Today, I want to talk about love.

Over the past few months, I’ve learned one of the hardest lessons of my life: how to choose myself. How to say no. How to trust my intuition, even when everything seems perfect on the surface.

Actually, it’s been two lessons.

Because I’ve also realised that just because my history with men has been mostly painful doesn’t mean every man is the same, or that love simply isn’t meant for me.

Over the past few months, while trying to find myself again, I found myself in a situation that, without realising it, was only pulling me further away from the person I was trying to become.

It’s incredibly difficult to let go of someone you’ve shared years of your life with. Someone who, for a very long time, genuinely mattered to you.

I met him on Tinder back in 2018, which probably should’ve been a red flag, although I can’t really judge because I was very much in my own hot girl summer, meeting new people and collecting stories.

Somehow, he stayed.

There were highs and lows. Long periods where we barely spoke. But I always knew that if I truly needed him, he’d be there for me.

And I hope he’d say the same about me.

It’s also important to mention that when I was sexually assaulted during that same summer, he was the person who came to find me, who stayed with me, and who helped me through it.

Looking back, I think that moment shaped the way I saw him far more than I realised at the time.

Somewhere deep down, no matter what happened afterwards, he had been there on one of the worst days of my life.

Years passed, but our connection remained.

After I became a mother, he was also the only person I managed to emotionally reconnect with in that way. And because he’s my daughter’s father, he naturally became someone who will always be part of my life, in one way or another.

Maybe that’s exactly what made it so difficult.

Ending a relationship is one thing. Accepting that someone is no longer part of your life is painful enough. But it’s entirely different when you know they’ll never completely disappear. There’s a child between you. A shared history.

Years of memories that don’t simply vanish because you’ve chosen different paths.

Over the last few months, though, his presence slowly became heavier than comforting.

The more time we spent together beyond the physical connection, the more I realised how fundamentally incompatible we were. And more importantly, how emotionally tangled I’d become.

Eventually, I chose to trust what I was feeling.

I stood my ground.

And little by little, our contact became limited to what was truly necessary.

It hurt for a while.

Mostly because I’d convinced myself that meeting someone as a single mum was almost impossible.

Turns out... It isn’t.

A few weeks ago, I unexpectedly reconnected with someone I’d known years ago.

We’d been in the same class in high school but had never really spoken.

After a dentist appointment, I was waiting for my Uber when I noticed a familiar face on the little driver profile. When I got into the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wanted to find him afterwards somehow, which was strange in itself.

Because, after everything I’ve been through, my instinct around men is usually the exact opposite.

Goosebumps.

A racing nervous system.

Wanting to leave before anything even begins.

But this time... Something felt different.

I found him when I got home, and over the next few days we started talking.

That alone surprised me.

I lost my patience for endless texting a long time ago, and being a full-time mum doesn’t exactly leave much room for getting to know someone new.

But what surprised me even more was how emotionally safe the conversations felt.

Everything felt genuine. Easy.

For the first time in a very long time, I never felt the urge to run.

So we met.

For me, that was already a huge step.

As most of you know, I’m still learning how to feel comfortable outside again after everything I’ve been through. Going on a date felt like something that belonged to a much later chapter of my life.

In my head, there was almost no chance I’d actually feel comfortable.

But I think the universe had other plans.

We spent hours talking. Those conversations slowly became daily conversations. Daily conversations became seeing each other whenever we could.

And somewhere along the way, I realised what had been missing all these years wasn’t excitement.

It was emotional safety.

Knowing that if I need to talk about something difficult, I can call him and he’ll simply listen, without rushing me.

Without making me feel like I’m asking for too much.

Without every vulnerable moment eventually becoming something sexual.

For someone whose relationship with men has been shaped by disappointment and heartbreak... It almost feels like a glitch in the matrix.

Maybe the biggest surprise isn’t meeting someone good.

Maybe it’s realising you’ve forgotten what good is supposed to feel like.

But I don’t want this essay to become a story about finally meeting someone and concluding that my life is magically fixed.

Because it isn’t.

That would be far too easy.

The truth is, there are still moments when I feel the urge to leave before anything has the chance to become too good. Before I have another heart to mend.

And every time that thought appears, I try to challenge it.

Because one of the biggest lessons I’ve been learning lately is that I can’t keep sabotaging my own happiness just to protect myself from the possibility of pain.

I can’t spend my whole life trying to anticipate heartbreak simply to avoid being surprised by it.

I have to let life happen.

I have to let good moments and bad moments arrive without desperately trying to control how every story ends before it even begins.

When they’re good... I’ll be there to celebrate them.

And when they’re painful... I’ll become the comfort I need.

Because I have to be my own safest place.

My own best friend.

The person who stays.

Maybe it sounds cliché.

But if I can’t learn to love myself... How can I expect myself to believe that someone else truly could?

Chaos & Confessions

Essays on becoming, womanhood, modern life, and everything in between.

If this resonated with you, I’d love to have you here for the next one.

I’ve gone from living in a constant state of pure alertness to actually seeing the colours around me again; from feeling like every day was monotonous to savouring the small pleasures of life; from leaving the house and automatically going into alert mode to being able to go out for dinner, take my daughter to the park, and, above all, feel safer within myself.

But don’t get me wrong — not every day feels like this. There are still days when I wake up and life feels complicated, from getting out of bed to simply going outside for a short walk. Some things take longer than others to become organic and natural, as effortless as breathing.

I think we all go through a season like this at some point in our lives. One that feels terrifying at first because we feel like we’ve reached the bottom of a hole, where there isn’t a single ray of light or moment of clarity capable of showing us that this is just a phase, and that eventually we’ll come out of it stronger than ever.

Of course, the luckier ones have people around them constantly reminding them that it really is just a phase, and that everything will be okay. But it’s very easy to hear advice like that and almost feel offended by it, because that person, no matter how much they’ve been through or how many struggles they’ve faced, has never lived inside your skin. They don’t genuinely know what you’re going through.

And it’s very easy to embrace isolation during a season like this. In the moment, it often feels like the best, and only, way forward. But I can say from my own experience that it’s one of the worst things you can do.

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Another thing that has been occupying my mind for hours lately is the way friendships change throughout our lives, especially after having children.

I think there is a huge difference between what people say they’re going to do and what actually happens. Sometimes, a false idea of a consistent support system is created when, in reality, what you get are sporadic visits to say hello, play for a little while, and see how much your child has grown.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but to me, those are doctor’s appointments, not what I would expect from a support system.

And then we wonder why mothers feel lonely, unsupported, and like they have no one to rely on, or why some of those relationships slowly fade away.

Of course, everyone has their own adult life to live. Bills to pay, places to be, things to do. But when there’s a genuine desire to be there, you always find some time. Even if it’s just to check in on the mother and ask if she’s okay.

This has been one of the biggest challenges of motherhood for me: figuring out who is actually here for me during this stage of my life, and who simply liked the fun version of Beatriz — the one who was always up for a coffee or a drink.

It’s sad, especially because I’ve never had many friends, but it’s something I’ve been feeling more and more. Especially since my daughter stopped being a cute little baby who mostly ate and slept, and became an actual little person with a personality, preferences, reactions, and, naturally, the occasional tantrum of a two-year-old.

In September, my routine is going to change completely.

My baby, who somehow still feels like she was only just small enough to fit in my arms, is going to nursery.

It will be good for her, and for me, of course. But at the same time, I’m terrified of suddenly having time for myself again.

Who am I when I’m not being a mother?

What do I actually want to do professionally?

What will I do when I miss her too much?

Will I finally be able to commit to my projects in the way I’ve always wanted to?

Will I be less tired?

These are all questions — normal ones, I think — that have been overwhelming me lately.

But not everything is bad, strange, or confusing.

Actually, it’s quite the opposite.

For the first time in a long time, I’m okay. Especially when I compare where I am now to where I was not that long ago.

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I have to be patient. Have faith in myself. And understand that big changes don’t happen overnight.

But I also have to remind myself of how proud I should be of myself, and learn to accept the bad days without being afraid that they’ll take me back to where I was.

Because that’s not how life works.

Life has highs and lows. Having a bad day doesn’t mean all your progress has suddenly disappeared.

For example, I haven’t been able to write lately, but I’ve been able to draw and paint.

I haven’t been able to make plans that involve complicated logistics, but I managed to visit my grandmother, who lives on the other side of the bridge, forty minutes away.

I don’t manage to go outside with my daughter every single day because sometimes I’m overstimulated, but I haven’t felt dizzy outside or felt the need to come straight back home in a very long time.

Maybe that’s what I’m learning to understand.

Progress doesn’t always look like becoming the person you imagined you’d be.

Sometimes, it looks like noticing that you’re no longer the person you used to be.

Life is good.

We just have to learn to see the glass as half full, and be as gentle with ourselves as we would be with someone we love.

"Attention is the beginning of devotion."
— Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays (2016)

Back when I was a kid, curiosity came naturally.

I could spend hours inside my own head. There were endless questions, imaginary worlds, half-formed opinions, stories waiting to be written. I was constantly trying to make sense of the world around me, even when I didn’t have the words for it yet.

People often called me absent-minded. Forgetful. Always lost in thought. Looking back, I don’t think I was distracted at all. I think I was deeply engaged with my own mind.

Somewhere along the way, that changed.

Today, whenever I find myself alone with my thoughts, they’re usually turned inward.

Am I healing enough? Am I emotionally aware enough? Why did I react that way?

Self-awareness has become the loudest voice in my head. Don’t get me wrong—I think self-awareness is important. But I don’t think thinking was ever meant to be only about ourselves.

What happened to curiosity? What happened to wondering just for the sake of wondering? To changing your mind because you stumbled across an unexpected idea? To having opinions that weren’t handed to you by an algorithm?

I miss that version of myself. The one who rushed home to finish a book. The one who couldn’t wait to write another story. The one who genuinely enjoyed getting lost inside a thought.

Without even noticing, books slowly became self-help books. Curiosity became productivity. Reading became self-improvement. And intentional consumption became endless consumption.

Instead of watching the film I’d been wanting to see for weeks, I’d open TikTok. Instead of reading one meaningful article, I’d scroll through fifty forgettable videos. Not because they interested me. Simply because they were there.

Anything to fill the silence. Anything to keep my brain occupied without ever asking it to participate.

And little by little, I stopped creating ideas. I became very good at consuming everyone else’s.

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Looking back, the pandemic feels like the moment everything accelerated.

I was nineteen. I loved walking. Being outside. Observing people. Living.

Then, almost overnight, my world became a screen. Days blurred together inside the same four walls, while the internet became our only window to reality.

Somewhere in that period, I stopped trusting my own voice. My opinions slowly became the collective opinion.

Not because someone forced me to think a certain way, but because the loudest voices were always the easiest ones to repeat.

Questioning became uncomfortable. Nuance became risky. It felt safer to borrow ideas than to build my own.

Sometimes I wonder who I would’ve become if those years had looked different.

Maybe I would’ve finally written the book I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl. Maybe I would’ve spent those long afternoons reading philosophy instead of refreshing my feed.

Maybe not.

I’ll never know.

What I do know is that something changed. And I don’t think I’m the only one who feels it.

Ironically, sobriety has brought back something I wasn’t expecting.

Curiosity.

Not certainty.

Not motivation.

Curiosity.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself becoming intentional again.

Long-form conversations instead of one-minute videos. Books instead of endless scrolling. Questions instead of instant answers.

For the first time in years, I don’t want more content.

I want better questions.

I’m no longer interested in keeping up with every trend, and honestly, I don’t mind missing them. I’d much rather rediscover what my own mind sounds like when it isn’t constantly interrupted.

Maybe that’s why Substack feels different.

It reminds me of the internet I grew up loving.

Tumblr.

Wattpad.

Spaces where people weren’t competing for attention every three seconds. They were simply thinking out loud. Writing because they had something to say, not because an algorithm rewarded consistency.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing all along.

Not motivation.

Not discipline.

Curiosity.

Because perhaps the opposite of mindless consumption isn’t productivity.

Maybe it’s simply having the courage to think for yourself again.

What’s something you used to be deeply curious about that you’ve slowly stopped making time for? I’d genuinely love to know.

My life hasn’t been easy, just like anyone else’s. But for me, smoking became the ultimate escape.

It started out as something fun, and despite doing it daily, it was well within moderation. But as life threw harder challenges my way, the doses increased.

It became how I started my day, and the moment the high began to fade, I would light up again.

This went on until the minute I fell asleep.

The feeling of alienating myself, of believing everything was fine, was always just one joint away.

Until it stopped working.

It lost that effect.

But by then, I was already too hooked.

Yet I kept smoking because, like any other addiction, you rarely wake up one day completely free of the urge to consume.

The highs didn’t hit the same way anymore. Instead of making me happy, they left a dark cloud hanging over me.

But even then, they still did one thing remarkably well.

They buffered me from myself.

I think we all have our own version of a buffer.

Mine just happened to be weed.

For someone else, it might be work. A relationship. Endless scrolling. Staying busy enough to never sit with your own thoughts.

Whatever it is, we all find ways to postpone feeling what’s waiting underneath.

When I decided to quit, it wasn’t planned.

On June 6th, I lit a joint, took two puffs, and put it out, deciding it would be my last.

I kept it inside a cone as a reminder of my strength—and that’s exactly where it still sits today.

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I had never been through a detox before.

In my mind, the hardest part was making the decision and surviving those first few days.

Little did I know about the storm that was waiting for me.

Ironically, the first week was relatively easy.

I didn’t have cravings because this was something I had wanted to do for a long time.

The second week felt even easier.

Despite the headaches and the physical symptoms, I was finally able to walk outside again without feeling completely trapped by my anxiety.

For a moment, I genuinely believed I had done it.

I even caught myself thinking:

“If I’d known it would be like this, I would’ve quit much sooner.”

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The worst was still ahead of me.

As the substance slowly left my system, anxiety and survival mode completely took over.

I think I started feeling worse about a week ago.

I’m having incredibly vivid dreams, and I wake up feeling depressed because I’m not living with the same intensity that I do inside them.

I feel like crying over everything and nothing, yet I can rarely let it out.

The ghosts of the past have returned to haunt me.

And above all, I feel like a failure for not being able to give my daughter the version of myself I wish she had.

My mother often tells me I’m the strongest person she’s ever known.

But how can I be strong if I feel this terrified all the time?

Terrified that I’ll never go back to who I was before the drugs.

Terrified that I’ll never find balance or peace within myself.

Terrified that survival mode will become my permanent state.

People say it takes around 30 days for your system to clear.

I genuinely thought I’d be doing so much better by now.

At my last therapy session, almost two weeks ago, my therapist warned me there would be ups and downs—that it was simply part of the process.

I just never imagined the downs could go this low.

Recovery isn’t just about giving something up.

Sometimes it’s about meeting yourself without the thing that helped you hide.

And I don’t think we talk enough about how frightening that part can be.

Apathy has taken over.

All I want to do is lie down and rest.

But because I’m a full-time mom, I can’t give my body what it’s desperately asking for.

That frustrates me even more.

I feel like I’m failing to give myself what I need.

And somehow, I convince myself I’m failing my daughter too.

I just want to wake up free from all these chains.

Ready to face life with the courage and steadiness of someone who finally feels healthy again.

But right now, I can’t find a way to be okay.

Maybe that's the hardest part of recovery: learning to keep going before you know you'll be okay.

For most of my life, I believed people were always leaving me.

Friends would drift away.
Relationships would end.
Opportunities would disappear before I had the chance to grab them.

I carried this quiet fear of abandonment everywhere I went, convinced that one day everyone would eventually leave.

What I’ve been realizing lately is far more uncomfortable.

Most of the time, I’m the one who leaves first.

Not always physically.

Sometimes I leave relationships before they have the chance to hurt me.
Sometimes I abandon projects before they can fail.
Sometimes I convince myself that an opportunity isn’t right for me before I even give it a real chance.

In my head, it always feels rational.

If I walk away first, I can’t be abandoned.
If I never try, I can’t fail.
If I keep my distance, I can’t get hurt.

At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for years.

The strange thing is that I didn’t fully notice this pattern until I became a mother.

For the first time in my life, leaving wasn’t an option.

When I’m exhausted, I can’t disappear.
When things get difficult, I can’t simply walk away.
When I desperately want an hour to myself but my daughter needs me, I have to stay.

And somehow, being forced to stay has made me look at every other area of my life differently.

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It made me realize how many things I’ve quietly abandoned over the years.

Friendships.
Dreams.
Projects.
Versions of myself.

Things I pushed aside and pretended didn’t matter.

But they always leave something behind.

Because eventually, the question arrives.

What if?

What if I had stayed a little longer?
What if I had given it a chance?
What if I had trusted myself enough to see what happened next?

I think many of us tell ourselves we’re protecting our energy.

And sometimes we are.

But sometimes “protecting our energy” is just a prettier way of describing avoidance.

A way of avoiding disappointment.
Rejection.
Failure.
Uncertainty.

A way of avoiding ourselves.

One of the moments that forced me to confront this happened during a conversation with my daughter’s father.

We’ve known each other since I was eighteen, and for years I carried the narrative that he was the one who kept disappearing from my life.

Then one day, he told me something that immediately put me on the defensive.

“You’re always the one who leaves.”

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to explain all the reasons he was wrong.

I wanted to prove that I was the one being left behind.

But I couldn’t.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

And that realization has been following me ever since.

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Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of self-reflection, and one thing has become painfully clear:

I’m tired of being afraid.

Tired of running.
Tired of hiding.
Tired of watching life from a safe distance.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I came back to this platform instead of disappearing again.

Maybe it’s why I’ve been forcing myself to leave the house, even when anxiety tells me not to.

Maybe it’s why I’m trying, every day, to become a little less avoidant.

It’s easy to recognize other people’s flaws.

What’s difficult is realizing that sometimes we’re standing in our own way.

I don’t think people like me run because we’re malicious or selfish.

Most of the time, we genuinely believe we’re protecting ourselves.

But lately I’ve started wondering if avoidance isn’t just another form of self-sabotage.

Because for years, I thought my greatest fear was being abandoned.

Now I’m beginning to wonder if my greatest fear has always been staying.

Three years ago, I found out I was six months pregnant, and everything changed.

I still remember sitting in my car, holding the results while the rain poured down outside, thinking my life was over before it had even begun.

There was so much I wanted to do. Travel, find a dream and chase it, get a stable job, date, go out, have fun. To be honest, after the pandemic, I had developed a bit of a resistance to doing things considered “normal”—things I used to do all the time. Still, when I found out about the pregnancy, I had a stable, remote job that was minimally within my field. It paid a fair salary and gave me the freedom I always wanted. Beyond that freedom, it gave me the feeling of finally being an adult, no longer relying on savings or allowances. To me, that was the first step toward becoming someone. My notion of success or happiness was entirely measured by tangible milestones—mostly because I lacked self-love and constantly craved external validation.

The shock was so violent that I hid at home for three months. Nobody knew I was pregnant. I just kept working and living my life within four walls, pretending everything was fine.

Until Aurora was born.

I’d say it took me more than a year to adjust to this new reality the Universe had thrown my way. It was a challenge I never imagined I’d have to face, but it quickly became my whole world. I focused all my energy on figuring out what it meant to be a mother, how you even communicate with a baby, and above all: who am I, Beatriz, the mother?

Over these past two years, I think I’ve done a good job of discovering that side of myself. Watching my daughter grow, I’ve learned so much about who I am. Not to mention learning the true meaning of unconditional love.

Perhaps because of how chaotic this journey began, I felt a deep need to stay at home with her during all this time. So many people plan their pregnancies and still experience a massive shock and a painful adaptation phase. Imagine me, someone who never even idealised this role. Life has these ironies, and it taught me to never say never.

Now, I finally feel ready for both of us to have our own routines. Aurora is at a stage where she needs to play with other kids, and I need silence to focus on figuring out who Beatriz is, outside of being a mother. It’s almost ironic that I am now doing the exact opposite exercise of what I had to do when she was born, but I’ve realized this is a shift that accompanies most mothers. Or at least a very large part of us.

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Boys run, men stay

Despite putting all my focus into learning how to be a mom, I didn’t want to give up on my romantic and emotional life, which are aspects I’ve always valued deeply. Today, I realize that need probably stemmed from my inability to be alone and that constant craving for validation.

So, I started casually seeing a guy I already knew from social media. For a while, my routine was being a mom during the day, leaving everything organized, and once she was asleep and my mom was home, he would pick me up. We’d spend endless hours at his place talking and hooking up, and I felt fulfilled. Maybe because he was an older guy, I felt like he would truly understand my new reality and that there could be a future for us.

Until I reached the conclusion that his maturity level wasn’t much different from my two-year-old daughter’s. So I walked away.

Then there was another guy, this one my age. We talked for a while and went out a few times. He seemed quite mature for his age, but the day I invited him over, he looked absolutely petrified when he saw my daughter (who, at the time, was a baby who did little more than sleep and eat). That experience marked me deeply because it made me realize just how challenging my dating life was going to be from then on.

It was strange to see these supposedly mature men, with adult jobs and adult lives, get terrified by a baby. I don’t judge them, and I’ve always made it clear that I’m not looking for a stepfather for my daughter or anything of the sort. All I wanted was to have a piece of my old life back—the part that used to give me so much satisfaction. But I realized that wasn’t going to be possible.

Since then, I’ve gone out with one or two other people, nothing major, and talked to a few others. I noticed they all have one thing in common: a total lack of awareness about what it means to be a mother in my circumstances. They don’t get the exhaustion that sends me to bed early, my lack of energy to text back on certain days, or the complete intolerance I’ve developed for “first world problems.” I’m not invalidating other people’s struggles, but there are things I simply no longer have the time or patience to entertain.

For example, I used to love going out at night, getting completely drunk, and just letting go. Nowadays, if I do go out, I get tired so easily. A strange feeling takes over because I spend days looking forward to that night out, but the moment I arrive, all I want is to go back home to be with my baby. It’s complicated.

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Searching for the blonde wig

If a relationship hasn’t happened yet, it’s because it wasn’t meant to be, and I know I have my own ghosts to deal with. But above all, I have to allow myself to live one day at a time. To feel the small victories, to acknowledge the work I’ve been putting in as a mother, and to relearn how to do things just for myself—things that bring me personal satisfaction. I need to feel grateful for my health, for the fact that my daughter is happy even in the middle of my internal chaos.

More and more, I’m starting to view Aurora not just as my daughter, but as a human filter for any man who tries to get close to me.

The boys run away. The real men will try to get to know Beatriz, without seeing her as just a fleeting hookup, despite the intensity and the weight that dating me can bring. And I don’t judge those who leave, because if I weren’t a mother, I probably wouldn’t have reached these conclusions either. Maybe I would adopt the exact same defensive stance if I were dating someone who already had a child.

Genuinely, I think I grew up too fast in some aspects, but I am completely stagnant in others. I don’t have a solid group of friends, I don’t have normal social habits, and I certainly don’t have the best of both worlds, like Hannah Montana promised us.

I think during all this time, subconsciously, I’ve been searching for that blonde wig. Hoping I could live a perfect double life and seamlessly be the mother and the woman I want to be. But the truth is, both versions can coexist in the exact same space.

Being a single mom doesn’t mean my life is over. Quite the opposite. I gained a bigger purpose, and I became fiercely selective. Slowly, I’m also learning how to say “no”—and that, on its own, is one of the biggest victories for the person I am becoming.

I’m not okay anymore, and I don’t even know how to get back to being okay.

It feels like I’ve forgotten how to react to life. Sometimes even breathing feels difficult.

I’ve lost weight and, for the first time in my life, that worries me instead of giving me some strange sense of accomplishment. I guess the spell finally turned against the witch.

I wake up every morning with my heart in my hands, without fully understanding why.

I struggle to leave the house. And before I do, there’s this entire mental ritual — lists, rationalizations, attempts to convince myself that I’m safe — that still doesn’t stop the outcome: sweaty hands, blurry vision, dizziness, the feeling that I’m about to collapse onto the floor.

All of this less than 500 meters away from home.

Just trying to take my daughter to the park.

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Sometimes I feel ridiculous when I realize how big anxiety has become inside me. How can a mind turn such small things into such terrifying threats?

I feel like a prisoner inside my own house.

And then comes the guilt.

Because I should be okay for her.

The most confusing part is that, in the middle of all this, she’s still such a happy baby. And somehow that hurts too, in a way that’s hard to explain. Because despite everything, she is my only certainty. The reason I get out of bed every day. The person I’ve given my heart, my soul, my entire life to.

But intrusive thoughts do exactly that: they distort reality until you stop trusting it. And it gets even worse when they stop being just thoughts and start controlling you instead.

It’s exhausting.

I feel trapped inside such a constant loop of anxiety that I can barely think properly anymore. Create. Act. Live.

And the strangest part is that I used to be able to act despite the fear.

I failed my driving theory exam four times because my nerves completely consumed me. But I went back a fifth time, and I passed.

At university, I needed an extra year to finish my classes. It wasn’t pretty and it definitely wasn’t easy, but I still finished my degree.

A friend once told me she admired my resilience because I never gave up on things.

And now I don’t even feel like I’m in a position to give up.

Because in order to quit, you have to try first.

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I started a digital marketing course at the beginning of 2025, but I still haven’t scheduled the final exam. I’m allowed to fail once without having to pay again and, even so, the fear of not succeeding feels so overwhelming that I’ve stayed frozen.

The idea of confirming — once again — that I failed at something after spending so much time doing nothing for myself feels devastating.

And I barely recognize myself anymore.

I’ve always been fearful, but I still used to go.

Now I stay still.

Not because I’m lazy.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I feel completely blocked.

Even when it comes to Substack.

The one place where I always felt safe enough to write and try to organize the chaos inside me.

When I started feeling worse, I closed the app. And I only managed to open it again now.

Because I was scared.

Scared of facing the silence.
Scared of realizing I had lost the community I was building.
Scared that I had wasted an opportunity to do something beautiful with the thing I love most: writing.

I feel stuck.

Like I’m standing still, watching my life happen from behind a glass wall.

And honestly, I still don’t know how to find my way out of this.

I was eighteen, in my first year of university, discovering the capital the way you discover a new version of yourself. The city was big, restless, indifferent — and that indifference felt like freedom.

I wanted to live.
I wanted to experiment.
I wanted to make mistakes without an audience.

I’ve always loved going out, having fun, committing small reckless acts. What I couldn’t stand was the echo the next day — the stories retold in other people’s mouths. In a big city, I could dissolve into the crowd. And that invisibility tasted like autonomy.

I met people without promises. Most never made it past the first few messages. The ones who lingered rarely made it to a second coffee. I would smile, agree, already halfway to my next distraction. Sometimes the disinterest was mutual — which made everything cleaner.

I knew how to adapt. I would create a slightly edited version of myself depending on the tone, the context, the expectation. Dating felt like a language game: strategically placed sentences, subtle insinuations, promises no one truly intended to keep.

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Pretty, hollow words.
But warm.

And then, in the middle of that cycle, he appeared.

We met online. The energy matched instantly, and we started talking every day. It was easy. It flowed. We spoke about the ordinary details of life, our quirks, our tastes. He made me laugh.

What intrigued me was something else: the days passed and there was no predictable shift in tone. No rushed attempt to sexualize the conversation. No obvious move.

In my experience, they always did.

He didn’t.

Or rather — he did it invisibly. He planted something without me noticing. Left the seed quiet, protected, taking root.

We agreed to meet for coffee at a shopping mall near his place. For weeks, I had only seen one or two photos of him. I assumed he was insecure.

He wasn’t.

When I saw him that day, it felt like a small exaggeration from the universe. He had just come from a job interview, wearing a suit, green eyes — seemed brown in the photos — and he was almost too tall for the ordinary guy.

Easy smile. Steady gestures. Doors opened for me to walk through first.

He didn’t need to announce he was different.

The chemistry confirmed what the messages had suggested. The tension was there. Dense. Electric.

And he didn’t kiss me.

He hugged me goodbye — slowly — and kept talking to me every single day after that, as if time had no urgency.

Until I disappeared.

At the time, I convinced myself there were no feelings involved. That my silence wouldn’t weigh anything. I still believed my absence left no mark.

He respected it and life moved on.

For six years, we orbited each other. We would drift closer, drift apart, reappear as if nothing had happened. No fights. No accusations. As if an invisible thread kept us loosely tied.

Whenever we spoke, I lived with my phone in my hand. There was something safe about him. A place I could rest.

I knew — or wanted to believe — it was different.

Until the cycle broke.

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Last year, he came back. Like he always did.

But this time, I stayed.

I agreed to the second date.
Seven years after the first.

The reunion was intense.

I looked at him and felt my body respond before my mind could catch up. My heart beat with an almost reckless urgency. It felt like that first day — only amplified, matured, almost inevitable.

One moment, we were by the river having coffee; the next, we were tangled in his bed.

And even inside that bubble, I already feared the end. I feared it was just another repetition of the cycle. Or that he would return to me the silence I had given him at eighteen.

But in that moment, it felt like destiny.

I convinced myself those seven years had simply been the necessary pause. That we were each other’s end game. That the world had finally aligned its pieces.

We spent hours locked in his room as if nothing existed outside of it. There was a serene intensity in the way he touched me. It wasn’t urgency. It wasn’t conquest.

It was care.

As if I were something rare.
Or breakable.

On the third date, I spent the night at his place. We barely slept. We talked until dawn, laughed, sat in silence without discomfort. He cooked for me. Fed me fruit with his hands. Brushed my hair after my shower with unexpected tenderness.

There was a softness that disarmed me.

The next morning, when I said goodbye, I cried.

Maybe part of me already knew. Maybe my old fear of abandonment had simply been waiting for a reason.

The cycle closed when he pushed me away.

Not with silence this time. With a distance that was present enough to hurt. He made me feel like I had become excessive. Unwanted. As if I had stepped into a chapter that had already been finished.

Months have passed and sometimes I still want to scream. Ask why. Demand an explanation.

But I choose not to.

I finally learned that no passion justifies shrinking myself. Silencing what I feel. Accepting less than I deserve just to avoid being alone.

This year, I celebrate Valentine’s Day single.

But I also celebrate three years since my last relationship — and that is a quiet milestone.

I always thought I would never stop being a serial dater. That I would always need someone occupying my emotional space.

I was wrong.

Today, my commitment is to myself.

My well-being is not negotiable.

I have to be my own home.
My own safe harbor.
The place I return to when everything else collapses.

And every day, with more or less grace, I am learning to enjoy my own company.

So yes — this is a love story!

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Especially to those who are discovering that the greatest love is not the one that stays — but the one that finally refuses to leave you. 💌

At the moment, I’m reading a book about creative blocks and how to overcome them — or, more than that, how to take action. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t pick up anything labelled “self-help” again, but here I am. That promise was born out of the chaos that was last year. I spent countless hours consuming content that supposedly helps us think beyond ourselves, learn from other people’s experiences, extract something meaningful. The problem is that I took it too far.

I spent my days watching productivity vlogs, motivational YouTubers, choosing the next personal development book — one I would rarely make it halfway through — and, above all, refusing to look inward and understand what I actually needed as an individual. I was constantly looking for answers outside, when the work was always internal.

There is no universal formula for healing. Each of us is an individual, with our own tastes, experiences, and traumas — just like plants, which are not all watered in the same way.

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I believe many of these videos contain educational, even transformative content when consumed as additional tools. The problem begins when they are consumed from a place of desperation: when we want to fix our lives without being willing to go through the work it requires. Behind fifteen minutes of video are often years of inner struggle, identity crises, and failed attempts. And still, it’s easy for people like me — who live closely with their own self-sabotage — to feel inspired for a few minutes and then, shortly after, miserable. Miserable over everything we haven’t done, everything we could be doing, everything we think we should have already done.

What was meant to be a moment of rest quickly turns into hours of self-pity, while the inner voice makes a point of listing, one by one, all the reasons why I’m not where I want to be. And even if I were there, I know I would find another reason to feel dissatisfied.

Because the real problem lives in the mind. When we spend our days mentally overloaded and in constant pursuit of instant gratification, it’s natural to look for quick solutions. It’s almost like quitting the race while still standing at the starting line, once we realize that, in fact, we’re going to have to run. That’s why, sometime last year, I drastically reduced my consumption of content tied to these themes.

Still, today this book arrived in the mail. It was ordered by my mother’s boyfriend. I remember finding the synopsis interesting, but between finding something interesting and actually picking it up there’s a long distance. When the book arrived, he handed it to me, and in that moment I decided to pause my current reading.

Today I woke up with the feeling that the day would be different. And I had concrete proof of that: my daughter took her first independent steps. My state of mind was calm. I didn’t feel that insatiable need to escape. So I accepted the challenge.

I’m already almost halfway through, and everything is making an uncomfortable amount of sense. The book is divided into three parts, the first dedicated to self-sabotage — what the author calls Resistance. It touches every area of our lives that can be affected by it. So far, every page has unsettled me in some way. Steven Pressfield managed to name my greatest ghost and, for the first time, I was able to see self-sabotage as something external to me: something that affects me, but does not define me.

“I have nothing against true healing. We all need it. But it has nothing to do with doing our work. Resistance loves ‘healing.’ The more energy we spend digging into the injustices of our personal lives, the less energy we have to do our work.”

This quote stayed with me.

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I recognize that I often spend too much time thinking about my problems — their origins, their consequences — when I could be channeling that energy into something tangible. We need to retrain the brain to accept that problems exist without immediately slipping into survival mode. Not everything requires reopening past wounds in order for us to feel healed.

There will always be another level, an old problem reactivated by a present event, an emotion that resurfaces without warning. But spending days, weeks, or months stuck there comes at a cost. Sometimes we forget the most basic things: brushing our teeth, doing the dishes, replying to a message that’s been sitting unopened.

I retreat into my own head so often that I lose sight of what exists outside of it — beyond me, my ideas, my fears. And I’m tired of that.

So I followed the author’s suggestion and sat down in front of the computer, forcing myself to write. No intended impact. No perfectionism. Just writing. For the first few minutes, I stared at the blank screen, feeling ridiculous for having nothing to say. After deleting and rewriting a few sentences, something unlocked. My hands started moving faster. The delete key was pressed less often. And, almost without realizing how, I wrote something that held together.

Today, I wrote. Not because I was inspired, but because I didn’t run away from what my soul yearns for.

It feels almost surreal to say this because I haven’t had a consistent reading habit in years. I went from owning a library of over 300 books and waking up in the middle of the night with existential crises — as I so dramatically labeled them at twelve — to spending more time choosing my next book than actually reading it. If I make it past the tenth page, it’s a sign that I’m interested, but I rarely make it halfway. I end up setting it aside, thinking that I’ll eventually finish it, but that day never comes. Then another book catches my eye, and the cycle repeats, over and over again.

This is just one of the consequences of having an extremely short attention span, a byproduct of all those hours spent on my phone without intention, just to have something to do with my fingers.

I realized my brain chemistry had been completely altered. I genuinely didn’t know how to live without being constantly aware of what was happening in the digital world. If I wasn’t up to speed, it felt as though I wasn’t even in reality.

It was as if reality lived on the screen, in my hands, rather than in the world around me.

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We all bear responsibility for our actions, but I place a lot of the blame on the pandemic. Before, I knew how to be in a room full of people. I loved spending the day out, even though I’ve always cherished the quiet of my own space. But the point is, I loved going out, and I did it naturally. Unlike today. Now, any plan that involves leaving my comfort zone feels like a complication; I truly struggle to leave the house daily. Sometimes, I simply forget.

So, when I realized how disinterested I had become in everything around me, I was also facing the reality that I am, effectively, shut in. I might be losing an entire lifetime because of it, even if that isn’t my intention.

The final weeks of the year always leave me in a state of profound reflection, and this year was no different — but my approach was. I don’t want a “new version” of myself; I want a version that finds satisfaction in the simple things of life. A version that enjoys writing, reading, and dancing again. Or perhaps I want to try new things entirely. But the point is: it’s time to start living.

These past few weeks, I’ve felt quite exhausted by everything, honestly, but I’m still proud of a few small feats. I finished a painting and, today, I finished a book. To many, it may seem like nothing, but to me, it’s a small victory.

Something else I’m proud of is sitting here writing, because only I know how frustrated I’ve been with myself for failing to create, for being unable to put anything into words. Just loose ideas that never see the light of day. And the cherry on top is my own self-criticism, which only makes things worse. There are days when I can’t even silence it, let alone transmute it into something better. These weeks have been full of those days. They’ve been draining.

The most important thing is that I’m not giving up on myself.

I might freeze, I might not know how to handle certain challenges, and I might feel that, right now, I don’t see my purpose as a woman — because that has been one of the greatest challenges of motherhood — but I no longer have negative thoughts to the point of idealizing a tragic end. In fact, everything scares me these days because I want so badly to live, and the remote possibility of that being taken from me in a split second is terrifying.

Returning to the issue of being chronically online, it has been a breath of fresh air to wake up and not reach for my phone immediately. To sit in silence and relearn how to be alone, feeling my emotions in their fullness — or at least, I try to. Like waking up before my daughter and enjoying the sunrise with a hot cup of coffee. I am trying to be more present and learn how to savor these small moments of the day-to-day.

The book that made me wake up at 6 a.m. more than once just to read is Madison Beer’s autobiography, The Half of It. She touches on so many topics. From having her nudes leaked as a minor to mental health struggles similar to mine, being a victim of sexual abuse, and the existential crisis of moving from a place of zero self-esteem to becoming your own biggest fan.

It was a book that truly moved me and left me thinking about how we, as women, are targets of so much negativity throughout our lives, almost normatively, as if it’s just part of our experience on this Earth. If these were issues affecting men primarily, there would surely be laws and systems in place to put a stop to them. But that is a conversation for another post.

In the end, I hope to find consistency again and not give up on what truly feeds my soul: writing. On the most turbulent days, I simply can’t do it, but I will find strategies to navigate the fog that so often forms in my brain. I have a tendency to let my self-sabotage win, but here I am, ready to try once more. With grit.

Life is meant to be lived. It isn’t supposed to be a countdown of days. A passage without meaning.

I’m curious—what does your version of a 'small victory' look like lately? Is there a hobby or a habit you’ve been trying to reclaim from the digital noise? Tell me about your little wins in the comments. I’d love to hear them.

“I lost the sense that I was special. I lost the sense that I was destined for anything. I was just another girl in a city of girls.” – Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem

Growing up, I didn’t just dream of being a star. I believed I already was one.

I thought I would vibrate with so much energy, joy, and light that it would be contagious to anyone standing in my orbit. I was a genuinely happy child, a mosaic of passions and tiny, vivid quirks. Wherever I poured my heart, I saw it bloom. My grades were a testament to my effort, my friends were amazing, and my world was kind.

I spent my days chasing meaningful things, constantly fueling the fire that burned inside me. I saw a future where my career was an extension of my soul—something I adored so fiercely I was destined to be great at it. A ballerina, a singer, a fashionista, anything. I loved dressing up dolls and waiting impatiently for the MTV VMAs, judging every outfit from my living room floor as if I were already standing on the other side of the screen.

Looking back, I see a girl who was her own cheerleader. I was fearless, untouched by failure, because in my mind, success was an inevitability. A destination already written in the stars.

That is the bittersweet curse of the “gifted child”: you grow up in a world where failure is a foreign language you never thought you’d have to speak.

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But the reality I live in today is entirely different. There is a specific kind of mourning that happens when you transition from a brilliant child to an average adult. It sucks.

I know my worth, yet here I am—not traveling the world, not mastering ancient languages, not falling in love with a stranger under city lights.

Instead, I am navigating the grayness of my mind, a constant burden.

I haven’t found Prince Charming, but I’m a mother, and even though I finished college, I’m unemployed and going through an existential crisis, unsure what to do. What even drives me these days?

Did I think I’d be drowning in these questions at twenty-five? Never.

By this age, I was supposed to be walking through the doors of my dream job, hand in hand with a dream partner, planning a wedding that felt like the beginning of “happily ever after.”

If I’m being honest, it is peace and certainty that I crave now. But after every scar carved in the last two years, waking up ready to conquer the world feels like a performance I can’t give. I can’t even hold the reins of my own heart, my own turbulent emotions.

I don’t believe this is where my story ends, or that I am truly stagnant.

I just feel caught in a thick, suffocating fog, unsure of which way is home. And this is when my oldest ghost returns—self-sabotage. In the moments when I should lean into the arms of those who love me, I choose to exile myself. I build walls where there should be bridges. I carry the weight of the world inside me, refusing to let it out.

And that is when the numbness settles in.

That is when I feel like just another piece of flesh, moving through a world I no longer recognize.

Am I really destined for something great, or was I just a hopeful little girl?

This time, however, I have been writing.

Words don’t come out with their normal fluidity, and I feel the need to interrupt myself constantly. I write a sentence, think about the power of the written words, and when I try to return to the thought process, it’s as if there’s no way to finish the sentence, the thought, the paragraph. When I do, it’s a victory, and I feel tired.

However, throughout these days, I have been writing about what I’ve been feeling and about the need, often, for an external reality check that shakes us so much we cannot return to the same point of inertia.

But that is not what I’m going to talk about today.

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Today I’m opening up about something very complicated for me, but necessary. I need to write about what I feel, so I can move on and make peace with myself.

Since yesterday, my mood has brightened a little bit. I was able to make my day feel more intentional, to be more present, less oblivious to reality. I managed to do small things I had been putting off, such as washing my hair, tidying the closet, and simply looking around me, to let life happen.

I even managed to go out with my daughter, which is complicated for me, as I’m still getting used to the idea of living a life outside the house. Having spent my pregnancy cloistered, after the pandemic lockdowns, completely messed with me. I went from someone who left home in the morning and returned in the late afternoon to spending the day at home, overplanning everything that involved leaving the house, if I left at all.

But yesterday I managed to go out. And the day before yesterday, too.

For some time now, I have been much more intentional about what I consume on social media, because, at one time, it had a very negative impact on my mental health. I compared myself to other people, saw their achievements, and used them to punish myself for not being at the same level.

At one point, I ended up developing more serious problems with my body image. I would go on TikTok, see a girl with the proportions I wished for, and that was enough to ruin my day, completely. Therefore, I cut out everything that triggers me and only watch things that make me feel inspired, challenge my critical sense, comfort me, educate me, or touch me in some way.

About an hour ago, I got up, after helping my daughter go to sleep. I prepared a coffee and sat on the balcony, as is my routine. I opened YouTube and put on a podcast, where the topic revolved around the excessive sexualization of women and young girls, the non-consensual sharing of explicit content, and the emotional consequences it brings to the woman or girl affected.

When I clicked, I wasn’t prepared for what it woke up in me. The need to finally verbalize my story, the way I was, multiple times, the target of these types of actions.

The first time I felt afraid of a man — or that my image could be compromised — was when I was sixteen.

It was the end of summer, and I was almost dating my first great love. Before that, I had a free, light, and fun summer with few worries. Met some guys, went on dates, even exchanged some photos, but nothing special. I will never forget that night. I was lying down, simply relaxing before going to sleep, when one of those guys sent me a message after I had cut ties with him for some time. He was asking for nudes, claiming he missed me. He didn’t know how to take a no, and the tone changed drastically. What started as a conversation turned into threats from him. If I didn’t send what he had asked for, my almost-boyfriend would receive all the content the guy had saved. To try to make it look like I was cheating on the person I was with.

I remember my head spinning, with all the possibilities going through my mind. How had he found out the person I was with? Did he also intend to share them with friends, or even worse, post them on Twitter? Panic took over me. I explained everything to my boyfriend, who knew I was telling the truth; we both blocked that guy and moved on as if nothing had happened. At least he did. At the end of all this, the most screwed up part is considering myself lucky. Lucky I didn’t have the photos exposed, when I should have felt angry and sad about the whole situation.

I shouldn’t have spent all those years normalizing everything that happened to me. There is nothing normal about what I just told you. Nor about what is to come.

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I forgot to mention that I lost my virginity with my crush, and the next day, his friends already knew and commented as they passed by me — just another cherry on top.

Even when I was a virgin, there were rumors I had been with X or Y. People in highschool can be really mean sometimes. Once, a boy sent me a nude, asked me to delete the photo and the conversation, as he had a girlfriend. I deleted it, genuinely thinking I was doing the right thing. In fact, we only talked because I was interested in going out with his friend. However, his girlfriend eventually found out something, and he told everyone that I was the one sending explicit content. That sparked a wave of hate among the girlfriend’s friends, who spread it on social media. What makes me most proud, looking back, is never having interacted with anything. It was knowing my truth, being aware that I hadn’t done anything wrong, and realizing that responding meant opening a door to endless arguments. Exactly what I wanted to avoid.

After a few more experiences in high school, the summer before college arrived. The summer I was already legally an adult, without the responsibility of one.

The last “big summer holidays.”

It was a period marked by light and beautiful moments, laughter and festivals, but it was also the summer I was sexually abused. Not once, nor twice, but three times. Different contexts, different people, but all three had something in common: none of them respected me, they didn’t know how to take a “no”, and I was the one who bore the consequences of it. I vividly remember dealing with it at the time, with some sense of humor and lightness.

From that summer on, the world became a less colorful place for me.

I spent years trying to dissociate myself from those experiences, as if nothing had happened. But I couldn’t do that. How could I pretend nothing was happening when the scars on me were visible and bled more each day?

Time passed, and with each disappointment, the weight grew heavier, borne by the emotional baggage I carry. Every broken heart, every tear shed — or swallowed — made me disconnect more and more from myself.

My mind was a snowball of darkness, of questions, and of nothing that resembled an answer or a solution. I was desperate.

I write from the point of view of someone who is far from healing and feeling good about all the situations of emotional abuse and the lack of tools to deal with it. But also, from the point of view of someone who is no longer afraid to speak and has decided to do it. Although a little scared, I am proud to have had the courage I longed for.

I write in the hope of easing my heart. To share my story and feel that I am not alone.

We are a community of women with broken hearts, stories to tell, and, above all, the strength to overcome any obstacle, no matter how difficult it seems.

If you have lived through similar situations, you know how difficult it is to see the light at the end of the tunnel. But eventually, all storms pass.

And even where it is least expected, a beautiful flower can grow.

this space is ours to heal the quiet girl together, one heavy step at a time. thank you for tuning in!

once upon a time, there was a girl with a mask so strong and heavily rooted that she couldn’t take it off.

giving you a spoiler already: the mask only fell off in adulthood.

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“Sayers questioned the traditional saying about great men having great women behind them, wondering how many great women have had great fathers and husbands supporting them.”

— Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night (1935)

Since I was very young, I remember seeing men being portrayed as different beings. Not because of the example I saw at home, as my father was somewhat different from others, but because of the world around me. And it always confused me.

Why were the expectations for a woman so high? And why didn’t men need to worry about anything else, except for work?

The world has undergone so many changes, eureka moments, discoveries, inventions, new ways of living, and new ways of thinking. Yet, there are subjects about which it is more convenient to maintain an archaic structure. When I think about this, I remember history class, particularly the time of ancient Greece. First came the citizens, then foreigners, and only then came women, before slaves. Bizarre.

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Returning to the present day, one would expect that with such advancement, society would have transmuted into something better, fairer for everyone. But no. Everything remains. The difference is that women are also part of the working class.

To say that gender equality exists in the world we live in is to smudge the truth with ink.

It’s not because many of us have more freedom than our ancestors that everything is fine now.

We have to stop taking responsibility for emotionally immature men.

“It’s normal for boys to take longer to grow up.”

“Give him more time.”

What about me? No one gave me more time when I started spending hours alone at home and having to manage myself, because my mother was always out working to ensure the best for me. I had to take a deep breath and grow up. Not that I had a difficult childhood, but I certainly would have preferred to be playing and not thinking about what to make for lunch. And, later, about vacuuming, washing the dishes, and doing the household chores.

My love life started when I was 12, and with it came the phone calls that lasted 24 hours, if possible. I started realizing that all they did was play video games with their friends and go to school. In the blink of an eye, everything appeared done. It wasn’t one, or two, or three. But all of them. The problem wasn’t with them; it was with what’s expected of a boy, of a man.

At 21, I got into a relationship where I saw so much potential in – of course, after helping him overcome all his traumas, because I’m the saviour of the homeland.

Going to my boyfriend’s house for a few days and realizing he wouldn’t even lift his plate. He would wake up, go to the bathroom to get dressed, and leave everything messy for his mother to clean. In the kitchen, there was already a lunchbox with everything prepared. Without saying thank you, taking it for granted, he would leave the house frowning for work. When he came back from work, the room was tidy, the bed made – as if it was a hotel room –, dinner prepared, and the computer turned on for endless hours of online gaming.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, being on call with his friends, he would shout at night as if he were the only person on earth, as if he didn’t have parents trying to rest. How was he so comfortable with that?

Eventually, we broke up, and since then, I’ve been alone by choice. I’ve had situationships, pseudo-relationships, and intense crushes. But there was always a flaw, something missing — the lack of will. Not just to communicate, but to feel a genuine interest in knowing the person next to them.

I was the psychologist, the lover, the friend, the advisor. All in one, and I was exhausted.

Being able to express my feelings without having an immature man scrolling through Instagram reels on the other side. Going out for dinner and having a normal conversation, talking about the trivial matters of the day-to-day. Being able to be vulnerable without being labelled “too sensitive,” feeling that I can be myself.

I became a quieter person and stopped verbalizing what bothered me. I couldn’t say no, and after fake smiles, at the end of the day, I’d lie down with a broken, empty heart and genuinely feel that none of them knew me. Not for lack of opportunity, but lack of interest. It was always much more fun to arrange dates after ten at night, when the darkness makes everything less real, less serious.

So, I refuse to repeat the same mistakes.

I’m not their mother; I don’t have to uncover their traumas and find a solution. And I certainly don’t need to shut up to be more convenient, so as not to hurt their susceptibilities.

Why do women keep giving their all to emotionally immature men?

I think deep down, many of us genuinely believe we can transform them. If x, y, and z attitudes change, even a little bit, it’s enough for us to stay.

But it shouldn’t be like that, and one thing I’m sure about: my six-year-old self wouldn’t like to see me belittling myself for men, time and time again.

If you want the full, raw, unedited access to my mind, join Deconstructing Chaos, the backstage pass to the messy reasons behind the quiet rage!

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It was November 2023. My grandfather passed away a week ago, and, apparently, I was six months pregnant.

Growing up, becoming a mother was something I never dreamed about. It wasn’t something I yearned for or even felt remotely drawn to. In my mind, I was going to be a ballerina, a famous writer, or a supermodel. Definitely not a mother, a housewife, or someone with a big family running an entire household.

I wished for freedom.

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I grew up watching those iconic early 2000s romantic comedies, religiously. Where there is a happy ending, no matter what. In animated movies, the same happened, just like in the books I read. And the list goes on. There was always this pattern of two souls meeting for the first time and being unable to carry on with their lives as if nothing had happened.

The feeling was so real and life-changing; Bela was never the same after meeting the Beast. And the Beast never ghosted Bela. Instead, he showed true character development, selflessness, and a genuine desire to consider her feelings. That’s why he let her return to the village to save her father, knowing it could be the last time they saw each other. To me, that shaped my standards—what I expected from someone else and, even worse, what I would do for someone I truly cared about.

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When I first fell in love, everything was like in the movies. The butterflies, the corniness too, late-night conversations, casual dates after school. One month after I said “yes” to the supposed love of my life, he left me with a huge emptiness. And a broken heart.

That was the first time I experienced that strange feeling when someone leaves unexpectedly.

Nobody prepared me for that. I thought I was ready for a lot of things, but not for that. It triggered something in me that I still cannot describe to this day. Perhaps it was the moment I finally confronted my abandonment issues.

I remember sitting alone in my room, trying to rationalize everything, rewinding every conversation in my head in hopes of understanding what went wrong. I ate an entire box of heart-shaped chocolates while trying to figure out where I could’ve missed the signs; when things changed; what was actually behind it all. How could someone say one thing and do the complete opposite the next day?

That feeling followed me through the years, in various shapes, forms, and intensities. Always bitter, never sweet.

I’m a 25-year-old woman who feels hopeless about finding the type of love I once dreamed of. And I don’t mean this in a sad or depressive way.

I physically can’t deal anymore with the silent treatment and with how mean people can be.

You’d think it gets easier each time you get ghosted, but in fact, it gets worse. It only feeds and deepens the void that’s already there. It’s like every heartbreak and every lack of response piles on top of previous pain. Like a wound that never closes, and every time it bleeds, healing becomes harder.

It gets to a point where you inevitably start questioning your own self-worth or wondering where you might have failed. Until you realize it was never about you (which took me many attempts to truly internalize).

I used to cry and feel a pain so deep in my chest that it felt like everything was falling apart. Every single time. It didn’t matter if it lasted three weeks or three months; whenever I’m genuinely invested, that feeling sweeps me off the floor and throws me back to the little girl who’s traumatized and doesn’t know how to handle it. Or how to be gentle with herself.

Before, when I was still debating whether I was guilty, I used to think I was too intense, and that was the problem. But no. The problem lies with all those guys who couldn’t express their needs or their desire to simply leave, because it’s always easier not to deal with the consequences of our actions. I genuinely believe people are ghosted because the one who leaves doesn’t want the burden of having THE conversation, and that’s cowardly.

With all the disappointment that came from broken promises and empty words, I built a wall. A wall so strong I don’t know if it can be torn down.

You know you’re broken when you go from being the optimistic person who always sees the glass half full to someone hopeless and skeptical about true, genuine connections. You get so used to meaningless words that believing any word has meaning becomes difficult. You get so used to the silence that you start thinking it’s normal—that it’s how things are supposed to be.

But no.

I guess it should feel light, like the calm breeze brushing your face in the morning, like sunlight warming your body on a cold day, like a comforting hug when you feel the loneliest.

And one day, perhaps, I may feel it.

All this sympathy is just a knife is a track I’ve been hearing a lot, especially in the last months. It showed me I still have a lot of rage inside of me. I hear every single word, and my body reacts to it, like an electric feeling from head to toe.

I know I still have a lot of things to deal with.

For some time, it was an inner battle trying to understand whether it was directed towards others or just myself. And, at the bottom of it, the answer lies in me. Of course, I have some bitterness towards one or two people who genuinely hurt me, but not enough to make me feel this way. I try to hold as less grudges as possible. It’s not worth it, and it surely hurts me more than them, since I tend to overthink everything.

A lot of whys to answer.

Why wasn’t I able to say no more often or express my opinions; why couldn’t I just be brave enough to follow my dreams?

Or to just be myself.

That’s the root of every bit of anger I feel. The fact that I allowed my demons to control me, to make me think less of myself, and to believe my opinion mattered less than the person next to me. It’s a hard realization when you conclude that you have been your biggest enemy your whole life. Is it even possible to go from villain to hero? That’s a question I’m still debating; however, I like to believe it’s one of our purposes as human beings.

We come to earth in our purest form, get in touch with reality and all its dirtiness, and then we uncover and unpack every piece of dust, probably to ascend to a higher level of self-awareness. Or just to live in peace, which is something I’m clearly not familiar with.

My mind has been at war with itself. It’s like having two opposites trying to touch. It seems impossible, but my goal is to find a solution or at least a common ground, which is more likely.

I’ve already reached the point where I acknowledged the problem and truly understood it. So now, I guess I just need to find a way to work on it: to forgive myself and understand that I simply didn’t have the mental tools I have now to teach myself better.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I found the holy grail and everything will be okay. It takes a lot of work, effort, and willingness to forgive myself; to let all the anger go.

To me, the most challenging part is finding healthy ways to cope with it.

I normally turn to drugs or alcohol when the anger is so aggravated that I just want to shut it down, at all costs. At least when I’m high, everything gets numb, and it’s like I’m in my own bubble of not feeling anything at all. It’s a vicious cycle that surely needs an end.

I can’t be afraid of my own feelings.

I need to embrace them and love them for making me who I am.

I guess that’s the beauty in all of it.

Embracing and owning what’s in your heart.

If this resonated with you, I’d love to know how you deal with your own inner war.

Unable to escape the vibrant, powerful energy that exists between our souls.

We were in the only place where we are not disturbed by prejudice, reason, or the slightest trivial problems.
The only place capable of serving as a bed for the fulfillment of our deepest desires.
A place familiar to me since birth, one I allowed you to invade without warning.
By the time I realized it, you were already here.

Here, the place where I can feel your body without any shame, and where you can touch me without thinking twice about whether you should or not.
You should, you can, and you always end up doing it.
Over and over again.

If you can free yourself from the prejudices and morals imposed by society, the heart ultimately wins — and it’s in those moments that our bodies intertwine in a somewhat wild way, overflowing with desire, passion, intensity, and even a few drops of sweat that illuminate our naked bodies.

Then the genius of reality appears and tries to pull you away from that place so stripped of everything. So stripped that it becomes dangerous; the place where anything can happen.
But since desire is more imposing than the force of reality, you remain there.
You touch me.
You kiss me.
You take possession of me while our eyes lock onto each other with a fire that only you and I know.

And it’s always like this.
Every time you let yourself fall into this endless abyss and come to meet me, this is what happens.
In the end, the genius of reality reappears and pulls you away with such strength that you can’t resist.

That’s how you enter and leave my mind, over and over again.

The place where imagination has no limits, where I can be yours and you can be mine.
The place where I have from you exactly what I want; where there are no consequences or sorrow born from it.

As tempting as it is to let you in — to feel your scent or hear your voice — I’m beginning to realize that the best thing for me, and to preserve this space of mine, is not to allow the genius of reality to let you in.

When you leave, a space that was once illuminated and full of vitality turns into something dark, cold, lonely, and capable of giving voice to the most troubled and distorted thoughts.

I know that somewhere inside me there is enough strength to replace darkness with light, cold with warmth, loneliness with a place where, in my own solitude, I can find comfort — one that blocks the thoughts that try to pierce my space like burning arrows.

Now, here I am, sitting in the cold, chained to the voices that wish me harm.
Will I be able to free myself, or at least ease the grip of the iron chains permanently wrapped around my wrists?

Talking about fear should be easier, considering we walk hand in hand. It should feel natural, almost like talking about a part of myself.

I’ve felt fear for as long as I can remember being a person. Fear of the dark, fear of a ghost waiting for me to fall asleep to bring nightmares, fear of going to bed and waking up to find my parents gone.

Later, it became the fear of failing at school, fear of being rejected by the boy I liked, fear of not feeling enough, of not making friends. Yet it was more like an accumulation of fears, because by then the fear of the dark still lingered — and truthfully, I’m still afraid of those ghosts, just in a different way. I feel that, over the years, those ghosts have become a loud projection of my biggest and deepest fears.

All these fears grew stronger when I entered my teenage years. By then, I already felt like I was drowning in anxieties and depressions, all fed by fear. Fear of what, exactly? I reached a point where I no longer knew — I just felt fear. That was it. I don’t know why I assumed it was normal to live like that, but fear has been chasing me ever since.

I’m writing this at 25, as a mother, living a completely different life from when I first started feeling fear. But the sensation is the same — maybe even deeper.

Lately, I’ve been in a kind of self-reflection mode, after so long living on autopilot and ready to explode emotionally at the slightest thing. I feel, in general, calmer and more rational, able to put two and two together about some of my traumas, fears, and triggers.

I think it all started when I realized I could finally sleep without a night light. And that silence was no longer so terrifying or empty. A small step, but it’s something — and I’m proud of it.

Still, it’s a long journey, and I’m fully aware of that. I carry too many fears. And now also the awareness that, without those fears, my life could have been completely different. I could have lived much happier, and more connected to my essence.

That’s why I’m writing this.

For anyone who might still be in a sleeping mode, fighting the numbness that excessive fear can create in our lives. I think that if I managed to overcome the fear of the dark, I can do anything. And so can you.

For me, the trick has been to look the ghosts in the eyes, try to take some responsibility, and not blame everything on trauma — and, above all, to accept that it’s going to be a journey of ups and downs, one that lasts a lifetime.

But that’s okay. It means I’m alive, not just surviving. And that makes me happy — and it would make the Beatriz from the past happy too, the one who didn’t even believe she’d make it to adulthood.

And here I am, writing this, at 25 years old, watching my daughter watch cartoons, and feeling at peace. It doesn’t mean that five minutes from now I won’t feel fear — that unpleasant sensation. But nothing can take away this moment.

Love heals everything. And it undoubtedly has the power to quiet and chase away some of the ghosts.

If you’re reading this and fear feels too loud right now, just know you’re not the only one trying to quiet it. ♡

I can no longer tell apart what’s real and what’s imagined. My traumas, insecurities, failures, self-criticism, self-sabotage, fears, and doubts turned into heavy chains, dragging me down, inch by inch, until I could no longer breathe. I spent years underwater, suspended in silence, surviving but not living. My voice was buried so deep I could barely remember its sound — and I silenced it myself.

But the moment I became a mother, something shifted. Some of those chains began to loosen and, one by one, they started to break. And what happens to a fish out of water? It dies. In my case, I’ve gone through intense waves of self-discovery that feel electric, followed by an irrational fear of being swallowed by the depths again. It’s as if I’m constantly balancing on a tightrope with the ocean roaring beneath me.

For the first time, I’m looking inward without judgment. I’m beginning to see, piece by piece, what happened over the years — what I did, what was done to me, what I want for the present, and what no longer deserves a place in my life. I’m learning to respect myself, to set boundaries, to say no. Some days it feels terrifying, but on others it feels like freedom. Above all, I’m learning how to live.

Little by little, I feel less on autopilot. And I know, deep down, I’m going to be okay. I’m not a burden, as I once thought. I am a gift. I carry talents, virtues, and so much light to offer. All I need is time to calm the storm inside me and turn it into something new.

For the first time, I need myself. And that feels like hope.