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.

From Your First Dove

First dove— that’s what she used to call me. I’m her first granddaughter, and she gave me that curious nickname.

Grandma Therezinha was always a fun, vibrant presence in my life, full of stories about her childhood in Cuiabá — tales of the unusual (and to me, hilarious) names of her friends in that quiet town that, according to her, later became unrecognizable, without the shady trees and inner gardens she remembered so fondly.

I never visited her hometown, but it felt like I knew it like the back of my hand from her countless stories — from the accident she had as a child, falling onto an iron fence and being bedridden for a year, to her strength, her mischief, and at the same time, her impeccable sense of organization and financial discipline.

I also remember visiting her at work at the State Health Department. As modest as it was, to me it felt like a dream. I still remember her black leather pencil case filled with pencils, erasers, and pens. She took the bus from Leblon to downtown Rio — and of course, more stories came from that route, like the one about a drunk man who passed out during a turn and landed on her foot, actually breaking it. A tragic story, yes, but when she told it, it became pure comedy, always accompanied by her wonderful laughter.

That was Grandma. A passionate Aries who could go from laughter to anger, from teasing to praise, in a heartbeat.

During my teenage years, I started spending even more time at her place, especially because of the beach. I’d stay weekends — and even weekdays — after fencing classes with my cousin Inoã and my aunt Leila, who lived with her. I’d sleep in her room — and even with her legendary snoring, I loved it! You know how a grandmother’s home feels, right?

A few years later, I moved in with her completely, bringing everything I had. It was a sort of crazy deal — “I’ll keep you company” — since she was living alone again, and I had been craving a room of my own since I was three.

Grandma Therezinha became my second mother in a quiet, loving agreement that lasted until I was 27 and got married for the first time. Those were years full of life lessons: about self-esteem — how she always said she saw herself as beautiful and confident, without shame — about family, in our big Sunday lunches, and about friendship, during our trips to Talho Capixaba, our gossip sessions, and the soap operas we watched together.

I remember the letter I wrote her, crying, as I said goodbye to her house when I got married for the first time. Less than two years later, I divorced… and went back to her company. We lived together for almost seven more years, until I married again and moved to the U.S.

These past 10 years living abroad, I visited Brazil four times, and each time I emotionally recharged by spending time with her — asking her to tell my favorite stories again, flipping through her photo albums, asking about old acquaintances, begging her to make the banana cuca I loved, and soaking up her gentle head rubs with her long fingernails.

Ah, I could stay here reminiscing forever... even about when she’d pretend to understand what I said but actually hadn’t heard a thing because her hearing aid was off.

Oh, Grandma Therezinha... a lover of life, of cold beer, of vanilla ice cream she sometimes hid from guests. On my last visit, I got to introduce her to my furry son, my dog Herkey, who I took with me to Rio. She could never pronounce his name correctly, but the way she said it was the sweetest and most loving version — in true Therezinha style.

Your first dove is here, going through treatment, getting stronger, inspired by the way you lived and looked at life. I love you!

(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. :)