Three Stories
It was the only time in my life I let a man give me money for being pretty.
THE START
The beginning is easy to remember, the ending, less so.
I understood this to be true 11 days ago when I left Milano to visit home.
I can pinpoint the moment it began: sitting at the kitchen counter in my Tampa Bay apartment - a contemporary, newly renovated one bedroom with shiny Ikea surfaces and an infinity pool along the river that fooled me into believing I was a woman of the highbrow life.
My boldly framed Pollock and Lichtenstein posters lined the walls, a Susan Sontag quote above my bed frame - these were my reminders, visual cues from my shadow self, signaling that I was discerning enough to have a seat at the table of cultural phenomena.
It was 7 p.m., about an hour before I’d slip into character and man the door to the local nightclub on Franklin Street - this where I’d play queen of the world and be mean to boys who thought they could out-boy me.
I spent my nights smirking under street lights, cherry picking club rats who I deemed cool enough to skip the line, as if I held the keys to Oz or some shit like that.
I’d stand there until about 2am, wrapped in a black Rag & Bone bodycon maxi dress, pocketing tips from drunk men who liked the way I looked as they stumbled out. It was the only time in my life I let a man give me money for being pretty.
At first I’d refuse, but they’d insist, slurring something about me being “the best door girl everrrrr” or claiming they were buddies the owners from NYC or West Palm Beach (they’re not).
But I knew better — I know men.
So, I swallowed my “door-girl” pride, rebranded my inherit feminist manifesto, and decided that if these assholes were going to spend their money on something, it might as well be me.
After all, if Florida’s so eager to stake a claim in my uterus, why shouldn’t I start collecting rent around here?
On the counter to my right, a Post-it note I’d scribbled: Purgatory. How did I end up here? I should be sitting at a café in Paris, stewing over summer red wine and skinny cigarettes.
Ego Death.
That’s how I got here.
People will tell you it’s a rebirth - that the destruction of one’s self is a rite of passage to a wiser version of you.
Look it up on TikTok and you’ll get a bootleg therapist spewing spiritual tropes about “total transformation.” That or Nancy from Iowa flicking tarot cards until one flys out promising your journey of the phoenix rising.
And just like that, for one fleeting moment you believe it’s simple.
Spoiler Alert: It’s crap.
This isn’t TikTok child’s play. Ego death is a slow unraveling. A delicate undoing. Quiet and cruel.
Like the fall of the Roman Empire, all the stories you’ve told yourself, the ones that make you feel so important begin to collapse. And in a matter of seconds everything you thought you were has humbly dissolved. Amnesia sets in. You’ll slip in and out, grasping at echos of memory before they fade.
Did I matter? Was it all for nothing?
Sometimes I think it’s a gift - forgetting who I once was and the decisions I made, back when hangovers didn’t exist and my feet danced on tables in the basement bars of NYC until 4am.
But mostly, the loss of self feels like a curse. The sting of embarrassing clarity and missed opportunities haunts me like a parade of ghosts — each one a fragment of who I once was. Blurred and vague, but always there. Lurking in the background.
I know this sounds extreme, but to some extent maybe it is?
To completely lose your sense of self is to watch the protective shell that you have cemented around your life begin to crumble.
Without our armor, we stand raw and flawed.
Exposed.
Reduced to a chemical spill of visceral emotions: fear, blame, anger, contradiction, uncertainty, desensitization, defeat - you know, all that fun stuff.
Most often we brush it off as intrusive thoughts - the kind that can easily be drown out by a wine night with friends or steamrolled by an Instagram scroll of doom.
And maybe it’s better that way, but eventually, I think we all feel it.
That subtle shift. The one that creeps in when we’re alone, slowly calcifying our minds. Hardening what once felt adorably childlike and limitless.
But, I think that’s okay. Because life is circular that way
As above, so below.
THE STORY:
Life is good, your paycheck is fine.
You walk into the coffee shop and immediately bask in the buzz of cold brew and vibes. Everyone is saying hello to you like you own the damn place. You strut up to the counter as if you’re Beyoncé herself — until you realize you don’t even know the barista’s name. The one who knows your order by heart and asks you about your weekend plans and dog colitis.
On your way out, you make eye contact with man on the corner asking for change for the first time. He waves with the sweetest smile and you wonder how the hell he could be so happy sitting on cold cement with nothing but pennies in his cup? You can’t even remember the last time you smiled like that without reason. Meanwhile you just got an incredible blow out and have the best damn chai latte in your cup.
At a friend’s party that weekend, you show up with a bottle of wine and a mission to mingle with unfamiliar faces. At some point, mid-convo, your typical small-talk about contentious trends and mainstream media rings hallow. And you realize you actually have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, nor do you give two shits about the person you’re speaking to.
And so it continues. That Monday you get stuck in the elevator with the weird guy from the operations department - the one you subconsciously keep at an arms length for having a terrible haircut (did he do that himself???) and an awkward, unkept demeanor.
You drop your bag and papers fall everywhere. Without hesitation, he bends down and carefully gathers each sheet with his large calloused hands. You bend down too. Eye to eye, you meet at floor level. For the first time you notice a softness in his expression, gentleness behind his rough exterior.
And that’s when it hits you: you’re kinda an asshole.
You’re no better than him? Actually no, you’re worse. His kindness is genuine, yours is conditional.
Weeks later, a series of similar, fragmented realizations continue to take shape. You’re on a plane headed to some work conference about some tech thing in Toronto, and you sit anxiously in your window seat, watching the flights around you take off as you taxi the tarmac. The sunset begins to fade, and for a moment, you can’t remember why you’re here or what the point was of going where you’re going.
So you turn on airplane mode and clench your coffee like its a lifeline because you feel so stranger to yourself and a Starbucks shaken espresso with whole milk and sugar free vanilla syrup is all you know.
Then you take off.
And it feels nice, right? The stillness. Floating in air, disconnected from it all, escaping the exhausting job of being human for the next 2 hours and 43 minutes.
This isn’t the grand finale though. Life doesn’t work like that. Right? It happens in pieces. The unfolding. Micro moments that we experience but don’t connect until later.
Doors will close. Others will open. People will gravitate into your orbit whether you like it or not. Luck and love will find you. The choice is yours to let it in.
THE END
December 8th will be the day that it ends - my year in Italy. But the funny thing about that is for some reason it already feels over, which would mean one of two things: somewhere between now and then I have started anew or I left before I arrived.
In a way, I think both are true.
The scribbles on that Post-It were never about the purgatory of Tampa or magic of Paris, but about the projection of a fantasy life that I thought I needed to make me feel important.
Glamour.
Adventure.
A romantic backdrop with bottomless Barolo and the scent of Tuscan leather.
Beautiful strangers in Chanel washing over me like I belong to something bigger, something cinematic.
Something special.
But somewhere in the last month or two, that idealized narrative lost its shine. The cobblestone roads turned into ankle aches, the convenient tram became a stinky time trap, and vineyards faded to daydreams of snuggling up on the couch with Billy and our dogs, binging Bill Maher and Sex and The City for hours on end.
When I set out on this adventure abroad, I think I was set on a mission for a bad bitch glow up. Whatever that means lol. Proof to myself (and all of you) that the ashes of my ego were actually fairy dust, alchemizing into a magical transformation.
But what I found instead was much quieter, softer even. I found a version of myself who no longer desires to belong to a place or create an identity around some silly idea of who I should be and what that should look like on paper.
The mundane that made Tampa feel shackling is now the exact comfort that I crave - a stability I’m excited to build upon with a family of my own.
This isn’t to say this past year abroad was a wash. In fact, quite the opposite, really.
It was the kind of experience we all eventually have in our own individual ways, but never talk about the impact until it’s a distant memory. You know, the sort of thing where you do something radical and expect a life-altering, seismic shift overnight, but instead it rewires you beneath the surface? A slow burn that spreads from the inside out? Like that.
What I mean is, I didn’t stumble upon my grand passion or find my life’s purpose. I still have a bit of reflecting to do on all that.
But what I do know is this: I’m still Becca. Not the old, not the new - just me, as I am today. But in better boots and a gangster Burberry trench I thrifted.
I think that’s what happens when you decide to cut yourself some slack and spend time with people who accept you as you are, in places so vast and beautiful they remind you just how small your problems are in contrast to the world beyond your own.
So, I guess the paradox continues. And for now, that’s where I’ll leave it - floating somewhere in the air as I fly back to Milano, caught in that sweet spot between a beginning and an end, escaping the exhausting job of being human and figuring what that means for the next 9 hours and 13 minutes. Clinging to my Starbucks shaken espresso with whole milk and sugar free vanilla syrup because, if nothing else, it’s what I know.
