Bologna Wasn’t the Plan-But Maybe That’s the Point.

On the loneliness of post-grad limbo, a single summer in Italy, and learning that not having it all figured out might just be the point...

As I sit in an unfamiliar apartment in Bologna, a city I once dreamed of studying in, I look out across from a building labelled “Caserma Cialdini.” I took Italian for a year, but the words still dance just out of reach. Google Translate informs me it’s a barracks. Somehow, that makes sense. I feel like I’m stationed somewhere between the end of something and the start of something else.

Italy had always been the dream. The food, the language, the fantasy of a European summer, sun-warmed skin, breezy linen, maybe a Roman Holiday moment on the back of a stranger’s Vespa. In my head, I’d arrive hand in hand with someone. But two relationships later, it’s just me, a suitcase slightly overstuffed, and a tiny fan that hums but never turns. And honestly? It’s still beautiful.

That’s the thing no one tells you: being single in your 20s is a privilege. One I only recently started to understand. I used to be terrified of dining alone. Now I sit; espresso freddo in hand, on a woven chair along Bologna’s cobbled pavements, eavesdropping on local conversations I half understand, half romanticise.

To my left, voices rise and tangle, blending into each other like wind through branches. Behind me, Italian spills fast and warm. I catch edges of phrases, "non lo so," "mangiamo dopo"… but they float away before I can pin them down. My own Italian is stiff in my mouth, something I dropped like a hobby that became too difficult. Theirs rolls fluid and light. Mine would land heavy, self-conscious.

Then, laughter, belly-deep and generous, fills the air like a strong perfume. It makes last year’s weight and confusion feel softer somehow. Less real.

And still, I sit.

Listening. Not listening. I'm reaching for something I know I won’t quite catch, but try anyway.

The Post-Uni Comedown

This wasn’t the plan. Not exactly. I’d imagined a post-graduation summer in London, celebrating, regrouping, maybe interning with friends. Instead, on a nudge from someone close, I stumbled into tutoring abroad. A few phone calls later, I was in Italy. Alone. Far from my support cat, far from everything familiar; and even further from the version of my future I once imagined at eighteen.

When I broke the news of my departure, my closest friends were excited for me. But one of them said something I haven’t quite been able to shake:

"It’s like everyone’s creating new lives now."

And just like that, the weight hit me.

Because when university ends, the scaffolding disappears. The deadlines, the safety nets, the “I’m still a student” excuse, it’s gone. You look around and realise: this is the part where it’s all up to you.

And honestly? It’s terrifying.

But What If You Just... Don’t Know?

If you're reading this with a pit in your stomach, feeling like you’re behind, directionless, or stuck in some purgatory between identity and adulthood; let me say this, gently: you're not behind. You’re just between.

I used to think I had to “figure it all out” before moving. Before applying. Before making any choice. But now I think the best advice I can offer is this: move anyway. Choose what feels right, even if it’s temporary. Try things. Take up space. Find part-time work if you can. Save. Plan something small. Let yourself be in between.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me After Graduation:

· Rejection is redirection. Not getting what you thought you wanted makes room for something better.

· Life doesn’t run on a syllabus. You can change your job, your mind, and your path, as many times as you need.

· Progress doesn’t always look like a promotion. Sometimes it looks like surviving. Like learning a new city. Like eating dinner alone.

· You don’t need a five-year plan. Just a one-day plan. Get up. Do something that makes you feel even a little more like yourself.

· There’s no reward for having it together. But there is a quiet power in simply continuing. Even when it’s confusing. Even when it’s lonely.

The Rejection That Became Redirection

I didn’t get into the Italian university I once dreamed of. It broke me a little at the time. But now, sitting here as the sun dips behind terracotta rooftops, I realise: I made it here anyway. Just differently.

And if I’d stayed in my last relationship? I wouldn’t be here at all.

Sometimes it’s the things that fall apart that clear the way. The city you didn’t get to study in becomes the one you get to live in. The person who left creates space for the version of yourself you’re just starting to meet.

A Boy, A Park, A Small Moment

I reintroduced myself to the dating world this summer. A new city, a new country, a version of me still figuring herself out. A few days in, I went on a date. We lay on the grass until the evening cooled, two strangers with different passports and just enough curiosity to meet in the middle. Every so often, he’d reach over and gently squeeze my cheeks—a gesture so unguarded it made me forget to second guess myself. We swapped words, laughter, accents, and stories, letting the afternoon spill into something quiet and open. It didn’t have to be anything more. But sometimes, the smallest moments hold the most meaning. Sometimes, they simply remind you that you’re still capable of joy, even when so much else remains uncertain.

If You’re Feeling Lost, Maybe You’re Just Beginning

The best things I’ve done this year were the things I didn’t plan for. They weren’t bold moves or LinkedIn updates. They were small, often invisible: saying yes to a new city. Going to dinner alone. Letting go before I had a backup plan. Learning to sit in the silence without filling it. Post-grad life, I’m learning, isn’t a sprint toward success. It’s a slow unfolding, a strange place between the person you were and the one you’re becoming.

If you’re in that space too, floating somewhere between ambition and burnout, between your last essay deadline and the first “real” job interview, you’re not failing. You’re just in the part no one writes about.

And maybe that’s the point. Not every chapter comes with a headline. Some just say: still here. Still trying. Still becoming.