Love letter #1: The Divine Act
The sacred revolution of feeling it all, stop performing and start being.
21st of June, 2025
Copenhagen, Denmark — Esferas
Skin on the edge.
Heart wide open.
Tears at the surface.
Laughter that comes from the belly.
Eyes burning from seeing too much.
Arms that hug before thinking.
A trembling that shakes the soul.
The divine act
is not the one that performs on stage.
It’s the one that quiets down to listen,
that prepares the soul’s house to receive,
that asks before it teaches,
that touches before knowing the full name.
The divine act is the one who dares
to sit on the ground,
open the chest,
and say:
I’ve been lost too.
And that’s what we did here.
We unlearned performance.
We turned off battle mode.
We understood that strength doesn’t come from hardness.
We gave up the scorecard that never fit us.
We lowered our defenses, our façades, our walls, our filters.
We opened up.
And came home.
Not the home we came from,
but the one that lives inside,
made of silence, skin and memory.
And in my case,
a park bench that grounds me
anywhere in the world.
A home that smells like grandma,
like cheese bread fresh from the oven,
freshly brewed coffee,
or a well-chosen glass of wine,
from a sommelier.
A lap.
Tenderness.
A home where you don’t have to hold it all,
you don’t have to know,
you don’t have to be right,
you don’t have to be ready.
This is a home
without a stage,
only a circle,
eye to eye,
human warmth.
Here,
we can cry.
We can laugh too loud.
We can sit in silence while the world keeps spinning outside,
and forget everything beyond this.
Here,
we returned to being daughters,
or we saw ourselves as mothers.
We remembered
we’re daughters of women
who may have never lived what we’re living,
daughters of our land,
daughters of life,
daughters of the mystery,
daughters of this wild nature
that screams within us.
My grandmothers, for example,
never walked through Copenhagen.
But they were here with me,
in the rings I never take off,
in every word I dare to say,
in every dream I allow myself to live.
One of them once told me:
I live through you.
You do what I never could.
You say what I never found words for.
You have a courage I deeply admire.
And it’s true.
We are living what so many couldn’t.
We are becoming what so many dreamed of being.
We are healing,
reframing,
remembering
so many of our ancestors.
Witches burned at the stake,
for rebelling.
Rebels with cause.
Women who gave themselves up for others,
or for us,
and so many who still do.
And I have no doubt,
each of you
awakened here —
or explored even further
your audacious sphere.
And it makes me think:
how lucky we are
to be women who own ourselves.
And what a battle it is to stay that way,
or return,
when we forget
we can take up that space.
This is revolution.
This is power.
This is love.
This is healing.
This is a divine act.
When we hold hands
without knowing each other’s last names.
When we care for each other’s body.
When we listen without rushing.
When we recognise pain as a mirror
and fear as a bridge.
When we undress,
body,
mind,
and soul,
to me, this is the most audacious thing of all.
When the group dives deeper
because someone had the courage to drop the spinning plates
and say:
I can’t do it all.
When we drop the “I’m fine”
and choose the truth.
When we dare to take off the heels
and wear our soul.
When we leave the good,
not because we want to,
but because it’s time,
because the new is calling us
and we no longer fits where we were.
Comfort
can be
deeply
uncomfortable.
Leaving the bad? Anyone can do that.
But the good?
Ah...
The good demands faith.
Demands courage.
Demands presence.
And that’s what this space reminded us of:
Presence is the greatest luxury.
Silence is the rarest gift.
Listening is the most revolutionary act.
We need to give things their time,
to fall in love with the search,
As my grandfather used to say.
Sit with the questions,
question the answers,
revisit the certainties.
We don’t have to win everything.
We don’t have to get on a stage.
We don’t have to fight to exist.
We don’t have to prove anything.
We already are.
We’ve already been chosen.
We already have what we need.
We just needed to remember.
So today,
in front of you,
in front of these women who now live inside me,
I rise,
not to teach,
but to remind.
That life is a breath.
That all we have is today.
That all we need is this love.
We don’t have to numb ourselves anymore.
We don’t have to disconnect.
We don’t have to pretend we don’t feel.
We don’t have to laugh when we want to cry.
We don’t have to say yes when our body screams no.
It’s okay to be in pieces.
To gather the fragments together
and craft a beautiful composition,
a mosaic that could never be made alone.
We can stop.
Feel.
Create.
Listen.
Ask.
And begin again.
As many times as we want.
When we need to,
even when we think we can’t.
We can open a new cycle,
without meeting anyone’s expectations.
We can choose to be emotion,
to be many inside one.
To scare.
To dare.
To risk.
To try again, publicly.
To be seen
and to see ourselves,
without apologising for it,
without shame for anything we do with love,
without justifying.
Because emotion is also intelligence.
It’s also presence.
It’s also wisdom.
The divine act
is this:
to exist, whole.
Whole in pain.
Whole in doubt.
Whole in the dance.
Whole in pleasure.
Whole in not knowing.
And we,
a sum of wholenesses,
of mirrors and contrasts,
of light and shadow,
we become one.
That’s why this gathering was sacred.
Because it wasn’t about learning how to do.
It was about relearning how to be.
About remembering what we’ve always known.
Who we’ve always been,
and who we still get to become.
We remembered
there is strength in affection.
Courage in tears.
Wisdom in the pause.
Power in softness.
Healing in the embrace.
And there is a silent revolution
happening
every time a woman returns to herself
and finds another woman inside,
waiting to love and be loved.
This poem is mine,
but it’s also yours.
If any part of your body trembled,
if a tear almost fell,
or many actually did,
if your throat tightened,
it’s because you were there too.
Because all of this,
is about us.
And the kind of love
that only blooms
when we dare to feel.
This,
is the most divine act there is.
Because in the end, what connects us
is not certainty,
but scars.
Not the diplomas,
but the silences we dared to break.
Not the titles,
but the tear-filled eyes that recognise each other,
the ones that don’t look away,
the ones that choose to stay
when leaving would be easier.
And when we look deeply into one another
and see the scared little girl,
the woman tired of being strong,
the ancestors who lives inside us,
something aligns in the invisible.
A pact is sealed without words.
Something sacred opens.
Maybe that’s why we cried so much.
Because someone, somewhere,
needed to look at us like this,
with unconditional love.
Without trying to fix us.
Without rushing.
Without judgment.
Just love.
Just presence.
Just soul.
This space was the womb of a possible world,
where no one needs to shrink for another to grow.
Where beauty is not a competition,
it’s a mirror.
Where touch heals.
Where tears are welcome.
Where fear becomes the raw material for miracles.
And what a miracle.
What a miracle it was to live all this.
What a miracle it is to remember.
What a miracle to say:
I was there.
I lived this.
This touched me.
This changed me.
This healed me.
This tore me into pieces
that now glow from within.
And when I go home,
to the next home,
to a world that doesn’t know quite what to do with whole women,
I’ll remember how I felt here.
And I won’t forget.
Because this place now lives in me.
This love now wraps around me.
This circle now leads me.
And one day,
when I am old,
I want to remember this.
I want to say to anyone who will listen:
I was a woman who lived fully.
Who loved deeply.
Who cried holding hands with other women.
Who shouted yes to her own soul.
Who took off her heels and danced barefoot in the garden of life.
Who looked her shadow in the eye and said:
come, you can stay.
Who looked at another woman and said:
I saw you,
and was seen too.
In the middle of the path,
back to myself.
With all my love to Amanda, Bia, Bê, Bi, Rafa, Katia S., Katia A., Lu, Suellen, Ju, Aninha, Jaque, Duda, Nath, Raquel, Susanna, Suzana, Val, Mari.
