Did you know that Leonardo da Vinci chose to paint The Last Supper on dry plaster instead of the conventional method, allowing him to achieve more vibrant colors? It also meant those colors would fade faster.
He didn’t paint the masterpiece to be immortal. He didn’t paint it for us. He painted it to enjoy its richness in real time. He didn’t value his creation for its potential to last forever; he valued it for the color it brought to his life in that moment.
I have always lived the same way.
I set myself up for heartbreak every time I get on a plane, determined to build a life, a community, and memories in a place I have never been before. Because, eventually, there is always a return flight. And with it, the realization that what I built was never meant to last.
That is the heartbreak I feel now, as I grieve three months in Milan.
Here, I studied under marketing and media professionals, collaborated with incredibly talented Italian creatives, and continued working remotely with teams in the United States. I developed my craft as a storyteller while learning how to live within the rhythm of an Italian city, a stark contrast to my previous experience in Italy. And after three months of long metro commutes, rushed espresso breaks, and strict deadlines, I learned something new. I learned how to let go.
Last summer, I was in Rome. For six weeks, I studied film, made new friends, and completely fell in love with the Eternal City. My days were slower, shaped by dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. I felt seen in a culture that values the miracle — and the bravery — of simply existing in the present moment. It made me question the fast-paced, competitive culture I had always known.
This time, I returned to Italy with a different intention. I wanted to know if I could build a life here, not just experience one.
And after three months of long metro commutes, rushed espresso breaks, and strict deadlines, I learned something new.
I learned how to let go.
You see, I already knew how to exist. I understood dolce far niente, and I had always lived by Leonardo da Vinci’s dry-plaster ethos. I have always created boldly, lived brightly, and given my all to whatever is in front of me.
“You do everything with your whole heart,” a colleague told me recently, in a candid conversation about strengths and weaknesses. Whether that is a strength or a weakness, I’ll let you decide.
It’s true.
In Milan, I lived that way fully, and it is what made the goodbyes so hard. I pulled up chairs at tables that were already full. I found myself in Italian marketing meetings, contributing to campaigns. I built relationships with colleagues who made the daily commute feel worthwhile. I said yes to unforgettable dates, spontaneous adventures, and moments that expanded my vision for the future.
And I discovered exactly what I set out to learn: I can build a life in Italy. In many ways, it felt like I already had — through work, romance, routines, and adventure. I cultivated a colorful life here.
All because I chose, once again, to forget about my return flight.
To paint boldly, even on dry plaster.
But eventually, the return flight came.
As spring began to arrive, dandelions appeared along my commute. Small, delicate, and fleeting, they showed up in the midst of my grief. Each day, I would pick one, hold it for a moment, and then let it go, blowing my wish into the future.
I won’t share what I wished for. But the act itself became the lesson.
With each breath, I released something. A memory. A moment. A version of myself that existed only here. I let go of the need to control what comes next, or to hold onto what was never meant to stay. I trusted, instead, that what is meant for me will find me again.
And still, it hurt.
It hurt to take that metro one last time. To say goodbye over aperitivo. To walk away from people and places that had come to feel like home. It felt tragic in the way all beautiful things do when they end, like watching the colors of a fresco fade with time.
Il tempo vola. Time flies.
And yet, I would choose this kind of heartbreak again and again.
Because this is what it means to live fully. To paint boldly, even knowing the colors won’t last forever. To love a place, a person, a moment, without asking it to stay.
Milan taught me how to let go, just as Rome taught me how to be.
And I am still learning.
Still learning how to love something fully without asking it to stay. Still learning how to leave without feeling like I am losing everything.
And maybe that is the point. To never stop learning. To never stop living with my whole heart. To never stop wishing on dandelions.
Not to preserve the painting, but to live for the color while it’s still there.
