Milan propels me forward, Menorca grounds me — and somewhere in between, I’ve found a new rhythm.
Sometimes silence isn’t absence. Sometimes it’s simply life rearranging itself.
That, I think, is what happened here.
For a while, it was quiet on this page. Not because I had nothing to say — but because life had become louder than words.
A little over a year ago, my husband and I moved to Milan for work. A new city, a new country, a new language, a new pace. It all sounded exciting, glamorous even, in the way fresh beginnings often do from the outside.
From the inside, it felt more complicated. Because change, I’ve learned, rarely arrives in a beautifully wrapped package. More often, it comes with too many feelings, too little structure, and the slightly disorienting sense that the life you knew no longer fits — while the new one hasn’t quite taken shape yet.
And somewhere in that in-between, I went quiet.
From the Familiar into the Unknown
What unsettled me most in the beginning wasn’t even the move itself. It was the absence of rhythm. There were no familiar routines to hold on to. No comforting choreography to the day. No structure quietly carrying me from one hour into the next.
That kind of freedom sounds wonderful in theory. And in many ways, it is. But it can also be surprisingly exhausting.
Everything suddenly seemed possible. And exactly because of that, sometimes nothing did.
In those first months, I felt both: the thrill of a new beginning —and the strange emptiness that often sits quietly beside it.
I wandered through Milan, drank too many espressos in tiny bars, tried yoga studios, said yes to aperitivo evenings, and attempted to create something resembling a life. Outwardly, I was doing all the right things. Inwardly, much still felt unsorted.
Hamburg no longer felt like home. Milan didn’t quite feel like home yet.
And Menorca remained the place my heart kept returning to, almost instinctively.
I found myself circling one question again and again:
Where do I actually belong?
Now, a year later, I can say this: Milan and I have found our way with each other. Not in one dramatic, cinematic moment. Not with a grand revelation. Just slowly. Quietly. Almost without me noticing.
And perhaps that’s exactly how arriving happens.
The Unexpected Gift of Opening Up
I should probably admit something here: networking has never been my natural habitat. I have always found those classic social situations faintly exhausting — rooms full of people balancing a drink and a polished self-introduction, summarising who they are and what they do before the olives even made it around the room.
I have always preferred standing with familiar people near the cheese platter, pretending that counts as participation.
So joining an expat club in Milan was, to put it mildly, not very „me“. And yet — partly because of Romy, partly because some quieter part of me knew it was time — I did.
That’s how I found „Benvenuto a Milano“.
What began as curiosity slowly turned into something much more meaningful. Conversations. Familiar faces. Women who listen. Who ask questions. Who exchange numbers and actually mean it. The kind of connections that don’t arrive with fanfare, but somehow hold you up all the same.
And little by little, Milan softened around the edges. It became less intimidating. More human. More mine.
The beautiful thing about arriving is that you rarely notice the exact moment it happens.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It doesn’t ring a bell.
It just quietly settles in.
Menorca: My Quiet Counterpart
While I was learning how to find my footing in Milan, one place remained unchanged.
Menorca.
Calm, clear, honest.
My counterbalance.
It is an island I don’t simply visit — it is one I feel. And with it, I feel the people who live there in a way that still moves me every single time.
People who make space for each other. People who shift a little closer at the bar so two more shoulders can fit in. People who still seem to understand that life is not something to be rushed through.
And nowhere do I feel that more than in „March“. I love March on Menorca. It is not yet summer, not even close — and that is exactly its beauty. It is a month of quiet awakening. A soft beginning. A first promise.
The air changes.
The light turns gentler.
Windows are open again. Curtains move in the breeze. Conversations drift into the street.
On my way to Sant Lluís, I often pass the same older gentleman sitting outside his house. He always greets me with the same warmth, as though I had never really left. He chats to a neighbour, smiles as I pass, and in that small, ordinary moment, the island reminds me of something I tend to forget elsewhere:
Life does not always need to rush.
And suddenly, possibility returns. Even my body seems to remember before my mind does. My steps become lighter. My energy returns.
Something inside me exhales.
My Perfect Menorca Day
My perfect day on the „illa“ starts early:
With yoga. With breath. With stillness.
Often with Marcela Frey — arriving, breathing, letting go. Sometimes at Casabeja, the home of Katja Loher, which carries its own kind of quiet magic.
Then coffee, obviously.
Either at Pipet & Co. — where mornings begin with familiar nods, good cappuccino, and what might just be the island’s most reliable carrot cake.
Or at Esforaster, slowly filling up again after winter. Abraham showing the new collection, Luis behind the bar preparing avocado toast and cappuccinos, and endless little “¿Hola, qué tal?” conversations in that cheerful, Menorcan mix of Spanish and English.
It is a pace I had almost forgotten.
The kind of pace where no one seems especially interested in pretending to be too busy for life.
I take my time. I stop at Xarcuteria es Molí, chat with Monica, buy vegetables and fruit — „kilómetro zero“ — and eventually make my way to the sea.
Benissafúller.
Or Sa Mesquida.
And there it is again — that quiet reset.
The morning yoga.
The sea view.
The breath softening.
The cool, clear water still untouched by the season.
The subtle energy in the air as things begin to return.
I sit on the rocks in Benissafúller and let the warmth of the stone settle into me. I look at the water. I dip in a foot. It’s freezing. Maybe I’ll swim. Maybe I won’t.
And somehow, that too feels like freedom.
Everything is possible.
„Why I Keep Coming Back“
Maybe that is what Menorca gives me, again and again.
Not spectacle.
Not urgency.
Not the need to become someone else.
But something much rarer:
A quiet sense that everything has its place.
And that perhaps — finally — I do too.
Here, I’ve found something I value more with every passing year:
Connection.
To the island.
To the people.
And to myself.
Favourite Places & Addresses
Marcela Frey
Yoga & Retreats
Instagram: @marcelafrey
Katja Loher / Casabeja
www.katjaloher.com
Pipet & Co.
Plaça Bastió, Maó
Esforaster
Carrer de Sant Lluís 60, Sant Lluís
Xarcuteria es Molí
Carrer de Sant Lluís, Sant Lluís