I didn't grow up in a typical home.
From an early age, I had to learn how to live with absence. My mother, worn down by a difficult life, chose not to go on living. My father was always away, chasing meaning in his path. At six years old, with three sisters and a room in my aunts' house, the world was already asking more of me than I could understand.
That's when creativity reached out its hand.
With it, I discovered I could be a hero, a performer, a friend to magical creatures.
While my sisters got lost in pain they couldn't name, I lived in an imaginary world that gave me shelter.
But growing up also taught me that not every shelter is safe — and not every bond is love.
Living among traumas that weren't mine, but still shaped me, taught me that sometimes you have to pull away in order not to lose yourself, too.
I learned, through pain, how to set boundaries — even with things that once felt like care.
At the same time, I was lucky.
I had aunts who loved me like a mother and a father. I had an uncle who showed me what it means to be cared for, introduced me to computers, and taught me that choices matter. I had a cousin who touched my heart in a way no one else has. And over time, I reconnected with my father — now a friend I share conversations with that I never thought we'd have.
Later on, I found my own family.
Sombra came first and showed me that love and trust could indeed walk side by side. Shaggy, Otto, Vinagre, Canela, and Milu followed — each in their own time, each with their own purpose.
They held my heart gently in their paws and pieced me back together without me even noticing.
Because of them, I got involved in rescue work, met incredible people, and started shaping my career to support my dreams — and those I take in.
Every project, every shift in direction, came with a new home, a new rescue, a new part of myself being uncovered.
But nothing prepared me for losing Vinagre.
He wasn't just another pet — he was my safe place, my daily ritual of comfort, my quiet balance.
When he left, grief hit differently. It was deeper. Harder to name.
And when the pain became more than I could hold, I returned to where it all began: creativity.
But this time, stronger.
More alive.
More mine.
