The First Domino

Thinking about Milano, flying to Berlin, and everything waiting on the other side

5 days until I need to send my thesis.

14 days until my final exam.

15 days until Milano Pride.

40 days until I graduate from my dream university.

40 days until I leave Milano.

42 days until I fly to Ozora — 10 days of dancing in the dust.

52 days until I move to Copenhagen.

62 days until I move to Berlin.

And so on.

Many countdowns.

Many futures waiting in line.

Yet only 5 and 14 truly matter.

Because they are the first dominoes.

Without them, none of the others fall into place.

You might imagine me sitting at my desk.

Coffee.

Books.

Engineering formulas.

The final academic push.

I am not.

I am somewhere above the clouds.

Flying to Berlin.

Technically for studying.

But also because I have never been particularly talented at staying still.

For years I thought movement was an addiction.

An addiction to freedom.

But addiction controls you.

This feels different.

More intentional.

Like saying yes to life every time it offers me another direction.

So yes.

I spend a suspicious amount of my life in trains and airports.

At this point, I know exactly where my passport is without looking.

I know which pocket has my headphones.

Which one has my charger.

I know how to sleep sitting up.

Almost.

What surprises me lately is not the movement.

It is the calm.

The confidence.

The absence of panic.

Because I am graduating.

I actually did this.

For so long graduation existed somewhere in the future.

A distant version of myself.

One of those people who somehow finish things.

One of those people who know what they are doing.

Now I look at my calendar and realize that person is apparently me.

I am sitting here dressed like a businesswoman.

Laptop on my knees.

Inside that laptop is a year's worth of work.

My thesis.

My baby.

Designing Beyond the Norm.

I should probably save another backup on the cloud.

Just in case.

Sometimes I still laugh at the absurdity of my browser tabs.

One is neurodiversity research.

One is engineering formulas.

One is a half-finished love story.

All open at the same time.

All somehow part of the same life.

I never thought I would spend a year researching neurodiversity.

Yet it feels strangely familiar.

Like I accidentally walked into exactly the place I was supposed to be.

The funny thing is that if someone had described this life to me when I was sixteen, I would have immediately known they were lying.

Living between Milano, Copenhagen and Berlin.

Studying engineering.

Making art.

Building businesses.

Running workshops.

Writing constantly.

Thinking about publishing a book.

Having a blog.

Trying to make sense of all of it.

Impossible.

Completely unrealistic.

And yet.

I am sitting on a plane.

Listening to beautiful music.

Thinking about the black eyes I left in Milano.

Flying towards another pair waiting in Berlin.

Sometimes I stop and look at my life from the outside.

Not because I think it is extraordinary.

Because it feels improbable.

Like too many things I once wanted somehow decided to happen at the same time.

The cities.

The people.

The freedom.

The work.

The opportunities.

The love.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

Just more than I knew was possible.

There was a time when I thought happiness would arrive looking complete.

Finished.

Certain.

Instead it arrived looking like this.

Half-packed suitcases.

Airport announcements.

Google Calendar chaos.

A thesis draft.

Too many emotions.

Too many plans.

For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just in the quiet way.

The way you look around and notice that most people seem capable of staying.

Staying in the same city.

The same career.

The same version of themselves.

While something inside you keeps pulling.

Towards the next place.

The next possibility.

The next version of yourself.

I spent years fighting that part of me.

Trying to become more stable.

More predictable.

More normal.

Trying to convince myself that if I just found the right place, I would finally stop moving.

But I never did.

And eventually I understood why.

Because I was never searching for a destination.

I was searching for expansion.

For growth.

For experiences.

For transformation.

I do not move because I am running away.

I move because I fall in love.

With ideas.

With cities.

With possibilities.

With life itself.

And every time I become something new, I meet another version of myself waiting there.

Maybe that is why I never stayed.

Not because I was lost.

But because I was becoming.

I have changed plans more times than I can count.

Countries.

Jobs.

Dreams.

Lovers.

Homes.

Directions.

I rarely knew exactly what I wanted.

But I was always very clear about what no longer belonged to me.

And through all of it, there has been one constant.

One thing that somehow survived every version of myself.

I never stopped being in love with life.

That is my only real consistency.