Category Archives: Experiences

Real moments that shaped me, far from bullet points and job titles. In this section, I share personal stories, travels, milestones, and lessons learned through the unpredictability of life. Sometimes messy, often eye-opening — always real.

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#54 Using AI as a career coach to discover your professional future

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I want to keep this post brief and share the key insights without wasting anyone’s time with a story that isn’t necessary. I’ll just say that the tip I’m sharing is a prompt I created by feeding perplexity.ai some questions related to my CV, future career steps, closing learning gaps based on market trends, and my current skills.

At the moment, I have a stable position where I work mainly in German and French. I love languages, and especially German has been quite a barrier to get past for a long time, so it’s pretty dope that I get paid to keep speaking German and improving my skill daily! Also, after spending almost the whole of 2024 unemployed, I can only be grateful for my current professional situation.

Of course, I have ambitious plans for my future. As someone with insatiable curiosity who is always learning, I’m constantly considering my next steps. That’s why I asked Perplexity to analyze my CV and give me some tips on career advancement, learning new skills, and planning a shift in my professional life. I also believe this prompt could be useful to those aiming at getting back to work after a period of unemployment.

Anyway, enough introduction! I wrote much more than intended. Here are some of the most effective prompts for supporting career development when someone provides their CV, along with examples for planning next steps, recommending relevant courses, suggesting career transitions, and outlining practical steps:


    1. Assessment & Goal Clarification

    “Based on my CV, what aspects of my current role do I enjoy or excel at the most, and which ones might I want to change or avoid?”

    2. Gap Analysis & Skill Mapping

    “Given my experience in areas like XYZ, what technical or soft skills am I missing that are commonly required in my target industry or desired roles?”

    3. Targeted Course Recommendations

    “Considering my background and the positions I’m aiming for, which specific skills or certifications would most boost my chances of landing interviews in those roles?”

    4. Career Shift Possibilities

    “Do any cross-functional projects or side responsibilities from my current or past jobs suggest possible new career directions, such as project management, training, or translation management?”

    5. Actionable Career Planning

    “Can you outline a 90-day career action plan that includes résumé updates, networking objectives (for example, reaching out to professionals in my target industry), and a list of relevant courses to complete?”

    6. Industry and Role Exploration

    “With the current job market trends, which roles related to my experience show strong growth prospects, and what are the entry requirements for those roles?”

    7. Reflection and Motivation

    “What motivates me most in my work—problem-solving, helping others, working with technology—and how could this shape my ideal career direction?”

Best Practices for Using These Prompts:

- Combine objective CV review with subjective goal setting.
- Prioritize actionable, short-term steps with measurable outcomes.
- Regularly revisit goals as skills and external factors evolve.

These prompts create a structure that helps you assess your present position, recognize growth areas, and build a plan that includes upskilling and networking, ultimately increasing the likelihood of successful career transitions.

I would suggest printing your results and going with the flow, seeing how it works for you, and eventually make adjustments to align with your goals and current circumstances.

#53 posts later: from job hunt to creative journey

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I started this blog a year ago, mainly as a way to rediscover a sense of purpose during a period of unemployment. I also wanted to build a writing portfolio to share with recruiters during interview processes and increase my chances of being hired in my field of interest: anything related to writing, researching, translating, content strategy, project management, and so on.

However, it soon became something more—not just a tool for job searching, but a personal space where I wanted to invest more time, experiment, and perhaps pursue long-held dreams, like publishing short stories and novels on my own platform. Since publishing a physical book still feels out of reach.

This blog didn’t start out the way it is now. In fact, it used to be a messy personal website with too many pages, scattered content, and little structure. So I slowly shaped it into what you can see today, which I hope comes acroos as a simple collection of blog posts.

I decided to invest a little in a Personal WordPress subscription. I would have gone for the Premium plan, but it’s literally twice the price, and there is no free trial to see if it’s actually worth it for the purpose of my website. That’s why I opened a donation page on Ko-fi, even though that is not really necessary at this stage. And if I ever build a larfer audience in the future, I would gladly invest my own money to bring better content—although I don’t know what “better content” would look like yet.

I don’t know if this makes sense, but I think I know what I am doing, while at the same time having no idea of what I’m doing.

At times, this whole blog thing feels like an extension of a personal diary—not because of the content itself, but because I’m writing primarly for myself, and maybe that’s the case. But what I actually mean is that building an audience is truly hard. Sure, I could have emailed every single person I know and told them, “Hey, I have this cool new blog, wanna take a look?”—but that idea terrifies me. I would rather let this blog exist among millions, probably billions of pages published every day and connect with those with which my content resonates. It feels more purposeful, less of an obligation to my friends, family, acquaintances, and so on.
Maybe that’s just the lone wolf. But anyway, this is a bigger topic, one I may (or may not) come back to in the future.

Recently, following the example of some blogs I found out there, I decided to reorganize my posts into the categories: reflections, experiences, short stories, novels (still to come), and explorations. Then, in an attempt to broaden my audience, I also created new tags, long tags, and so on and so forth.
I have to admit, I have zero patience for this SEO stuff. I would love to develop my marketing skills in a professional setting, but in my personal time, I just want to write. So, I ChatGPT the shit out of this SEO stuff!

Since I squeeze my free time to write consistently (combining long commutes, work, reading, training, relationship, and so on), I don’t overthink what I publish, and I don’t spend too much time editing.
As I mentioned in previous posts, I use AI tools only to correct typos and grammatical mistakes—not to alter my style or rephrase things I’ve written. I have a personal prompt that keeps this as ethical and minimal as possible, since, as far as I understand, using AI too heavily could raise questions about ownership or originality under some copyright interpretations.

Concluding without a real conclusion, I am still very excited about this project—especially because I have endless ideas that I want to execute. But I am not in a rush, and I accept now more than before that sometimes it can take longer to write better content, especially when it comes to fiction, which is my favorite—but also the most demanding stuff.

#44 What’s next? Ten years pregnant with a novel

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More than ten years ago, I wrote a book. A novel. A draft of a novel. Actually, I’d say half of it is ready to publish, the other half is still a work in progress. I keep repeating to myself that sooner or later I’ll get it done, but until now, I haven’t managed it.

Achieving that, though, would finally set me free—and I’d be able to write my second novel, or at least start brainstorming about it.
Until now, it has felt like being pregnant for ten years—wanting a second child but unable to have one until you give birth to the first. I’m not sure if this is the best analogy, considering I’m not a woman, but it seemed funny when I first wrote it down.

Last year, while I was unemployed, I dedicated some time to polishing my manuscript and sent it to an editor—a friend of a friend—who had kindly offered to read the first part of my draft. I knew it wasn’t ready. I knew I still had to work on it, probably over and over again. Not that I haven’t already, but self-editing can be a rabbit hole where one easily gets lost in lateral overthinking.
I was afraid of sharing it with anybody at that stage—especially an editor. Besides, the experience of unemployment had left a scar on my ego. I was already so full of self-doubt that exposing myself in such an intimate way was the last thing I wanted.
Yet, I did it—I shared the first part of the book with the editor. And guess what? I was right. The manuscript wasn’t ready—according to him, too. He suggested I set it aside, let it rest, and write short stories, articles, anything but touch that manuscript. He also asked me—perhaps testing my resolve—if I was sure I even wanted to keep writing. “Why would you want that?” he asked.
It was a real setback, but it didn’t demotivate me. Not because I have a will of steel or anything like that. There are just some things I can’t live without. In other words, if I had to answer his question—“Why do I want to write?”—it’s not that I want to. It’s that I can’t do otherwise. I need it.
But as I said, at the time it felt like a setback, also because I focused mostly on the negative part of his feedback.
He had, in fact, shared valuable positive feedback. When I made an effort to develop a character with empathy and care—rather than rushing the story and piling up dialogue—he said he felt more connected to it. He also noted that he could sense when I was being honest and when I was hiding something. When I was free writing, he said he particularly liked my dark humor and sarcasm.

One always has to take feedback with a grain of salt, but this came from a professional in the industry who has analyzed hundreds of books, if not more, given his experience in the industry. Most of all, his opinion felt true to me; it resonated, and his tone was genuine.

Now, after following his advice for a while, I want to make the most of what I’ve learned and finally complete this first novel process.
To proceed, I realized I needed three things:

1) Accountability
2) A clear goal
3) A good method

And I think this blog gave me all three.
My goal, in fact, is to periodically review and publish a few paragraphs of my novel alongside what I’m already writing (spontaneous reflections, short stories, etc.). The people who enjoy reading my content will help keep me accountable. As for the method, I believe taking this slow-paced but consistent and rewarding approach—instead of trying to finish the whole thing all at once—will benefit my motivation and help me stay disciplined and loyal to my overall approach.

This whole plan or realisation is not an original idea of mine. In fact, I have to thank the WordPress community for sharing so much amazing content so openly and for inspiring me with their approaches and consistency.
If you’re interested in embarking on a similar path, I highly recommend checking out the blogs Faded Houses, Great – Almost Meaningful, and Edge of Humanity. Read their content and take note of how they structure their pages—it’s really well done!

So, to conclude, I’m going to follow this strategy: alternating between short stories, spontaneous reflections, and—primarily—my novel, which is written in Italian. I intend to keep it that way, as translating it into English, even though beneficial in terms of broadening my audience, would only add another layer of challenge, and my objective is to keep this process as lean, uncomplicated, and enjoyable as possible.

If you’re Italian, or have Italian friends interested in following a novel as it evolves toward publication, I warmly invite you to stay tuned and share this blog.
Your presence and feedback mean more than you know.

#36 The comfort of a daily loop

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After forcing myself out of bed, performing my morning exercises consisting of some twenty minutes of light weightlifting, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and running out to catch the tram, I finally enjoy my favourite moment of the workday: reading a book.

When I’m lucky, I find a seat near the window. I squeeze myself into a sort of one-handed self-hug, holding the book with my free hand, zoning out from everything around me as I get absorbed in whatever I’m reading. Sometimes, I glance at the screen displaying the remaining stops to calculate how many pages I can approximately read before the end of the ride—whether I can finish the chapter or not.

Before getting off to jump on the train that will take me to my final destination, I mark the line I have reached with my fingernail and put the bookmark in place. I walk as quickly as possible to beat other people waiting on the platform and secure a good spot to read undisturbed once again.

During this whole time, my biggest worries are a crying baby, a pair of talkative kids speaking a language I understand, people listening to loud music, or someone playing the guitar, singing, or begging for money. In those moments, I admit to entertaining some rather unsympathetic thoughts—not worth detailing, but let’s just say my imagination turns catastrophically sinister when the peace of my reading is disrupted.

I have breakfast at the supermarket. There’s a healthy buffet there. Very few people eat breakfast there, which gives me a few more minutes to read or listen to an audiobook before starting my shift.

During my lunch break, I return to the same supermarket buffet. I prepare my bowl and run to a park close by to find a bench where I can eat in peace, disconnecting from everything. After a few minutes of peace, I tend to speed up my eating to carve out some extra reading time before returning to work.

In the evening, I do the same routine in reverse on my way home. But once I’m home, I’m done—my body and brain just want a shower, some food, and silence before stretching into a few more pages of reading, a spontaneous blog post draft, a few scenes from a movie I’ll end up watching in episodes like a TV series, some time with my girlfriend when our schedules align, or simply a good, long night of sleep.

This repetitively pleasant routine, though, is a phase of rest. A pause that feels purposeful. I don’t yet know what it precedes, but I do know it’s necessary—an interval of stillness before the next thing begins, whatever that may be. And for now, that’s enough.

#34 Protecting ourselves while opening up

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Imagine you’re having a conversation with someone. You’ve been exchanging intimate details about your lives, and you feel safe enough to share something deeply vulnerable, like:

“My mother died of cancer when I was ten. I still feel an emptiness when thinking about it.”

But to your astonishment, the other person replies:

“Still? After all these years? Come on, you gotta move on!”

I bet you’d feel hurt, confused, and would react with the typical fight, flight, or freeze response. You might take it personally and decide never to share anything with that person again. Correct?

When we open up to others, we must accept that vulnerability comes with risk—of criticism, misinterpretation, unsolicited advice, or outright dismissal. A conscious approach, though, isn’t always possible; sometimes we’re just flowing through a conversation. But ideally, we should learn to protect ourselves in any circumstance.

In a perfect world, this vulnerability would be met with empathy, compassion, maturity, and intuition—elements that create a safe space for intimate connection. But as we know, the world is far from ideal.

That said, no meaningful relationship—of any kind—exists without occasional disappointment. We tend to expect more from those we allow close to us, but expectations often undermine relationships, just like comparison robs us of happiness. We must remain rooted in ourselves, closer to our inner compass than to the urge to close gaps with the people around us. And it’s our responsibility to shape communication in ways that feel safe and respectful for all parties—through honest expression, clear boundaries, and mutual understanding.

The ability to shape a relationship should go hand-in-hand with choosing them wisely: developing the sensitivity to recognize early on which people will require the least emotional effort to maintain healthy communication.

Still, we may go through periods where solitude feels like the better choice. Not because we reject connection, but because we’re exhausted—tired of investing in yet another relationship or friendship that drains us. Even then, we must sit with our inner demons—grappling with thoughts of the past, present, and future, and confronting the psychological obstacles our mind constantly elaborates.

There are also those moments when life seems to place only annoying or immature people in our path. And let me be clear: I’m not here to criticize such people. I’ve been that person. You’ve probably been that person. Humility and the awareness that we’re all works in progress can help not just us, but others too.

One small, recurring thing I try to do when I feel hurt, misunderstood, dismissed, or belittled in a conversation is to take responsibility for my feelings. First, I examine where they come from. Then I try to empathize with the other person—to understand what might have triggered their reaction. Sometimes, for example, people simply feel like shit and alone, and they want to drag others into their misery. It may be unconscious, but it’s still a mechanism—a pattern they’ve been repeating for a long time.

So the next time we find ourselves opening up, revealing intimate details, and receiving an offhand comment or a dismissive silence in return, we can try a simple practice: pause and identify the feeling the other person’s behavior triggered in us, then express it. A sentence like:

“When you dismissed what I said about how my mother’s death still makes me feel, I felt sad.”

is already a meaningful first step. It sounds simple, but it’s one of the hardest things to do in relationships—because most of us react to feelings instead of sitting with them, and finding the courage to acknowledge them to ourselves and share them with others.

If this sparked your curiosity, I encourage you to read Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life by Marshall B. Rosenberg and A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle. These were two fundamental books for my development and growth over the last years.

#33 Do we remember with honesty?

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The shape of memory

As we advance through life and its various phases, we evolve into something entirely different from what we initially were. Without acknowledging that change, we often forget what we used to be like as children. It’s difficult, though, to look back at our past objectively—we tend to use those memories to justify who we are today, rather than seeing them simply as integral parts of our journey.

Personally, I fluctuate between different emotional states when thinking about my past. Some memories I enjoy indulging in; others, I’d rather forget. However, when I think about the child I used to be—rather than specific events—everything becomes softer, more comfortable. I don’t mind stepping into that skin again. I still find myself in that child’s essence—not in their behaviors, but in their core, which remains a familiar and safe place.

Chaos, imagination, belonging

Until I was about seven, growing up in the high-crime Salvador of the 90s with a single mom, I spent most of my time confined within our residential building.

Aside from sporadic visits to my cousins or my mom’s friends’ kids, my daily social life revolved around that building. With only three children, including me, it was hardly a playground. The other two were brothers, so I wasn’t really part of their dynamic. In other words, I didn’t have much of a social life outside of school, weekends, and holidays.

After doing my homework, I would go kick a ball against the wall in the building’s garage—an underground block of cement with no trees and only a sliver of sunlight for a few hours a day. I had no dreams of becoming a Bebeto or Romário like the other kids. Hitting the ball against the wall just helped me release some stress, I suppose. On the few occasions I left the building for groceries, I got robbed. Once, I was even assaulted at knifepoint and returned home shirtless, stripped of a brand-new baseball cap I had received for Christmas. It may sound traumatic, but back then, everyone I knew had a similar story—whether kids or adults. Robbery was a disturbingly normalized part of our society.

Despite the repetitive, limited, and at times dangerous routine, I remember being a happy kid. I was alone most of the time, but I didn’t mind. I don’t recall ever begging my mom to take me to see people—maybe I did, I’m not sure. What I do remember is asking to go see a movie, buy a comic book, a toy, or a new set of colored pencils. I was really good at entertaining myself with drawing and reading. I also had strange little habits that excited me beyond reason—like memorizing the names of the cars parked outside our gate, which I would stare at for hours from our window while waiting for my mom to return from work. I guess boredom forced me to invent ways to stay entertained.

Whenever I did meet my cousins, I tried to make the most of it—even if that meant doing unusual or dangerous things. I had a constant urge to compensate for the apathy of my day-to-day life. I frequently joined street fights, often ending up beaten, as I tended to challenge older, bigger kids to heighten the adrenaline rush I craved. I would jump off cliffs, swim in stormy oceans, explore abandoned caves and cemeteries, break into buildings or stores just to steal something random. When caught, I’d deny everything with the most bizarre, creative lies imaginable.

Daring and breaking the rules meant being alive. It was my way of affirming that I existed. That need was likely unconscious at the time, but I can’t justify it any other way now.

I have to admit—I loved inventing stories, even if it drove my mom mad. I was always around when crazy things happened, partly because I had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time, and partly because I was always nosing into other people’s business to compensate for the dullness of my life. I collected wild anecdotes and shared them with others, but I couldn’t help spicing them up. I’d exaggerate just enough to make the stories unbelievable—but I’d tell them with such enthusiasm that people began to believe them.

Once, while playing my car-memorization game, I saw a car crash right in front of our building. It was bad. The woman in the back seat of one of the cars lost consciousness and never woke up. The driver stumbled out, blood covering his face, shouting random nonsense. When my mom got home, I told her a kid had been catapulted from the car (there were no children involved), and that the driver had lost an arm and was screaming in a foreign language.

It’s hard to explain how often bizarre things happened around me. My cousin once threw a rock at a beehive and nearly died from the stings. I saw a girl drown in a stormy ocean. A friend broke his jaw and lost most of his teeth in a skating accident. I saw a gang fight. A gang member once let us hold his gun. And so on. Eventually, I began normalizing—and even seeking out—chaotic experiences. It’s no surprise my favorite movie genre was horror, which, I’m sure, made my mom question my mental health from time to time, though she often found it funny.

A different reality

What I sometimes observe is that my childhood gave me a constant state of alertness that still follows me, even after being “Europeanised”—used to a much less abnormal routine. I still double-check dark corners before walking through them, take wide turns, and instinctively keep my distance when a stranger approaches out of nowhere. The sound of fireworks? My first thought is gunfire.

By the time we moved to Italy, my childhood had already taken some wild twists. I had spent a year and a half living with my aunt and uncle, and their building was a treasure trove of experiences—a wonderland of children hungry for adventure. I bonded with them and collected a new set of PG-13, not-so-recommendable experiences. When I arrived in Italy, I was reactive, restless, troublemaking, and unreliable. My background didn’t match European standards—especially not those of the small town I ended up in. The integration process, both inside and outside my family, was difficult. I’ve talked about this in previous posts, and the re-education process was anything but easy. But that’s a story to dive in again another time.

There are parts of ourselves we hide to fit into the world. That’s a pity. When we’re in touch with who we really are, we know what we want and how to live in alignment with our core. Otherwise, we end up living someone else’s life. And that makes a huge difference. We are all a mixture of light and darkness, good and evil, boredom and excitement—whatever those words evoke in us. We do need to coexist with others, but before that, we need to exist in peace with ourselves and accept who we truly are.