I Tried Living Like a Historical Figure for a Week

Let me begin with this: Leonardo da Vinci was a genius, an inventor, an artist, a scientist… and absolutely exhausting to emulate. When I decided to live like him for seven days, I had no idea I was signing up for sleep deprivation, eyebrow singeing, and enough self-doubt to rival a Renaissance philosopher.

Day 1: The Outfit & The Journal

I woke up early on Monday morning—way earlier than I usually do—to don my best approximation of Renaissance fashion. I had sourced a flowing tunic, a wide-brimmed hat, and some rather uncomfortable leather shoes. I looked like I had wandered off the set of a Shakespeare play.

First mission: journaling. Leonardo was obsessed with sketching and note-taking, so I carried around a small leather-bound notebook everywhere I went. I wrote down observations like, “Birds do not flap as randomly as I assumed,” and “Today, I walked past a pigeon with a limp. Is this evolution in motion?”

So far, so good.

Day 2: Polyglot Problems

Leonardo reportedly taught himself Latin, Greek, and several regional dialects. I figured I’d try Duolingo’s Latin course and managed to learn “ego sum vir” (I am a man) and “panem et circenses” (bread and circuses). At lunch, I tried using Latin with my coworkers. They were... unimpressed.

Also, did I mention Leonardo barely ate meat? That was fine until I realized my go-to lunch—chicken Caesar wraps—was off the menu. I ended up with a plate of lentils and leafy greens. Very wholesome. Very tasteless.

Day 3: Sleep Like a Polymath (Or Don’t Sleep at All)

Leonardo allegedly practiced polyphasic sleep, meaning he slept for 20 minutes every four hours. I decided to give it a shot. I set alarms. I napped. I hallucinated. By 2 a.m., I was googling, “Can sleep deprivation make you smarter?” while holding a sketchpad I had tried to use in the dark. Spoiler: It cannot.

I gave up and crashed at 5 a.m., curled up on the floor, clutching my unfinished drawing of a spoon.

Day 4: The Inventor Within

Time to invent. I went to the hardware store with grand ideas: perhaps a new kind of bicycle or a self-stirring coffee mug powered by gravity. I walked out with PVC pipes, a funnel, duct tape, and no plan.

Back home, I tried to build a “flying machine,” based loosely on da Vinci’s sketches. It was essentially a pair of cardboard wings strapped to my arms with elastic bands. I climbed onto my couch, flapped furiously, and fell directly onto my coffee table. My roommate came out of their room, looked at me—wings and all—and just went back inside.

Day 5: The Artist Emerges

This was the day I waited for. I was finally going to paint like Leonardo. I set up an easel, prepped my acrylics (I didn’t have oil paints), and stared at a blank canvas for two hours—just like a real artist.

I tried to paint a self-portrait in da Vinci’s style. But where he created the Mona Lisa, I created something that looked like a melting sock puppet. I captioned it “Mona Least-a” and moved on.

Day 6: Nature Walks and Anatomy

Leonardo spent hours studying nature and the human body. I decided to do both in one go. I walked to the park, sat on a bench, and tried to sketch squirrels, trees, and passersby. One man yelled at me for “staring too hard.” Another asked if I was part of a cult.

Later, I opened a free online anatomy course to learn about muscles and bone structure. It was fascinating, until I fainted halfway through a dissection video of a cadaver’s knee. I realized I was not built for medical illustration.

Day 7: The Renaissance Wrap-Up

By the final day, I was delirious from lack of sleep, hungry from my near-vegan diet, and emotionally shattered by the judgment my “Mona Least-a” received online. But I was also... kind of inspired.

Living like Leonardo da Vinci—even badly—made me realize how intensely curious and disciplined he was. He wasn't just dabbling in things; he was devouring knowledge with every breath. Whether it was painting, architecture, flying machines, or dissecting frogs, he showed up with purpose and wonder. And that, honestly, is kind of beautiful.

So I sat down, wrote one last journal entry, and drew my coffee mug—really took my time with the shading. I ended the week feeling both more appreciative of Leonardo and more aware that I am, without a doubt, not him.

Final Thoughts

If you’re considering living like a historical figure, here’s my advice: pick someone who slept regularly and didn’t try to fly with homemade wings. But also, do it anyway. You’ll fail, you’ll laugh, and you might even find a part of yourself that feels a little more... Renaissance.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a nap, a steak, and someone to burn that sock-puppet painting.


---