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Every place has a doorway. Every midlife has a threshold. Postcards from a Midlife Elsewhere are fragments of travel and transformation. These moments mark the shift from who I was… to who I’m becoming. Maybe you’ll recognize the terrain.
As we step into the streets of the Spanish Quarter of Napoli, I'm second-guessing my decision to wear my handmade Argentinian leather sneakers. They cost $100, which seems to me a crazy amount to spend on sneakers, but we were in Buenos Aires, and the city romanced me into it. I am fully prepared not to be romanced by Napoli. We've been here once (almost 15 years ago), and I didn't like it then. It felt seedy with a side of threat. This trip is exclusively to watch a football game, and despite the reassurance of my southern Italian bestie in Borgotaro, I don’t expect to enjoy it otherwise. Now, as I move into the chaos, the sludgy garbage-strained rainwater sloshing over my custom white toes, I can feel my resistance shifting.
The narrow streets are packed with Napolitanos. They are shopping for dinner at the butcher shop with a recently acquired (pink, wet, and assaulting) pig's head hanging outside under a cascade of water. They are snatching up one euro Aperol Spritz from the counters set up hastily before closet-sized storefronts (pushing aside the tourists with a smile.) They are browsing the blankets laden with fake Guccis and Pradas before those blankets are snatched up by the seller, who has spotted a carabinieri strolling toward them. They fly through the streets on mopeds, blowing obnoxious horns and expertly weaving through the crowds.
I am spellbound.
We stop for an obligatory Aperol Spritz in a sticky plastic cup and sip on the sweet nectar as we explore. We turn the corner and there, distant but undeniably present, is Mount Vesuvius. This is the volcano that buried Pompeii in 79 AD. It looms over the city and is one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world due to its proximity to such a large population.
"What would happen if it erupted now?" flashes through my brain.
And I am sad, imagining the destruction of this beautiful chaos.
In only thirty minutes, Napoli has won me over. Like Havana, Cuba (another city that has my heart), Napoli is a “gorgeous dump.” It wears its ancient pedigree (once a royal capital and a Greek colony before that) and current economic hardship visibly, with crumbling facades, wonky balconies, layers of fading graffiti, and grand-but-faded architecture. Napoli is a city of organized mayhem that can initially feel overwhelming, but mayhem is the essence of its magnetic appeal.
Napoli isn't asking to be understood. It's asking to be felt (fully, chaotically, and without apology.)
Naples didn’t seduce me, it slapped me awake. It's messy, defiant, loud, sacred. And something inside of me began rising to meet it. That day, while wandering the city (we had walked over 7 miles in total), Naples wriggled under my skin and held itself before me as a mirror. Some cities invite you to rest (Seville gives you orange blossoms, wide green parks, and the hypnotic clippety, clop of the horse-drawn carriages), but Naples dares you to introspect. To ask yourself why this feeling, this internalization of the messy, the rebellious, the flawed, is cracking you open. It’s like the plain-front churches on every corner. Napoli dares you to look inside.
Napoli has a cult hero, and he’s especially evident in the Spanish Quarter where we stayed. His name is Diego Maradona. Just in case you don't have a football (soccer) obsessed husband like I do, let me situate you.
Maradona (from Argentina), was widely considered one of the greatest players in history. Known for his supernatural skill, and rebellious spirit, Maradona didn’t just play football, he created magic on the pitch. In 1984, when most stars aimed for glamorous clubs like Real Madrid or Milan, Maradona made a shocking move: he signed with Napoli, a gritty underdog club from the poor, mocked south of Italy. Naples welcomed him like a messiah. And he delivered.
Maradona led Napoli to their first-ever Serie A title in 1987, won a second "Scudetto" (Italian League trophy) in 1990, and then the UEFA Cup in 1989, Napoli’s first major European trophy.
As a result, "Il Pibe de Oro" (The Golden Boy) became more than a footballer. In Naples, Maradona is a saint, a symbol of southern pride, and a street god. He’s not just remembered, he’s worshipped. Not because he was perfect, but because he was theirs. Messy, brilliant, rebellious, flawed, and unforgettable. Just like Naples.
Naples doesn't worship Diego because he played by the rules. They love him because he broke them all, and still made magic.
You can't avoid the cult of Maradona in Naples, just like I couldn't avoid the introspection. I’ve spent years following the rules in my quest for success (Happiness? Becoming the perfect daughter?) I've created systems, perfected processes, launched courses, mastered coaching, and learned how to research effectively.
I’ve spent years guiding others through their stories.
But lately? I’m craving a little Maradona energy. A little holy mess. Something less polished. Less leader, more traveling partner.
What Naples reflected back to me was the joy of letting go a little. Plus, the question of what I'm doing with my life now? I know my purpose, but am I approaching it in a way that serves me (you, anyone who wants to play)?
What if I’m not just the narrator of this heroine’s world? What if I’m the wildcard character the story didn't expect, still rewriting her own arc in real time?
What if I'm the plot twist?
Perhaps I don't have to be the perfection of Michelangelo's David to lead. Maybe I can mirror the most famous mural of Diego on the streets of chaotic Napoli, imperfect, constantly repainted, and always becoming.
I'm ready to step away from my worn-out, exhausted "Good Girl" self. That archetype is past its time. I'm ready to step into my evolution and make some mess.
We got lost after lunch in Naples. We ended up in a back alley that I'm sure saw very few tourists. It was filthy and garbage-strewn, but it was so beautiful that we stopped amongst the overwhelming stench of pee to take photos.
There’s beauty in what humanity can create under the most difficult circumstances. Naples doesn’t pretend to be anything other than it is. And I won’t either, anymore.
Chapter One of the new Heroine's World opens soon. And I won’t be sending it from the spotless boardroom with a perfect table so shiny you can see your reflection. I’ll be sending it from a cracked stairway in Napoli, a roiling bedroom on the Antarctic sea, a cosy writing house in a Scottish back garden, or huddled under a blanket in my chilly, unheated Italian living room (today).
And I'll be wearing my white Argentinian sneakers, stained memorably with the street blood of Naples.
Lots of Love.
LM x
P.S...
“Not every heroine enters with fanfare. Some arrive in the middle of the mess, chapstick smeared, script abandoned, but still holding the pen.”
Love, The Cast (You’ll meet them soon.)
STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK’S POCKET QUEST™ AND A REVEAL.
Did you miss the first Midlife Elsewhere post? It’s here…
Lisa-Marie, this piece is pure alchemy — turning resistance into revelation. I love how you described Naples as “a gorgeous dump” that slapped you awake. That’s exactly how some places work on us — they shake loose the parts we’ve kept too tidy.
The Maradona metaphor is brilliant too — messy brilliance over polished perfection. As someone who left a structured behavioral-psych life for slow travel and storytelling, this line hit home: “Maybe I can mirror the most famous mural of Diego… imperfect, constantly repainted, and always becoming.” What a powerful reminder that transformation isn’t sterile — it’s gloriously human. -Kelly
I like this idea that maybe I AM THE PLOT TWIST! Maybe I am the wildcard character in this story that comes out of nowhere. I kind of like that character for me. Thanks for making me stop and consider this.