Tag Archives: Relationships

Dynamics, challenges, and growth within personal, professional, and social connections.

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

Listen to this post

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.

the diplomat, netflix series

#64 From villains to vulnerability: comparing The Diplomat and House of Cards

Listen to this post

When I watched the third season of The Diplomat last weekend, by the end of it I felt disappointed—but I couldn’t quite tell why. Then, while discussing it with my girlfriend, I started comparing it to House of Cards, and things became a bit clearer.

House of Cards: a villain’s journey

In House of Cards, we follow politicians constantly walking a thin line between crime and legality, all while being pursued by relentless media investigations. Their desperate attempts to obstruct the journalists who hunt them down lead them to commit increasingly horrible crimes.

That, as simple as it sounds, is the show’s secret formula: it’s a villain’s journey, not a hero’s one. Frank and Claire Underwood create Machiavellian plans to gain ever more power and ultimately conquer the world. The media try to expose them, but the Underwoods manipulate everyone around them—using every dirty trick possible—to come out on top.

They betray both allies and opponents, many of whom crumble under the pressure of being framed and exposed. The only survivors are Frank and Claire: a psychopathic couple whose deceit and manipulation keep us glued to the screen. Despite everything, they remain loyal to each other.

And that’s what we love about the show. Beneath all the corruption and ruthlessness, there’s an unbreakable bond—an unconditional love encompassing romance, friendship, partnership, and shared ambition. It transcends everyone and everything else. They are there for each other, no matter how dark the deeds. At least in the first two seasons, if I remember well… before things start to collapse.

The Diplomat: psychological politics

In The Diplomat, by contrast, we see a bunch of reckless players acting unchecked behind the scenes, seemingly with total impunity. They have a blank check to do whatever they want, which feels far removed from reality—especially in the American political system, where influential media like The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post usually go to great lengths to expose wrongdoing, when they manage to grasp the full picture.

Kate and Hal Wyler, the couple at the heart of the show, have gone too far without ever having a real conversation about their problems, desires, needs, or pains. We meet them on the brink of divorce, and eventually, they do separate. They compete against each other, weighed down by doubts and insecurities.

Writing this now, I realize I actually appreciate the humanity of these two. Relationships are tough—no matter how powerful, rich, or influential you are—and the show captures that realism beautifully. I also like how flawed and conflicted everyone is. Aren’t we all?

We live in an age where it’s not just about pretending for others; we often end up lying to ourselves too. As a society, we’ve become both the performers and the audience of our own self-deception.

Are you not entertained?

Kind of—but not really.

Despite all these interesting layers, The Diplomat often feels more like a mockumentary than a political drama. The plot seems unnecessarily convoluted, and the dialogue is hard to follow at times. I kept feeling like I was missing something crucial.

Another aspect that caught my attention was the absence of characters representing figures like the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense—at least not in a consistent way. In a geopolitical thriller where the focus is clearly on the United States, the lack of these two key roles doesn’t make much sense.

The show also struggles to establish a clear antagonist—which, by contrast, in House of Cards was represented by the media. Here, the characters are their own enemies—an idea that could open deeper philosophical debates, but for a thriller, it risks losing the viewer’s emotional anchor. Geopolitics is indeed a complex, multidimensional puzzle, but as an audience, we still need to understand the stakes.

Maybe my expectations were too high for the second and third seasons, since the first one blew me away. Or maybe times have changed, and the creators are trying to capture something more elusive: our inner and outer chaos, the unpredictability of human behavior, and the blurring lines between hero and villain in a world of shifting power dynamics.

Perhaps that’s the point—how we think we understand reality, until a moment later, we realize we have no idea what’s happening.

Sirāt (2025)

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

Listen to this post

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:

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.

#34 Protecting ourselves while opening up

Listen to this post

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.

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

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.

#15 When stoicism turns sour – Part 1

The way I understand it, the Stoic approach teaches us to accept whatever comes our way with calmness, without compromising our values. And I think it’s a valuable way to see things. However, over time, I realized that this philosophy led me to focus more on the negative possibilities lying ahead rather than the positive ones. I started to picture worst-case scenarios to prepare myself to accept them beforehand. I kind of twisted Stoicism to my own disadvantage—DIY philosophy gone wrong, ouch!

Focusing on the gloomy side of things eventually drained me, and I didn’t even realize what I was doing until I pushed it too far. At first, I would comment on discussions, expressing mainly opinions on what could go wrong. When someone called me out for being pessimistic, I would correct them, insisting I was just being “realistic.”

But this mindset snowballed. I began developing irrational fears about even the smallest things. I became extremely controlling—of myself, my habits, my activities, the situations I put myself in, and the people I met. I built a pattern of suspicion toward literally everything, and over time, it became more and more ingrained in my system.

What’s fascinating to notice, though, is that at the same time this mindset was evolving, I became more organized and productive than ever—but with a cynical and detached attitude toward others. Strangely enough, in terms of my career, this period marked the most significant advancements. I felt a bit like one of those high-ranking professionals or “psychopathic CEOs” living in a bubble of strategic thinking, productivity, and metrics-driven values.

But this way of thinking wasn’t sustainable, at least not for me. I’ve always been a sensitive person, deeply connected to and attentive toward the people around me. This mindset was kilometers away from my core.

Worse yet, I lacked the self-compassion to understand where all of this was originating from. My default relationship with myself was rooted in self-criticism and intolerance. I couldn’t stand myself anymore. Things got even worse: I slowly became paranoid. I lost my courage and, to a certain extent, my curiosity to go out, discover new things, and meet new people.

It took me a while to realize these patterns, but when I did, thankfully, I understood I needed to hit the reset button. I had to start working on myself and make the necessary adjustments, whatever that meant.

I needed to heal. And for the person I was back then—diffident, suspicious, and pessimistic—that was a journey I could only embark on alone.

The first step I took was…

To be continued.