The spread of the virus had sent me straight from Milan, where I moved in the beginning of February in the hopes of finally starting my professional career in fashion design, back to living with my parents in rural provincial Israel. The idea of living on my own in a foreign country loses some of its charm if I can’t leave the door of my 25 square meter studio.
So here I was and here I am still, in the Kibbutz. In many ways I was going back to parts of myself that I have neglected in 10 years of urban existence: lots of walks in nature, gardening and sunbathing on the grass. So lovely. At the same time, the reality of being single, broke and not sure where my life is going at the tender age of 31 hit me in the face. I began to realise that I am holding on to this hope, that everything will be ok, that I will go back to Italy, get the job I want and the man I want and then and only then I will be happy. Who the fuck promised you that?
A wise person said to me once - “hope is for those who already learned to accept that which they wish to avoid”. If you want something, better learn to be happy without it first. A few days ago I cried my heart out, accepting once again the uncertainty of life, the fact that I don’t know how it will unfold, and how beautiful it is like that.