Or I Stop and Rest, or I Stop and Rest

⚠️ Trigger warning: This post touches on sensitive topics and may stir deep emotions. Or simply can make you think!

People who know me—those who’ve spent real time with me, my friends, family, or even anyone who’s read my birth chart—would describe me as “energetic,” “passionate,” “a hard worker.”No one close to me would ever say “calm,” “cute,” or “zen.” That’s just not me.

Patience? I've been working on it since forever. Procrastination? Not in my vocabulary. I’m a doer. Always with a new project or idea. I feel like if I don’t create, I’ll explode from excess energy.

Meditation? I like it—for 5 minutes. Yoga? Love it—as long as it’s fast-paced. That’s just my nature. Denying it doesn’t help.

On top of that, I like to control things. Not people—just me: my schedule, my health, my routine.Annoying, I know.

Now mix that: high-energy + control-freak…Add physical limitations, being 95% at home, needing help for nearly everything I usually do, for at least five weeks, plus the looming fears: “Will my skin heal? “Can I still do the reconstruction? “How long until I get back to my active life?”“When will I be able to raise my right arm again?”

Simple questions with no simple answers. And the only thing I know for sure is: I need patience. Which, of course, is the one thing I lack.

I was doing really well with this second treatment, just like I did with the first. I was even recovering fast from the one-sided mastectomy. But then my skin (thanks to previous radiation) decided not to cooperate. Two unexpected surgeries within two weeks later, and here I am… deep in “WTF is life?” mode.

Yes, I’ve had my “poor me” days—they’re mostly gone. I’ve had (and still have) sad days. But I’m managing: therapy sessions, spiritual tools, and lots of venting to my mom and Alan (thank you and sorry!).

I know that in a couple of months, I’ll read this and think, “Why was I overthinking? Everything’s fine now.”But right now, riding this bumpy road is exhausting, and my butt is tired.I want to reach the final destination—with new boobs, good news, and full independence. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. But this time, there’s no other option.

Either I stop and rest, or I stop and rest. That’s it.

It may sound silly, but I wrote myself a Post-it note that says “REST” and stuck it to my laptop.I even set daily timers to remind me of this incredibly hard task: just relax. Ommmm.

(Co)Existing

Since I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2022 and now find myself undergoing treatment again for a tumor that decided to show up, I keep questioning what it means to (co)exist between joy and sorrow. We celebrate a loved one’s birthday and, the next day, cry over a devastating test result. I share that I’m feeling better and more energetic, while my dear grandmother has been in the hospital for over two months in a critical condition after being hit by a car. I laugh at my dog’s adorable antics while the world seems increasingly divided, with strange forces spreading fear and hatred.

It’s not easy.

Is it possible to split ourselves in two? One me to deal with tragedy, another to embrace joy—without one colliding with the other? Or do we simply have to coexist in this duality? That’s how I feel every day. And along with it comes a mix of guilt, perhaps? Even though I know I can’t—and shouldn’t—be responsible for healing the world’s pain, the question lingers: what can I do to help?

The other day, during an intense super power Kundalini Yoga class—where we moved our bodies frenetically for 50 minutes, full of energy and joy—the instructor invited us to chant a mantra in honor of a student’s mother who had recently passed away. She explained that this mantra could be recited for up to 17 days after someone’s passing, helping both the soul transition peacefully and bringing comfort to those left behind. So we chanted together, for the student and her mother.

When the class ended, I felt an overwhelming urge to hug her. We are not friends, barely acquaintances—I had only seen her a few times in class. And for those who know me, I’m zero hugs. I even call myself “Little T-Rex” because my arms are short, and hugging doesn’t come naturally to me. But at that moment, the gesture was beyond me. It was a necessity that came from somewhere deeper.

I walked up to her, eyes filled with tears, stretched out my tiny arms, and we shared a long embrace.

In that instant, I felt that coexistence in this paradoxical universe was possible—that joy and sorrow, in some crazy way, help each other. And so, we carry on.

How you can support me? Click on the image. :)

Eternally an Immigrant

Sometimes I think I have a tendency to do things on autopilot, without thinking too deeply. Something perhaps a bit cold. People looking from the outside might think I dive headfirst, full of emotions, but honestly, I jump into the dark more with a “let’s just live and see what happens” attitude than with overwhelming passion. But what does that have to do with the theme of this text? Well, the fact that I’m about to celebrate 10 years of moving to another country — of immigrating — fits precisely into this category of “let’s see what happens” without overthinking. Reckless? Maybe.

My immigration wasn’t because I wanted to live in another country or because I wanted to work abroad. It wasn’t because I needed to leave a place with no opportunities, and it certainly wasn’t about seeking so-called “freedom.” I immigrated to live a love that was just beginning to bloom, to see where it would lead. And so, we return to the first paragraph. Reckless? Maybe.

I believe that when you immigrate for a reason like this, you’re left with the feeling that you’ll always be an immigrant. That my heart, my history, my culture, my roots, my language, my accent, and my soul will always belong to my home country. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been away, what documents I have, or how much I adapt. Once an immigrant, forever an immigrant.

Yes, that's me!

With each passing year in the United States, I feel more Brazilian. And with each year here, I miss my homeland even more. I don’t want to get into the debate about which place is better. Not at all, because every country has its own issues, its little things to complain about. Oh, of course, they had to be Brazilian, American, Swedish, Jamaican, Polish, Korean... and so on.

Will this feeling of not belonging ever go away? I think probably not. And honestly, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I just keep moving forward, feeling like an eternal immigrant.