Finding Freedom in Rome
The memories of my first solo trip were still fresh, the experiences etched deep into my soul. Armed with a newfound sense of freedom—having ended a long relationship, quit my job, and been accepted to study Interior Architecture—I decided to spend a month in Rome. I wanted to learn Italian and deepen my love for a country that felt like home. It was a journey where my comfort zone was nowhere to be found, forcing me to meet a side of myself I never knew existed.
The Spark in the Chaos
Back home, I sat at a picnic table with a friend, sharing my adventures until I was interrupted mid-sentence. A housemate had stopped by to introduce himself. As fate would have it, he had just returned from his own first trip to Italy.
The spark was instant. Our shared love for that beautiful land—mine deep and intensified by years, his fresh and vulnerable—met in a shared passion. In that first meeting, a fire was lit.
Right Person, Wrong Version of Me
In the weeks that followed, we saw each other constantly, and our love grew stronger. Something had clicked on a level so deep I had no words for it; it felt as though it had always been this way.
And yet, I didn’t feel right. I wasn’t ready. I found myself constantly comparing this new love to my old one, getting irritated by tiny differences. It became clear: I hadn't found myself yet. Who was I, really, without my ex? I knew I had to rediscover my own internal floor plan before I could give myself to another.
The Structural Overhaul
Tears smeared the paper as I wrote the words that were as true as they were painful. I felt he was "the one," but I needed time and space alone. And so, I ended our budding romance.
The months that followed were heavy. In my Interior Architecture studios, I was learning that a space only works if its proportions are honest. You can’t hide a weak foundation with expensive furniture. My life felt like a building that had been renovated too many times by other people’s expectations. I had to strip it back to the raw concrete—the "casco" state. It was a year of looking at my own blueprint and realizing I had blocked off all the windows. I needed to understand how I breathed and where the light hit before I could invite someone else to take up residence in my heart.
Trusting the Void
Every time we crossed paths on the weekends, the pain was visible on both sides. He was angry and disappointed; I felt the ache of what could be, but I wasn't ready to build it yet.
There is a tension in architecture between what is there and what isn't—the "negative space." That year, my life was all negative space. The "Inner Critic" whispered that I was living in a ruin, but my intuition told me I was clearing a site for something landmark. I had to trust the blueprint even when the site was nothing but dust and exposed beams.
The Reunion at the Shore
A year later, we walked arm-in-arm along the beach at Bergen aan Zee. It had taken a lot to convince him to go out with me one more time; he was terrified of being wounded again. During a long conversation that Sunday afternoon, I explained what the past year had done for me. I told him how I had finally "come home" to myself.
I was finally ready to share that version of myself with him, unconditionally. From the moment we both decided to open our hearts again, there was no stopping us. All the puzzle pieces fell into place. We had found each other for life.
The Rebel Lesson: The Power of White Space
In architecture, as in love, the "void" is just as important as the structure. I had to clear the old, cluttered rooms of my past before I could design a masterpiece with him.
If you're currently in a season of "not yet," don't call it wasted time. Call it preparation. A Creative Rebel knows that you can't rush the drying time of a new identity. Trust that your process knows exactly how much space you need to become the person your future requires. Sometimes, the most beautiful thing you can create is the distance needed to finally come home.
Join the Conversation Looking back at my "year of the void," I realize that saying "not yet" was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Is there something in your life right now that you’re rushing into because you're afraid of the empty space? What would happen if you trusted the "white space" on your canvas for a little while longer? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.
Craft your own path,
Bertie