This one starts with Pride and somehow ends on a private island.
Sardinia — A story that begins a story.
A private island, the end of something, and the beginning of something else.
A friendship that might change my life.
A new era has begun.
And maybe… this is what I was waiting for all along.
I often say this to my friends, to the people I love—but I forget to apply it to myself:
When we feel overwhelmed, when it seems like nothing is working, when everything feels heavy and grey—it’s because we’re right in the middle of the storm.
In the center, you can’t see the light. You only see the chaos.
But from the outside—from where I stand now—I can see it.
The darkest part is also the turning point. It means you’re moving through. You’re not stuck. You're not lost. You're just transitioning.
We all feel this sometimes:
Like the universe is against us,
Like everything we touch breaks,
Like we’re useless and failing.
But then—
The light comes.
Saturday, June 28.
I woke up after an intense night of study. I’m pushing hard for this exam—I want a big grade.
So I woke up half in study-mode, half ready for Pride.
Because for me, Pride is sacred.
I remember my first one in Copenhagen—I cried.
Not out of sadness, but because I felt accepted. Like someone looked at me and didn’t want to fix me, but celebrated me.
It was liberation in technicolor.
So yes, Pride means everything to me.
And Milano’s Pride has its own magic. The city, the energy—everything sparkles differently.
I made coffee and started thinking about what to wear.
Last year I had a whole outfit planned, flag around my neck, color on my arms.
This year I felt less inspired, so I just chose a dress and wrapped myself in the rainbow flag—it always feels like a shield.
I wish I could wear it like a cape all year round. But I save it for this week. It’s my peace offering to the world.
Two coffees and two hours of intense studying later, I realized I was late.
I jumped into the shower, blasted Born This Way (obviously—it’s not Pride without Gaga), and sang loud enough for the neighbors to judge me.
Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Ready.
Well… almost. Makeup was minimal this year. The flag did the talking.
Then I rushed to my bike and pedaled hard through the city.
It was hellishly hot—I was sweating like crazy—but thankfully my makeup held up (waterproof is an act of resistance).
As I got closer to the center, the vibe started buzzing. You could feel it.
Joy in the air. Love everywhere.
Today, we are kinder. Today, we say:
You can be who you are.
We love you for it.
Love is human. Love is divine. Love is enough.
I met my colleagues. We waited. Milano was fashionably late, as always.
Pride was set to start at 15:00… or 15:30… it actually started closer to 16:00.
But it’s fine. I’m always late, too. We understand each other, Milano and I.
The parade started, and we marched in all our beauty.
I've been to over ten Prides—but this one?
This one was different.
It was beautiful, tender, alive.
It felt like the most magical one yet.
We danced through the city. We cheered. We smiled.
The parade ended at Arco, as always, but the party kept going into the night.
I felt so connected to Milano. We fell in love again.
You should know—I’m a romantic.
I fall in love with people, places, feelings.
But I’m also picky. I don’t give my heart to just any city.
Only two cities and one island cluster hold it:
Copenhagen, Milano, and the Greek islands.
Copenhagen holds feminine energy.
Of course—by name, but also by spirit.
She’s soft but rebellious. Safe, but wild. The gorgeous girl who skateboards to school listening to Avril Lavigne.
She’s the kind of girl who holds your hand when you're scared, but dares you to jump.
My years in Copenhagen were my feminine years.
I loved girls openly, boldly.
Still do. Probably always will.
I'm like a 14-year-old boy when it comes to girls and the electric joy when they like me back.
My time in Copenhagen was ruled by feminine power. It shaped my decade.
Then there’s Milano—masculine energy through and through.
He’s elegant, modern, confident.
Refined, but warm. Aristocratic, but alive.
I tried to call him feminine—but he’s not. He’s assured in his masculinity. And I’ve never feared masculine energy itself—just the toxic kind.
Living in Milano has helped me make peace with my trauma.
I'm learning to trust men again—not romantically—but humanly.
To see masculinity without fear.
To stop flinching at kindness.
And I just realized: I live in a masculine city. That’s no coincidence.
It’s part of my healing.
Subconsciously, this city is helping me trust again.
So after Pride, I went home early.
The next day, I had a flight to Sardinia.
And you know—my anxiety acts up when I don’t sleep enough.
I was invited by a new friend.
From the beginning, we connected deeply.
He mentioned he was going to this island and told me I was welcome to join.
At first, I hesitated. I had exams. I was planning other trips. I wanted stillness.
To stay home.
To go to the gym.
To be in my own rhythm again.
But the more I imagined the island… the more I wanted to go.
Eventually, I gave in.
I booked my flight. I packed my bags.
Of course, I overpacked—especially with study materials.
I stuffed my bag with paper and books like I was about to move there for a month, not just a few days.
Because part of me still believed I’d sit on a beach with my laptop, studying thermodynamics or systems design while sipping espresso.
But in truth, what I needed wasn’t study.
It was space.
A pause.
A moment where time could stand still, and something entirely new could begin.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what this island would be—
Not an escape.
But a threshold.
Part of the story from the island is still unfolding.
It needs time to sit, to breathe, to become clear.
But I’m happy to share these intimate thoughts with you as they come.
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