The Ache of Becoming Whole Again

Films that Shaped Me: Under the Tuscan Sun

P.S. - I was so nervous while recoding the voiceover, I will get better, I promise. I know I messed up a couple of times but I have tried recording this for hours. I have a recipe I got to work on for tomorrow so I am using this one. While I was recording it was raining so you may be able to hear it the background. Also Prudence had to make an appearance.

There’s a moment in Under the Tuscan Sun that I love to watch.

Frances is doing a voiceover as she walks through the broken-down villa, Bramasole. She talks about buyer’s remorse—and how to overcome it. And she just stands there, looking around, unsure if she’s made a huge mistake… or if she’s taken her first real step forward.

That moment stays with me. It doesn’t say much, but it feels like hope.

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Why This Film Speaks to Me

I come back to this film over and over, not just because it's beautiful, but because it understands what it means to feel lost. To want a life you don’t yet have. To begin again when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

I’m not starting over from heartbreak the way Frances did, but from something quieter—disappointment. I thought I’d be further along by now. I thought I’d have a job, some kind of stability, something to contribute to our life beyond just hope and effort. I carry guilt for not being able to help more financially. My husband is kind, but I know he’s scared. I am too.

And still, I find myself here—in this unexpected stillness—learning how to slow down and actually live inside each moment.

There’s a line in the film about unthinkably good things happening late in the game. That feels like something I’m trying to believe. If I had the job I thought I needed, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be writing, rebuilding, reflecting. And maybe that’s the strange gift hidden in all of this.

Like Frances, I didn’t choose to be lost—but now that I am, I have the chance to make something new out of it. To ask myself what I want my life to be like. What I want it to stand for, and how I want to shape it.

And maybe that’s what I come back to again and again—not just the story of a woman who starts over, but of someone who reimagines her life completely, from the inside out.

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Signs, Serendipity, and Spiritual Roots

One of the things I love most about Under the Tuscan Sun is the signs. The bus that stops in front of Bramasole. The bird that poops on Frances' head. The ladybugs.

All of it feels silly on the surface—but I believe in things like that. I was raised Catholic. In my culture, signs are woven into how we understand the world. You look for them. You pray for them. You trust them—even when nothing else makes sense.

Some of the biggest decisions I’ve made—like moving away from home, choosing love, walking away from certain relationships—were guided more by feeling than logic.

Gut instincts have pulled me in directions reason couldn’t explain.

And this film gets that. Frances doesn’t land in Tuscany because of a perfectly laid plan. She follows a pull. She says yes to something that doesn’t make any sense yet. That resonates with me more than I can say.

It makes me feel less alone in the way I move through the world—looking for patterns, for meaning, for some divine nudge that it’s okay to begin again.

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The Ache of Becoming Whole Again

I’ve had to start over so many times. When my mother left my father, we didn’t just leave him—we left the country. For a long time, we didn’t have a stable place to land. We lived in other people’s homes—relatives, friends, wherever we could.

I don’t think I realized how deeply that shaped me until much later. I never had a room that felt like it was mine. I never really got to settle.

Even later, when my mom remarried and started a new family, it didn’t feel like my sister and I were part of it. She was softer with her new children—more present, more loving. Sometimes it felt like we were just leftovers from another life she didn’t want to carry forward.

So the idea of a home—a real home—means something profound to me. Not just a roof and four walls, but a place that reflects who I am. A space where I get to decide what stays, what grows, the colors of the walls.

That’s what Bramasole represents. Not perfection—but the chance to be rooted. To create something that is entirely yours. To no longer feel like you’re just passing through someone else’s story.

I think that’s the ache the film touches—this deep, almost unspeakable longing to feel whole. To feel safe. To build a life that holds you in return.

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Bramasole and the Dream of a Home

The dream of a home—my own Bramasole—is something I carry with me every day. It’s not just about beauty—it’s about healing. It’s about building something no one can take from me.

A space that holds who I am, not just what I own. A place where I choose what goes on the shelves, how the light moves through the room, and what memories live in the walls.

The film influences me in ways that show up quietly—in the terracotta shades I painted my living room, in the way I think about garden paths, in the fantasy of lemon trees by the windows and roses climbing walls.

Even the way Frances feeds people—the long table, the meals made with love, the casual generosity of cooking for whoever’s around—that speaks to me deeply.

It’s the kind of life I want. One that feels generous, and alive.

I don’t want a house that feels like a showroom. I want a home that feels like a soul made visible.

And when I garden, decorate, or cook, I’m not just creating something pretty—I’m planting roots. I’m healing something in me that never got the chance to feel safe or settled.

In a way, I’m building the home I always wished I had as a child. And now I get to shape it with love and intention.

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Creating Through the Ache

In this season of my life, I’m learning how to rebuild—not for love, not for approval, but for myself.

That’s part of why I started writing again. Substack became a quiet little doorway back to me. A place where I could begin to express all the things I had buried under fear and expectation.

I don’t know exactly what I’m building yet—but I know it matters. I know it’s mine.

Creativity has always been a survival instinct for me. My home is my canvas. My garden is my prayer. My cooking is my love letter to the world.

Each project, each post, each flower in the dirt—it’s a small act of faith. A way of saying: I’m still here. I’m still becoming.

Like Frances, I didn’t set out with a blueprint. There’s no ten-step plan. Just this ache to create something beautiful out of the broken pieces—and a quiet belief that maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

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The Train Over the Alps

There’s a moment at the end of the film that always catches in my throat. Frances says:

“They say they built the train tracks over the Alps between Vienna and Venice before there was a train that could make the trip. They built it anyway. They knew one day the train would come.”

That’s how I think of this time in my life. I’m laying tracks—even though I don’t know when the train will arrive. Even though I don’t know what exactly I’m building toward.

There are days when I struggle to believe anything will come of it—but then I remember Bramasole. I remember that the house protects the dreamer. That signs appear when you need them. That beauty has always been my way back to myself.

Any unexpected turn along the way, and I might be somewhere else. Someone else.

But I’m here. And I’m building.

Slowly. Intentionally.

With the hope that something good—something unthinkably good—can still happen late in the game.

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Check out my Tuscan Citrus Salmon recipe, a Mediterranean-inspired salmon with orange, lemon, garlic, rosemary, and honey. Bright, earthy, and perfect for summer nights or al fresco dinners.

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👋 A Note from Lily

I’m Lily Hawthorne — a writer, cook, and gardener creating a life shaped by flavor, fragrance, and feeling. I share citrus-glazed recipes, seasonal rituals, and reflections from the kitchen, garden, and home. This space is still growing, just like me — and I’m so glad you’re here to see it unfold.

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