Episode #7: When the Earth Moves
On finding strength when everything changes
Among the many fascinating aspects of our lives, there’s one that always makes me wonder about our deep connection to the world around us. Somehow, we feel attracted to certain places, even if we’ve never visited them. They call us. And if we’re lucky enough, we listen. This happened to me with a small region in central Italy.
I remember the first time I saw a picture of the Monti Sibillini, it hit me like a punch to the stomach. It seemed like a small world inside a much larger one. Maybe it’s because I love Sergio Leone’s movies, and those landscapes felt like the closest I could find in Italy. For years, I felt a deep connection with that place and dreamed of visiting. It never happened, until exactly a year ago, when an unexpected turn of events made me drive from the north to the south of Italy.
Without thinking twice, I turned left at the first road sign. I remember getting out of the car, looking at the scenery for what felt like hours, thinking: this place has a soul.
It was the end of 2016 when a devastating earthquake took possession of thousands of homes, leaving deep scars on the land and the hearts of those who lived there.
What does it mean to lose everything you own?
Your house, your tools, your livelihood. All gone in a day, without notice.
I still can’t fully comprehend the weight of it, and maybe that’s why, in every conversation I had with the people there, whether in temporary tents, wooden shelters, or reconstructed buildings, after a brief introduction, we would always end up talking about it. Their scars were so deep and visible that it was almost impossible to discuss anything else. It was like talking to people who had lived two separate lives: the before and the after. I never sensed anger in their voices. Just acceptance. The kind that comes from living so closely with nature.
It struck me, standing there, how fragile the idea of home really is. We spend our lives building it, brick by brick, memory by memory, believing it’s something solid, something we can always return to. But in an instant, everything we thought was unshakable can crumble right in front of us. We don’t often think about how vulnerable we are until moments like these.
I asked a young mother what home was for her now. “It’s not just about the house” she said. “It’s about the memories we’ve built here, the life we’ve made. Losing the walls doesn’t mean losing what’s inside.”
I’ve come to believe that nothing forges a connection quite like shared pain. That’s what I felt with them. Despite the destruction, despite the uncertainty of ever having a real house again, the bond they shared with each other gave them a sense of belonging. Living in that community, with those same people, was their way of holding on to home, even without walls.
I know my time there isn’t over. I’ll go back. My calling hasn’t been satisfied. If anything, it’s grown even stronger.
I wish you the strength to find your own version of home, even when the walls around you crumble.
Until the next one,
Much love.
F