First things first: it’s Brasil with an ‘s,’ not a ‘z.’ Thank you very much. Some truths, like this one, seem small, almost playful, but they hold deeper meaning. Spelling matters because words matter. They are how we name the world, how we call it into being. To honor the essence of something, we must first name it correctly. So, it feels right to begin here, with this distinction.

This is my 500th blog post, a milestone. A number that feels paradoxical: at once expansive and fleeting, significant yet a moment in the larger arc of my writing journey. As I reflected on what to write for this occasion, one word surfaced, steady and insistent, like the tide returning to the shore: Brasil.

How could it not? When I think of the origins of my voice, the voice that has allowed me to explore life through words, I see the signature of my Brazilianness everywhere. My homeland shaped me in profound and quiet ways, like waves carving the shore: persistent, subtle, yet undeniable. Growing up in São Paulo, a city that embraces a multitude of cultures within its chaos, I learned early to celebrate the world’s richness. My city taught me to savor the unfamiliar and honor the beauty of difference, while staying rooted in my own identity. From this, I gained something invaluable: the ability to immerse myself in another culture, like the South Korean one I find so fascinating, without losing my sense of home.

Brasil taught me to live with rhythm, to embrace contradictions, and to find joy in life’s complexities. It showed me how to savor new tastes, attempt new languages, and trust the harmony that arises when opposites coexist. It reminded me there is strength in togetherness, even in a nation shaped by severe war divides, where former enemies now live side by side.

It is not simply a country; it is a universe contained within borders. Vast and diverse, it defies simplification. Some places can be summed up in a word or feeling Germany might evoke discipline, precision, and Beethoven’s measured notes. But this place? It’s samba spilling from open windows, the barefoot laughter of children on sunlit streets, and the smell of pão de queijo fresh from the oven. It’s the sea kissing the endless shore. It’s the relentless hum of São Paulo traffic and the warmth of strangers who greet you like family, as if kindness were a birthright. It’s a kaleidoscope: languages, histories, and traditions colliding and coexisting, forming something infinitely greater than the sum of its parts.

And yet, it is also an island, a Portuguese-speaking gem surrounded by Spanish-speaking neighbors. Vast yet intimate, expansive yet self-contained. Its history carries the weight of centuries: colonization, resilience, and reinvention. It holds the deep-rooted traditions of its Indigenous peoples, the rhythms of Africa, and the influences of Europe, all woven into the fabric of its soul.

To compare it to Canada, where I now live, is to compare sunlight and snowfall. Canada feels young, still stretching its arms, still seeking its voice. This land, by contrast, feels ancient, not just in years, but in spirit. Its soul is layered, alive with echoes of the past, brimming with contradictions and richness.

How do you put a place like this into words? How do you explain it to someone who has never felt its pulse? People ask me this often: What is it like? But how do you describe something that defies definition? It isn’t a postcard, nor is it the carnival clichés or glossy snapshots of samba dancer’s mid-step.

It’s a rhythm, hips swaying on a crowded street, the laughter of strangers who make you feel at home. It’s the hum of life spilling into every corner, unconfined, uncontainable. To explain it is like trying to hold sunlight in your hands: it isn’t meant to be captured or dissected. It’s meant to be lived. To be felt.

Ah, saudade. How do I even begin to explain a word that belongs solely to the Portuguese language? It is more than a word; it’s a world unto itself, where longing and love intertwine. It’s the ache of missing something, someone, somewhere. It’s remembering a moment so vividly it lives within you, forever out of reach yet impossibly present.

Perhaps this place itself is saudade: a feeling that cannot be defined, only experienced.

I also feel sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to encounter any of the great Brazilian writers. Machado de Assis, with his sharp wit and tender ache for the human condition, reveals the hidden depths of existence with quiet precision. Clarice Lispector reaches into the raw, unspoken corners of the soul, her words less like stories and more like intimate, transformative revelations. Ariano Suassuna, meanwhile, elevates humble folklore into sweeping epics, uncovering the extraordinary in what others might overlook. To have never read them is, I think, to miss the chance to truly see: to discover poetry everyday and the bridge between what is felt and what is unseen.

I still feel sorry for those who have never discovered the quiet magic of Bossa Nova or the brilliance of artists like Caetano Veloso, Chico Buarque, Elis Regina, and so many others. To not know the soft sway of João Gilberto’s guitar or the whispered melancholy of Chega de Saudade is to miss a kind of intimacy that feels almost sacred. Caetano’s lyrics are poetry in motion, his voice a bridge between the personal and the political. Chico’s songs, layered with wit and heartbreak, linger long after the last note fades. And Elis, Elis sings as though her voice carries the weight of the world, transforming pain into something achingly beautiful.

And then there’s Criolo, whose Não Existe Amor em SP speaks to anyone who has ever walked the chaotic streets of São Paulo feeling the weight of its loneliness. His raw, honest lyrics capture a different side of the city, where isolation and longing live side by side. It’s a song that reflects São Paulo as it is, its flaws, contradictions, and tough beauty. These artists, whether through a soft melody, a piercing lyric, or a heartfelt cry, are more than musicians. They tell stories that make you feel deeply and see the world differently.

These authors and musicians shaped me, just as my culture shaped me. They taught me that stories are not just mirrors, they are maps, connecting us across time, geography, and the human heart. Writing this 500th post feels like more than a milestone. It feels like a homecoming, a way to honor the culture that gave me the courage to write in the first place.

So, obrigada, Brasil. Obrigada for your wisdom, your contradictions, your beauty. Obrigada for teaching me how to think, how to write, how to live. My voice, my heart, they are yours, always.

As I look foward the next 500 posts, I know this much: I carry you with me. In every word, every breath, every story still waiting to be told.

Image courtesy of Sandra Martins on Unsplash