No one tells you how to celebrate your birthday when you’re becoming 40 years old. You’re supposed to do something special, but what is it? Do you run a marathon, get a tattoo, adopt a goat?
Well, as far as my idea, I booked a flight to Sicily. Specifically, to walk down the slopes of Mount Etna.

Why?
Because.

Etna had been sitting in the back of my mind for years. I saw her in documentaries and travel blogs.

I even was in Sicily in February 2023 and I saw Mount Etna. But. By that time there was a pretty strong typhoon which prevented me from admiring it.

So,

becoming forty gave me another chance.

Etna doesn’t do birthday candles

When I arrived in Sicily with my wife, it was late at night. But I was sitting on the right side of the plane. I saw her through the window. This raw, darkness piece of nature.

She was beautiful and… kind of scary. As she was saying, “don’t mess with me” kind of way.

We had one day to adopt and admire Sicily.

The day after that was my birthday – and the trip to mamma Etna.

Luigi, the volcano’s quiet translator

Now, let’s talk about Luigi. Not the touristy, microphone-wearing, flag-waving type of guide.

No.

Luigi is the kind of guide who speaks about volcanoes like they’re old friends who’ve taught him life lessons—sometimes gently, sometimes with fire and flying rocks.

He knew everything.

The science, the history, the behavior of the mountain.

But he didn’t talk to me—he shared.

He pointed out cracks in the earth and told me why they matter. He showed me hardened lava from past eruptions and described how quickly things can turn. His voice changed when he spoke of Mamma Etna. Softer. Like someone describing a woman who raised him with tough love and warm meals.

“She gives,” he said. “She takes away too. But you never stop loving her.”

Winds, warnings, and walking with Etna

Up there, surrounded by smoke and black earth, I finally understood what it means to live with Mamma Etna.

Because Sicilians don’t try to control her.

They don’t pretend she’s safe or predictable. They live with her moods. They harvest from her soil, rebuild when she destroys, and whisper thanks when she lets them be.

There’s no illusion of dominance. Only a kind of peace that comes from long-term coexistence with something wild and powerful. She rewards you one season, punishes you the next. And you still love her.

We made our way down slowly, the black gravel sliding underfoot with each step, the wind still roaring in our ears.

The land stretched out below us, vast and oddly quiet, and I felt something shift.

It wasn’t a loud moment. It was calm. Like something settled inside me. Like I could finally stop trying so hard to make sense of everything and just be part of it.

Lessons from Etna that don’t fit in a backpack

I didn’t walk Etna to prove something.

Not really.

I did it because I needed to remember what it feels like to be small in the best possible way.

To stand on living ground.

To thank a stranger named Luigi for being exactly the kind of guide I needed.

To realize that turning 40 isn’t about what you’ve done—it’s about what you’re still willing to do, even if it scares you, even if your legs hurt, even if you’ve got ash in places ash shouldn’t be.

Mamma Etna doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Life doesn’t either. She erupts when she wants, goes quiet when she wants, and leaves you to make peace with both. If you’re lucky, she also gives you a day like mine. Full of wind, silence, gratitude, and the best guide in Sicily.

And if you listen closely—up there, above the noise of your own head—you might just hear her whisper: keep climbing.