Georgia Casey fled to Italy after a bad first year of uni and hasn’t shut up about it since.  

Eighteen is a funny age. You’re fresh out of high school with zero life experience but told that you’re fully equipped to enter the ‘adult world’. You’re still a teenager with an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex, exemplified by the fact that Little Fat Lamb is still your tipple of choice. And yet, grown-ups think you’re ready to make very serious decisions about your life. 

This is the story of how I made and then unmade these decisions and how they led me to a small town outside of Florence. 

Like all cool, edgy teens, my most pressing concern in year twelve was getting good grades. If I could get an OP under 5, I told myself, I could get into pretty much any course I wanted. The year ended, and I was shocked to learn I got an OP 2 equivalent because of my French - merci to weighted subjects. My parents and I were thrilled, even more so when I got into Law/Arts at the bougier of Brisbane’s two big universities. No, I didn’t want to be a lawyer, nor did I have much interest in Suits or any other courtroom procedurals at the time. But it was a much better offer than I was expecting and seemed like a big deal to be asked, so I accepted. 

In case you’re wondering, this is a bad way to make decisions.  

Fast forward to the end of my first year: I’ve failed my Public Law course, subjected my family to several mental breakdowns, and given myself an ill-advised DIY fringe. I’m in the foetal position on my parent's living room floor and all signs indicate that I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere along the road. I hated the guys that wore suits to lectures. I hated the professors that smugly told us that ‘half of you won’t be sitting here next year’ (he was right, but that’s beside the point). Mostly, I hated that after twelve years of working hard in school, I was expected to keep exerting energy on stuff that bored me to tears. Of course, none of this is particularly harrowing or unusual, but in my burnt-out little brain, it felt like my life was over.  

I wanted to get as far away from Brisbane and sandstone-laden universities as possible, so I started Googling ‘cheap ways for 18-year old’s to live overseas’. A popular choice for girls my age seemed to be nannying, so I created an account on a website called ‘Au Pair World’ and set my country preferences to Spain, France, and Italy. I babysat for cousins and family friends sporadically throughout my teens and spoke questionable high-school-level French, so naturally, I was a catch. After a few months of research and Skype interviews, I finally landed on a family in Sesto Fiorentino, a small municipality about thirty minutes outside Florence. I promptly dropped out of uni, took as many extra shifts at Coles as I could stand, and bought a plane ticket. 

Excited as I was to Eat, Pray, Love my way all over Italy, when the time came to go to the airport I was terrified. I cried in the car on the way to the airport. I cried when I was told my suitcase was too heavy and spilled a box of pads as I tried to rearrange my luggage in front of impatient travellers. I sobbed when I said goodbye to my parents and sister at the gate. But when I settled in my seat, sipped my wine, and mapped out my viewing plan for the flight (The Lizzie McGuire movie, because Italy, and lots of The Simpsons), I suddenly felt calm.

A day later I arrived in Milan and caught the train down to Florence to meet my family. I listened to music on my iPod touch and watched the snow fall across the Italian countryside. I arrived at Santa Maria Novella station and met Guilia and Fabrizio and their two sons, Andrea, and Gianni. The kids didn’t speak English but seemed excited to meet me. Guilia gave me a big hug and asked me all about my trip. We arrived at their house and had clam pasta for dinner. I was a fussy kid who at the time wouldn’t touch seafood, but my politeness won out and I told Guilia I loved clams; after that dinner it became true.  

I spent the next eight months living with the family in Sesto and travelling around Italy on my weekends off. After dropping the kids at school each day, I’d take the bus into Florence and wander around the city alone. I’d go to the park and read my book or sit in a restaurant and try to keep up with friendly waiters that encouraged me to practice my Italian. I ate paninis, gelato, and granita throughout Florence and ate pasta at least once a day at home – thank God I had the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old. I met wonderful people, learned how to (poorly) speak a new language and travel across multiple countries by myself. It was the scariest, happiest, loneliest, and most transformative time of my life.  

Eighteen is a funny age. People you went to school with are getting jobs, moving away, or even getting married. It can seem like everyone has it all figured out, except for you. At the ripe old age of twenty-six, I can now see that that’s utterly insane. Asking eighteen-year-olds what they want to do with their lives is like asking a dog what its favourite book is. You can see that they’re trying really hard to give you the response you’re looking for but can't fully grasp the question. Remember that comparison is the thief of joy. If you ever find yourself curled up and weeping on your parent’s carpet, take a breath and go for a walk. It won’t seem like it at the time, but even when you think you've made every wrong decision and ended up in the wrong place, you’ll wind up exactly where you need to be… Eventually.

Just trust the process and try not to give yourself a haircut along the way.