They say we must become who we are.

That the secret to happiness is embracing who you are.

It's knowing your limits, your dreams, your quirks, every mole on your body, every involuntary movement in your eyebrows.

They say that's it. It's that simple. 

But is that really it? 

I don't know. The funny thing about life is that living is a subjective experience.

It all depends. It depends who we are talking about. Maybe for you, it's easy. Maybe it's difficult for your neighbor. Maybe you don't even want to love yourself. Who knows.

In fact, self-love for me seems more like an endless fight between myself and myself. A battle that I only had the courage to fight when I had no alternative left.

When I woke up in the hospital in 2012 and received the news that my leg had been amputated below the knee and that my life would never be the same, there was no therapy that made me feel better about myself than crying out all my frustration with God. and the world on a wine-colored blog that no one read.

Most of those texts have already lost their meaning.

When I read it, I don't even seem to recognize that girl.

I discovered, a little later, that having a physical disability should not be synonymous with weakness.

 

Quite the opposite: Being a person with a disability in a world made for people without disabilities should be considered a symbol of resilience, of strength, of love for living.

It's not always roses... There are days when I'd rather go on vacation and leave myself in someone's care. But it can't be done, right? We can't take a break from ourselves. The best thing to do is to fall in love with yourself.

When I started reading myself, I fell in love with myself. Through writing, I came into existence. Because writing is eternalizing thoughts that would be nothing more than mental accumulation. Because when I write, I am free.

This Instagram was born from this desire I have to pass on everything life has taught me about resilience, about staying, about continuing. And, obviously, about allowing myself to write.

​

Writing helped me find myself. There are people who find themselves sewing. Others, driving school vans.

There are people who find themselves after losing everything. Others find themselves without needing anything.

When the calm arrived and destiny began to smile more slowly in my life, a question appeared to me:

What if I could tell people what happened inside me this whole time?

 

What if I could share this crazy thing of surviving an accident and finding out you weren't alive until you thought you couldn't live anymore?

What if I could tell you that writing helped me?

What would happen?