A Letter to My Dad, 10 Years Later

Today we celebrate what would have been my dad’s 74th birthday, and in just one month, it will be 10 years since his passing. I often wonder if I ever told him how much he truly taught me — even if, at times, in his own slightly “crooked” way, blunt, straight to the point, in that very Virgo, almost rough style. But yes, he taught me so much about work, opportunities, and courage. I’ve talked about it in therapy, with friends, with mom, with my husband… but never directly with the main character of this story. So today, to celebrate his birthday, I want to share a list of father-and-daughter moments that he left me in this life and in my memory forever. This is for you, Dad. 

My dad was a musician, music producer, creator of advertising jingles, and everything else connected to music. He was the manager of the Frenéticas, released a wonderful album called Nasceu (you can listen to it here and here — and, unbelievably, you can still find it for sale on eBay, Amazon (!) and other platforms.

This is me on the left recording one of the songs of his album

His album

He worked as a producer for Ultraje a Rigor (a very famous Brazilian rock band in the 1980's) for years, alongside dear Cacá, produced other shows, owned a studio for music and jingles, composed songs for Roberto Carlos, worked at the record label Biscoito Fino, and much more.

In other words, my dad knew a lot of people and had countless connections.

When I was around 11 years old, I was determined that I wanted to work in film. One day, after picking me up from a birthday party, he invited me to stop by the Canecão — for those who don’t know, it was a legendary concert venue in Rio, the mecca of great artists and shows. He had been invited to watch Ed Motta’s concert and asked me to come along. But silly me, I said no. Later, when he came back, he explained:

“That was an opportunity to meet someone who knows someone — and that’s important if you want to build a career in the artistic, creative, cultural world.”

That was my first networking lesson. I never forgot it. From then on, whenever opportunities like that came up, I embraced them.

As a teenager, I wanted to try out set design, costumes, and production. Through his contacts, my dad arranged for me to join a series of commercials for a refrigerator brand. I got to shadow the set designer and watch the recordings directed by Manguinha (famous director in Brazil). It was magical! Another push from my dad — teaching me to be bold, to show up even without experience, and to let my curiosity open doors.

It was also to my dad that I confided when I was 12 years old and something terrible happened. On my way to English class, I used to cut through a local market, and one day a man harassed me there. He waited for me after class and did it again on the street. When I got home, I told my dad everything. He hugged me, talked to me, and from that day on, he always drove me there and picked me up. That gave me not only safety but also trust and security.

I can’t forget that, at every presentation of mine — whether it was fashion shows during college, creative English classes I invented, a TV series pitch at my screenwriting course, or even the final video project at my content marketing agency — my dad always created the soundtrack. Music has always been part of my life because of him.

My very first fashion show — the soundtrack he created was a huge hit and super modern! The theme was the Dolly sheep experiments, cloning, and artificial elements.

And how could I not remember my lively birthday parties? My dad was there for every single one of them, and he also joined many other parties — dancing his heart out. The party in this photo? A classic! Everyone who was there still remembers it to this day.

Later, I worked for a few years at Fleishmann Royal Nabisco, during a more corporate chapter of my life. One day, my parents came for a vaccination campaign the company offered, and they visited my office. When my dad stepped in, he cried with pride and emotion. Soon after, I decided to leave that job for an internship at Sony Music. I went through the whole selection process in secret, because I knew he wouldn’t approve — especially leaving a stable job for an internship. I only told him after I was accepted. He was disappointed at first, but when he realized he knew some of the people there, he smiled. A year later, I understood why he warned me not to “trade a cat for a hare.” As always, he knew what he was talking about.

It was my dad, along with my mom, who supported one of my craziest projects: creating MULTI, a fashion market for emerging brands. On the day of the very first event, at a hostel in Ipanema, I was exhausted and nervous. When he arrived and saw the huge event I had created, full of fashion, music, and food, he leaned close to me and whispered:

“Don’t worry. Everything will work out. And if it doesn’t, we’re here to support you.”

That moment still warms my heart.

After days without proper sleep, on MULTI’s opening night I had just taught a fashion history class and went straight to the event launch.

He was also there when I dismantled my apartment after my first divorce, helping me pack everything and saying goodbye to the building that, for a year and a half, we jokingly called “our club” because of its always-empty pool.

He was so proud when he visited the office of my content marketing agency, which I shared with a friend and her design company, in Jardim Botânico. He was beaming with happiness, like a kid in a candy store.

We worked together several times. The first was when I was 18 years old, acting as the translator for a Krishna-Core punk rock band — I share the story here — where I also had a wild spiritual experience right by his side. After that tour, the band released the album Beyond Planet Earth, where we both received an exclusive dedication — another unforgettable gift from that chapter.

Years later, I brought him into the production of a guerrilla marketing campaign for a movie launch through my agency, and I also helped him at the merchandising store for a Chico Buarque concert. And guess where it was? Canecão. More than 20 years later, back to the very place where I had my first networking lesson from him.

Dad just the way he liked at home — shirtless because of the heat, with his studio set up in the living room, surrounded by us kids, mom, and a cold beer. 

There are certainly many more stories, more memories, more lessons, and more moments of pride that we shared. But these are the ones I hold dearest, the ones that helped shape who I am — through ups and downs, but always learning, and always with that famous boldness to chase my dreams.

Thank you, Dad. 

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.

Tetris taught me that when you try to fit in you'll disappear

Oh, dear Tetris—what a wise message you’ve taught us."Fitting in" seems harmless, but it can creep into even the most self-aware and well-therapized minds.

It’s not just about the classic story of parents who expected a different career or life path from you. It’s about trying to fit into someone else’s idea of a perfect partner. It’s forcing yourself to enjoy wine-and-paint nights with friends when you’d rather be anywhere else. It’s blending into a job that demands you be more aggressive when that’s just not who you are.

Fitting in—when it goes against who you really are—sucks.It sucks bad.

Because when you try too hard to fit in, you start to disappear.Just like in Tetris: the better the pieces fit, the faster they vanish. Poof. Gone.

But here’s the thing—fitting in is not the same as being flexible or open-minded. Exploring new ideas, growing, shifting—that’s all beautiful. But fitting in at the expense of yourself? That’s a slow erasure of your identity.

Every time you shrink yourself to match someone else’s expectations, you move further away from your truth—your dreams, your purpose.

Each of us came to this planet with a reason to be here. It might take a lifetime to find that reason—but the more you disappear, the less chance the world has to experience the real you.

And you matter. Your story matters. So please… don’t vanish.