A Journey to Self-Expression

30/12 - week 1  

Finding My Voice

I never thought I would write in English. Or I did, but I thought I wouldn't dare. But why not? If I want to reach a wider community of readers, of people, of human beings — I better start speaking a universal language.

Perhaps it is not the language I choose to write in that has been standing in my way all this time. I have had this eagerness to put myself in the world for so long — through my voice, my feelings, my stories — to connect, to relate, to make myself visible to others while meeting other hearts and minds alike on that journey.

Going back to wanting to express myself from a young age, I guess I was just not mature enough to put into words what I knew was worth it. I don't mean speaking about life on the outside — I mean on the inside. The nuances of my emotional life, the instability that no one could see from the outside, the chaos in the midst of apparent calm.

Being a child of someone emotionally absent was and is a deeply solitary place to grow up in. My only safe harbor was my grandmother, from my Dad’s side, with whom I developed a secure attachment from an early age. My parents left me at her house quite often. I was the oldest grandchild, taken care of by my grandmother for days in a row. And how I loved it. It was always a blessing, having someone’s care going your way. She was such a great person to me — loving, caring, funny.

I wish to create a sense of community. To make vulnerability an act of bravery, rather than a demonstration of failure or weakeness. When I set myself to write personanl instagram posts for over 21 days, I could feel the way people would come back to me and tell me: “keep going, don’t spot, I enjoy reading you - I relate to what you are saying and I cheer you on”.

Perhaps, when we write about our own stories and visions, we are in fact opening portals for others to reach their own internal realities and aspirations, with a new set of eyes and a softer and braver heart. Maybe it awakes something called empathy, as well. For whoever is writing and for whoever is reading. It gave me a sense of power, of meaning, of purpose that I have not fell in such a long time. It was great to have a taste of it. For as brief as it was.

Because shared humanity is this: has this power of making strangers feel familiar figures, if only we are able to speak the same language. The language of human experience - our common playground in this life, with all its emotions and feelings, of thoughts, desires, and learnings, and everything else that falls in between.

The Weight of Unspoken Words

So much has happened since my sixteen-year-old self did an exchange year in California and lived a life worth sharing in Pioneer, near the mountains, up North. Not because it was peaceful, but precisely because of the complexity of relationships, one in specific, with my host sister - who loved and hated me, all at once. When a fragile mental health unfolds upon us, it can be so rough and so tough on us. I knew from experience. Before that, I had so much unbearable, yet apparently small things, happening to me, and I knew I wasn’t alone, other kids would suffer just as much, or even worst - when abuse and neglect are phisical. To me it was never physical, yet psychologically it felt brutal. The lack of love, presence, attention from my parents made me feel deeply alone and invisible growing up.

That’s when I developed a strong sense of empathy towards others. My suffering made other’s suffering so visible, so loud - did not matter where it came from, I could sense if someone’s life was not easy and if that person needed compassion. More so, those people that regardless of the scarcity in their own lives, were able to be so kind, so polite, so joyfull.

Nothing moves me more than that. It inspired me so much. For me, that’s the African way, generalizing of course. That’s why I feel so attracted to that continent. Full of misery, but so abundant in joy and smily faces, with acts of pure kindness, from the people who have not much, and even then share (we would call it naively), but in fact generously, all they’ve got.

That was my experience when I lived in the Island of Mozambique for 5 months, when I was 22, doing volunteer work. The best time of my life, I usually say. The only time, until then, I did not count time. It did not want it to end. But it it end and it was not a happy ending. Malaria made me come home earlier. My mom went to visit me when I was just recovering from it. When she arrived, I got it once again, and had to stay in the hospital in Nampula. Never had the chance to go back and say goodbye to all the people I had met, to all the places I fell in love with. It was deeply in love with that Island and it’s people. With Moçambique. With Africa.

Going a few years back, life was such a wild roller coaster. My Dad bringing to life the dream of creating A Vida É Bela, focused on selling experiences through vouchers, which became a major hit. Him, drown in work, but still a humble, chaotic father, lacked of course the emotional maturity to handle it all properly. If not, I would not have anything to write about - Oedipus complex is always a good part of the story.

Life can be tough, really tough emotionally. But at the same time, so beautiful. We have this sensitivity, this depth to our nature, that makes our experiences so enriching, fulfilling, moving. What goes on in the physical world matters, of course, but it is how we perceive it on the inside that, most of the time, will make a story stick. And it's not about making up details to make it more appealing or touching. I would say it's the other way around. When we dare to be completely honest, raw, but at the same time insightful—that's when magic happens.

The truth is—I did not know how to start putting all that lives inside into words. What first? What matters most? What have I learned? What happened, really? All these questions lingered in my mind constantly, preventing me from making the first move.

But I need to give it a go. A portion at a time. Although I always rush to results, and there is no way I would make it to the end of my story quickly, I feel I should dare start. It will take a lot of time and effort: making decisions, compromising on where to put the light on—better not go there or I freeze.

This used to be my inner voice speaking. My ego, telling me not to bother, that I was better off not taking risks, waking me up at night telling me what a waste of time it is to feel so tired for doing something, attempting to express myself, when no one is really interested, when writing won’t lead me anywhere, won’t take me further nor higher in my journey of self-discovery, it will only deepen my sense of failure and tiredness, of frustration and humiliation. I was too afraid to stand with the uncomfortable and unbearable possibility that start writing, could mean finding out, right then and there, I was not fit for the challenge. And maybe it is true. Maybe not. I don't know. I want to be fit for the challenge. Now I want that for myself.

The Fire Within

If I stayed put, silent, quiet, discreet — that would be okay as well. The problem is: this fire that lives within me — that power that makes you feel brave and invincible, believing in yourself and on your gifts — wants to spread, be seen, live on and come out. And does not extinguish itself with water. It really needs writing or some sort of self-expression.

I know it because, one time, I wrote about my experience of my parents’ breakup, a not too long text, I posted on my Instagram account with the only picture I own of my both my parents, together — before I was born. It made me feel so proud, so strong, in connection with the most authentic and brave part of myself writing something so personal and impactful, without choosing the right words to make it less susceptible.

The feedback I got reflected what I felt: it was meaningful, and I should nurture this. And then, the next day, in the middle of the afternoon, I started receiving my mom’s messages, saying I needed to delete the post I had made. I didn’t want to delete it, but as a people pleaser, scared of the consequences of disobeying, feeling my mom’s fear of appearances as a major threat to my own balance and well-being, I deleted it — and it was like pouring a huge bucket of water on top of my head, and extinguishing my fire, for good. Until now.

So, for the sake of my mental health, to nurture my self-love and raise my self-worth—let's do it. Let's make 2026 the year I put myself on the map.

Stop delaying, making excuses, thinking others do it better than I would. How could I know, really, if I never even tried? If this is what it takes to start—putting words in a sequence, trying to make that specific order sound and feel meaningful—I am here.

I guess the only person that needed convincing was me. There wasn't anyone stopping me from forming this habit, from pursuing this goal. I am deeply afraid of being criticized by whoever I decide to write about, who ends up feeling offended or something worse. I will try to mind those, and not expose too much, to not make them feel humiliated or entitled to sue me. At the same time, what I will keep in mind the most is to tell a story I would feel proud of. Not because it's perfectly conveyed, but because it is genuine.

Voices of the Voiceless

I have been thinking for so long that success was not for me. How could I become successful if I don't know how it is to feel enough, whole, brave, strong, going my way? If I don’t love myself, fully, or anything at all, sometimes. It’s such a bumpy journey for me, fighting my internal voices that empty my self-worth, make me doubt myself, all the time.

If I think of the times where I am most proud of myself, it is definitely the times I spoke my mind, regardless of the consequences. I did that a lot growing up, to defend myself and others (whom I felt needed that protection, even if they were not there to hear me), when I heard someone (my mom) treating others in an arrogant manner. I see it now, how my hope was not just defending the other person’s dignity — it was also about defending my own, setting the example of what I accepted and what I despised. What I wished I had

I felt so threatened, and angry at the same time, by the arrogance of those, and there are so many “those” around me, who felt superior toward others less fortunate, apparently — that I chose mostly to speak up, especially if it was to voice the voice of the voiceless. I came to realize that I was voicing myself, in reality.

The voice of the voiceless was me, all along, in my own home. But even if I knew I was not being heard, seen, taken seriously, understood, supported, validated, cheered, or anything I wished I had been, I kept voicing my thoughts, feelings, needs — to find myself being discarded, by the absence of an emotional empathetic caring figure to welcome me.

I just dreamed of a better reference, every time I felt the urge to speak. In reality, how I wish I didn't need to speak at all—that would mean the world. It meant I was living in a fair, equitable, caring, kind, warm world, or household. But that was not the case, most of the time.

And this starts at home, yes. We know it and that's why we become activists from such a young age. We get so criticized as well, from such a young age, by expressing contrasting points of view from the adults in the room. And yet, each time I voiced them, I got laughed at, because I saw and I felt things differently from the norm, from the social norm I was forced to witness, cope with, and live by.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: Give us ONE specific scene from childhood where you spoke up and were laughed at. Make us see the room, hear the laughter, feel your body's response. This is where your story comes alive.]

Generational Echoes

That is probably the longest-running obstacle I have dealt with my whole life. The desire to have my perspective accepted, considered, legitimized, even if the other person's was completely different. But I never experienced that growing up. And I struggled, I suffered, I got good at defending a cause that was so dear to my heart: diversity, inclusion, and treating others the way they deserve to be treated—politely, kindly, respectfully.

I don't mean to portray anyone as this giant disrespectful person. I think what I mean is that parents can be profoundly self-absorbed in their own views and ways, rejecting anyone's opinions in a way that is harmful. And that's what strikes me. How come I couldn't be empathetic toward others without being laughed at? Why are these people laughing even? What's so funny about being less privileged and deserving the understanding that we are not better or worse than one another, we are just different?

We come from different upbringings, different contexts, we are given different opportunities—it's normal we speak, act, and come out differently. We are all trying to make the best with what we are given, right? Why judging, minimizing, mocking? Not being good enough in the eyes of one person does not make that statement true and definitely does not give them the right to make someone feel less.

I have been trying to be a good girl all along. Pleasing my parents, trying not to mess too much with their self-view. We are talking about people, like you and me, with a fragile self-esteem. So, mind your voice and in case of doubt—shut up. That's what I kept hearing, time after time: "If you don't have anything pleasant to say, don't say anything at all."

This is probably something my mom heard as well from her mother, I bet. But it's infuriating. And that's why there is so much rage running in our veins when it comes to accepting the way we were treated by our mothers. My mom and I, I mean.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: This is the heart of your story. Explore the parallel between you and your mother more deeply. What specific pattern did your grandmother pass to your mother, and your mother to you? Name it. Describe how it manifests differently in each generation.]

It's hard not to feel jealousy toward other people with great, caring relationships with their mothers. I would dare to say that's probably the best thing there is in the world. Who doesn't have it is missing out on so much. It is so hard to grow up in scarcity of love, from what is supposed to be the source and the reference of abundance.

Not for us. Not for my mom, nor for me. We had to bear the minimums. Hearing a lot of self-pity and self-absorbed stories, reactions, and requests coming our way all the time. We did not have space to move freely. We should not exist, even. We should stand there to notice the other person: to listen, to look at, to do what they needed us to do at any given moment. That was our mission in life, growing up. Not to upset, not to diminish, not to anguish, not to disappoint, not to hurt, by any means possible, that mother. And it was so, so easy to do all this. Just took us opening our mouths and being our authentic selves.

Breaking the Pattern

Too bad this story is not about self-pity. I am truly on a mission to break patterns and rewrite the story and the legacy women leave behind in my family. At least, in what concerns and affects me.

I know I am speaking about the biggest obstacle the women in my family faced, just by being a woman: being their authentic self meant showing up strong, vulnerable, and invincible at the same time, and that was not permitted. Dreaming big and pursuing those dreams was not okay. Appearances mattered most. Shutting up, sticking to the norm socially, was more important. Laying low was the difference between being accepted and being rejected. So, lay low, little ones.

Nowadays, my relationship with my mother is much more stable and controlled. I can speak my mind in a way she doesn't take as personally as, let's say, a year ago. Or even when she does, she knows now that I am an adult, entitled to my own views and opinions. And that is the biggest blessing of this past year.

I think 2025 was a crucial year for that. My mom was forced into reality in the worst possible way: she realized all her theories about someone very important to her were biased and that even though people are vulnerable and deserve empathy—mostly this person, so dear to her—they still need to be held responsible for their choices, as we all are, and be fully accepted for who they are, without judgment, regardless of whether it is what we hoped for them.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: This section is too vague. Who is this "someone very important"? What happened in 2025? What theories were challenged? The reader needs more context to understand this transformation.]

The Strength of Motherhood

I know I have been strong, and I can recall that phase of my life in a heartbeat. The time when I connected to my inner strength, maybe for the first time with such intensity and for a steady period of time. It was that feeling—strength, sense of responsibility and power—that led me to do therapy and persist in transforming myself.

When my first daughter was born, and I was a single mom, trying to change my relationship patterns so I would not reproduce them with my descendants, I was grounded in such an empowering feeling of "anything is possible." Then, when I had a daughter to care for and look after on my own—without being together with my daughter's father and feeling scared of feeling once again attracted to a relational pattern that wasn't healthy or sustainable—I found my power.

Obstacles are just fears holding us back. If I am no longer afraid of diving deep into myself, I jump into therapy and commit myself to do the work—that's a good example. Sometimes we feel relentless, other times powerless and hopeless.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: This moment of becoming a single mother and choosing therapy is pivotal. What was the exact moment you decided? What did you fear most about repeating patterns? Show us the weight of holding your daughter and making that choice.]

The Map on My Back

Now I understand why I wanted to grow up fast and delve into the world. Now I understand why I tattooed the world map on my back. I didn't want those references to define me. I wanted to feel belonging where humanity lies, not where prejudice and humiliation live.

I am just now, at the age of 33, overcoming this huge obstacle of understanding that belonging does not happen outside of oneself. If we want to feel at home, we must feel whole. And to feel whole, we must love ourselves deeply. We must choose ourselves, prioritize ourselves, look into ourselves and know how to identify and satisfy all our needs and desires from an intentional and conscious way.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: The tattoo is such a powerful symbol! Tell us more. When did you get it? What did it feel like? What does it look like? This deserves its own moment.]

Learning to Love

Truth be told, I am just starting to learn that, from an empowered and responsible place now. It's never too late to realize that clichés hold so much wisdom within themselves. If only we were wise enough to peel the layers and understand how it resonates with us and with our greatest pitfalls.

From tough love, we can truly conquer and nurture real love. But to be completely real, it needs to come from within ourselves, toward ourselves first. If love comes through us straight to others, bypassing entirely our soul and our essence, giving no space to our needs and our aspirations, then something is off and we are not owning our place in this world. We must feed ourselves too, with love. We too deserve this.

Even if the meaning only comes rationally still, like to me: I know I need to establish self-care goals, exercise, eat better, have me-time and make myself a priority in order to have room for others from a fulfilled and self-loving place. But it does not come naturally—I know it, but I haven't put action into it.

We may be the source for our children now, but to be a healthy one, we need to learn how to give ourselves permission to put ourselves on the map as well. Each day, there needs to be a spot where we connect with ourselves and acknowledge our existence from a space of pride, of strength, of intention, of peace. Otherwise, we will keep on feeling empty and insufficient all our lives.

[DIG DEEPER HERE: End with something more concrete. What is ONE thing you will do differently tomorrow? Next week? Give us the beginning of the action, not just the philosophy.]