This past spring, I had the formative experience of studying abroad in Florence, Italy at the Santa Reparata School of the Arts. At the time, I was serving as the Junior Editor-in-Chief of River City Fashion, a student publication at VCU. That role presented an irresistible opportunity: writing a fashion column from abroad.

One of the most rewarding aspects of journalism, I’ve discovered, is how it pushes me toward experiences and conversations I never would have had otherwise. Fueled by curiosity—and the thrill of being somewhere entirely new—I found myself chatting with vintage shop workers in Prague, photographing street style outside Fashion Week shows in Paris, and hunting down the definitive list of "best second-hand in Firenze." Purpose gives me courage, and journalism gives me the permission to follow wherever my inquisitive mind leads.

Observing fashion in Italy quickly became one of my favorite pastimes. Tourists and locals alike filled Tuscany’s cobblestone streets with spunk, swagger, and sophistication. Whether out for a walk with their very small dogs, heading to work, or going to Sunday brunch, most pedestrians dressed with a sense of refinement and intentionality. Throughout my semester, the staples I saw while out and about were high-quality denim, vintage leather, and ballet flats—exemplifying the truth that elegance, self-expression, and practicality are at the heart of Italian streetwear.

But throughout the semester, I felt a surprising internal pressure: a voice insisting I “experience everything” thoroughly enough. That I appreciate every detail, see every painting in every gallery hall, capture every moment. To soften that pressure, I began documenting my days with purpose—not only through my published articles, but through personal notes and collected objects. I jotted down interesting facts from tour guides, like how alabaster was used to make Medieval church windows because light could shine through it to create a stained-glass effect. I tucked away cocktail napkins from wine bars I visited with new friends, saved business cards from shop owners who struck up conversations, and kept candy wrappers from hostel lobbies.

All of these tid-bits of conversations and tactile elements of memories pasted down on parchment bring me right back across the ocean every time I open that journal. Recording things allows me to breathe. It quiets the fear of forgetting and reminds me that experiences don’t need to be memorized to be meaningful. Writing has a strange and beautiful ability to reassemble memory in a visceral way.

I will forever be grateful for the many ways I preserved my spring abroad—with all of its curiosity, color, and connection.