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. 🐎

But you look great!

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been hearing that from people I run into — at yoga class, during a theater rehearsal, in a work meeting, or at the fifth medical appointment of the month.

The “looking great,” in the eyes of those who know (or find out) that I’m getting chemo every three weeks, that I went through four surgeries in just two months, and that I’m still in the process of reconstructing the breast that was removed — and believe it or not, that process isn’t even over yet — seems to surprise them. Whatever “great” means, I honestly feel like crap.

During Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I always feel some responsibility to talk about it. But lately, I’ve been having mixed thoughts about speaking up. I’m a little tired of talking about cancer. First, because I’m tired — period. And second, because cancer doesn’t define me.

But going through cancer a second time — and this time in such a harsh, difficult way, with a unilateral mastectomy, countless reconstruction complications, and all the physical and mental adjustments to the implant — hasn’t been easy at all.

I’ve already received confirmation twice this year that I’m cancer-free, but I still do chemo as a precaution. The doctor visits, the parallel treatments, and all the things that come along with it still haunt me — every single day. It’s a daily act of living and surviving.

And recently, I found out I have skin cancer. Even though it has nothing to do with breast cancer, it’s always that feeling of, “Seriously?” The treatment and all its side missions have become a second job. Depending on the day, I spend three to four hours just dealing with treatment-related stuff. There’s no break. No rest. There’s home work, work work, and treatment work. And still, people say I look great.

This year, I really wanted to come here and share a message of strength for other friends and women who are in treatment — or about to begin. And even after all this venting, I want to say that despite everything — despite being fed up — I’m still positive. I still give thanks. I still have faith. But right now, it’s a daily mix of “get up, shake off the dust, and rise again,” and honestly, it gets exhausting. Fatigue knocks at my door almost every day. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I let it in. And people say I look great. Good for me, I guess.

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?