Tag Archives: Mindfulness

Practicing present-moment awareness to reduce stress, enhance focus, and improve well-being.

#65 Expect the least from others and be amazed by what you find

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As far as I can remember, I’ve always been someone who expects a lot from others—too much, actually. But with time, I realized that these expectations disregard the humanness in us—our natural tendency to make mistakes as part of growth.

Growing up in Brazil, I was raised in a very controlled environment—so controlled that my childish mistakes were met with some form of punishment almost every time. Experimenting with freedom and without fear was difficult for me. Things improved when I moved to Italy, as Europe generally feels safer, but not by much. By the age of eighteen, for example, I had never been to a club, never drank alcohol, never even tried coffee—and on weekends, I still had to be home before 22:30. I had done many other debatable things, like punching other kids in the face when I felt they had crossed the line, but I eventually blacklisted that kind of behavior, too.

Before I realized it, my parents had given me a strong ethical foundation. I had a clear sense of right and wrong—at least from my own perspective. I won’t pretend I didn’t act hypocritically at times, bending the rules I had imposed on myself for personal advantage. Consciously or unconsciously, we all do that. Still, I had my own code of conduct. (As a side note, it always surprises me how strange some things sound when you write them down.)

Over time, that educational method bore fruit. I could focus on what mattered to me without distraction, and I was respected—admired even—for my integrity.

Nowadays, the kind of upbringing my parents gave me—filled with slaps, confinement, and, at times, beatings with a belt—would be completely unacceptable, at least here in Germany, where I currently live. I’m sure I would avoid any form of conscious physical or mental coercion if I were to become a father. However, it worked. And as strange as it may sound, I’m extremely grateful to my parents for that. I believe I was a tough kid, and they did what they could with what was available to them at the time.

The catch, though, is that I came to expect the same level of (self-perceived) integrity and moral drive from others. I simply couldn’t accept mediocrity as I defined it—and that soon led me into self-isolation.

It took me a very long time to understand that we are all different, that we should accept and even embrace those differences. Putting this into practice is still a work in progress, but I can confidently say I’ve improved since I began prioritizing this mindset, researching the topic, and working on myself.

I haven’t yet reached the harmony I desire in relationships. At the moment, I find myself in a phase where I expect the least from people I meet. It’s a way of tricking my brain into opening up more easily. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how much quality others can bring into our lives when we set the right boundaries and shape them consciously—when we stop projecting too much of our inner patterns onto the outside world and instead learn to embrace whatever it has to offer.

Expecting less from others doesn’t mean lowering your standards—it means freeing yourself from the illusion that people should act according to your script. When you release that weight, life becomes lighter, and genuine connections have the space to surprise you.

Sirāt (2025)

#62 Months later, one movie still sparks deep reflections: Sirāt

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Today I met a friend with whom I love spending time. She’s a few years older than me, but we get along very well. We first met exactly two years ago through a local app called nebenan. At the time, I was desperately looking for someone to practice my German with, so I posted an announcement on the platform—and she responded. Since then, we’ve been meeting regularly, having tandem sessions almost every week.

We’ve reached a point now where we manage to talk about fairly complex topics. Our rule is simple: half an hour in English, half an hour in German. We take notes of each other’s mistakes and analyze them at the end of each round.

I don’t want to discuss our tandem strategy today, though. What I want to talk about is a topic that came up during our session and has stayed with me since I left the café where we met.

We spoke about a movie we both watched—Sirāt. I had actually seen it first, and it impacted me so deeply that I recommended it to everyone I know who appreciates my suggestions. The thing about this movie is that I don’t think everyone will understand or appreciate it. It’s very distant from the world most of us live in or are accustomed to. However, if you’ve ever experienced pure freedom, profound bonding, or deep experimentation in any area of life, I think the movie might speak to you in very personal and powerful ways—even if not in the same way it spoke to me.

If you’re planning to watch it, I’d suggest going in without reading anything about it. But if you want to know the premise, highlight the next paragraph with your mouse:

The movie follows a father searching for his daughter, who left home and appears to be enjoying raves somewhere in a North African desert. He’s accompanied by his son, and along the way they encounter a group of ravers who seem to know where she is.

I’m not going to review the movie in this post—perhaps I’ll write another one about it later.

What emerged from our discussion of Sirāt was a memory of a past relationship I once had with someone who pushed me to limits I didn’t know I could reach. With her, I experienced things I never thought I would. But things didn’t last—she was too intense, too unpredictable. And as much as I tried to make it work, at some point I felt compelled to break up with her. I did, though I believe she was unconsciously—or consciously—pushing me to do it. But that’s not the point here.

What matters is the awareness that surfaced from that reflection. I’ve always dreaded breakups. I don’t think anyone sane enjoys them. It breaks my heart to break someone else’s heart, and the feeling of loneliness and emptiness often drives me into another relationship too quickly—which isn’t the healthiest response. Still, I’ve been lucky to share meaningful connections with special souls, aside from a few situations where I regretted starting something serious too soon with clear mismatches.

What I’ve learned through one relationship after another is that I shouldn’t overthink things too much. Of course, it’s important to learn from each experience and take time to heal emotionally and mentally. But there’s no rulebook for life. Things happen, and we have to go with them—trusting both the process and ourselves. For me, that’s still hard, mostly because of my constant need for balance and peace—things I’m still learning how to compromise on.

#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.

#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.