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.
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.
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.
Eu tento sempre pensar em qual será o próximo passo importante que darei na minha vida. E com “passo importante”, quero dizer algo que me fará avançar como indivíduo. No entanto, às vezes me questiono se essa mentalidade não pode acabar complicando nossa vida, em vez de melhorá-la.
Ouso fazer uma distinção entre ambição construtiva e ambição destrutiva. E, ao usar “destrutiva”, não o faço de maneira leviana. Pelo contrário, acredito que uma ambição mal direcionada pode nos levar à perda da saúde, tanto física quanto mental. E não apenas a nossa própria saúde, mas também a das pessoas ao nosso redor. Um exemplo claro disso é a figura de Gordon Gekko, do filme Wall Street dos anos 80, cuja filosofia “ganância é boa” (“greed is good”) reflete perfeitamente os perigos da ambição destrutiva.
O drama dessa questão é que quem é um vetor da ambição destrutiva, na maioria das vezes (e digo isso com base apenas na minha observação pessoal, sem qualquer fundamento em pesquisa científica), não tem consciência disso. Ou, então, foi tão corrompido por essa ambição que já não há mais volta.
Por outro lado, quem manifesta ambição construtiva tem um poder incrível: sua energia parece fluir sem esforço e iluminar muito além de si mesmo. Acredito que essa ambição surja da aceitação de que a vida é feita de ciclos, mais ou menos semelhantes, mas sempre desconhecidos. Podemos imaginar o amanhã, mas nunca saberemos exatamente como ele se desenvolverá. E não saber o que nos espera, não ter controle absoluto, não é algo ruim. Pelo contrário, aprender a se entregar ao desconhecido nos ensina a aceitar o fluxo natural da vida.
Já a ambição destrutiva parece estar enraizada no desejo de controle. E esse desejo, por sua vez, nasce do medo de perdê-lo. Por isso, essa forma de ambição tem um poder corrompedor: tudo aquilo que não sabemos deixar ir tem o poder de corromper nossa alma.
I initially wanted to write yet another 2024 wrap-up, which would have most likely turned into a me-me-me redundant post filled with complaints about my “almosts” and “not yets” from the past year. Instead, I prefer to share something that brought clarity to previous years and became a reliable tool for a hopeful start to each new year.
Nowadays, we receive end-of-year wrap-ups and new year’s resolutions updates from almost every app on our phones. This barrage can make reflecting on recent experiences and planning ahead feel overwhelming. However, cutting through the noise to find a tool that truly works for us can transform these reflections into powerful and inspiring activities.
For the last four years, my go-to tool has been a booklet called Year Compass (which you can download entirely free here).
I was first introduced to it by my ex-girlfriend. We began filling out our respective booklets together at her parents’ chalet-style home in Brussels, sitting in front of a rattling fireplace as snowflakes fell like tiny meteorites, driven by a strong and gelid wind. Despite this picturesque, almost dreamlike setting, my first experience was painful. It took me at least three hours to complete the entire Year Compass, as it required deep reflection across all the major spheres of life.
Each year, though, the process became easier, and its effectiveness grew to the point where I can’t imagine starting a new year without it.
So, for anyone seeking a way to process their experiences, integrate the past year with a sense of accomplishment and closure, and face 2025 with renewed hope and confidence, I highly recommend filling out this amazing and completely free tool. You can download it easily, and it’s best to complete it before the new year begins—or at the latest, within the first two weeks of January.
Recently, I watched a wonderful film called E.1027 – Eileen Gray and the house by the sea. What I loved most about it, without going into a detailed plot description, was the self-awareness displayed by the main character as she navigated intense events in her career and personal life.
I was struck by her ability to discern, with extreme clarity, what she wanted and where she drew her boundaries. She always knew what affected her, in what ways, and what she wanted to do about it. She would then act in alignment with her needs, accepting the consequences without victimizing herself, while allowing space for the emotions that naturally arose.
There were simple things she said that were impactful, eye-opening, and at the same time extremely relatable. It felt as though I had arrived at the same conclusions myself many times before—only to forget them again and again.
For example, at one point she says something along these lines regarding how relationships disrupt her work: “A constant stream of conversations and small activities prevents me from focusing on projects I value […] I need to spend days in a row on my own to allow ideas to flow again.”
At another moment, she reflects: “People and open spaces sometimes frighten me.”
Or, as a conclusion on her search for a place she could call home: “The home I was looking for was in my imagination, in my work.”
I was moved by these statements, primarily because they were part of the character’s inner dialogue, free from judgment and filled with compassion.
And that’s where, once again, I acknowledged the power of self-compassion—the value of a kind and empathetic inner dialogue, which has such profound potential to support us through life’s challenges.
Yet there’s also a deceiving aspect to self-awareness. I think it’s essential to allow self-awareness to simply be, rather than overthinking it as a concept. Our minds are like lighthouses: they illuminate what needs attention, although sometimes we need to elevate our perspective to truly see the full panorama.
Self-awareness is not a destination; it’s an evolving aspect of our growth, and it requires an openness to paradox. Embracing self-compassion alongside self-awareness can help us navigate this journey, allowing us to uncover insights and perspectives that guide us—perhaps not always where we expected, but ultimately, where we need to be.
