Bloodline & Belonging: My Journey to Italian Citizenship

I’m proud to announce that on April 14th, 2025, I became an Italian citizen.

What Citizenship Means to Me
Italian citizenship was never about convenience for me. It wasn’t a legal maneuver or an opportunity—it was a calling. For years, I felt the pull toward my ancestors, my heritage, and the culture that shaped my family long before I was born. But claiming that legacy wasn’t simple—it was a journey that tested my patience, my resources, and my determination. Over the course of years, I fought for recognition, not to gain a passport, but to honor the bloodline I’ve always belonged to.

The Evolution of My Italian Identity
I wasn’t born in Italy. I don’t live there, and I likely never will. Yet, my connection to my Italian heritage wasn’t something I consciously sought throughout my entire life—it evolved over time. In my childhood, it was shaped by family, food, and fleeting glimpses of the culture through relatives. It wasn’t until much later—after years of traveling to Italy—that I fully embraced my identity and recognized the depth of my ancestry.

For the first six years of my life, my brother and I lived with our grandparents. My Italian grandmother and the coolest grandfather you could ever hope to have, who would take us out on his cabin cruiser. Their home was filled with traditions, food, and the warmth that made us feel safe. But everything changed when my mother remarried, and we were adopted by her new husband. Life became chaotic—our stepfather was an abusive alcoholic, and we quickly became the black sheep of the extended family because of him. Stability was nonexistent. We lived in poverty, without access to proper healthcare or real parental guidance.

The only bright spots in our childhood came from our Italian relatives, especially our grandparents and great-grandparents. They did so much for us—providing food, bringing gifts for birthdays and Christmas, and offering small comforts that made life bearable. But more than anything, it was just being around them that brought us joy. Their presence was a reminder that we belonged somewhere—that even in the midst of chaos, we had a family that cared about us.

The best memories of all came during the summers we spent with our great-grandmother in Santa Cruz, California. It was like a magical escape—one that we longed for every year.She barely spoke English and was strict, but she showered us with love in her own way. She took us to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, bought us saltwater taffy, treated us to restaurants, and even bought us nice clothes—things we never had at home. For those few weeks, we were just kids, without the weight of struggle on our shoulders.

When summer ended and it was time to go home, I cried. At 12 or 13 years old, I didn’t know how to process that kind of sadness, but I knew what it meant—I felt more at home in those few weeks with my great-grandmother than I ever did elsewhere. For days after returning, I struggled with the loss of that warmth, that stability, that fleeting taste of belonging.
It wasn’t until I started traveling to Italy years later that I truly understood the depth of my connection to my heritage. The familiarity I felt in those childhood summers with my great-grandmother—the traditions, the language, the care—was the same feeling I experienced walking the streets of Rome, visiting small Italian towns, and embracing the culture. It wasn’t something I had dreamt of my whole life—it was something that had always been inside me, waiting to be rediscovered.

One of the greatest influences in my life, however, wasn’t Italian at all. My grandfather—full-blooded English and Scottish—became a surrogate father to my brother and me. He was a man of strength, discipline, and quiet integrity, shaped by his years of service in the U.S. Coast Guard Auxiliary and his profound love for the sea. Whether navigating the waters or simply spending time near them, it was a deep and undeniable part of who he was.

Beyond his steady presence in our lives, he also held a firm belief that we were related to Admiral Lord Nelson. My brother vividly recalls seeing a family tree document proving the lineage, but the records have long since disappeared. To this day, we’ve been unable to confirm the connection. Whether fact or family lore, it remains a compelling part of his legacy—one more story that, true or not, reminds me of his strength and unwavering belief in the importance of history and heritage.

Another remarkable aspect of my childhood, even amid the instability, was that four generations of Italian women were alive and present in my life until I was 14 years old—my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, and my great-great-grandmother. I was lucky enough to spend time with all of them, absorbing their traditions, their strength, and their unwavering devotion to family.

Ah, and then there was the food. Even though my immediate family didn’t reflect the strong familial bonds often associated with Italian culture, food has always been a bridge to my heritage. One of my most cherished memories is watching my grandmother make sfingi during the holidays—simple, deep-fried sicilian dough goodness sprinkled with sugar– absolutely delicious. And the homemade sausages and endless pasta to die for. These dishes weren’t just meals; they were tradition, love, and connection. They reminded me that, even though my upbringing didn’t fully embrace the closeness I saw in traditional Italian families, my roots were still there—woven through flavors, scents, and the hands that prepared them.

Returning to Italy Again and Again
But my connection to Italy wasn’t just emotional—it became a physical journey, one that pulled me back to its streets, landscapes, and culture time and time again. Over the past four decades, I have traveled to Italy many times. These trips weren’t about taking a break from work or escaping daily life—they were carefully planned journeys with specific purposes. Each visit was an opportunity to deepen my connection to the country, whether through walking marathons, exploring historical sites, or reconnecting with friends.

Traveling to Italy has never been about luxury—it’s about making the experience possible and meaningful. I scrape together every penny I can—doing paid surveys, redeeming credit card points, and finding creative ways to stretch my budget.

One of my most memorable trips was made possible by a longtime reader of my blog, a pediatric neurologist who also suffers from severe asthma. Inspired by my story, she generously donated all of her airline miles, covering a round-trip flight from San Francisco to Rome.

To make my travels affordable, I stay in reasonably priced Airbnbs, pensioni, monasteries, and even on a friend’s couch when necessary. I prepare my own meals, book train tickets in advance, and rely on walking as my primary mode of transportation. I also keep most of my trips under two weeks, ensuring I can maximize my experience while keeping costs manageable.

Navigating Travel with Severe Asthma
Traveling overseas with very severe brittle asthma is an undertaking that requires meticulous preparation and an awareness of every possible challenge. I can’t just pack a bag and go—I have to bring a full arsenal of medications, inhalers, and nebulizers, ensuring I have enough to last the entire trip, plus backups in case of loss or an unexpected flare.

Preparation extends far beyond packing. Before I even set foot in Italy, I study the local healthcare system, learning where the nearest Pronto Soccorso (emergency department) is and how to access medical care should I need it. My asthma is unpredictable, so I carry written instructions in Italian detailing my medical history and the precise treatment protocols that work for me. If I ever end up needing emergency care, doctors won’t have to guess—they’ll have the information they need right away. Thankfully, I’ve only had to use this once, but I never take that chance lightly.

Finding My Way—Language, Culture, and Adaptation
Despite all my travels across Italy, I still experience a moment of disorientation every time I arrive—especially in towns I’ve never been to before. The architecture, the customs, the rhythm of daily life—so different from the United States—always take a few days to settle into. Even the graffiti, which is seemingly everywhere, still throws me for a loop. These contrasts remind me that, while I’ve come to know Italy well, I will always be learning.

That same sense of adjustment applies to the language. Though I picked up bits and pieces as a child through osmosis, most of my Italian has been self-taught, with some classroom lessons sprinkled in. I’m far from fluent, but I know enough to express myself and hold a conversation —albeit slowly. And if my Italian friends are to be believed, my pronunciation is near perfect. Learning the language, much like adapting to the country itself, has been an ongoing process—one that deepens my connection to Italy with every visit.

The Grueling Path to Citizenship
Many people assume obtaining Italian citizenship through jus sanguinis is simple—a quick path to an EU passport. They couldn’t be more wrong. My process was long, stressful, and expensive. Because I had a 1948 case, I needed an attorney to fight for my recognition—a costly but necessary step.
I had to essentially sue the Italian Government for discrimination because my bloodline was through a female who was born before 1948 instead of a male. All of this with absolutely no guarantee of success. That was a huge financil risk.

The hardest part? Probably the document collection, the waiting and the anxiety that something might get lost in the mail. I had to track down dozens of records—birth certificates, death certificates, marriage records, naturalization papers, affidavits, get them notarized, apostille them —each one meticulously translated into Italian and then re-apostilled. The process was expensive, exhausting, requiring months of research, and navigating bureaucratic red tape with little guidance. It was learn as you go.

From the time I hired my attorney to the day I won the case, the legal battle took less than nine months—an unexpectedly fast turnaround compared to many other 1948 cases. However, even now, several steps remain before the entire process is officially complete. From the time I hired my attorney to the day I won the case, the legal battle took less than nine months—an unexpectedly fast turnaround compared to many other 1948 cases. However, even now, several steps remain before the entire process is officially complete. Again, lot of waiting.

Still, I did it. I fought for this recognition, gathered every last document, and navigated the system on my own. And after years of waiting, my Italian citizenship is finally mine.

Conclusion: A Legacy Fulfilled
Just as I’ve spent my life adapting to the challenges of severe asthma, I’ve also navigated the complexities of reclaiming my Italian citizenship—not out of necessity, but out of a deep connection to my ancestry.

Reclaiming my Italian citizenship wasn’t just a legal victory—it was the final step in recognizing what had always been true. Italy is not just a place I visit; it is in my blood, my memories, and my very sense of home.