Autumn

The train rumbles steadily beneath me, a rhythm that feels almost comforting, though it can't quite lull my mind into peace. I’m heading back to London, as I’ve done countless times since 2015, when I first left Brighton behind. London, with its endless grey skies and teeming streets, waits for me again. And yet, I can’t help but feel like a piece of me belongs somewhere else, a place much older, much more rooted in the earth—Udine, my home.

It's October 1st, my birthday, the cusp of autumn. A time when the air turns crisp, and the mountains of my homeland come alive in hues of orange and gold. I can almost smell it now, the scent of wet leaves and the earthy dampness of the woods after a fresh rain. There’s something about the Italian Alps in autumn that brings both longing and comfort, the same way the familiar rumble of a train does. I miss those mountains—the way I’d ride my bike through the winding paths, feeling the burn in my legs, my lungs heaving with effort, the insatiable desire to conquer every hill, every peak. I remember the sting of disappointment when I didn’t make it, but more than that, the fierce determination to try again. The desire to win, the fire that ignites in me when I fall short—it’s never left. It drives me, but it also exhausts me.

As I sit on this train, feeling its vibrations humming through my body, my mind wanders back to the tastes and smells of home. Udine, with its rustic, hearty meals—polenta bubbling slowly on the stove, the rich scent of wild mushrooms sautéing in butter, and the robust, deep red wine that seems to warm your soul as much as your body. There’s something pure in these memories, something grounding. I think of my family, of the people I’ve loved and left behind, and how, as soon as I step away, the ache for them surfaces. The moment I leave, it’s like a thread pulling tight around my chest. It's strange how absence sharpens love, makes it almost unbearable in its intensity.

In London, it’s different. There, life rushes past, fast and indifferent. The people around me seem to drift through their days, unconcerned, not weighed down by the world like I am. I often wonder if I feel too much, if my sensitivity is a burden or a gift. I perceive everything in vivid, excruciating detail—the harshness of criticism, the sting of rejection. I’ve had my share of lost opportunities, failed interviews, moments where I felt inadequate. But if I’m honest, I know deep down I’m more than enough. I’ve always been more than enough. Yet, there’s a part of me that struggles with this, that doubts, that lets the whispers of failure settle in. And it hurts. I admit it—I’m not made of stone, though I sometimes wish I were.

Maybe that’s why I care so deeply for others, why I spend so much time worrying about them, often at the expense of my own well-being. But that’s just who I am, isn’t it? I can’t turn that off. Even if it means carrying a weight that most people can shrug off easily, I carry it because I know no other way.

There’s a stubbornness in me, a resolve to keep going, no matter how many times I fall. I suffer through it because, somehow, it feels like the only way to move forward. It’s the only way I’ve known. And perhaps there’s beauty in that suffering, in the striving. Every failed attempt is a scar, yes, but also a story, a reminder that I haven’t given up. Not yet. And I won’t.

I close my eyes and for a moment I’m back in the mountains, riding my bike through those winding, narrow paths, feeling the cold autumn air on my face, my heart pounding as I push harder, trying to reach the top. The sound of the leaves crunching beneath the tires, the distant echo of cowbells in the valley below. There’s a sense of quiet triumph in that moment, in the solitude of nature, away from the rush of life in the city.

But now, as the train rattles on towards London, I wonder what it all means. This journey, this endless motion. Every time I leave, I feel that pull to return, to go back to where my roots are, where the air smells of wet earth and the mountains stand tall, ancient and unmoving. But perhaps there’s growth in the traveling, in the moving forward. Maybe that’s where I find myself—between the leaving and the returning, in the space between who I was and who I am becoming.

I am tired. I feel older than I once did, though not so old that I’m ready to stop. There’s still fire in me, even if it flickers more often than it blazes. There’s still something left to prove—not to the world, but to myself. That I am enough. That I can love, that I can strive, that I can fail, and still find meaning in all of it.

And maybe this writing, this act of putting words to the thoughts that have been swirling in my mind, is already a kind of victory. Maybe it’s a way to say: I’m here. I’ve lived. And this is my story.