Copenahgen 8

Just some thoughts on biking, work, and trying to figure out life in Copenhagen.

Pff… what a week. Rewarding on so many levels.

Exhausting in the best possible way.

Waking up early, joining the morning army of cyclists in Copenhagen — a feeling that made me tear up those first two days.

There’s something about the hum of so many bike chains, the click of gears,

the rhythm of hundreds of legs moving in unison that feels almost like a symphony.

I weave through the narrow bike lanes with the city slowly waking around me —

 — the smell of fresh bread from a bakery, the faint perfume of wet asphalt after a night of rain.

By the time I arrive in this beautiful district, the morning has wrapped itself around me.

Coffee breaks here come with a view of The Silo — an architectural marvel, a silver-grey giant watching over the harbour.

I used to work there — the view was just as gorgeous, though the management left much to be desired.

I’ll admit, I was a bit nervous about the early starts —

— my perfectionist brain worrying I’d show up half-asleep, words and thoughts moving like treacle.

But honestly? Seven kilometres on a bike in Copenhagen’s morning breeze will wake you up faster than an espresso shot.

And it’s more than just waking up — it’s the quiet, electric power that comes from starting your day in motion.

I go from pyjamas to pedals in under ten minutes.

In Milan, I bike like prey — constantly alert, eyes scanning for danger.

Here, I bike like a hawk — gliding, diving, fast and fearless.

The infrastructure is so good, the rules so respected, that I just… fly.

Even Danes have challenged me in friendly races, and I’ve kept pace.

I love that feeling — wind tearing at my jacket, muscles warm, city blurring past.

My only complaint? My ass hurts.

Twenty-plus kilometres a day will do that, and apparently, my body forgot.

Today I wrapped up the week with that special kind of tired — the one where your mind and body are arguing.

The sun was out, warm and soft with scattered clouds above, and I wanted to make the most of it:

write somewhere beautiful, watch the sunset, meet friends, maybe bike to the beach.

But my body whispered, bed.

I also had errands to run, laundry to wash, groceries to buy —

all in my only half day off, since I’m working my second job afternoon and weekend.

The hours felt precious and short, like a dream you’re trying to stay inside just a little longer.

In the end, I compromised: errands first, then ten minutes in a Danish supermarket,

carefully choosing a bottle of wine — something rich, something that would taste like a reward.

I picked an Italian Primitivo, made a plate of snacks, grabbed my iPad and wine glass,

and went to sit in the backyard as the sky turned shades of rose, peach, and lavender.

It felt like I’d found a little loophole in my own schedule — a way to honour my energy level but still make the evening mine.

It’s been ten days since I arrived “home” to Copenhagen — and every visit here is different.

New neighbourhoods. New people. New work. This time, it feels like a more grounded, mature way of being.

I felt the first signs of it last December, during the finals of my degree project.

Back then, I managed to deliver quality work while also working and enjoying my life here.

Now, I’m in the final stretch of becoming a certified designer — and everything feels more grounded.

I walk with my shoulders back. I speak with confidence.

I’m representing Polimi, a name that still makes me proud every time I say it.

I feel capable, smart, humble, and fully aware I’ve earned this.

That hard work was truly hard — but now, I can see the finish line in the distance, shimmering.

This shift in my inner landscape seems to be attracting the right people, the right conversations, the right projects.

Ten days here and I already have two new collaborations in motion.

Even my anxiety is quieter here — so quiet that I forget it exists at all.

Being here has shown me how much of it was rooted in uncertainty —

 —  nearly two years of running without pause, juggling a chaotic schedule with a heart still learning to trust love again.

Here, breathing this crisp air, I feel lighter, less hunted by my own thoughts,

as if my mind has unclenched and made space for something gentler.

Over the course of our lives, we become many different people. We keep evolving.

Accepting this is the only reasonable thing to do.

I am becoming someone new — someone who understands love not with the reckless optimism of my early twenties,

when every spark felt like forever, but with the tempered, layered wisdom of my thirties.

Now I see love as something to build, not just something to fall into;

something that grows stronger not in the rush of beginnings,

but in the quiet, steady moments in between.

I am learning that love — for others, for life, for myself — is less about fireworks and more about tending to the embers so they keep you warm.

Age doesn’t define growth; experiences do. We like to measure maturity in years, but the truth is,

— a single moment can change you more than a decade.

The heartbreaks, the leaps of faith, the failures that turn into lessons, the quiet days where you choose patience over reaction —

— these are the things that shape us.

We grow in the conversations that challenge us, in the risks that scare us,

— in the decisions that force us to let go of who we were to make space for who we’re becoming.

When I came here, my plan was simple: stay for a month, finish the second half of my internship remotely,

and continue to collaborate with the company from Milan. Nice. Neat. Controlled.

But of course, in true “me” fashion, that lasted all of… what, ten days?

Now, with a new project appearing like an unexpected door, I might be staying for five months.

It’s like I live on a carousel where the horses keep changing into airplanes, trains, and bicycles.

One moment I’m in Milan, then Copenhagen, then back again,

then somewhere I didn’t even know I was going.

I don’t seem to stay in one place long enough for my plants to recognize me — which is probably why I don’t own any.

Of course, I’ll have to solve the practicalities —

making sure I can juggle the project, my thesis, my job, and, well… life.

But this kind of uncertainty feels different. It comes with opportunity.

It comes with a quiet confidence that I can take care of myself.

Two years ago, when I moved to Milan, I had no plan — just survival mode.

I was navigating the chaos of a new city, trying to keep my head above water, and figuring out how to simply get through each day.

This is nothing like that anymore.

Now, I’m standing on a foundation I’ve carefully built with my own hands—layer by layer, choice by choice.

It feels solid, steady, and real.

And that’s the beauty of it: moving to Milan wasn’t just a random step;

It was the essential one that led me to this moment, this version of myself.

Every struggle, every late night, every doubt—they were all part of getting here.

Tired, yes. But happy.

As the last light faded, I sat there with my glass of wine, the city humming faintly in the distance.

Somewhere, a neighbour’s bike chain clicked, a quiet echo of my morning rides.

Tomorrow, it will all start again — the pedals, the wind, the work, the learning — but for now,

I let the evening stretch out, slow and gentle, like the Copenhagen summer sky refusing to go dark.