Italy, Altitude, and Learning to Trust Myself

I used to keep handwritten travel journals. The kind you swear you’ll write in every night, only to abandon halfway through a trip because you’re exhausted, overstimulated, or trying to live the experience instead of documenting it. This trip to Italy was my first attempt at something different—a living digital log, captured in moments, later shaped into reflection. Less pressure. More honesty.

This trip started in motion. Literally. I left Boston in the evening, landed in Munich the next day, and immediately found myself toggling between time zones, jet lag, and fit comments for work. It was a familiar irony—traveling internationally while still deeply embedded in the realities of my professional life. I remember struggling to stay awake, thinking, of course this is how it begins.

Munich felt like a ghost of a city I already knew—familiar but distant. A strange walking tour, unfamiliar faces, and the sense that this trip wasn’t about sightseeing as much as it was about endurance, presence, and personal challenge.

And then came the mountains.

I was nervous in a way that surprised me. Not about skiing itself—I know I can snowboard—but about belonging. Being the snowboarder in a ski-heavy group. Being a woman in an advanced group. Wondering if I’d slow everyone down. I cried quietly to myself the night before our first guided day, exhausted and spiraling in that very human way that happens when fear meets anticipation.

The irony? No one else questioned my ability—except me.

The first day on the mountain was beautiful. Truly breathtaking. And it became immediately clear that I could keep up. That I belonged there. When I told Brendon (my significant other) I was proud of myself, he looked at me and said, “That’s like saying you’re proud of yourself for driving to work. I knew you could do this.” Annoying. Loving. Exactly the grounding I needed.

The days that followed were physically demanding, occasionally frustrating, and deeply rewarding. European mountains are unapologetically unfriendly to snowboarders—flat traverses, pommel lifts, long hikes uphill. There were moments where I felt like the terrain itself was testing my resolve. And yet, I kept surprising people. I kept surprising myself.

One day involved being pulled by horses in a sled after a long route up for views that felt almost unreal. Another included a World War I mountain museum—quiet, eerie, and humbling. Somewhere in between bruises, sore muscles, and hot tubs, I realized how much mental energy I’d spent worrying about being “enough” when my actions had already answered that question.

Midway through the trip, I took a day off skiing—not out of fear, but intention. I wanted to actually be in Italy. I took a bus to Ortisei, wandered into a small museum on wooden toy-making, sat in a café learning how to use my new camera lens, and walked aimlessly with Brendon taking photos. I bought myself a beautiful packable down jacket—practical, expensive, and exactly the kind of souvenir I love. Something I’ll use, remember, and carry forward.

That day felt like balance.

There were kind words from unexpected places. A comment from someone in our group—thoughtful, affirming, unprompted—about my presence, intelligence, and future. The kind of thing that lands differently when you’re no longer questioning whether you deserve to be in the room.

The last ski day was perfect. Soft snow, sun, and that bittersweet feeling of knowing something good is ending. A long lunch, an infinity pool overlooking the mountains, and one of those nights where everyone is fully present because they know it’s the last one.

By the time we returned to Munich, I was deeply tired. The good kind. The earned kind. We wandered the Residence museum, stared in disbelief at centuries of wealth crystallized into objects, watched the Glockenspiel, and then quietly made our way home.

This trip wasn’t about checking cultural boxes. It wasn’t about museums or cuisine or even Italy in the traditional sense. It was about confidence, endurance, and trusting myself in environments that don’t always feel designed for me.

And maybe that’s the throughline that ties travel, work, design, and life together for me: learning how systems work, where they fail people, and how to navigate them anyway—gracefully, stubbornly, and with a little humor.

I came home bruised, exhausted, proud, and deeply grateful.

And already thinking about the next place I’ll test myself again.