It wasn't exactly planned, the way Felix Smith became a television host. For years, he moved through a life where other people set the agenda - where he showed up, what he did, how he filled the hours. It worked, in the way that things work when you're capable and visible and everyone around you seems satisfied.
But Felix wasn't always satisfied.
An ADHD diagnosis changed that. Not because it handed him answers, but because it made him stop and actually ask the questions. What do I want? What fills my life with meaning? What happens if I step off the train I didn't consciously board, and take the wheel myself?
That's how he lives now. Deliberately, in the driver's seat, with mornings built to give his brain its best possible start. Most people know Felix from television, but today his life is filled with Formula 1, motorcycles, and talks about ADHD. We meet him at home in Gentofte, overlooking the lake; the apartment warm, layered, and quietly bohemian in a way that surprises you. A fireplace is lit. Incense hangs in the air. A large photograph of a Formula 1 car sits among soft, considered furniture. It describes him well. A man with room for both feeling and speed.
Felix's mornings follow the same shape every day, and that's entirely by design. His ADHD works best with consistency, he explains, so the structure holds without negotiation. Up at 7. A glass of water with lemon to flush out the body after a long night, which, he admits with a laugh, tends to send him directly to the bathroom. Then the blender.
In his freezer he keeps two drawers ready: one with a mix of berries, one with spinach, broccoli, and beetroot. Every morning he builds a big smoothie for the whole household: coconut water, banana, aioss, the contents of both drawers, and creatine. A production line disguised as a morning ritual.
"Inspiring my two boys is everything. They say the morning smoothie makes them feel better. They also say it beats Joe & the Juice. I consider both a win."
And he means it. Getting his boys to say that might be one of his quietest victories, inspiring them is one of the most important things he does. This year, without any prompting, they decided to cut out sugar entirely themselves. He laughs telling the story, admitting he's still the one who occasionally falls off the wagon.
The kitchen counter tells another part of the story. It's lined with supplements: magnesium, zinc, extra vitamin C, saffron, aioss. Felix has chosen not to manage his ADHD with medication. Instead, he tries to give his body and brain the building blocks they need to thrive. His partner Sophia, who holds a master's degree in Health Promotion, helped him work out what actually makes sense for him. The supplements aren't a statement. They're a system, refined over time, with someone he trusts.
Then comes the coffee, made properly. And above the machine hangs a photograph of a small boy. Little Felix, he calls it. Every morning, he gives the photo a quiet, affectionate look, a reminder of where he came from, and an invitation to speak kindly to himself, because that boy is still in there.
"He reminds me where I come from. And that I should be a little more gentle with myself."
The ritual came from a friend. Mads Langer introduced him to the idea, and something in Felix immediately recognised it as his own. So up it went, above the coffee machine, where it greets him every single morning without fail.
He takes his coffee in his great-grandmother Carla's chair from 1891, because in Felix's home, everything carries weight. The objects, the people, the choices, all of them chosen, none of them accidental. Before long, he's pulling on his helmet and motorcycle jacket. His co-host Peter is waiting, and they have a Formula 1 podcast episode to record at Politiken Hus.
We leave him to it, energised by a man who had the courage to rearrange his life around the things that actually matter to him. Most of us could learn something from that.
