this, and spent the next two minutes asking me to hold his hand as I walked to my apartment. Thankfully, he ended his pursuit once he got to his own place, leaving me to run two more blocks home, terrified in a way I’d never felt before.

Despite this, as the year continued, I felt myself becoming more comfortable with the concept of being alone. While my friends were in class during my free time, I’d treat myself to a few hours alone in the local movie theatre or a nearby museum. On weekends, I’d find myself at my local pizzeria, or walking to get some gelato while waiting for my laundry to dry. I was finally learning to enjoy as many aspects of Florence as I could, even if it meant a few hours alone.

I had spent my month-long winter break off from school with my close friend as we traveled across Europe. As spring break drew closer, however, I started to realize that all of my friends had made their plans already, and I was left to either piggyback on what they had planned, or to travel alone. I knew I’d be meeting one of my friends in Spain for the first few days of break, yet I couldn’t help but feel unwelcome imposing myself on someone else’s plans for the last week. I eventually worked up the nerve to book my first-ever solo sojourn to London and Athens.

My parents were horrified at my choice, berating me from 4,000 miles away. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a woman to travel alone?” Of course I did. However, I knew I’d regret it if I sat back and let someone else plan my spring break instead of checking places off of my own bucket list. I’d chosen to start with London — an English-speaking city that I’d already visited once before — before working my way up to Athens.

I couldn’t help but be proud of myself when I returned to Florence after my two weeks off, over half of which I’d spent alone. The girl that cried when saying goodbye to her parents at Logan Airport seven months prior would never have imagined that she’d have such an amazing adventure, especially not by herself. I can’t say that everything in those two weeks went perfectly, but the experiences that felt like the end of the world at the time quickly became merely another set of anecdotes for my friends and family at home. I’m infinitely proud that I let myself step out of my comfort zone to have such a wonderful time abroad.

Kaity is a senior living in Lawrence House and studying psychology. She studied abroad last year with Smith’s JYA Florence Program.

by