Milan looks at itself in the mirror. But it no longer recognizes itself. Or worse, it pretends not to.

Once upon a time, you came to Milan with clean shoes and a desire called " the future ." Money wasn't necessary; the idea of making it was enough. A job near the Fiera, a rental on Via Padova, a good outfit for Saturday afternoons were all you needed. You went downtown not to act like a Milanese, but to become one, little by little, over time, with grace, with ambition. The center was the goal, not the backdrop. And those who came from outside, from Brianza, from Lodi, from Bergamo, from the plains and the lakes, came to take a piece of Milan home. In a couple of pastries bought on Sunday morning. In an overcoat seen in a shop window . In a gesture of elegance learned by watching a lady crossing Via Orefici with the right step, her head held high. Look how she respects her, my grandfather used to say.

Milan was respected because it had been conquered . It had been earned through hard work, with the dignity of workers that smelled of trains and coffee roasters, with the sirens of factories and the silence of public libraries. It was a stern but just city. A city that measured you, but then let you grow. And those who lived there experienced it with a sense of mutual respect: the city gave, and you had to give back. In decorum, in honesty, in improvement.

Today, Milan still looks at itself in the mirror. But it no longer recognizes itself. Or worse, it pretends not to . It's put its lipstick back on, the gray stone staircases in the new neighborhoods, the glass penthouses where no one knows the neighbor's name anymore. It has elegant skyscrapers, perfect escalators, sterilized cobblestones. But the scent of the city is missing. That of warm bread in the morning, of used schoolbooks, of wax in the corridors of old buildings. That of chatter at the bar, of polite silences on the tram, of the silent Sundays, when the city rested and made room for the soul.

Meanwhile, the city center has been overturned . It's no longer a place to climb. It's become a stage to be occupied, invaded, and exhibited. Many come here, hundreds of them, with no respect and no plan. Maranza in droves, wearing plastic tank tops, posturing like the Bronx, with TikTok-like voices, who have nothing to say except that the city center is now theirs, and must be treated like a ramshackle courtyard, with all the anger of those who never wanted to integrate, but only to occupy. This is anything but a melting pot. This is social desertification with air conditioning.

And so the true Milanese—and there are still some, even if they hide—no longer know where to go. They remain on the margins, return to the suburbs, look at the city from outside , and no longer feel it's theirs. And the provincials who once came with respect now wonder if it's worth it. Milan has become a place where people work, but don't live. Where they spend, but don't grow. A place they pass through, but don't inhabit.

Once upon a time, people met for coffee. A simple, elegant affair . We'd meet at the Motta bar, stroll under the porticoes, comment on the shop windows, and soak up the city air. Even those from outside learned something: that social mobility wasn't just an idea, but a real possibility. All it took was effort, respect, and a little style. And Milan reciprocated.

Now glittering neighborhoods are being built, with English names and numbered squares . But they are soulless neighborhoods. Buildings that generate income, not life. Houses that cost too much to be loved. Not a voice is heard, there's no doorman, not a newsstand, not a child playing in the yard. Only electric scooters, delivery services, offices with badges, and meeting rooms where strategies are discussed, but "good morning" is no longer said.

Milan has forgotten the beauty of its own growth . The human pace of its transformation. The patience with which it built itself. It was a city that became a metropolis without losing its heart. Now it risks becoming a metropolis without vital organs. And this hurts. For it, for those who love it, for those who have always seen it as a point of reference. Because Milan is Lombardy. It is its moral and material center. If it loses its balance, the whole region loses its own.

But perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps beneath the cold skin of this now untouchable city, a warm and discreet heart still beats. Perhaps there's still a woman who carefully chooses her Sunday pastries. A boy who looks at the shop window in the center not for selfies, but out of desire. A father who takes his daughter to watch the tram clank by. Perhaps there are still those who respect each other. And then Milan can do that again, too.

But you have to want this city. You have to respect it, even if you weren't born here. You have to look it in the eye, and not just in your stories . You have to remember that Milan, before becoming a trend, was a civic hope. And it can still be that.

“ Look how the city values itself .” When it wants to. When they let it be itself.