Stuck in the Messy Middle…

I watched Under the Tuscan Sun over the weekend. And I loved it. Really, I did.

The dreamy landscapes, the whole let’s start over in a place where the pasta is fresh and the air smells like possibility vibe. And yet, the entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking:

Hang on… how did she afford this?

How did she not get scammed by the builders?

How is she not completely losing her mind, alone in a crumbling house, with no clear plan?

I know, I know. Separate fact from fiction, Audrey. It’s a movie. But it got under my skin because my brain won’t let me believe in the just leap and it’ll all work out thing.

That’s not how life happens. Is it?

And then there’s the centipede......

Someone told me a story this week about a centipede walking around, minding its business, until a caterpillar asked, 

How do you do it?

How do you walk with all those legs? 

And in that moment, the centipede thought about it.

And then?

It was over.

It couldn’t walk anymore.

It was too aware of all its legs, too tangled up in its own mechanics.

Completely stuck.

Apparently, I’m the centipede. Which… great. Love that for me.

But yeah, I get it.

Because I feel paralysed, too. I’m in this weird, restless phase where I know—I know—that what I’m doing right now isn’t it. Work, life, love.

None of it fits quite right. But also, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go instead. And I am terrified of making the wrong move.

What if I change things and regret it? What if I can’t go back? What if I screw everything up, and then I’m just… out there, alone, trying to fix something I shouldn’t have touched in the first place?

So, instead, I do nothing. I keep walking the same loop, through the same motions, pretending I don’t notice how bored I am of my own routine. I feel stuck and restless at the same time, which is a special kind of torture.

And that’s why Under the Tuscan Sun annoyed me.

Because it skips over this bit.

The messy middle.

The part where you haven’t made the decision yet, where you don’t know what’s next.

Movies love to show the before and after, the breakdown, and then the thriving, self-actualised new life. But what about the part in between? The part where you’re sitting on your sofa at 2 a.m., overthinking your entire existence, hoping for some kind of sign?

Because this is the part, I don’t know how to navigate.

I don’t have an Italian villa. I don’t have a grand leap-of-faith moment lined up. I don’t even have the comfort of instinct anymore because I’ve started overthinking my own damn legs.

So, I’m writing this down.

Because one day, when I figure it out and finally move through this and get to whatever’s next, I don’t want to forget this part. The frustrating, tangled, what-the-hell-am-I-doing part. And maybe, if someone else reads this and they’re stuck in their own messy middle, they’ll feel a little less alone.

That’s all I’ve got for now.

No big revelations.

No neat ending.

Just the truth: this part sucks. And maybe, for today, that’s enough.