I’m sitting on my bed, listing to indie-esque music, eating straccitella gelato (what is straccitella anyway?) and dreaming of when I’m going to be in Europe in a few months. I’m so excited and yet so scared at the same time. I’ll be separated from everything I’m intimately acquainted to by thousands of miles and millions of gallons of water and it’s going to be full of things I’ve only seen in pictures and only dreamt of seeing.
The rational part of me says that I’ll be fine, thousands have done it before me, hundreds through the program I’m going through, and I’ll be with people I know fairly well. (Not-so) Deep down, I’m terrified. Not that I’ll be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery or killed or something like that, but more like “Can I actually do this? Can I really go and experience these things and have fun? Can I afford to do this?” And all the “what ifs” come and start clawing at me. (What if I get stranded? What if I run out of money? What if I fall in love? What if my faith is weakened by this? What if… What if… What if?!) And I still want to go and have this grand adventure and really get to claim to have wanderlust and I can’t wait to board that plane and get out over the Atlantic, but at the same time, I want to back out, and just stay state-side where I’m comfortable.
And I have until 4:00 PM tomorrow to pull out.
But I’m not going to pull out.
Because this may just be the most exciting and exhilarating and growth-inducing thing I ever do.
And I don’t want to miss that.