I grew out of a childhood that might seem to you somewhat bizarre, throbbing, of an almost mystical difficulty. There, where time made no sense, I stumbled upon experiences that didn’t just touch, but flayed what I called my soul.

I carried with me an ideal world — one of those we invent so as not to die of thirst. But that world collided, with a dull and irreconcilable sound, against the reality of my flesh, of my day. It is all so humbling, and I don’t know how to explain the mechanics of it, my dear, this mystery that inhabits us. But it seems the wing is only born at the exact moment when the fear of falling dissolves into the fall; we only discover the heart exists when it cracks and lets the silence in.

Still, there is this stubborn, almost animal principle: no matter what happens, we rise. And, yes, there comes a moment when survival grows weary and we begin to glide, realizing that what flows through our veins is not just blood, but a warrior force, ancient and hungry.

It is at that precise point, in the miracle of loving oneself without asking permission, that the world recovers its lost beauty. It is when, finally, we feel we belong to our own breath.

©️ Beatriz Esmer