the walls are gone
where do your hands go now?
not having something to hold
is sometimes the beginning

let yourself fall
let your heart drop
into the hollow of your chest

it will find its room
when you cease to grasp
and carry the world in your bones

there is no later for this

we are not jumping
we are falling
and this is where
the widening begins

embracing the unknown 

This poem came out of nowhere today, and I thought it deserved to become a song. We’re all navigating a lot right now. Surrender is the only answer I keep finding. I hope it resonates. If it does, let go. It’s time.

I’ve been thinking about 2026 and its “Year of the Horse” energy.

There’s something unmistakable about it. It’s no longer the frantic speed we’ve learned to mistake for progress. It’s something older, something better. A horse can stand perfectly still, ears alert, eyes soft, and then move with total conviction the moment the timing is right.

As I look at the Horse from this perspective, my mind keeps drifting toward the tarot.

The card I keep seeing is The Chariot.

When I sit with it, I feel alignment. It has that feeling of knowing what I’m doing and why. This year, I want to move only because something in me has chosen a direction.

And here’s the image that won’t leave me alone:

A cushioned chariot.

This is not a chariot made for war, or built to prove anything. It’s a chariot designed to hold me. A vehicle that says: you can move forward and still stay with yourself.

I am not interested in “powering through” another year.

I don’t want success that costs me my sleep, my happiness, my appetite for life. I don’t want to arrive somewhere impressive and realize I left my body behind on the road. I want momentum that feels perfectly mine. I want progress that doesn’t require self-abandonment.

And I keep thinking: maybe that’s what The Chariot is really asking for: control as self-respect, and the ability to steer without punishing the horse.

We’ve been taught to treat the horse (the wild part of me, my instinct) as something that needs to be tamed. But this horse no longer wants to be broken; it wants a rider who is steady and present.

This year doesn’t feel like a year for pushing. It feels like a year for steering.

When the direction is true, the body stops fighting. When the path makes sense, you don’t have to force momentum; it gathers on its own. And in that movement, something surprising happens: momentum becomes kindness.

I’m done confusing ease with laziness.

Ease is not avoidance. It’s not the absence of ambition. Ease is what happens when ambition stops fighting with your values. It’s what happens when you choose fewer things, and do them with care. When you stop scattering yourself across ten almost-right directions and commit to the one that actually fits.

I have so much hope for the months ahead, and it doesn’t depend on everything going perfectly. It’s a grounded hope that comes from believing, finally, that the journey does not have to be harsh.

We can build a life where momentum and softness can exist in the same sentence.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

What would you choose to build in 2026 if you truly believed you were allowed to move forward with ease?

Maybe it’s time to take your seat and breathe.

Let the road meet you this time.

The dog days are over, oh
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

I’ve been away for a couple of weeks, sorting out my physical life and dreaming about what’s next. A deep dive into how I want to live, what I want to bring with me into next year, and what I want to leave behind. Maybe you’ve been feeling this way too, looking for a way to make life a little simpler.

Those who know me well know that spirituality has been a big part of my life for the past decade. It’s slowly become part of everything I do: how I work, how I make decisions, how I rest. Minimalism. Unassuming beauty. Simplicity and authenticity at the core.

I’ve learned the power of intention, the magic of choosing a word for the year, and the importance of protecting my rituals: meditation, movement, sleep, good food. I just wish it hadn’t taken a serious burnout around this time last year for me to finally understand that boundaries are not optional.

I’m so committed to my clients, to my work, to my creativity. I’m sure you are too. But if we don’t take care of ourselves first, we can’t deliver our best. We can’t pour from an empty cup. I’m not all there yet, but I’m seeing the benefits of trying.

This Saturday, my husband and I complete ten years in Miami, after moving from New York City. New York was perfect for that season of my life. I learned so much: how to get things done, how to run a business, and sometimes how not to. It matched the fire in me back then, the overachiever who wanted to do it all.

Mid-forties now, in a slower city (yes, Miami can be slow if you know where to look), I’ve decided I no longer want to overachieve. I still want to achieve: client success, prosperity, peace of mind, joy, contentment. But I choose me first.

That might sound counterintuitive, especially in a world where everyone seems to be chasing something better. But what if right here is exactly where you need to be right now? I’m making peace with that thought and grateful it finally came here to stay.

This season isn’t about building higher or running faster. Maybe it’s about learning to stand still long enough to feel at home in your own life. That’s where I am, and it feels like a good place to begin again.

When I first started my Substack, I had a different vision for this space. I imagined brand strategy posts, professional insights, content that came from my logical side, not from my heart.

But my inner child had other plans. She's been asking for space in my life, and I've finally decided to listen.

I'm opening the gates for her to run wild here. It's funny how this feels like coming full circle: I have a BA in languages and literature back in Brazil, and I haven't been really tapping into it for years. Going forward, the focus of Figments of Creativity will be on the creative work that's been growing in this space.

This is what happens when you let your heart lead instead of your head.

What's Happening Here

From the Beginning 📦 drops every Tuesday. I'm currently deep in my diary from 1998: the year I turned 18. If you want to read about what was happening in my hometown and in my head around that time, join me as I trace the girl I used to be through fragments of old diaries, notes, and pages I barely remembered writing.

Some memories come with their own songs that were sparked somewhere in the process of writing the story. All of them come with original digital illustrations.

I share Lines & Lyrics: poetry and songs sparked from ordinary moments, pieces about monsters that want my confidence for breakfast, songs about heartaches and small wonders. Words that rise from simply living, breathing, feeling our way through the world.

Come August 1st, my first fiction arrives. 🦊 Lu is a fantasy allegory about a gentle creature searching for her family in a world that has forgotten how to be kind. When the Harsh Winds turn communities against each other, Lu must choose between hardening herself to survive or staying true to her gentle nature.

This is a story about finding strength in softness, about the forces that profit from keeping us divided, and the brave act of building connections when the world tells us to build walls. I'm telling this story across nine chapters, each with its own song and original illustrations I'm creating along the way.

🔥

Substack is becoming my fire: a place where I gather with others to tell stories. I'm excited to be sharing, and just as excited to hear from you.

This is what happens when you stop trying to be who you think you should be and start being who you actually are. Come sit by the fire.

I can't wait to share more with you.

Lilian

Tomorrow is the 4th of July, and many of us will be making plans with family, meeting friends, watching fireworks, eating hot dogs... the whole nine yards. As I sit here thinking about this holiday, I keep coming back to a different kind of liberation altogether.

Lately, I've been thinking about how we're expected to go through the motions and put on a happy face when the world feels heavy. We're supposed to show up and celebrate with a smile, even when our hearts are somewhere else entirely.

As someone who feels things deeply (and yes, I've been called "too emotional" more times than I can count), I've learned that feeling is how we process life, not something to hide or rush past. It's okay not to feel 100% celebratory all the time.

There’s a song by Saint Finnikin called Overwhelm that captures this experience so beautifully. It starts in that familiar place of heaviness and then shifts toward the possibility of letting ourselves process, rather than pushing it all down. The line that hit me most:

Emotional independence isn't about being self-sufficient or never needing support. It's about claiming the right to your full range of human experience and refusing to shrink yourself to make others comfortable.

This long weekend, I hope you find time to ask yourself:
How am I, really?

Your feelings aren’t too much. Your depth isn’t a burden. These are the very things that make you capable of profound connection, authentic growth, and genuine joy. 🤍

So this Independence Day, corny as it might sound, I invite you to claim your right to feel everything, process it fully, and transform it into something meaningful.

Hope your 4th of July is everything you need it to be. 🇺🇸

Share Figments of Creativity

There are memories we bring with us like bundles of wet clothes: heavy, clinging, filled with things we never asked to have. And yet, somehow, we picked them up. Learned to balance them on our heads. Moved carefully, afraid of letting anything spill. Convinced it was our job to handle it all, even if it was never really ours.

The image came to me, clear and unshakable.
A washerwoman—a lavadeira—kneeling by the river, surrounded by her own thoughts, tangled with stories that weren’t hers. I grew up seeing women like her in the folds of rural Brazil: they carry the bundles to the water, rinse and scrub each piece under the sun, then carry it all back again. Washing what isn’t theirs. Day after day.

And suddenly, I saw myself in her.
Not because the work was mine, but because I had taken it on as if it did.

The clothes weren’t mine.
The stories, not mine.
The guilt, the grief, the worn-out pieces of someone else’s past… not mine.
Still, I kept washing.
Still, I knelt at the edge of the river, scrubbing and scrubbing, hoping something might come clean.

But maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe there’s no need to stay in the mud, trying to fix what’s already fallen apart. No need to keep repeating a ritual for a story that’s already over.

Some clothes are too torn to be mended.
Some memories too stained to be saved.

Some burdens were never ours to carry in the first place.

And if you’ve ever felt this way too, like you’re scrubbing someone else’s sorrow, tending to a pain that doesn’t belong to you, maybe this part is for you.

Sometimes the most freeing thing we can do is stop.

Look around.
Notice the field behind you, full of light.
The breeze brushing the water.
The sky above you, steady and open.

And the body, tired from years of trying to make sense of what was never fair, starts to whisper: you don’t have to keep doing this.

You can set it down.
Let the bundle fall.
Let it roll behind you, not as an act of forgetting, but as a way to return—to yourself, to now, to a life that doesn’t need you to carry proof of what you survived.

Forgiveness, maybe, isn’t about the other person at all.
Maybe it’s about standing taller.
Breathing deeper.
Choosing peace.

There’s a river still flowing.
And this time, it doesn’t ask for effort.
Only presence.

Let it go.
Deixa pra lá.

On a similar note:

There’s a moment, impossible to ignore, when you realize the life you’ve built doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

It creeps in before you know it. You catch yourself saying yes to things that drain you, nodding along in meetings, giving the answers people expect instead of the ones you really feel. You’re great at what you do, people rely on you. And still, something is missing.

For me, that moment arrived one ordinary afternoon, staring at a calendar so full it left no room for me. The work was good. The pay was good. But I felt… nothing. I’d spent years building exactly what I thought I should want, only to wonder, “Is this it?”

The hardest part wasn’t the emptiness, it was the guilt. That little voice that said, “You should be grateful. Who are you to want more?”

But I’ve learned: wanting your life to feel honest and aligned isn’t selfish. It’s just human.

The space in between

There’s this uneasy, in-between place, after you realize things need to change, but before you have any idea what’s next. You can’t go back to who you were. You don’t know who you’re becoming yet. It’s awkward. Lonely. Sometimes it feels like everyone else has it all figured out but you.

I’ve been here more times than I care to admit, and I can tell you that the restless feeling isn’t failure. It’s your inner compass trying to get your attention. It’s the part of you that knows the difference between looking successful and feeling alive.

What I know now

You don’t have to burn your life down to choose something real. Change doesn’t have to mean starting over. Sometimes, it just means listening: making space for what actually matters, even if you’re not totally sure what that is yet.

That’s why I created Unbranding: The Deep Work Mentorship. It’s for women who are ready to stop performing and start living, to make thoughtful changes without blowing up everything they’ve built.

If you’re feeling that tug toward something truer, you’re not broken. You’re not ungrateful. You’re just ready.

And you don’t have to figure it out alone.

Curious? Let’s talk. If you’re reading this and every part of you is nodding, you can enroll here.

That whisper—there has to be more than this—deserves to be heard.

There was a time I was burned out. Not just tired, not just overwhelmed—burned out. Last year, it hit like a wall. An exhaustion that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel heavier than it should. I knew what it was. I did what I needed to recover. I rested. I stepped back. I recalibrated.

This is not that.

Now, I’m not burned out—I’m blank.

It’s not that I’m overwhelmed. It’s that I don’t want to do anything. And the truth is, even the projects that light me up don’t feel like they lead anywhere right now. They nourish me, yes. They remind me of who I am. But they don’t seem profitable. They don’t feel strategic.

And I still need to make a living.

This is the tension I’ve been sitting with lately. I’m not lost, but I’m not exactly found either. There’s a strange in-between that opens up when you realize the things that once excited you no longer do, and the things that do excite you don’t make practical sense.

That gap creates guilt.

I’ve worked so hard to get here.
To build what I’ve built.
To earn the momentum I have.

And I can feel it slipping, not all at once, but subtly. My old patterns of effort, ambition, and structure don’t hold the same weight anymore. I’m not chasing the same things. I’m not lit up by the same outcomes.

But I don’t yet know what replaces them.

This isn’t a crisis. It’s not even sadness. It’s something more measured, like standing at a crossroads, knowing the path forward will reveal itself, but still wishing it would hurry up.

Because I need to pay bills.
Because I want to feel purposeful again.
Because I’m afraid of losing what I’ve built while I wait for a new compass to arrive.

And yet, beneath that fear, there’s a knowing:

That forcing it won’t bring it back.
That trying to squeeze meaning out of the things that no longer feel aligned will only lead to resentment.
That something in me is shifting and my job isn’t to control it, but to stay open.

So I’m staying open.
Some days, that looks like writing.
Other days, it looks like walking away from the desk.

This season is not about optimization. It’s about trust.

And if you’re in it too—in this awkward, uncertain middle—I just want to say: you’re not lazy. You’re not broken. You’re just becoming something new.

The motivation will return. But not on command.
Not in the old language.

It’s learning how to speak to you in a new one.

On a similar note:

I'd planned this Saturday around self-care. Nothing urgent or rushed, just a day to listen to what my body needed. My monthly Reiki session was at the center of it all, something I always look forward to.

But this session was different.

Usually, Reiki brings me into deep stillness. That place where thoughts dissolve and time becomes irrelevant. Where I can finally stop holding myself together and just be.

Not today.

Today, my body felt electric. Restless. Like every cell was trying to stretch beyond its boundaries. I kept shifting on the table, unable to find that familiar surrender. It wasn't uncomfortable exactly, more like trying to contain something that had grown too big for its container.

"I can't settle," I finally told my Reiki master, almost apologetically.

She smiled, her hands still hovering above my solar plexus. "You're not supposed to. You're outgrowing your space."

I blinked at her.

"You're getting ready for something new," she continued. "Your energy is expanding. Don't fight it."

The words landed deep. I'd been feeling this undercurrent for weeks, maybe months, but couldn't name it. That sense of standing at the edge of something, waiting for permission to leap.

When the session ended, I felt simultaneously grounded and untethered. Like I'd been loosened from some invisible mooring. I gathered my things slowly, trying to integrate what had just happened.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit differently. Brighter somehow. More present.

I called a Lyft and watched the street while I waited, still processing. A woman named Charlotte pulled up in a silver car. The radio was already playing as I climbed into the back seat, one song fading into static.

I reached for the seatbelt, my movements automatic. Click.

And then—

Trumpets.

I knew those trumpets.

"It's the final countdown..."

The goosebumps came instantly, spreading up my arms like wildfire. I sat perfectly still, barely breathing, as the synthesizers kicked in and a familiar voice filled the car.

Time collapsed. The exact moment I'd secured myself in the seat. The precise second the song began. The way Charlotte didn't react at all, just drove calmly forward like she hadn't just become an unwitting messenger.

I didn't need to analyze it. Didn't need to question or doubt.

The message was crystal clear:

This is the moment before the moment.

Not an ending. Not a warning. A threshold. A cosmic heads-up that something I'd been preparing for, perhaps my whole life, was finally approaching.

My Reiki master's words echoed: You're getting ready for something new.

The song continued as we moved through traffic, but I was somewhere else entirely. Suspended between what was and what was becoming. Feeling the countdown in my bones.

I don't know exactly what's coming.
But I feel it.
And I think I’m finally ready.

✦ Have you ever received a message through music? I’d love to hear it.

On a similar note:

Lately, I’ve been feeling lonely, but at the same time, I don’t really want to be around people.

I still connect online. I post, I reply, I stay in touch. That part of me feels intact. But in person, everything feels louder. Small talk is harder to fake. Crowded places make me tired. Even casual catch-ups leave me needing time to recover.

This is new for me. I used to enjoy being social. I could move through a room with ease, carry conversations, make people feel comfortable. But now, I feel different. It’s like my tolerance for noise, both literal and emotional, has faded.

Even with people I love, I find myself pulling back. There are friends I care about deeply, people I’ve known for years, who I trust and genuinely enjoy. And still, I can’t bring myself to reach out. I think about it. I even draft the text message in my head. But the act of making a plan, of putting energy toward being around someone, often feels like more than I can give.

It’s not about them. It’s about me. About what my body and mind can hold right now.

Maybe this is just a season… maybe it’s burnout. I’m trying not to judge it, and instead, understand what this time of my life is teaching me.

The people I care about are still there, and when I have more to give, I’ll find my way back in a way that feels right.

I’m still figuring it out and I have a feeling I’m not the only one. What kind of connection feels possible for you right now, and what kind feels like too much?

On a similar note:

When I was eighteen, I took the exam that would determine whether I’d get into college in Brazil. One of the questions required an essay, and while I don’t remember the exact prompt, I remember what I wrote.

I had just discovered Socrates’ concept of maieutikos: the idea that knowledge can be drawn out through conversation, like a midwife helping bring a child into the world. His own mother was a midwife. That detail stayed with me. It still does.

At the time, I thought I’d become a teacher like my parents. I poured my heart into that essay, not knowing it would earn me a perfect score and a spot in the Arts program. I also didn’t know that this metaphor of midwifery (of helping something come into being) would quietly shape the rest of my life.

This is what I do now. I guide, I witness, I create space. I help bring to life brands, stories, ideas, and expressions that weren’t fully formed before. And in doing so, I’ve learned that creativity isn’t just about producing something beautiful. It’s about honoring what wants to be born.

Years later, during a season of my life marked by infertility, that same metaphor came back to me. I heard it clearly, as if whispered into my chest: you can still create. It doesn’t have to be a child. You have the power to give birth to anything you want.

And so I do. Through writing, through design, through strategy, through the work of building something real. This weekend, as Mother’s Day approaches, I’ll be thinking of all the different ways we mother. All the dreams we carry. All the lives we bring into form.

Here’s to the midwives of ideas, the artists of vision, and the force inside each of us that knows how to bring something into the world with care 💐

On a similar note:

There comes a time when you’re moving so fast you barely feel your own footsteps. Life’s a blur, a string of responsibilities, projects, and deadlines , one after another. Somewhere in between, you stop asking if the direction is right, and you just keep going, hoping the path will lead where you want to be.

Sometimes things just don’t feel right. There’s a tightening in your chest, a restlessness, a quiet resistance to the work that once felt natural. You feel it in your bones : something isn’t quite aligned. It’s subtle at first, easy to ignore, and the body has this way of speaking up when the mind is too busy to notice. There’s tension, fatigue, or even a sudden lack of enthusiasm for things that used to bring joy.

Our bodies know before our minds do. And if you’re just a little like me, you keep pushing, keep ignoring, because the idea of stopping feels so inconvenient and scary.

Pausing can feel like the hardest thing to do. It’s counterintuitive, especially in a world that seems to value productivity and growth above all else. But if we’re honest with ourselves, there comes a moment when we get to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, something needs to change.

And what if you pause, and you don’t know what comes next?

That’s the scariest part — the silence that follows. The quiet that can feel like you’ve lost all momentum, all certainty. We fear that if we stop, we’ll be left behind. This year for me has been about realizing that this silence, this moment of not knowing, it’s the moment when we get to ask ourselves what we really want. It’s the space after the storm, where answers don’t come immediately, but insights slowly start to surface. It’s a strange, uncomfortable place, and it’s also where the truth lives, if we’re patient enough to wait for it.

And then, in that space, something remarkable happens. When you allow yourself to pause, to stop forcing answers, the clarity begins to find you. Maybe it’s a new direction, maybe it’s a simple change in pace, or maybe it’s just a reminder to realign with the things that truly matter.

Stepping back doesn’t mean stepping away. It means reconnecting with yourself, with that deeper intuition that sometimes gets lost in the rush. It’s a chance to ask, “Is this really where I want to be?” and to listen for an answer without judgment or fear.

So, if you also feel that tightness in your chest or that nagging sense of unease, maybe it’s time to honor it. Give yourself permission to pause, to trust in that silence, and to find courage in the stillness. Life isn’t a straight line. It’s a series of pauses, shifts, and realignments. Sometimes, those quiet moments of courage , when you stop, listen, and breathe , are the ones that lead you closer to your most authentic path.

On a similar note:

There’s a particular kind of disappointment that settles in when you realize that doing good work isn’t always enough. That no one is coming to hand you the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, no matter how dedicated or capable you are. That visibility doesn’t just happen on its own, even when your work is solid, beautiful, meaningful.

It took me longer than I care to admit to understand this. I thought that if I just kept showing up and doing my part, someone would notice. Someone would open a door. Someone would say, “You belong here,” and things would shift. But most people are too consumed with their own deadlines, their own questions, their own sense of urgency to look up and see what’s unfolding around them.

The people who get noticed aren’t always the most prepared, the most experienced, or the most thoughtful. Often, they’re the ones who decided to step forward. Who found a way to speak, even when their voice shook. Who made space for themselves in the room long before anyone officially invited them in.

And I don’t say this to discourage you. I say it because there’s something powerful about claiming your own presence, especially when no one else is doing it for you.

You don’t need to be loud, but you do need to be visible, intentional and strategic, showing that you know what you stands for.

If you’ve been waiting, hoping someone would notice, recommend you, lift you into the light, consider this your interruption: you’re already here. The work already exists. What might change if you stopped waiting and started showing yourself?

What would it look like to be seen on your own terms?

On a similar note: