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.

#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.

#31 What I don’t want to write about

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This week, I tried to write a post several times, failing miserably at each attempt.

Initially, I wanted to write about my holiday in Portugal. I managed a few paragraphs and even came up with a title I really liked. It felt simple, catchy, and fitting for the overall topic I had in mind: “The importance of taking a break.” But by the time I reached paragraph five, I had already lost the plot. I was writing about anything but the importance of taking a break.

Instead, I found myself rambling about the thoughts that had accompanied me during my vacation in Portugal—things like “I’m grateful for this…”, “I found that so annoying…”, “That person was a creep”, “That other person was so nice”, and so on.

I read the whole thing out loud again, and it irritated me. I didn’t want to put anybody else through that unexciting, boring collection of random thoughts. So, I deleted it and started all over again.

My next idea was to talk about a project that I’ve had in mind for a while now: reading extracts from books that taught me valuable lessons. This time, however, the title I came up with was disastrous: “A reading project.” Just for the record, I think it’s important to come up with the title at some point during the writing process. It gives me clear direction—an answer to the quintessential writer’s question: “What do I want to write about?” But no, “A reading project” didn’t strike a chord. It was too broad, and somehow I ended up talking about childhood dreams I had long forgotten.

Today, three hours of my precious time went by between unexciting meal prepping, interrupted second-season episodes of Fleabag, chips, large cups of coffee, and random words written on WordPress. All this while the sun was shining brightly outside. And there I was, thinking, Well then, when it’s raining you can’t really complain about it.

At that point, I was ready to give up. I was starting to feel like a fraud, questioning my skills, creativity, attention span, life—while also feeling deep guilt for wasting a sunny day. WTF?!

Then I realized something—or better, I found something to blame for my lack of ideas: society, once again. Of course! In these times of uncertainty (I think this is one of my most used words lately), insecurity (this is my second), and lack of collective purpose—other than worrying about war, having a stable job, and how crazy we’re all becoming, ignorant, and trapped in a vicious cycle of extreme events (which, in my case, feels like the beginning of a new Middle Age).

But again, no. That has nothing to do with my writing skills, creative process, and so on. I’m just in my own process. I’m realizing, once again, that I don’t have to figure out what I want to write about. Instead, I just need to go with what’s true to me in a specific moment—which, in itself, is a challenging endeavor.

So, in the end, I would conclude by saying that there is no magic formula. For me, every post is a new, very different experience. The only thing I can do is try to look into myself honestly and figure out what’s true to me in the moment.

What we want to write about sometimes comes by excluding what we don’t want to write about. Hence, letting go of what doesn’t resonate with us in a given moment and leaving space for what does.

#28 Le sfide del processo d’integrazione tra ammirazione e invidia

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Una premessa un po’ personale

Fino a qualche anno fa, il modo in cui venivo percepito dagli altri aveva un grande impatto su di me. Mi piaceva soprattutto ispirare ammirazione piuttosto che invidia. Questa aspirazione mi induceva inconsciamente a voler compiacere o impressionare le persone intorno a me, facendo molta attenzione a non risultare arrogante o inautentico. Poi ho iniziato a comprendere le radici del mio bisogno di apprezzamento e, più ne investigavo le origini, meno potente esso diventava.
Quando, all’età di nove anni, mi trasferii in Italia con mia madre, dovetti ricominciare la mia vita da capo. Non solo dal punto di vista educativo e culturale, ma anche nell’inserirmi in una nuova famiglia e farmi nuovi amici. Non si trattava solo di abituarsi a una nuova realtà, ma di accettarla incondizionatamente, poiché, ovviamente, all’età di nove anni, non avevo ancora il potere di decidere se restare o andarmene. L’accettazione, però, non è automatica; anzi, ci sono vari livelli da attraversare per diventare prima consapevoli e poi capire cosa si vuole davvero. Abituarmi, invece, quello dovevo farlo in fretta, ma il mio processo d’integrazione non fu affatto semplice (quando mai lo è?, verrebbe da chiedersi), e gli adulti che avrebbero dovuto guidarmi non furono pazienti.
Trent’anni fa non c’era la consapevolezza, la ricerca e i dibattiti su questo tema come oggi.
A scuola mi misero in una classe indietro senza un programma specifico per il mio caso. Procedemmo tutti un po’ alla cieca: io cercavo di assorbire il più velocemente possibile, ma il processo mi sfiniva periodicamente.
In seguito, dovetti ripetere il primo anno di scuole superiori, perché i miei genitori avevano deciso per me che dovevo frequentare il liceo scientifico. Io, invece, ero ben consapevole delle mie capacità e dei miei limiti e sapevo, già da anni, che il percorso linguistico era quello giusto per me in quella fase della mia vita. Alla fine, al linguistico ci andai, e le cose migliorarono.
Dovetti investire anni per colmare il divario con i miei coetanei, ma non smisi mai di credere in me stesso, anche quando nessuno lo faceva; persino quando i miei stessi genitori sembravano aver perso le speranze e non facevano altro che punirmi in tutti i modi possibili, senza nascondere la delusione che provavano. Devo riconoscere, però, che anche loro si trovavano di fronte a una situazione difficile, senza l’aiuto di psicologi, podcast su temi di crescita personale, libri di self-help e tutte quelle risorse che oggi ci permettono di capire meglio noi stessi e il mondo in cui viviamo.

Superare insicurezze: il valore dei piccoli successi

Faccio un salto in avanti, lasciandomi alle spalle questa premessa forse troppo personale e disorganizzata.
Alla fine, sono riuscito a camminare con le mie gambe, in un paese e un continente diversi, nonostante tutte le difficoltà, il mio passato abbandonato, la famiglia lasciata alle spalle e i sogni mai realizzati in quella vita che avrebbe potuto essere, per vivere in quella che è diventata.
Per me fu uno sforzo mastodontico, di cui non prendo coscienza abbastanza spesso. D’altronde, se non siamo noi stessi a riconoscere i nostri sforzi, difficilmente lo faranno gli altri: o lo danno per scontato, o fanno finta di niente.
A un certo punto, le difficoltà sembrarono diminuire e iniziai ad avere successo nelle imprese che intraprendevo, prima in modo modesto, poi un po’ meno.
Apro una parentesi: è davvero strano scrivere di me stesso su questi temi, sapendo che altri potranno leggere. Non sono nemmeno sicuro di star dicendo tutta la verità. Finora, mi sembra di essermi solo vittimizzato.
Comunque, fu in questo momento, dopo aver superato gli ostacoli più grandi del mio processo di integrazione e aver ottenuto piccoli successi personali, che iniziai a suscitare negli altri ammirazione o invidia, o entrambe.
Capivo benissimo entrambe le emozioni. Da bambino, al mio arrivo in Italia, ero consumato da una silenziosa ma profonda invidia per i miei compagni di classe che si esprimevano in modo fluente, leggevano senza difficoltà e capivano al volo concetti complessi. Al contrario, provavo ammirazione per chi dimostrava onestà, affetto e pazienza nei miei confronti: per me, era una dimostrazione di grandezza smisurata. E furono in pochissimi a dimostrarmelo: penso a Walter, il mio allenatore di canottaggio a Monterosso; Manuel, il mio amico pittore che amavo osservare dipingere; Adriano e Corrado, compagni di barca e amici; Andrea, un genio del liceo, che non ha mai usato la sua intelligenza per sminuirmi, al contrario di molti altri; Mike, un mio amico imprenditore, che si ritagliava un po’ di tempo la mattina prestissimo per insegnarmi a surfare.
Nonostante l’empatia che provavo per coloro che vivevano queste emozioni, inizialmente mi trovavo a mio agio solo nell’essere ammirato; l’invidia degli altri mi disturbava profondamente, la trovavo addirittura pericolosa, come un male che si insidiava nella mia vita e che volevo assolutamente tenere lontano. Col tempo, però, ho imparato ad accettarla, anche quando proveniva da persone a me vicine. Anzi, spesso sono proprio queste ultime a provarla: vorremmo che le persone che amiamo gioissero dei nostri successi, invece alcune tendono a sminuirci, cercando di demotivarci o addirittura sabotarci. Ma credo che aspettarsi ammirazione sincera da tutti sia ingenuo: sia l’adorazione smisurata sia l’invidia distruttiva hanno la stessa origine, l’insicurezza di chi le prova. E il miglior modo di reagire all’insicurezza che si prova, a mio avviso, è:
1. Capire il prima possibile come migliorarsi – A piccoli passi, giorno dopo giorno, senza lasciarsi sopraffare da sfide titaniche che potrebbero riportarci nell’insicurezza.
2. Smettere subito di paragonarsi agli altri – Il motivo, spero, sia ovvio.

Cosa fare quando riceviamo invidia o ammirazione?

Generalizzando, in modo non del tutto corretto ai fini di concludere questo post, gli invidiosi esprimono la loro ammirazione dicendo il contrario di ciò che pensano. Spesso cercano di screditare i successi altrui, ridimensionandoli a semplici casualità. Gli ammiratori, invece, ci stanno accanto finché non hanno assorbito tutto ciò che abbiamo da offrire.
Imparare a riconoscere questi atteggiamenti e a non lasciarsi condizionare è estremamente importante. Evitare gli invidiosi e gli ammiratori è impossibile, perché tutti, in misura diversa, proviamo invidia o ammirazione. Ciò che conta è sviluppare empatia, riconoscere questi sentimenti in noi e negli altri e, se possibile, trasformarli in qualcosa di costruttivo.

#27 Talk with each other, not about each other: a leadership lesson

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A couple of months after starting my current job, the CEO gave a speech at the company’s ten-year anniversary event.

I’ve never been a fan of corporate speeches. I often find them repetitive, inauthentic, and lacking the kind of substance that resonates with me. As far as I remember, my peers in previous companies felt the same way—we would roll our eyes in sync at nearly every sentence. At times, these speeches felt like emotional manipulation, borderline blackmail, yet another attempt to motivate a tired and bored workforce to go the extra mile, again and again, for the sake of the product, the company’s vision, and ultimately, the leadership’s agenda.

However, at this end-of-year event, I was pleasantly surprised by the CEO’s words. His speech wasn’t about numbers, nor did it attempt to persuade everyone to rally behind a mission full of empty promises. It wasn’t an ego-driven monologue designed to make us grovel at his feet. Yes, there were glasses raised to celebrate the company’s achievements, but the focus was on gratitude. He thanked almost everyone in the room, individually and as a team, highlighting something specific that each person contributed, recognizing qualities worth appreciating.

It was a long evening of speeches—maybe too long for my taste. I left earlier than most because, honestly, I never linger at these events. I already spend countless hours at the office, giving my all to my work with the highest level of dedication. Once I’m out, I want to live my life.

Even so, I walked away from that event with one key takeaway: a sentence the CEO shared at the end of his speech. He reminded us that we are a team and, to collaborate sustainably, we need to uphold certain core values. He summed it up perfectly by saying, “Talk with each other, not about each other.”

I can’t even begin to describe how much those words meant to me. They deeply resonated because, too often, workplace dynamics evolve into what people call “company politics.” In my experience, this term doesn’t have a positive connotation. It often means talking the loudest, speaking behind others’ backs, and adopting an overachieving, opportunistic mindset.

By saying, “Talk with each other, not about each other,” he championed values of collaboration, honesty, and a focus on the craft itself, instead of wasting energy on counterproductive behaviors. Those words inspired me to channel my efforts into genuine teamwork and meaningful contributions.

#26 Il peso di gennaio: timori, speranze e resilienza

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Sono alla fine dell’ultimo lunedì di gennaio e mi sento stanco, non per la giornata lavorativa appena conclusa, ma per la quantità di eventi che si sono susseguiti in queste poche settimane del nuovo anno. Eventi che vanno da quelli che riempiono il cuore di speranza, come la liberazione di Cecilia Sala dalla prigione in Iran, a quelli che lasciano sospesi tra sollievo e diffidenza, come il cessate il fuoco a Gaza, fino a quelli che fanno venire i brividi, come il braccio teso di Elon Musk a ringraziare la folla per la fiducia riposta in loro, MAGA boys.

A più riprese mi sono detto: “Certe notizie sono veramente delle supercazzole,” oppure, ispirate ad una scena del film Idiocracy, in cui la società è talmente decadente che persino il senso comune più basico sembra perdere ogni significato.

A febbraio ci attendono le elezioni qui in Germania; a maggio, quelle in Romania. Rabbrividisco pensando alla piega ancora più Orwelliana che potrebbe delinearsi di fronte a noi.

In questi momenti, vengo assorbito da una spirale di pensieri e riflessioni nel tentativo di decifrare l’indecifrabile destino dell’umanità. Cerco di ritrovare quei concetti che ormai sembrano dissolversi in particelle sempre più minuscole e inafferrabili: pace, democrazia, tolleranza. Eppure, è in questi momenti che mi dico: ci siamo già passati e ce l’abbiamo fatta. L’umanità ha vissuto orrori indescrivibili. Impareremo dai nostri errori ed evolveremo.

Mi soffermo sulla semplice constatazione della nostra capacità, come esseri umani, di commettere errori che vanno al di là di ogni concezione. Eppure, riusciamo a imparare da essi, anche quando il nostro destino sembra irreversibilmente compromesso da azioni che non hanno nulla di umano.

E allora, prendo un lungo sospiro. Non è un sospiro di sollievo, perché il sollievo oggi è difficile trovarlo. È semplicemente un sospiro che, tuttavia, mi permette di riconnettermi con il mio corpo e tornare a percepire ciò che mi sta intorno, un po’ più presente.

Mi sforzo poi di pensare alla cosa più bella che mi sia capitata oggi, questa settimana e questo mese, e tre immagini mi vengono in mente: il volto della donna che amo, le piante di cui mi prendo cura e il mio corpo che ancora funziona.

#24 Making space for the silence within

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There are moments when my mind shuts down—when no matter how much effort I put into deciding what to do next, my brain simply refuses to respond or act. It doesn’t matter if it’s about preparing the next meal or planning the next big step in my life. My body won’t move. It feels like a meteorological phenomenon inside my soul—a heavy, warm wind pressing down. Sometimes it lasts a few hours; sometimes, it lingers for a couple of days.

I used to resist these moments, seeking shelter in unhealthy ways by blaming myself and feeling resentful. I would desperately try to fill the emptiness with random, unplanned actions that lacked intention or purpose. After all, isn’t that what we’re taught by the outside world? “Brush it off.” “Just do something.”
Often, this overwhelming wind would push me into a deep hole, where solitude and loneliness threatened to consume me.

This weekend, the strong, warm wind came again. However, for some months now, I’ve stopped resisting it. I let it shake me. I let it push me into the hole. And in that quiet, I found myself. I sat in silence, under an imaginary tree, and hugged myself. I whispered, “Don’t worry. No rush. It’s all good. This will pass.” And it did.

I decided to keep caring for myself in my own way—not in the way the world expects me to. My thoughts were scattered, and there was some anxiety, but I allowed it to exist.

I went for a walk. Luckily, the sun was shining—a rare sight in Berlin’s winter skies. Then I went to the sauna, reconnecting with my body and soul. When I returned home, the wind within me had softened into a gentle, pleasant breeze.