For My Father on His 80th Birthday

There are people who leave footprints on our lives. And then there are people who become part of the very landscape itself.

My father is one of those people.

As I sit down to write this tribute for his eightieth birthday, I find myself facing an unusual challenge: how do I adequately describe someone who has been present in every chapter of my life?

How do I find words to express the gratitude I feel for a man whose influence is woven so deeply into who I am that it becomes difficult to separate the gift from the giver?

My father has always been my guide.

He is deeply spiritual, yet endlessly curious. Wise, yet forever a student. Kind, yet unwavering in his principles. He possesses a dignity that makes itself known long before he speaks and lingers long after he has left the room.

All the versions of him I have known—the Kavuba, the Cacai, the Pacuerra, the Lito, and the "Pascoal Doesn't Mean Any Harm"—have merged together to shape the man admired and loved by so many.

As I was growing up, he taught me lessons that became the foundations of my life. He taught me to thank God, to cultivate love and kindness. He taught me that every human being deserves dignity and respect.

Even today, at eighty years old, he continues to teach me new words and correct my grammar with the same dedication he has shown throughout my life. Perhaps even more now than he did back then—to my great despair.

My father teaches by example.

His own story began in poverty. He was the son of a woman who earned a living washing clothes. Before he could complete his education, responsibility forced him into the workforce. He sacrificed his dreams so that so many of us could earn our rightful place in society.

Through determination, discipline, and hard work, he climbed one step at a time. But what I admire most about him is not that he achieved success. It is what he did with that success.

He educated all of his children.

He created opportunities for countless relatives.

He understood, perhaps better than most, that education and a strong work ethic can change destinies because they changed his own.

Every diploma, every career, every opportunity given to his children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren that emerged from those sacrifices carries a piece of his story within it.

Some of my favorite memories of my father are memories in which I was not even present.

I remember waking before dawn to prepare for work and hearing my parents talking through the wall that separated our bedrooms.

It was five o'clock in the morning, and yet there they were—laughing, telling stories, and talking with the energy and affection of two people who genuinely enjoyed one another's company.

My father and my mother were best friends.

Whether in the privacy of their bedroom or around the dinner table sharing a bottle of wine, there was never a shortage of conversation, companionship, and mutual affection.

Together, my parents gave me a magical childhood, built not on wealth but on sacrifice, perseverance, faith, and devotion.

When my mother died, a part of my father left with her. Yet even in the midst of his grief, he became the thread that kept us all together.

He remained present.

He continued to love.

He continued to guide us.

When I learned to drive, he sat beside me.

When I started working, he drove me to work.

When I got married, he walked me down the aisle and placed my hand into another man's hand, telling him that he was entrusting him with his most precious treasure.

There are moments in life when a father's love is visible.

And there are moments when that love becomes a shelter.

He reminded me of my worth when I struggled to remember it myself.

If I could thank him for only one thing, it would be that love.

Not because it made life easy.

But because it made life worth living.

His love has been one of the great anchors of my existence. It gave me the strength to continue, to believe, to grow, and to become who I am.

His faith in me often arrived long before my own faith in myself.

At eighty years old, my father continues to inspire me.

He never stops learning.

He continues to look at the world with wonder and curiosity. He continues to seek knowledge. He continues to seek God. He continues to grow.

One of the greatest lessons he has taught me is that wisdom is not the absence of curiosity. Wisdom is curiosity sustained over an entire lifetime.

My father taught me something else as well.

Today, he is the patriarch of our family.

Not because he demands authority.

But because he embodies responsibility.

Because he wants to see each of us thrive.

Because he celebrates our successes and comforts us in our failures.

Dear Pascoal taught us that family matters and that love is not something you merely say—it is something you do.

As I reflect on his eighty years of life, I realize that the greatest legacy he leaves us is not material.

It is us.

It is the values he planted.

It is the kindness he exemplified.

It is the faith he nurtured.

It is the dignity he embodied.

It is the love he gives so generously.

And if there is one thing I want my father to know on this very special birthday, it is this:

You are loved.

Deeply.

Completely.

Beyond words.

So many of us owe our best qualities to you.

You have been our example of integrity, wisdom, faith, kindness, curiosity, generosity, and grace.

You are everything that is good.

Everything that is loving.

Everything that is wise.

You are a man of God.

A beacon of light.

And no daughter could ever have wished for a better father.

I love you forever, my Pascoal. ❤️

On Melancholy and Other Beautiful Things

• 

Written on a quiet sunday afternoon.

From time to time, melancholy comes to visit.

Not with drama or despair. It comes carrying memories, old dreams, faces I haven't seen in years, and questions that no longer require answers.

I have learned not to fight it.

When I was younger, I imagined my life would unfold in a particular way. I would be happily married, living for my husband and children. I would pursue an academic career. I would have biological children and watch them grow. I would grow old beside the love of my life.

My future seemed clear, almost pre-written, and I walked toward it with the certainty only youth can possess.

Life, however, had other plans.

Over the years, I have mourned many things.

I have mourned the children I conceived but never held.

I have mourned a marriage that should never have happened in the first place.

I have mourned the loss of my mother.

I have mourned friends and family members I loved deeply who never loved me back in quite the same way.

Loss has a curious way of reshaping us. It softens some edges while sharpening others. It teaches us what matters and reveals what never truly belonged to us in the first place.

Of all my losses, the absence of my mother remains one of the most profound.

I miss her laugh.

I miss her smell.

I miss everything about her.

There are some people whose presence becomes part of the architecture of our lives. When they leave, we spend years learning how to inhabit the spaces they once occupied.

For a long time, I believed adulthood would bring certainty. I thought that by now I would feel sure of myself. I imagined that fear would disappear, heartbreak would become easier to bear, and life would eventually make sense.

Instead, I find that I am still scared sometimes.

Still easily heartbroken.

Still occasionally lost.

My younger self would be shocked by that. She would be surprised to learn that solitude sometimes weighs heavily on me. She would be surprised to discover that uncertainty never fully left us, no matter how many birthdays we celebrate.

But she would also be proud.

She would see a woman who carries herself with dignity.

A woman who has built a life filled with joy.

A woman who remains kind despite disappointment.

A woman who remains hopeful despite evidence that hope is not always rewarded.

She would see someone who survived.

And perhaps that is my greatest triumph.

On the days when melancholy makes its presence felt, I often find myself overwhelmed by gratitude for being alive.

As a survivor of a suicide attempt, this gratitude is not theoretical. It is not a motivational quote or a philosophical exercise. It is something I feel in my bones.

There was a time when I could not imagine a future.

There was a time when simply making it through the day felt impossible.

And yet, here I am.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Planning.

Dreaming.

Dancing.

Especially dancing.

Recently, I started taking salsa lessons, and I have discovered something beautiful: movement brings me joy.

Not only the movement of my body, but the movement of life itself.

The movement of changing my mind.

The movement of revising old dreams.

The movement of becoming someone I never planned to be.

I used to believe authenticity required consistency. That if I changed my dreams, I had somehow betrayed them.

Now I know better.

My character, dreams, and plans do not have to be set in stone to be authentic.

They can evolve.

They can pivot.

They can expand.

And so can I.

One of the most important lessons life has taught me is about love.

For years, I mourned relationships in which my love was not returned. I viewed them as failures, evidence of something missing or lacking.

Now I see them differently.

Love is fulfilling even when it is not reciprocated.

Love itself is healing.

The act of loving enlarges us.

The people I loved did not always stay. They did not always choose me. Some left. Some disappointed me. Some were taken by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

But the love I felt was real.

And real love always leaves a trace of beauty behind.

If I could gather everyone I have loved and lost around a table - my mother, the children I never held, old friends, former versions of myself - I know exactly what I would want them to know.

I would want them to know that I am here.

That I am loving life.

That I am grateful for everything I have experienced, both the beautiful and the heartbreaking.

That I look toward the next minute with joy.

With love.

With gratitude.

For all that I am.

For all that I have been.

For all that I am still becoming.

The life I imagined did not arrive exactly as planned.

Some dreams disappeared.

Others transformed beyond recognition.

And yet, when I look around, I find a life that is rich with friendship, family, purpose, learning, laughter, movement, and hope.

I may not be where I once wanted to be.

But I am intentionally here.

And perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps melancholy itself has a purpose.

Not to make us sad.

Not to keep us trapped in the past.

But to remind us that we have lived.

That we have loved.

That we have lost.

And that despite everything, we remain open to move in wonder.

Choosing Love

I have come to believe that we choose to fall in love.

Not in one grand, cinematic moment, but in a series of quiet, deliberate "yeses".

We choose it when we accept an invitation to a date, and then another. When we stay a little longer in conversation. When we share parts of ourselves that invite curiosity, or reveal a gentle kind of compatibility. We choose it every time we step closer into another person’s world, and every time we open up our world.

Love, in this sense, is not something that happens to us. It is something we participate in.

And yet, while we choose to love, we do not control what unfolds post choice.

For a long time, I thought love required caution. That it was something to approach carefully, as though it carried inherent risk. But I have since learned that going into anything thinking it is risky is no way to live. So I no longer frame love as danger. Instead, I understand vulnerability as courage. The courage to show and share your truth, negating the fear of reprimand, judgement, or detachment. To love is to reveal yourself without shrinking. To be seen without negotiating your essence.

Maturity changes the way we love.

Not by making us more guarded, but by making us more rooted.

I now understand the importance of loving and respecting myself. I know, that I will never make myself fit into another’s expectations and I will never ask that of anyone else. There is a quiet peace in that. It means that when there is a connection, it is genuine. It brings joy.

And when there is no connection, there is no need for adjustment or performance.

Walking away is not a failure, it is alignment. There is a softness in knowing that love does not require self-abandonment. To love well is also to nourish love intentionally. Not through grand gestures, but through presence.

My love languages are quality time and physical touch. To be loved well is to have these honoured intentionally, consistently; to be met in the ways that make me feel seen and held. But love is not one-sided. It is equally important that I choose to honour my partner’s love languages too. This is how we water the relationship. Not just the romance, but the friendship; the companionship. The growing attraction that merges galaxies over time.

And when love is healthy, when it is intentional, mutual, and grounded in self-respect, it does not feel overwhelming. It feels like a sensory afterglow with flashes of frisson.

A delicate but constant remembering.

A thought. A smile. A touch. Returning to you softly, often, throughout the day. It is not loud, but it is ever present. Not consuming, but expansive.

If I could speak to young Bela I would not warn her against love. I would guide her toward herself. I would tell her that the journey towards relentless self-love is long and, at times, arduous, but it is also the most magical thing she will ever obtain. Because this love becomes the source from which all other love flows. All of it is nourished by the way she loves herself.

I would remind her of this:

Love is not constricting.

It is expansive.

It is abundant.

And, above all, it needs to be, it yearns to be, intentional.

And now, I find myself here: not at the beginning, and not quite in the middle, but in a moment that feels like the Big Bang.

I am falling in love.

Not by accident, not by chance, but by choice.

I do not have control over how it will unfold or how this love will be received but I am choosing not to shy away, not to measure risk, not to retreat into caution disguised as wisdom.

I choose to stay open.

I choose to snuggle into his embrace.

I choose him.