Eleven years ago, I was forced (yes you read it right) to take a 20 day vacation. The labor laws in Brazil differ from the ones in the US, and we have 30 days guaranteed every year. The thing was, as the workaholic I was back then, I accumulated not only 2 years’ vacation but also had an excessive amount of overtime. Enough that HR pulled me into a meeting to inform me I was obligated to take some time off or the company would have to pay some stiff fees.

Without a lot of time to plan, and no one with availability to go with me on such short notice, I just decided to hop on the next flight to Southern California and crash at a friend’s place.

It was not exactly my first time in the area. I had been to Los Angeles a few times for work and always managed to squeeze some tourist/fun time between the meeting and the events. So there was no need to spend time visiting the Griffith Observatory, the Santa Monica Pier or even Disneyland or Universal Studios.

The Brazilian labor laws, the universe, God, or whatever you decide to call it, forced me to hit the brakes. And that is exactly what I did. To the fullest. With my friend attending school and working part time, I had to be independent and entertain myself for most of the days. On the first day I got an Uber to go to the beach. But one constant scene kept popping up on the car window. Dozens of people riding their bikes along the coast, living their best lives. There and then I chose my way of transportation.

My routine was very simple: I would woke up whenever I wanted (which was not very late due to the jet leg), quick breakfast, bikini on, sunscreen on, book on the bag and hop on the cute blue beach cruiser I rented. The almost thirty minutes it took me to get to Newport Beach Pier was not only worthy, but therapeutic. My eyes scanned every single palm tree, short white fence and bougainvillea bush. And my mind finally had time to think about how I wanted to live my life and what really made me happy.

Coming back home was somehow depressive. Not that regular post-vacation depression. My heart was heavy. That type of heaviness you feel when you miss something or someone you deeply love. That was it. California had stolen my heart.

Long story short, three months later I boarded again on a plane to Los Angeles. This time with three 50lbs suitcases and a student visa stamp on my passport.

As much as I am the basic straight cis gender female, only after moving here I felt I could truly be myself. Back then I only knew three people here, there was no need to fulfill anyone’s expectation besides mine. I could be as silly and as crazy as I wanted. Which was such a powerful and freeing feeling. I naturally became the healthiest and strongest version of myself.

Eleven years later, I saw myself in a comparable situation. Not because of labor laws, but nonetheless, I ended up with an impromptu two weeks’ vacation. In this economy and with so many people who look like me being hunted down the streets, I did not feel comfortable traveling.

When you live where everybody else dreams of vacationing, that is not exactly a problem. I spent sixteen days waking up whenever my body felt it was time, and going to the beach in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. The frown lines on my forehead were gone without Botox, my skin went back to its original caramel color, and my heart got into cruise mode. The bikinis hanging on the hook behind my bathroom door made my soul happy.

As Carrie Bradshaw would say: and just like that, a vacation in Orange County transformed me. It is time to change again. Not locations, but activities and how I face life. I came here looking for a different life, with more quality and a slower pace. Somehow, I ended up trapped in the hamster wheel again. Just like when I was in the corporate world. The difference this time is that I am not making six figures.

The calming sound of the ocean and the seagulls, the 80-something degrees tanning my skin and the amusing little naps on my beach towel made me realize that my stress was coming from absorbing everybody else’s problems, and allowing them to blame me for whatever was not perfect in their lives. (I wrote an entire article about that last month).

And, most of all, I realized that sometimes we do not need to travel to one of the fascinating corners of the world and live incredible experiences to transform our lives. We can do that right in our own backyards. Because what really makes us change is not necessarily the place. It is our ability to stop the tracks, cancel the surrounding noise, just breathe and observe all the amazing little things we have around us.

It is only then that our hearts and souls feel safe enough to tell us what they need. One day they might tell you to leave everything behind and start over thousands of miles away from everything you are familiar with. Or they might just tell you to take a deep breath and sit by the warm sand, listening to the waves. All you have to do is listen. To your environment, your heart, and your soul.

Now, please, excuse me. There is a book waiting for me by the pool. That is one of the new ways I found to disconnect from the world and incorporate my vacation mode into my daily life.

Before I even brush my teeth, my brain threads me through the long list of small battles that are waiting for me. Other people’s needs. Other people’s moods. Other people’s emergencies that somehow always become mine.

A line from a popular Brazilian song comes to my mind: “Todo dia ela faz tudo sempre igual”... Which translates to something like “Every day she does everything the same way”. And that is exactly what I have been doing. The woman who never liked labels or to be put in “boxes”‌ was suddenly stuck on this relentless hamster wheel.

The sad realization does not stop me; I show up for all the requests. I always do. Not because someone is forcing me, but because that is the only language I have ever been truly fluent in. It is what I do before I even think to ask myself if I have the bandwidth for it.

By the time I have taken the first sips of my coffee, I have already put on what I call my Disney Princess skin. All smiles. All warmth. All kindness. I present myself that way everywhere. Either by accepting plans I have no energy for, anticipating questions before they are even asked; or even by offering help that costs me something I do not always have to spare.

I don’t stop to justify it. I don’t negotiate with myself. There is no time for that. Someone needs something, and I am already moving. My therapist might imply some sort of hero complex. He would be (at least partially) right. And maybe that is why I was always good at crisis management when I was in the corporate world. I do not freeze; I turn into a bulldozer and just move.

Somewhere underneath all that movement is a quiet, private hope: that one day, when I am the one in the middle of the storm, someone will show up for me the same way. They almost never do.

And this is possibly why I keep giving so much of myself. It is not just an act of love and care for others. It is because I know, more than most, how devastating it is to be alone when everything is falling apart. I have felt that countless times. And I refuse to be the reason someone else feels it too. Even when it is slowly draining me.

When my head finally meets my pillow‌, my body feels a particular kind of exhaustion that has no name. It is not sadness exactly. It is the slow accumulation of being the one who always holds without ever being held.

Nevertheless, the next morning my alarm goes off at 6am. I do everything the same way. Show up for everyone else’s emergencies while bottling all my pain. Rearrange my schedule, absorb the consequences quietly, and adjust my timeline to fit into other people’s narrow windows. Because that is what happens when you are the dependable one. The one without kids. The one whose family is 6,000 miles away. To the world, that makes me available. Flexible. Free. What it actually makes me is invisible.

There is an unquestioned assumption that follows women like me everywhere. I have not built the kind of life that comes with visible obligations: school pickups, sick kids, family dinners. So my time costs less. My exhaustion is somehow smaller. My need for rest, for reciprocity, for someone to show up for me is somehow less legitimate.

And God forbid I say something. God forbid I try to be vulnerable, to admit I am drowning a little. Someone will always be ready to remind me they have it harder. That their plate is fuller. That their tiredness is bigger than mine.

So I swallow it, smile, and show up. While that Brazilian song keeps playing in my head: todo dia ela faz tudo sempre igual... Maybe it is time to switch the song and do something different.

I dug into the archives of my brain. In the search for a positive reference, I unearthed other cautionary figures. The obsessive love triangle between Capitu, Bentinho and Escobar in the Brazilian classic Don Casmurro taught my 14-year-old self about pathological jealousy. Carrie Bradshaw, from the TV show Sex and The City, showed me that being chaotic and needy is the way to get your Mr. Big. Through Edward Lewis and Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman, I was introduced to rescue as romance and love as a transaction.

Even the stories with happy endings were not that simple. Or healthy. Before reaching their “Happily Ever After”, the fairytale princesses go through some of the most traumatic experiences. I mean, Snow White literally dies! And don’t even get me started on a man kissing an unconscious woman without her consent.

The opening scene of Grey’s Anatomy’s first episode is the aftermath of Meredith Grey and Derek Shepherd’s first encounter. A one-night stand between a med student and a married neurosurgeon. They only got married by the end of season seven. We could argue season five, if we consider the “post-it wedding”. Anyway, (SPOILER ALERT) Derek dies in season 11. So even Meredith’s happy ending is not happily ever after.

All that has taught me that love is neither simple nor joyful. Here is where I confess to using all of that as a crutch for every relationship I’ve ever had. How could I have done anything differently? Turbulence was all I was used to. All I knew to be right. And all I hounded, like a dog searching for a toddler in the woods.

That is why I chose the guy who said I love you after only three weeks of knowing me. And I kept going back to the one who mistreated me. Or I overstayed with another, convinced that I would be the one to bring down his walls finally.

Happiness seemed to be the carrot on my stick. Close enough to keep me running, never close enough to reach. After about a week of tears and ice cream, I would enter the overthinking phase of my healing, eventually convincing myself that the next relationship would finally be the one where I caught it.

In one of those cycles, I looked deeply into my internal mirror and questioned: Am I the problem? Am I the pattern? I was the common denominator in all those equations. In a self-protection mechanism, I became an avid detective, constantly searching for clues that would reveal how the next guy would hurt me. And I would always find strong evidence. If not in real life, for sure inside of my brain. To others, that looked like walls, but to me it felt like survival.

But it was lonely inside my fortress. I had to break down those walls, retire the magnifying glass, and be vulnerable again. That’s when I met someone. He was different. Emotionally mature. Imperfect, but light, real, and honest. And somehow that is the hardest thing I have ever faced. Because calm feels foreign. Being in a healthy relationship makes me look like a kid trying on high heels for the first time. It’s something beautiful that I really want, but it’s quite uncomfortable, and I have no idea how to use it.

In the middle of that winter Sunday afternoon, I, in a very Aries way, jumped off my chair as I decided that crocheting was the ultimate solution for all my problems. I drove straight to the closest Michael’s. The mission? Purchase all the necessary supplies. Back home and after watching a single two-minute video, I reached for my new tools. It was time to start crocheting.

To be completely honest, my first trials were bad. Like, really bad. But I did not care. The only goal was to distract my anxiously flooded brain and dissociate from the rough surfing of everything that was going on in the world. Okay, there was also some hope that this new activity would make me stop biting my nails. The terrible habit I have had since I was nine years old. My first ever recognizable sign of anxiety.

Once the first decent-ish chain was complete, my first lesson presented itself. I ignored the quality of what I was creating and solely focused on the fact that I learned a new skill in less than 5 minutes. Throughout my years of trying various therapy styles and seeing different professionals, they repeatedly explained one thing to me: I can achieve anything I decide to. That little dusty pink chain in my hands was all the reminder I needed.

Over the next couple of days, an ocean of lessons followed as my craft improved. My stitches got less crooked as the waves of thoughts slowed down. And my fingers moved faster and in a more assertive way, like a rhythmic and certain tide moving back toward the shore. Teaching me that even a simple straight second row deserves praise.

When a mistake occurred, and believe me, there were so many mistakes, the solution was simple: all I needed to do was to frog it (I’m also learning the terminology!) and start over. The frustration of not succeeding lasted just a couple of seconds. Unravel it. Start over. The next attempt would be better. And it was.

Crochet is a very forgiving hobby. All the videos mentioned that. Maybe I should try applying that to my life. Instead of panicking and getting frustrated, maybe I could simply forgive myself, frog my mistakes away and start over. Or maybe it was so easy to forgive my mistakes because I never had high hopes for this new hobby. That removed the pressure of performing highly.

I wish my conjoined twin could do it as easily as my hands and the yarn could. Maybe one day I’ll get there. For now, she’s still with me. But when my hands are moving and the yarn is following, her grip loosens just enough.

Harold’s inspiring mom (who has fostered 24 dogs!) reminded me of the 3-3-3 rule: 3 days to decompress (hiding, not eating, nervous), 3 weeks to learn your routine (testing boundaries, showing personality), and 3 months to build true trust and feel fully at home. And sure enough, you spent the first three days hiding under the arm of my chunky couch, squeezed by our shoe rack. It was almost as if you wanted to be as close to the door as possible, so you’d be able to escape at the smallest sign of danger.

You were blissfully unaware that you had entered the home of a woman raised to be a Disney Princess. Someone who, despite being bitten by her own dog at the age of two, still begs to pet every single dog she encounters on the street. Once you read my heart, you skipped the middle rule and went straight to the third one.

For months I saw you flourish. We went on the longest walks throughout my entire complex. You barked at many people and became friends with others. To whom you’d bark as soon as they stopped petting you. I also lowered my guard and allowed love to fill my heart; although I knew it wasn’t meant to last

As a storyteller, I created our little fairytale. You’d be with me for maybe 4-5 months, someone would magically fall in love with you, to where they wouldn’t care that you needed four different pills every day, and you would go live happily ever after. I’d cry for about a week, but my heart would be happy every time I’d see an update from you. Because yes, in my fairytale, your new family would have an Instagram account where they’d post about you all the time.

But that never happened. All the people, noises, smells, and other dogs at the adoption fair stressed you out and made you aggressive. That, added to your medical history, constantly made the enthusiasm vanish from potential adopters. Then, our walks became shorter. The pill pockets didn’t trick you into taking your meds anymore (you went days without taking them), your little legs sled to the sides when on a hardwood floor (I’m so grateful for having carpet at home!), and here and there you’d only eat treats.

The saddest question started to pop up in conversations with the rescue: Is it time? And I always said a firm no. Besides all that, you were still full of energy. You’d still run every morning to demand your treats by literally knocking at our favorite neighbor’s door.

But on a Friday morning, something changed. I don’t know exactly what, but your health declined significantly. The enthusiastic run to the neighbor was replaced by a slow walk that sometimes needed a little break halfway. I had to carry you up and down the stairs. And you wouldn’t eat your prescription food. The confirmation that something was wrong with you came when you were aggressive towards me.

The saddest question popped up again. And this time I replied: I think so… My heart shattered at that moment. This is not how a Disney Princess is supposed to say goodbye to her fluffy friend!

But I knew there was not much more I could do for you. Seeing you crying in pain and unable to be the little menace I learned to love just because I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye wasn’t fair to you.

So I took you on a nice car ride (as you always begged me on our walks), fed you a puppy patty from In-N-Out, and cuddled with you as much as I could. The next morning, the last sign you were ready to cross the rainbow bridge came. Even with less than 10 teeth in your mouth, you always devoured your treats in seconds. That morning you took over five minutes to do so.

I filled our last moments together with kisses on your grumpy head, multiple pleas for forgiveness, and countless declarations of my love for you. And now I’m here, trying to relearn to live without you. Still being careful when getting out of bed to not step on you and still crying when I look at the pee pads on my balcony.

Oh, my Charlie boy… you were never officially my dog, but you’ll forever be my little menace to society. You taught me that love doesn’t wait for the perfect version of someone to show up. I’m still learning that with people. Thank you for letting me love you and be your foster Mommy for the past 14 months.

You left a hole in my heart, but at least yours left this world whole…