Laura asked me...

Laura once asked me:

"If you could ask God one question, what would it be?"

I was 17 years old.

I had no idea what to answer.

At that time, God was a concept that worried me more than it welcomed me.

But I remember her answer.

She said she would ask:

— "What is my mission?"

That question stuck with me.

It accompanied me for years, in silence, like a question mark that echoed behind the scenes of life.

What would I ask God?

What was that mission?

Today, almost twenty years later, I understand.

I understood not why I found a definitive answer, but why I made peace with the question.

I understood that maybe the mission is not in what we do, but in the way we choose to live.

Perhaps it is in honoring real bonds, in respecting one's own limits, in saying yes with a clean heart and no without guilt.

This journey took me away from the religious certainties that I once tried to understand.

Today, I have no faith in deities, but I have an unwavering faith in human potential.

I believe in science, reason, and — most of all — the transformative power of shared vulnerability.

In the last year, I lost people who were important to me.

Grandpa and grandma, for example.

They were not perfect — and perhaps that is precisely why they taught me so much.

Not because of the absence of defects, but because of the conscious choice to love despite differences.

With Grandpa, I remember a pact:

We chose not to discuss our disagreements.

They were great, but not greater than the affection that united us.

This choice was one of the most beautiful lessons he left me.

Grandma, on the other hand, was a presence.

I called to have coffee.

I wanted cheese bread.

He spoke as if he still found amusement in everyday life.

They are still alive in small gestures and constantly in my memory.

And it is in these details that I learned what really matters.

Today, I believe that everyone is fighting an invisible battle.

We carry nostalgia, fears, tiredness, silences.

And yet, we want the same: to be seen as we are, without having to pretend.

We don't need to think the same.

It does not have to belong to the same belief, nor to the same idea of the world.

But there needs to be respect.

And, unfortunately, sometimes even that doesn't happen — not even among those who carry the same surname.

So I chose something simple:

Be truthful.

Even if it means moving away.

Even if it displeases him.

It's more honest to live authentically than to maintain bonds that suffocate just because "it's right."

Yes, there are bonds that only exist in the formality of blood.

But to love — truly — only happens when there is room to be whole.

We don't have to support ourselves.

We need to respect each other.

And if that's not possible, that's okay.

Silence can also be maturity.

Even without a spiritual belief, I never stopped believing.

My faith is in the ability we have to change.

To start over.

To surprise ourselves — and to allow life to surprise us too.

Life is short.

Precious.

Sometimes brutally harsh.

But it is also the place where we can choose, every day, to be better.

Be lighter.

To be more human.

If there is a mission, maybe it's this:

Live with truth.

Take care of the connections that heal us.

And let go of what only hurts.

Because in the end, all we want most is this:

Belong.

Be accepted.

To be free to exist—with flaws, with strength, and with meaning.

São Paulo/SP/BR, June 14th 2025