Let’s Ride This F**** Horse

Stop here if you don’t like woo-woo stuff.

If you’re open to it, join me in this reflection on the year.

I had to create this image - the complete opposite of how I am feeling right now thou ;)

2025 was the Year of the Snake, which symbolizes intuition, transformation, and—most of all—rebirth and renewal. I don’t know about you, but for me, it absolutely was.

The shedding of skin was so powerful that I’m ending the year dealing with a very hard-to-handle flu—fever, pain, exhaustion—right during New Year’s Eve week. All the plans I had (and I have them every year) to clean my closet, organize my documents, get my life aligned and synced with my resolutions… all of that went out the window.

Well, c’est la vie.

Even though I crave the physical act of clearing space—and, by extension, clearing my mind—I’m choosing to accept and release the need to control everything and plan obsessively, as a good Capricorn tends to do.

I might be spending New Year’s Eve high on fever instead of prosecco, but I still welcome 2026—the Year of the Horse and, according to numerology, a number 1 year, full of energy, passion, and transformation.

More? Well… I guess.

2025 showed me how tired I am of suffering and constantly proving that I’m strong. Honestly, I’m good. I’m ending the year feeling awful, ugly, exhausted. Maybe this is the snake skin peeling.

I hope.

At least this next transformation isn’t starting from ground zero. It’s beginning from a fire already lit in 2025—inch by inch, layer by layer—transforming, rebirthing, and getting ready for what’s coming next.

Let’s ride this f**** horse. 🐎

I’ll Fit It Into My Life—Not the Other Way Around

When I first heard from my oncologist that the new treatment I’m undergoing for this recurrence didn’t have a set end date—even after a negative diagnosis—I told myself that even if it took a couple of years, I’d eventually be done with it.

But during my last infusion this week (I get them every three weeks), I asked him again because I’m planning a trip to Brazil and wanted to stay longer than three weeks. To my disappointment, he told me he still can’t predict an end date. There just isn’t enough data yet, and every case is different. The only thing he knows for sure is: if I stop, it could come back.

Not fun.

He told me that ultimately, I’ll have to be the one to decide if skipping an infusion for something important—like staying longer in Brazil—is worth it for me.

Hearing that hit me with a mix of emotions. It took me two days to even write about it. I never imagined I’d go through breast cancer once, let alone twice. No genetic markers, no family history, no unhealthy habits. And still—here I am. Again.

And now, knowing I’ll need to rely on this medication for an unpredictable amount of time is heavy.

You might think, “What’s the big deal? Some breast cancer survivors take daily pills for 5 or 10 years.” But for me, it’s the fact that I need to go to an oncology facility every three weeks. That I have to take pre-meds that mess with my mind—especially the steroids. That I lose an entire day because they make me tired. That I depend on someone to drive me. That I can’t just plan a trip to visit my family and friends for more than three weeks without considering treatment.

My whole life has to be planned around infusion days.

Thankfully, I had my port removed, because the thought of having it as a “forever friend” for who knows how long was too much. That thing bothered me so much.

Right now, the only thing I can do is reframe this. Maybe it’ll take some time—or maybe not—but I need to find a way to fit this treatment into my life, not the other way around. I don’t want to feel like a slave to it.

This whole cancer journey—both times—has brought so much to reflect on. And especially, to adapt to.

It’s a lot to process. But the only way I know how to move forward is to reframe each little challenge… and be grateful. Yes—grateful for the experiences, the possibilities, the strength we find within ourselves, and the support we’re lucky to receive. Give me a few days. I’m reframing it.

The Purple Bow Tie

One of the stories my mom always loved to tell and remember is about how I used to obsess over certain accessories or clothes as a child, without any clear reason or inspiration. I would simply fixate on something, and I didn’t care about odd looks or whether people thought it was tacky or weird. The most notable story? The bow tie.

Yes, that’s little me in the school photo, wearing my unmistakable purple bow tie

Around the age of seven, I became obsessed with wearing bow ties. I had a favorite one in purple fabric and another plastic one that I used less often. I even wore a lilac crochet tie—yes, crochet! But the one I loved the most and felt was the coolest was that purple fabric bow tie. I paired it with all kinds of looks. What mattered was having the accessory with me. It was mine, and no one else had anything like it. I remember so many times when we were about to go out as a family, and my mom would ask, “You’re really wearing the tie?” And I had no doubt: yes. Maybe a bit embarrassing for a mother, but I was convinced I looked awesome.

I never brought this up in therapy, but it would be interesting to explore one day. Recently, while doing a marketing strategy exercise, we were asked to look back at who we were as children—our dreams, what we wanted to be, our strong traits—and there she was again, in full fashion force: the purple bow tie.

Reflecting on this strong symbol, I realized that even as a child, I carried this sense of not belonging to just one group or category. And back then, that didn’t make me anxious or confused—it just meant fully living my identity. I had the freedom to be who I was, even when faced with disapproving looks, and I kept going.

Later, that became something like being ahead of my time—often saying too much, oversharing more than was “appropriate.” In adulthood, there were moments when I hid that bold, unapologetic side of me—when I silenced or adapted myself too much. But whenever I sat down to write something personal, themes like belonging, self-acceptance, and embracing identity always showed up in my work.

Since my first cancer treatment in 2022, this subject came back with full force. And now, during this second round (which is over, bye-bye, cancer!), it exploded completely. The purple bow tie became my internal symbol—a reminder to be who I am, without shame, without needing a reason not to fully live it.

I still believe in the importance of being flexible and adapting to life’s circumstances. After all, being true to yourself isn’t the same as being stubborn or trying to shock those who are different. With maturity, you learn that. But adapting to every single social, professional, and family situation has a limit. That limit comes when you ask yourself, “Where did that child go?”

Well, I’ve found my purple bow tie again. And you?