Every so often, a simple question finds its way back into my life.
Why not?
That question has guided me through countless moments, some planned, many completely unplanned. It led me up hundreds of stone steps in Praiano in search of the church my grandfather built, nearly missing a boat along the way, guided by a stranger who happened to work at my father’s parents’ old hotel. It carried me through a multi-day hike in a remote German mountain town to a summit overlook so breathtaking that every difficult step felt worthwhile. Along the Croatian coast, it brought me to a table of travelers sharing wine and cheese who welcomed me like an old friend. By the end of the night, I found myself celebrating with a bridal party of strangers who insisted I join them for dancing and island exploring, reminding me that joy multiplies when it’s shared. In a Kent lavender field, where a family invited me to join their picnic. That small act of kindness turned into days of traveling together and a friendship that grew from a single spontaneous moment.
Travel has a way of reminding us that the world can be generous when we remain open to it.
There were moments of reunion too, from visiting a childhood best friend after years apart to celebrate his graduation, eventually wandering through other countries together, including a more recent spontaneous trip to Copenhagen. There were moments of uncertainty, like the day my first solo flight to Paris was cancelled just as I arrived at the airport. Instead of turning back, I boarded the next train out. What should have been a short flight became a seven-hour journey filled with delays and mechanical problems. But when I finally arrived in Paris, I followed the sound of music into a small jazz bar tucked away in the city. Since then, I’ve chased live music across countries sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, each show reminding me how much beauty there is in simply showing up.
I spent months wandering through Spain visiting galleries and absorbing art, food, and music through the advice of generous locals. I saw my first rugby match on St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland and explored ancient ruins along quiet coastal paths. I lived with host families in England and Italy, learning to garden, learning to cook, learning how patience turns simple ingredients into something extraordinary, whether it’s pasta made from scratch or balsamic vinegar slowly aging over time.
Eventually, after months of wandering, I returned home to ask myself what came next. The answer came quickly. Within 48 hours of receiving my visa approval, and less than a week before my graduate program began, I boarded a plane back to England with nothing but a suitcase and the quiet hope that the next chapter would reveal itself along the way. Almost two years later, and I can now say Cambridge feels like home. The adventures have continued, but so have the challenges. There have been moments when the obstacles felt overwhelming here, both physically and mentally. Yet each time I kept moving forward, curious about who I might become on the other side.
Somewhere along the way I fell in love with starting over, with trying new things and discovering that we’re allowed to live many different versions of ourselves in a single lifetime. In realizing this, I found myself returning to the writing of Anthony Bourdain, especially one particular statement of his, “Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.” That idea stayed with me, the realization that life isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about remaining curious enough to keep asking questions. And sometimes the most powerful question is the simplest one. Why not?
Before long, that question found me again. Today was my third half marathon. My first two races were during my time on the SCAD team. On paper they were successful, but I remember feeling trapped in my own head, unable to fully experience the moment. Something always felt missing, though I couldn’t name it at the time. Before this race, a friend asked a familiar question: What’s your goal? For the first time, my answer surprised even me. “Honestly,” I said, “just to have the time of my life.” And I meant it.
From the moment the race began, I felt completely present. I high-fived kids cheering along the sidelines. I triumphantly raised my arms when strangers shouted my name from the crowd. Even in the middle of the race, I made sure to nod in gratitude to anyone who offered encouragement. Around mile eight, I shuffled my playlist and stumbled across a song titled Why Not. And immediately, I thought of Carson. Because that was always his question. In that moment it all became clear. What had been missing from my earlier races wasn’t strength or discipline. It was gratitude, the realization that simply getting the chance to try again is something worth celebrating. Because the truth is, I’m no longer afraid of failing. I’m far more afraid of not trying at all. Looking back now, I realize the finish line was never the point. The point was the feeling of being fully present in the attempt, recognizing that we can begin again as many times as we need to. Even when it’s difficult. Even when it hurts. Even when it demands everything we have. Because we get the chance, so why not use it?
And because Carson reminded so many of us of something simple but powerful: that life is meant to be lived with curiosity, courage, and a willingness to step into the unknown. So when I think about the miles ahead, both in races and in life, I carry that question with me. Not as a challenge, but as an invitation.
Ivy Zingone
