Today I read a word in the middle of a text and somewhere between reading and understanding, a song played inside me. It was about someone caught off guard by the gaze of the person they love, that particular surprise, a particular landing. Something in that flash of recognition quietly destabilized the ground of my own perception.

A warmth settled along my spine, slow and certain, the kind that moves through you like a note held long enough to fill a room. The substance that arrived with it was beyond cellular and half intellectual, shifting into place the way a piece of a puzzle fits perfectly and effortlessly into the missing spot.

I may have once been walking through a minefield. I realize this plainly, without ceremony. There was a territory in my life where each step carried a particular quality of attention, that contracted, anticipatory vigilance of someone who has learned to read the ground before trusting it. My body remembers doing its quiet arithmetic of risk before the mines exploded, which they did more often than expected, even with all the internal bomb squad work fully operational. And then, this morning, reading this word, wonder ignited. I felt that ground release me. 

The minefield still exists. Its coordinates belong to whoever built it, and I am standing somewhere else entirely, on my own axis, warm and upright. This is what wonder did today. It arrived as peace, which is perhaps its most radical form. It could be the amazement of a gaze that catches you, the revelation of a sensation that tells you the truth about where you are. And then discovering, through a shiver that travels the full length of your body, that you have already moved.

I almost reached for more elaborate language because the impulse was there, to make something poetic of this. I felt, for a second, the movement to dress it in imagery that would signal its importance, but the experience is so quiet, so genuinely weightless, that ornamentation would merely stand between the feeling and the page.

Some insights are brilliant the way sunlight is brilliant every morning, certain and constant beyond the weather conditions, arriving without announcement and illuminating the landing of this word in my inner world. Its beams outline the texture of every movement, the angle of the shadows, the specific green of a leaf I might have walked past a hundred times. Today I walked past myself and finally noticed.

Wonder, I am learning, arrives with singularities in motion. Sometimes it arrives as a warm degree of recognition. As this body remembers that it belongs, the axis finds its angle, the reliable fact of being exactly where I am and finding that this is complete.

Marcia Donadel

I was sitting in a park with the warmth of the sun on my back when the voices reached me. Two people nearby, caught in the friction of an unresolved thing between them, their words carrying that specific charge that irritated air carries before a storm.

The sound moved through me the way soundwaves do when you are grounded. I registered it, the sharpness of a raised tone. The displaced energy of someone whose frustration had outgrown its container, and somewhere in the registering, I noticed that the warmth on my back had not changed. The sun continued its quiet work. My breath continued its cadenced rhythm.

Sitting there with the sharpness of my attention brought me the capacity to feel the full weight of someone else's discomfort and remain, at the same time, in my own atmosphere. Empathy creates a curve of warmth as the waves of my soft energy experience it as turbulence reflecting back to the universe. The desire that things resolve well for everyone, held alongside the fact of this moment, this sun, and the quality of afternoon light on the grass in front of me.

I looked inward, the way you check a room to see the resources you can find there. Something in me wanted the friction between them to dissolve, and I let that wanting exist while avoiding following it anywhere. There was also something worth examining, a small residue of discomfort with a certain quality of behavior, familiar from other rooms, other years. I sat with that as much as I hold my own history, feeling it soften the way wool knots soften when they are allowed enough loosening space.

That shift between them belonged to them. The breeze that had been moving through me since I sat down continued its path, unhurried, as if it had known there was enough space for everything needed.

Immaturity has its own season. It blooms where it needs to, follows its own internal logic, arrives and departs on a schedule that belongs to its current. Sitting in that park, feeling the sun complete its slow arc across my shoulders, I found I could be a witness to that, present and warm, located in my own life.

Marcia Donadel

I have been noticing the quiet signs that appear when life starts to rearrange itself. They come in small moments that carry a specific sound and touch the deeper layers of my core. The way the early light touches the side of my desk. The sound of my voice while I read a paragraph out loud to see if it breathes. These details have become part of this new phase.

For some time my work drifted away from me in a professional relationship that emptied my contribution and redirected its substance elsewhere, sometimes completely erased, covered by layers of noise that did not belong to my rhythm. It took time to notice the misalignment that almost dimmed my light and softened my voice. When that happens, clarity takes time to return. It comes back through slow reorientation, through consistent steps, and through the expansion of possibilities that comes from choosing a new direction.

Teaching has been part of this return. There is something grounding in helping someone understand a structure for the first time. It makes me pay attention to tone, to timing, to the way an explanation lands. Looking at this other person who is building something that will change their life makes me remember that thinking has precision and that precision is crafted. Each lesson offers a quiet confirmation. I am rebuilding from my own reservoir of inner restoration guided by my personal compass.

I have also been rewriting how I speak about my work as an act of coherence. I want language that reflects how I actually move in the world and narratives shaped by lived experience instead of expectations that once pressed me into smaller forms. This process has brought me back to an interior grounding. It feels as simple as a breathing exercise anyone could do during the day, yet moving through the world is much more complex than that. The rewriting begins as loose words, and only later do they take form and release what once felt compressed.

If you are in your own season of reconstruction, you might recognise this feeling. The slow reclaiming of something that was always yours. The quiet recognition that your work has depth and direction and that these qualities illuminate the way forward. These shifts are subtle, yet they signal the beginning of a more coherent path. I continue to learn from this movement by allowing myself to grow closer to who I have always been beneath the noise.

Marcia Donadel

As I turn 50, I choose to give myself the greatest gift I could ever receive: the closure of a cycle that no longer belongs to me — and the opening of a life entirely aligned with who I am. This is not just a birthday. This is a rite of passage. A declaration of integrity, authorship, and presence.

Dear Márcia,

Today, I write to myself not to explain, not to justify, not to negotiate.
I write to declare, to formalize, to witness, and to honour.

I witness who I have been.
I formalize who I no longer am.
And I honour who I am becoming.

For a long time, perhaps far too long, I believed that if I tried harder, explained better, made myself smaller, softened my presence, perhaps, just perhaps, I could transform a structure into something fair, beautiful, and expansive.

Out of love, out of ethics, out of loyalty, out of a deep sense of mission: I tried.
I tried so much that I almost convinced myself that my worth depended on how much I could hold together what was already broken.
That my light had to be carefully dimmed, not to be seen as a threat.
That my presence had to be measured, not to discomfort those who needed control.

But now I know.
And once I know, I cannot unknow.

If I stay, it is no longer generosity, it is betrayal of myself.
If I remain, it is no longer loyalty, it is imprisonment.
If I keep holding this together, it is self-erasure.

And I was not born to erase myself.
I was born to name, to create, to sustain what is just.

So today, I close this chapter.
Energetically. Psychologically. Biographically.

Closing is not destroying.
Closing is giving a name to what has reached the limit of its function.

I close the cycle of proving my worth.
I close the cycle of holding together what does not hold me.
I close the cycle of shrinking myself to fit.
I close the cycle of bargaining my wholeness in exchange for crumbs of belonging.

And with this closure, I liberate.
I liberate the woman I was, the one who held it all.
I liberate who I no longer am, the one who thought she had to be less to be accepted.
I liberate those who cannot or will not recognize me, may they follow their own path.

And I remain.
Whole. Complex. Lucid. Creative. Powerful. Subtle. And visible.

I remain in myself.
I remain in what I know how to do, and I do it like no one else.
I remain aligned with my biography, and my existential signature.
And with my name: Márcia Donadel.

From this day forward, let this name be my home, my ground, my living structure: built by me, for me, and for those who know how to inhabit spaces of fairness, beauty, evolution, and expansion with me.

At 50, I no longer ask for space. I take it.

I no longer wait for recognition. I name myself.

I no longer dim my light. I am the lighthouse, the centre, the author, and the architect of my own existence.

My 50s are not a marker of time.

They are a marker of presence.

Of power.

Of return.

Of rewriting my own story, signed by me, for me, and for those who have eyes and soul to see.

This is where it ends.
This is where it begins.
This is where I am.
Whole. Finally.

Márcia Donadel

Sometimes I feel invisible, as if I've died and become a ghost, because it's the only explanation that makes sense. There are moments when it's hard to believe in anything else because reality seems like a clichéd stereotype. I don't like to complain about life, and I don't think I have issues with neediness; maybe my problem is impatience rather than neediness—impatience to find alternatives to understand why I'm being ignored and trampled upon, whether deliberately or accidentally (!). Either way, it’s tough. You experience incidents of invisibility at work, on the street, within the family. I come home, and my son says, "Hi, Mom!" because he heard the door, but he doesn't look at me. He didn't even lift his eyes from the phone. So, I thought, this problem is with me; I need to do something, maybe a self-help technique to empower myself and burst this invisibility bubble to get different results in my life.

So, I went to the gym thinking about this. There's this CrossFit exercise where you squat, pick up a heavy ball, lift it above your head extending your arms, and throw it down in front of you with all your might. I'd never done this exercise before. When I threw the ball the first time, it was a bit clumsy, like a toddler's first steps, but when I threw it the second time, I saw the potential of the exercise. I thought, I’m going to burst the invisibility bubble right now, and I went at it with intention, more force, and more intention with each throw—three sets of twelve reps. I tried to increase the intention and force each time. Well, I hope it helped me lose weight because the bubble is made of steel. I didn’t burst anything, not even with my usually vivid and receptive imagination. Steel, really? I can’t even burst a metaphorical or figurative bubble? Not even a tiny puncture in a figure of speech? No. Intact. Unmoving. So, I guess my terrible rigidity must be the cause of the invisibility. I need to bend myself, then.

I kept thinking about this during the whole workout. I ended up with sore arms and legs. The attempt to burst the invisibility bubble hurt as much as being invisible. Then, at the end of the workout, I approached the entrance door and a colleague was coming in. I smiled and looked at her naturally and kindly, as I always do with anyone. It's true I hadn’t seen her before, but believe me, she looked through me, smiled, and greeted the person right behind me. I know, total cliché. But the revolting part is that it really happened. I can accept that we didn't know each other, but we shared the same gym space as colleagues. I greet everyone and look them in the eye. Despite not being seen, I had the chance to look at her gaze focusing on the person behind me. I witnessed something that took me by complete surprise. It was an empty, dead gaze, even though accompanied by a smile. It was a blind gaze. She wasn't looking at me, but maybe she wasn't looking at the person behind me either. She completely ignored me, but just noticed the person behind me, didn’t really see them. This shocked me a bit.

Maybe my mental health is perfectly normal. Sure, it seems like a comedic coincidence to have several episodes of being ignored in a row in just a few days. But perhaps the problem isn't mine. I look at people, I perceive their presence through my gaze. I care if they are okay and ask with interest. Maybe it’s out of fashion and I do it as a legacy from my grandmother. She would lean on her window and greet everyone passing by on the sidewalk in front of her house in the small town where I was born and raised. She always wore perfume and liked to dress up. She had a lot of patience to listen to people who struck up conversations, always commenting on how cute the children were and listening to people arguing about the advantages of products, usually Bibles, that people were selling door-to-door. Then she would give a gentle "no, thank you, good luck with your sales, I loved it, maybe next time." And it was all true. She really listened, she really loved it, but she really didn't want to buy.

It’s not me who’s invisible; it’s the people around me who don’t see me. I need to find those who see me. But now that I’ve seen the gaze of someone who doesn’t see, I already know how to recognize it, and that’s the biggest lesson of all. I already know very well who doesn’t see. Why they don’t see, whether they don’t want to or just won’t, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I will find those who see me. And it will be easy, you know why? Because I know how to see. I see people. I inherited this from my grandmother. I care and see even those who are not close. There are things I see that many people doubt and don’t accept. That’s the commitment. Stop trying to be seen by those who will not engage their vision. I will focus my energy on those who have the capacity and willingness to see. And in this new approach, I feel a spark of hope.

I realize that this journey is about being seen as much as it is about seeing others deeply and meaningfully. Every smile I offer, every genuine question I ask, every moment I share with someone who truly sees me, will be a step towards a more fulfilling existence. It's about creating connections that matter, no matter how rare they might seem in a world that often feels blind.

Marcia Donadel

Today, I ran for 10 minutes without stopping. This was my victory. If you think it’s insignificant, that's your problem as the reader. I'm sharing this with a blank page. A blank page won’t judge or mock my achievement; it will simply acknowledge and contemplate. This is the most external validation I can hope for today, since by choosing not to share this with anyone else, I am not seeking any further acknowledgment. This is an internal process, not just a physical one, despite my health condition, which I hope to have the breath to mention before the end of this text.

I’ve endured something that kept me down for many years. I’ve always admired athletes, finding it impressive that many people maintain athletic bodies despite stressful lives and crushing routines. Society sees this as a great accomplishment, synonymous with success and mental health, urging everyone to adopt healthy diets and exercise routines. I never managed that. I always felt humiliated by my lack of ease with physical fitness, burdened by a condition that carries its own share of prejudice, indifference, and disdain.

I won’t unload my anger here because I moved past anger years ago; today, I moved past trauma.

When I was between 10 and 12 years old, we had a test called the Cooper test in school. We had to run for 12 minutes, covering a specific distance. The distance was set according to the time, forcing us to run to complete the task, which determined our grade in physical education. I was a good student and liked getting good grades. I was good at many things, despite not liking everything, but I didn’t have endurance for running. On many occasions, I almost made it, but failing to do so lowered my grade. Until one day, I succeeded—and promptly fainted afterward. I scored an A but had to be attended to and left class early. This wasn’t the moment that sealed my fate with physical activity; it was a wake-up call. I needed something different or better guidance, like private lessons for those struggling with math, or perhaps this method wasn’t for everyone. I didn’t know those options existed.

As adults, we reflect on our rights and understand how we deserve to be treated. And today, after many months of training at the gym and following a more humane exercise routine tailored to my age, health condition, and desire to train, I ran for 10 minutes without stopping. I will reach 12 minutes. I will surpass it because that limit no longer holds me back.

As I approached the 10-minute mark on the treadmill, tears began to roll down my face, and I couldn’t hold back the sobs. The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the treadmill mirrored the beat of my racing heart. My breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and desperate, matching the surge of emotion rising within me. But I think no one around noticed because I was sweating, my face already flushed from the exertion, and each person is immersed in their own universe of overcoming challenges in a gym. The hum of treadmills, the clang of weights, and the soft murmur of conversation created a backdrop that felt both intimate and isolating. I finished the 10-minute run and felt like a 12-year-old telling the teacher I had completed the task. He congratulated me, and I felt like sharing my old Cooper test experience with him. I almost did. I think he would have listened patiently and congratulated me again. But it probably didn’t matter to him. An athlete like him wouldn’t care much about a 10-minute achievement; I don’t matter much in his life. So, I said nothing. But while I stretched to finish my workout, tears continued to stream down my flushed and overheated face. The tension in my muscles slowly released, mingling with the flood of emotions.

I had no one to celebrate with, even though I'm surrounded by loved ones. I’m sharing this with a blank page. It won’t mock me. Some of the first people I’d consider telling about my 10-minute achievement might initially congratulate me but later turn it into a joke disguised as affectionate teasing. I won't tell anyone. Just this blank page. Here, I can also say that reaching nearly 50 years old and achieving my first 10-minute run mattered to me, despite the fibromyalgia, which is also a secret. Let’s keep this secret between us as well. The blank page illuminates my revelation, and I find myself in a place where my triumph matters, is valid, and will be remembered with the care it deserves.

When I left the gym, I breathed in the cold winter air and removed my coat to feel the chill of the solitude of overcoming trauma. The crispness of the air stung my lungs and nipped at my skin, but it also felt refreshing, a reminder of the stark contrast between the warmth inside and the harshness of the outside world. The sky was a pale gray, matching the somber, reflective mood that had settled over me. Whatever you name as trauma is a trauma, no matter what others say. No trauma is ridiculous.

Upon reaching my car, after walking a few meters through the crisp winter air, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment swelling within me. The cold nipped at my skin, but it was a welcome contrast to the warmth and exertion I had just experienced at the gym. Today, I surpassed more than just a physical limit—I broke through a barrier that had held me back for years. In the solitude of my own journey, I found strength and validation. 

So, if anyone reading this feels the urge to laugh or dismiss this achievement, I challenge you to reflect on your own battles. Open your own blank page and confront the challenges that define you. Remember, every victory, no matter how small it may seem, is a testament to our resilience and determination.

As I continue to push past the limits of my past, I know that every step forward is a step away from the shadows that once held me back. No trauma is insignificant, no triumph is too small. Today, I ran for 10 minutes without stopping, and in that time, I proved to myself that I am capable of more than I ever imagined. This blank page has witnessed my struggle and my victory, and it will hold this moment forever.

Marcia Donadel

I recently had the spiritual opportunity to reflect on the theme of grudges. Initially, it came to me as an opportunity to assist someone else, as her experience was public and could influence others, potentially exacerbating their own grudges, as collective consciousness tends to aggregate those with similar unresolved issues. I approached, examined her problem, and saw her grudge as a beloved tree that had been cut down, trapping her in a continuous loop that remained unresolved to this day, leaving her confined in a coffin. 

When things enter my life, I tend to view them as opportunities to be resolved together with another person, rather to be faced alone in the vastness of a problem, no matter how trivial it may seem. Thus, by contemplating her thoughts, empathising with her feelings, and exercising my critical thinking, I found one, among other grudges, that I could vividly visualise.

The more you know any Brazilian woman, the easier it becomes to equate most of her grudges with a woman trapped in a coffin. We are often expected to embody passion, to be emotionally expressive, which leads us to sometimes being perceived as overly dramatic. We are often expected to also embody traditional gender roles, such as being nurturing and family-oriented, while also maintaining a strong sense of sensuality and beauty. This imprisonment, although stereotypical, often places us in claustrophobic situations. 

I've done a lot of therapy and have both given and received emotional assistance frequently. This particular childhood grudge came back to my mind just now, as I was thinking about this other woman's problem, and, realised this specific topic surprisingly never showed at therapy.

When I was 13 years old, my younger sister was 11. Our dad bought us both perfume for Christmas. I received a perfume with a geometric bottle, Miss Arpels, and was told that it was for the older sister, already a young lady. My younger sister got one with a bottle shaped like a mouth and nose because she was still a little girl. It was Laguna by Salvador Dalí. I liked my sister's bottle. I hated the one chosen for me. I still have the ugly bottle in one of my drawers. I've used the perfume a few painful times. There's still some perfume left in it. My dad never knew me. Grudge. I could still get the fun perfume for my 50th birthday or sooner and feel the way I like. Hope. Could I? Why didn't I just buy it for myself later in my adult life? Do they still sell it? I never received it as a gift. I never told this story to anyone before. Buried grudge. I will text my dad about this and sort this out right now... haha. No. He will say that he made the right choice. And he did. I didn't have to text him. I remembered the conversation we had about it. I don't recall the circumstances anymore, but I remember him telling me about how he made his decision when I asked him sometime later. He said he had trouble finding gifts for both his daughters who were no longer little children; he was afraid to encourage them grow up too fast, but he noticed that we were blossoming into our teenage femininity. This worried him while also made him think about not rushing us into womanhood, but also not stifling our natural development. Choosing the perfume for the younger one was a breeze; something surrealistic with Salvador Dalí fit the bill perfectly, and the younger daughter had no pressure to rush into adulthood. But my gift was difficult to choose, he said. He didn't want me to feel childish, but more importantly, he worried that I would be driven toward premature sensuality, given that perfume is an icon of femininity. So, the decision was made based on the logic of the bottle, opting for a geometric design rather than one that was curvy and feminine, and it featured a four-leaf clover for good luck. Goodness! I'm glad to have remembered that choice had nothing to do with me. It was based on his own issues in seeing his daughters leaving childhood. That choice was the best my father could make, following the logic he chose. 

That partially resolves the grudge though. This doesn't exclude the repercussions of how I internalized what I understood from that experience, and the potential invisible consequences of it throughout life, even without knowing they could somehow be tied to that event. Considering the older sister responsible for setting the example of growth for the younger sisters is a responsibility I wasn't capable of having at the time. I was childlike, lacked maturity or attractive qualities, and didn't draw much attention from boys, even when I made an effort to do so. That gift had embodied my unperceived growth, and not finding something during your growth to identify with your kind of blossomimg femininity can be quite distressing for a teenager. There are certain ways of being, dressing, and behaving that are considered more feminine and are known to attract more attention from people than others. But why? I'm not sure today if these choices are made by the right people or look at the right criteria. I'm also not sure if what I thought about pleasing the boys' gaze was true, except for a standard set by other girls and women, most of whom were from my own family. Certain ways of being, dressing, and behaving were not discussed, or taught to me by the people I wanted to approach. They were described and taught by others who had other interests on their agenda. Just like the choice made for me, which had the interest of not making me grow up too fast. I certainly wasn't doing it out of time. 

I never thought much about the perfume episode during my life, but now, nearing 50, I have the chance to revisit it and find another person as the protagonist. One who doesn't need to try to find the right way to become interesting because whoever is or will be interested sees or will be able to see what really matters. At this stage of life, I can see that the woman who was born from that little girl is loved for who she is, by more than one person and in different roles throughout her life. She can behave in a certain way that social occasions demand, but can, by her nature, transcend any cultural, social, or spiritual barrier to act with empathy and fraternity. I bought the perfume I wanted. After opening the box and smelling the scent, I found it nice, I liked having done it, but didn't feel anything extraordinary. The big breakthrough wasn't that. It was this. Writing about it and blowing hope into someone else's resentment. Grudges are within us, not in others. They represent certain roles we wanted to play, but were not seen in full, not understood, heard, or loved as we would like. People can love us only as much as they can, and their love is full of things we can't understand. But our self-love, which is often battered, is what can pull us out of there. That perfume, coveted for a long time, represented a love suppressed by a way of being loved and a way of being seen that I wish had. It was a good possibility, but I don't need it anymore. I realized that throughout my life, I received and bought other perfumes that I could appreciate not only for the bottle but also for the scent and intensity, sweetness, freshness, and everything else that I could choose because I had the opportunity to experience further, love the choice made for me by someone else, or choose for myself. I thought about using my other perfumes more and maybe this one I just bought will stay in the drawer for a while. My favorite scent is Ô de Lancôme, and the bottle has nothing to do with the choice. Sometimes, I use my Chance by Chanel, because it senses my skin and exudes the scent according to what it sees in me. It is full of possibility. There are times when I use 212 Sexy, because it has two halves, ideal for diving into that intensity. I don't need to be one, I don't need to suffer from not being seen as I would like. I can see myself and reflect what my intensity is vibrating. Whoever can vibrate with me will share this, whoever can't or doesn't want to, will vibrate only in the dimensions they can access.

Marcia Donadel