Right now, I’m going through a quiet kind of existential crisis.

Not the dramatic, life-falling-apart kind.

The slower, more insidious kind.

The kind that comes disguised as…

an Italian driving theory exam.

I am 54 years old.

I have been driving for 37 years.

I’ve passed driving tests in the UK, Japan, and the US. I’ve held a Dutch license too. I know how to drive. I’ve driven across countries, across languages, across versions of myself.

And yet—here I am again.

Studying. Memorising. Trying to prove it.

Because now I live in Italy.

And my American license? It doesn’t count.

Three years ago, in Modena, I tried.

And failed. Twice.

Then life moved—as it always does. Spain. Greece. And now, back to Italy again.

Back to this unfinished business.

Back to the place where I am, once again, not quite legitimate.

To become “legitimate” here comes at a cost.

Not just financial (though, yes, that too).

But cognitive. Emotional.

The Italian theory test is no joke:

30 true-or-false questions. Maximum 3 mistakes allowed.

It sounds simple. It is not.

It requires hours and hours and hours of study.

The kind of study that asks your brain to hold onto details that feel both hyper-specific and strangely detached from lived reality.

And here’s where the doubt creeps in—

Is it me?

Is it my age?

Is it my menopausal brain, refusing to retain information the way it once did?

Why can I hold entire countries, cultures, transitions in my memory…

but not whether a particular headlight must be used in fog at a specific distance?

And then, there’s the irony.

We all know it.

We’ve all seen it.

Italian driving.

I sit in the passenger seat, diligently reviewing my Autoscuola quizzes, absorbing rules about engine parts and right-of-way logic…

When suddenly —

“Cazzo!”

My husband, Paolo, slams on the brakes.

A car cuts in from the right, seconds before the light turns amber.

And I wonder —

Did they all pass this test?

How?

Because what I’m studying…

and what I’m seeing…

do not quite align.

It’s hard not to take it personally.

To feel like this is some kind of punishment for a life lived across borders.

As if movement—once a privilege, a richness—has now become a complication.

A bureaucratic unraveling of identity.

Why is an American license not enough?

Would I be more trustworthy with a Dutch one? A Portuguese one? A Greek one?

At what point does experience count?

At what point do we say:

She knows how to drive. She has lived. She has navigated.

She is already legitimate.

And yet—

Here I am.

Studying. Again.

Trying to remember. Again.

Trying to prove something I already know to be true.

My exam is on April 1st.

Third time which they say is the charm.

But maybe this isn’t just about passing a test.

Maybe it’s about something deeper —

the quiet, recurring need to re-earn our place in the world

every time we cross a border.

If you’ve ever had to start over in a place that doesn’t recognise who you’ve already been…

you’ll understand.

Wish me luck.