This isn't a BSDCan report, but a general reflection that emerged after participating in the event itself. There's the event, but there's me inside it.

The first question I received, when I went to greet the BSD community present in the days before the conference (there for the FreeBSD dev summit and tutorials) was asked by someone I deeply respect and admire, extremely active and positive for the entire BSD world. "Where have you been for the last 20 years?"

Off the cuff, I replied that I'd been busy doing things, but the truth (which I clarified the next day) is that I didn't feel ready to be an "active" member of the community itself. And the reasons are many, too many and too personal to be expressed here, but at the core there's a specific reason: I didn't feel up to it. Perhaps a form of impostor syndrome - without wanting to put a name to it, basically I felt like a tiny gnat among a group of giants.

I'm not an operating systems developer or an expert dev, I don't work at a company with thousands of servers, I'm not an ISP and I don't work for one. What could I have said or done, me, among them? And for so many years, I witnessed wars of every kind - online and not only - between people (even experts) who, just to excel, feel entitled to mistreat or offend others.

I didn't feel up to it. I didn't feel worthy of participating in conferences or events with people of this level. Except then, every time, I would look with sadness and healthy envy at all the reports, videos, and images of those who had participated instead.

I missed wonderful conferences, fantastic locations, but especially the opportunity to interact, years ago already, with amazing people - some of whom, unfortunately, are no longer with us.

When last September I participated in EuroBSDCon in Dublin, I understood that I had gotten everything wrong and that I hadn't fully grasped how wonderful the BSD community was, made up of real and respectful people, people who, like me, want to share their ideas, experiences, projects, and intentions with openness and respect.

And from here, an even stronger feeling took root inside me. Namely, that it's important to live life and leave nothing untried. If we want to do something, as long as it doesn't harm others, let's do it. Time flows and what's past doesn't come back.

In my case, it's not too late. BSD Conferences will continue to happen, year after year, and I'm already excited and preparing for the next EuroBSDCon - after all, it's only three months away. Because the people who organize them, the people who participate, and the entire BSD community in general have much in common with my way of seeing technology, software, and life.

I had the honor (and terror) of speaking right after Margo Seltzer, but everyone put me at ease. English isn't my native language and I was still a bit dazed from jet lag, but seeing BSD world friends sitting and ready to listen to what I had to say gave me the push to speak, to talk, to tell and tell about myself. And the feedback was really positive - many came to talk to me and share their experiences, ideas, and thoughts. In a healthy and positive way. Making me feel extremely comfortable.

Some speakers cited my talk, sharing the passion and enthusiasm. Unexpected, extremely appreciated.

I'm not a particularly extroverted person. I like to talk and communicate, but deep down, I'm shy. And I saw many shy people, both in Dublin and Ottawa, participate in the event without having any problems. Because the BSD community doesn't force anyone to be talkative but cares that everyone can be comfortable. Just as I should have done 20 years ago, going to attend conferences, in the serenity of being able to be myself.

I lost something wonderful for 20 years, but it's not too late.

Live life. Don't postpone, don't feel uncomfortable, don't worry about being judged by others. Overcome fears, overcome hesitations. Because one day you'll be disappointed about what you wanted to do and didn't do, but you'll never be disappointed for having at least tried.

For me, BSDCan was this: going to Canada for the first time, the journey, the preparation, the anxiety before my presentation and the relaxation, peace, and joy in the subsequent phases, talking with fantastic people and always feeling at ease.

Unless there are particular problems, I won't miss it. Because life must be lived and we must do what makes us feel good, finding ourselves among friends talking about the things that unite us. Without limits, without geography, without narrow ideologies.

Let's focus on what we like, on what we have in common.

Live life. Every single day.

You loved video games and sometimes we played together on my computer. But often, the games I had didn't appeal to you, even though you were good at them. We did well at Bubble Bobble, less so at others, but we had fun. My Game Boy had become yours and you would lend it to me occasionally. But you wanted your own console, with your own games and, I knew well, you wanted it also to have opportunities to play with me.

We arrived at opening time, got out of the car and started running toward the store. I don't know which of us was more excited about what was about to happen, about what you were going to buy. We came out shortly after, with your Sega MegaDrive (the box was bigger than you, so I carried it for you, while our parents helped us load it into the car).

We got home and unpacked it, connecting it in your room, on the desk. The TV was too old, so I lent you mine, since I used the computer monitor and didn't watch TV in my room. Sonic was beautiful, with those tunes and that graphics, but you preferred Disney games and "the one with the princesses" - but Sonic was fine too, as long as we were together and I stayed in your room to play with you.

You spent so many hours, in those few months, in front of that console. With me, with our little cousins, with your little friends. But when I came and asked you to play a game of Sonic, you would light up.

Just as I lit up when I learned you were born, exactly 40 years ago, today. I was a child, but I remember everything clearly - from the night before, when I slept in bed with dad because mom was in the hospital, with you on the way. I was worried and he let me sleep with him, to help me feel calmer. When you came home, I remember you in the crib and me, sitting beside it, watching you sleep. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and already, even at almost 6 years old, I felt the responsibility to make sure you were okay. Every now and then you would move and I would be reassured, with your black hair and your smiling gaze, even as a newborn.

I wonder what you would be like today. You would turn 40 and, perhaps, your hair wouldn't all be black anymore but some gray streaks would be making more and more space, waiting for hair dye. I wonder if you would have had some small wrinkles, because your 40s often start to show the signs of the pains and thoughts of passing time. I wonder if you would have been as cheerful as you were then, still looking for reasons to spend time with me. I wonder where life would have taken you, just as it has taken me far from that house, from that store, from those moments. For sure, and I'm more than certain of this, we would never have been far apart - if not geographically, we would have talked often and would always have been present, one for the other.

Happy birthday, my little sister. Wherever you are, remember that there isn't a day when there isn't a thought for you, even after all these years.

A little while ago, while browsing a completely different site, an ad popped up. It was for a property for sale, and I immediately recognized what it was: a small house in the complex where I lived for seven years. And it brought back to me why, still today, I have never finished watching a TV series I was incredibly passionate about: The Big Bang Theory.

I moved into that house in 2008. New, rented at first (then bought with a mortgage a year later), completely unfurnished. Little money, little time, little desire: minimal furniture. Suffice it to say that when I left it, seven years later, I had only installed two lights in the living room, two plastic IKEA lampshades. In the other rooms, still just bare bulbs hanging from the sockets.

I lived in that house almost entirely alone. In a new place, initially knowing no one. And yet, that house was unforgettable for me. Those were intense years: the internet connection didn't even reach 1 Mbit/sec download, but I had exceptional neighbors who became friends.

In that house, I laughed, cried, rejoiced, licked my wounds. I cooked everything imaginable. I ran network cables at three in the morning, alone, from one floor to another, giving myself lactic acid from climbing the stairs so many times. I lived through a very strong earthquake. I experienced great wellness and terrible sickness, with a 40°C fever and having to get up anyway to cook and buy medicine. My friends/neighbors insisted on helping, but that's just how I am...

In that house, I lived through moments of joy and pain, extreme happiness and heartbreaking sadness. A sense of satisfaction, but also of total failure. Absolute freedom, and loneliness so strong it was frightening.

I packed and unpacked suitcases hundreds of times, leaving and returning at all hours of the day and night. I dreamed, and sometimes, I achieved those dreams. I felt free, totally free. And also caged.

I had to sell it, even though I never wanted to. The pain I felt closing that door for the last time was indescribable. Because only those who have had to, or chosen to, move away from familiar places and people can truly understand what it means. How it feels. That sense of freedom, but also of loneliness. Of being the master of your own life, yet a slave to fate.

I love the house I live in now, let me be clear. I like it, I feel good here, I appreciate it. But that house was part of me - of a phase in my life that was unique, irreplaceable. A phase that will never come back. And which I knew – and in many ways hoped – would eventually end.

I would have kept it; I wouldn't have sold it. But it wasn't possible. I could never have afforded the other house (with its mortgage) without selling that one.

Many years have passed, more than ten, but I still remember every detail. The last evening, similar to so many others spent there, I tried to live it normally. But I knew perfectly well that the next day everything would change. So I watched the episode of The Big Bang Theory I was up to, turned off the television, and went to sleep.

Ready for the changes that would begin the following day.

And I'm still stuck there. I've watched Young Sheldon, but I've never finished The Big Bang Theory. Because, somehow, it's part of that life, of that house. Of that phase.

Sooner or later, probably, I'll get unstuck.

But not today.

Not tonight.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow.

Or the day after.

Or...

That all started with the Big Bang.