Paths.

Is life just a maze of choices—twisting, overlapping, sometimes shattering—where each turn feels like a gamble?
Where every step forward carries the weight of what could’ve been, and every detour feels like failure?
Do we only understand the meaning of it all when we’re too far in to turn back?
And what if the path was never wrong at all?
What if doubt, fear, and falling apart… were never mistakes, but the way through—to something deeper, fuller, quieter?
What if every choice, no matter how uncertain, is really a step toward one thing we all crave but rarely name out loud—happiness?

Most of our lives are made of decisions—far more than we could ever count on both hands. Moments where we’re asked to choose between this or that, overthinking every step:

Is this right for me?
Is this a mistake?
Or is it just time to take a leap of faith?

And maybe, more often than not, we just keep moving forward—rarely pausing to look back at the path we’ve carved. The one that, choice by choice, brought us here—to who we are now.

A Quiet Shift

There’s a strange kind of beauty that comes when you step off life’s whirlwind—even for a moment—and allow yourself to glance back. To revisit the weight of old decisions, and the places where everything cracked.

For me, that moment came in one of the darkest chapters of my life.

When Ampa’s mom and I decided to part ways, I fell—deep.
Mentally.
Physically.
I had already been struggling long before that. About a year earlier, I attempted to take my own life.
I chose a knife.
A poorly sharpened one.
It didn’t do much harm physically—just left some marks on my arm that eventually faded.
But the real scars didn’t.
They carved themselves into places no one could see.

When they moved out for a while—to give space, to figure things out—I was left alone.
One month in that house.
Alone.
And like ghosts that never really left, the memories of that year came back—louder this time.
More vivid.
More convincing.

I started thinking again.
About endings.
About how to stop the pain.
About how the one thing I had longed for since Amparo was born—a home, a family, a future—was dissolving right in front of me.

I spent that entire month in solitude.
No calls.
No replies.
I vanished from the world, by choice.
I went completely off the grid—just me, four walls, and a mind that felt heavier by the day.

I watched series on Netflix, one after another. At least, my eyes did. My mind wasn’t there.
Numb.
Absent.
Lost in some in-between place where time didn’t matter and emotions came in waves I couldn’t surf.

To this day, I can’t remember a single show. They left no trace. Because nothing could reach me—not even fiction.

At night, I wrote letters.
Pages filled with apologies, regrets, and quiet goodbyes—to my daughter, to my parents, to my friends, to the version of myself I had failed to become.
Letters I never intended to send.
Letters I later burned.
Because maybe I hoped that letting the fire consume the paper would somehow keep the darkness from consuming me too.

I thought about how it could end.
How it would feel.
What it would look like.
I thought about the moment after, about who would find me, about how it would break them.

I imagined my mother’s face.
My father's silence.
My brother’s disbelief.
And worst of all—I imagined Amparo growing up with that unanswered question inside her: Why didn’t he stay?

That thought alone was enough to pull me back from the edge.
Not by much.
But enough.

The only moments I stepped outside the house were for Ampa.
On the days when the weight lifted just enough, I picked her up.
We’d go for ice cream, to the park, play for a while—pretend the world wasn’t falling apart.
Then I’d come back, back to that haunting routine of being less than nothing.

I couldn’t even sleep in my own bed.
For a month, I curled up on the desk in the office, wrapped in a blanket that held more sadness than warmth.

It wasn’t just a blanket—it was soaked in regret, memories, and the ache of everything slipping through my hands.
I didn’t know how to get out.
I didn’t even know if I wanted to.

Until one day—mid-scroll, mindlessly lost in my phone, a story appeared.
And something clicked.

Choosing to Stay

Sometimes, life knows when you're at the edge. And when you're not searching for a door, it quietly leaves one slightly open—just enough for the light to sneak in.

That’s how it happened.
Not through a deep conversation.
Not through someone checking in.
Just a story or post—on Instagram or Facebook, I honestly can’t remember.
But there it was.

A friend from my university days, posting that she, her boyfriend and a friend were looking for a roommate. The house was less than ten minutes away from where Ampa lived. It wasn’t fancy, but it was something.

A room.
A roof.
A chance.

And maybe more than anything, it felt like proximity—to her, to something stable, to something that might feel like a fresh beginning.

At the same time, I was also looking into apartments, trying to see if I could get a place of my own. But the wall stood right where it always had: money. Social unrest, the pandemic, and the wreckage they left behind had hit me hard.

Freelance work was scarce.
Focus? Even scarcer.
My mind was still too fogged, still too broken to function properly.

But that house...
That post...
That possibility...

So I messaged her. Went to visit. Saw the room. And something inside me—maybe the part that hadn’t given up yet—said: It’s time.

Time to move.
Time to stop looking back.
No more regrets.
No more spirals.
No more letting sadness take the wheel.

I had a daughter. And I wanted to be the best damn father I could be—whatever it took.

Within days, I made the arrangements.
Packed what I had.
Disassembled my bed.
Called a truck.
And off I went—not toward the life I once planned, but toward the one I was determined and ready to build.

Piece by Piece

As the days and months passed, I began living again.
I focused on work—contacted clients I had neglected during the darker days, and slowly started building a stable income.

Bit by bit, I returned to myself.
Not in a dramatic, life-changing moment—but in small, quiet ways.
Like watering a plant and not noticing it’s grown until one day, the leaves touch the light.

I reached out to a friend who was a personal trainer and started working out.
It didn’t last long.
But that wasn’t the point.

What it gave me was far more important than muscle.
It gave me confidence—the kind I hadn’t felt in years.
It reminded me that I could still feel good in my own skin.
That I was still here.
That I was worth showing up for.

But I also knew my mind wasn’t fully back yet—not even close.
So I kept looking.
Not for a way to numb the pain—but for a way to live with it.
To move through it.
To use it, even.

That’s when I turned to meditation.
At first, it was just something to try.
A tool. A maybe. A whisper of peace.

I wasn’t consistent at first, but the silence it gave me was addictive.
Not the absence of thought—but the calm.
The space.
A moment of stillness after years of chaos.

Peace.

That inner shift gave me room to see what truly mattered:
Ampa.
Us.
Life.

Meditation gave me structure.
That structure became a rhythm.
That rhythm became routine.
And those routines became a lifeline—not to escape, but to engage.
To feel again.
To love again—imperfect and all.
To stay sane in a world that had once felt like it was unraveling around me.

I started taking care of myself—not just physically, but emotionally.
I let people back in—into the dark corners I had sealed off for far too long.
That sacred, broken cave I never thought anyone would understand.

And little by little, I began finding joy again.
Not in grand moments—but in the ordinary: coffee in the morning, music on the speakers, a walk without my phone, the sunlight hitting the wall at 7 p.m.

I began expecting good things—gave myself permission to let them come, even when I didn’t fully believe it yet. Even when nothing in the past had guaranteed them.

I stopped chasing happiness like a finish line—and started letting it find me in the quiet.
In the simple things.
In the stillness I used to run from.
In the softness that didn’t mean weakness—but healing.

Maybe that’s what healing really is—
Not waiting to be saved, but choosing to save yourself.
One breath.
One routine.
One loving thought at a time.

Because healing doesn’t always come in answers.
Sometimes, it’s the questions themselves that save you:

What do I feel right now?
What do I need?
What can I let go of?

And all of that led me to one thing I’d been craving most: Presence.

I didn’t want to just survive.
I wanted to be more present.
Not just for visits or afternoons in the park—I wanted time.
Connection.

So I asked if Ampa could start sleeping over some days.
It wasn’t much, at first.
But it was enough.

Enough to build what mattered most:
Love.
Trust.
Home.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

And once again—life, in its strange and beautiful timing, found a way to reward the choices made from love: love for others, love for life itself, and—finally—love for myself.

After some time together, the people who had become my roommates—my tribe—decided it was time for a change. We had two options: find a new place together… or go our separate ways.

It wasn’t easy. We had built something. Shared meals, laughter, late-night conversations, and quiet moments in between. That house wasn’t just walls and furniture. It was a kind of cocoon. And inside it, I had started to become myself again.

Those conversations—the ones we had on couches, in doorways, over drinks that turned into hours—they weren’t just small talk.

They were bridges.
They pulled me back to life, to something real.
They reminded me of what I had forgotten:

That we are nothing alone.
That loneliness isn't just being without people—it's being without connection.

Because we don’t just exist alongside each other.
We shape each other.
We heal each other.
We become ourselves through others.

There’s a reason we, as a species, survived—it wasn’t just because of strength, or intelligence, or luck.

It was community.
It was belonging.
It was knowing that even when everything else is lost, we still have each other.

And I had felt that again.

But I also knew… I needed space.
My own space.

Even before Ampa was born, that was something I had always wanted: a place of my own.
To decorate.
To shape.
To fill with light, music, memories.
I used to imagine it—before life took me on a different path.

I pictured choosing the furniture, hanging paintings, placing books on shelves where they belonged.
I imagined a place that felt like me.
Not just a house. A reflection.

But life had other plans. And so I set it aside. Not out of regret—but out of responsibility. I had to build something else first.

A family.
A foundation.
And I did.

But it’s strange how life works.

Sometimes, what we once had to let go of—it circles back.
Not in the way we expected.
Not in the way we planned.
But in a way that makes sense when it finally arrives.
I had waited years for a home of my own.
And now, without searching, life had placed one in front of me.

A friend of a friend was moving to another continent, and her apartment—beautifully located, shockingly affordable—was up for rent. She recommended me. And I got it. It was fifteen minutes from Ampa. And finally, a space to call home.

Walking through the door for the first time, it felt like breathing after holding my breath for years. I had nothing but the basics—my bed, my clothes, a few belongings I had carried from place to place. The walls were bare. The rooms were quiet. But they were mine.

For the first time, I could shape a space on my terms.
Not as a son.
Not as a partner.
Not as a guest.
But as me.

It started small—a candle on the table, a rug in the living room, a song playing through the speakers that made it feel like a home.
But little by little, I filled it.
With things.
With warmth.
With the feeling of belonging, not just to a place—but to myself again.

Because maybe a home isn’t just a roof over your head.
Maybe it’s the feeling of closing the door behind you and knowing you’re safe.
Maybe it’s the silence that doesn’t echo loneliness, but peace.
The scent of your own coffee.
The playlist that finally sounds right on your speakers.
The freedom to fall apart—or pull yourself together—without anyone watching.

Maybe home is the first place you’ve ever fully exhaled.
Where your ghosts don’t haunt you, they sit beside you.
Where the walls don’t trap you, they hold you.
Where you can laugh without shrinking, cry without apologizing, and rebuild without asking for permission.

Because yes—home is where the heart is.
But only after the heart has wandered, broken, healed, and finally found a reason to stay.
Maybe it’s where your heart comes back to itself.

The Long Loop Back

Looking back—after more than three years in this place I now call home—our home—I can say this with clarity: It’s always been about the choices. Not just the ones you avoid. But especially the ones you commit to.

As I shaped my life day by day, habit by habit, I started to notice something strange—the universe somehow shifted.
Not suddenly.
Not magically.
But undeniably.

Things began to align. Slowly. Deliberately.
Almost like they had been waiting for me to catch up.
I wasn’t doing anything spectacular—I was just showing up. Focusing on the now. On what matters.

Being present.
Being useful.
Being aware.
Being loving.
Being a son.
Being a friend.
Being a dad.

But still, things weren’t perfect. I was working hard to build a stable income, but some months, I was barely scraping by. The anxiety of watching rent deadlines and counting coins at the end of each month hadn't vanished.

And through it all—since the moment I left home—I had always taken care of Ampa. Always.

I gave what I could, and often much more. There were times I gave double, even triple what was expected—because it was never about obligation. It was about showing up.

I paid for her healthcare.
I covered her education.
And more than anything, I gave her my time.

Not just visits. Not just weekends.
I was there—really there.

I made sure our time was 50/50.
I showed up not only as support, but as her other home.
The one who picked her up, fed her, played with her.
Who walked her through parks and carried her when her legs gave out.
Who stayed up through fevers and restless nights.
Who taught her how to hold a pencil, trace letters, sound out words.
Who showed her how to count stars and syllables, how to say “I love you” in English, and how to feel it in every language.

We spent days together with my parents, my brother—our family.
I didn’t just want to provide—I wanted her to feel what it means to be loved, seen, and held.

Even when things were tight, I made it work—because she comes first.

But eventually, I had to be honest. I sat down with her mom and said: We need to make this formal. Not out of conflict. But out of clarity. Out of respect.

So we started the mediation process—to set structure and agreement.
Because every child of separated parents deserves stability.
Deserves to be supported and taken care of.
Deserves to know their parent shows up—even on paper.
It wasn’t easy financially.
But it was essential—emotionally.

And with that clarity, I knew I had to level up. I needed to find a way to bring in more—consistently. To not just survive, but to provide and breathe.

Deciding to look for a full-time job wasn’t easy.
Freelancing had been my life for years—not just a career choice, but something I built from scratch.
It gave me freedom.
Control over my time.
And more importantly, it allowed me to be present for Ampa in ways a 9-to-6 never could.

But freedom without stability is a different kind of trap.

And while I loved the flexibility, I was also exhausted. The mental weight of constant uncertainty—chasing invoices, patching together just enough to survive—it was quietly burning me out.

So yeah, the decision was hard. Because I wasn’t just choosing a job. I was choosing to trade some time with my daughter, in exchange for the ability to give her more of everything else: security, consistency, peace.

My brother told me about a government job opening in web design. I applied. Didn’t get it. But it led to something better.

While gathering references for my CV, I reached out to past clients—and to the boss from my very first job, over ten years ago. I sent the email not expecting much. But his reply hit me like a breeze of fresh air:

"Hey… why don’t you come back and work with us instead?"

Once again, out of nowhere, a door opened. One I didn’t even know I was still walking toward. The company had grown enormously. The offer was better than I imagined. They asked me to name a salary—and they said yes.

Just like that. It covered everything.
Rent.
Food.
Child support.
Debts.
But most importantly, it allowed me to stop surviving… and start living.

And I couldn’t help but think—what if I hadn’t asked for that reference?
What if I hadn’t taken the risk to apply for something else first?
Would any of this have landed in my lap?
Or had the path been waiting for me to grow into it?

The Becoming

So here I am—coming back to the questions.

Because growth doesn’t live in the answers. It lives in the courage to ask what hurts. To look back—not to stay there, but to understand how the ground beneath you was shaped.

What if the relationship hadn’t ended?
Would it have lasted?
Would it have broken me later, deeper?
Would I have ever found me again?

What if I’d moved in with my roommates?
Would I still be waiting for my life to change, instead of building it with my own hands?

What if I’d moved back with my parents?
Safe.
Comfortable.
But disconnected from the person I was hoping to become?

What if I hadn’t sent that email asking for a reference?
Would I still be struggling to make ends meet?
Would the door have opened some other way?

What if I hadn’t taken the job?
Would I still be chasing unstable income—barely surviving?
Would I have missed the structure I didn’t know I needed?

And what if I had never left freelancing behind?
Would I have kept the freedom, but lost the ground beneath my feet?

And what if I had ended my life that day?
Would it have been easier?
Would something good came out of it?
Not at all.

It would’ve stolen everything that came after:
Every laugh with Ampa.
Every drink with friends.
Every hug with family.
Every hard-earned peace.
Every morning in my own home, every small win that once felt impossible.
It would’ve stolen proof—proof that it does get better.

So no—life isn’t meant to be lived inside what ifs. Because the second you get caught in that spiral, you miss what’s quietly unfolding in front of you.

The doors you don’t see yet.
The windows slowly unlocking.
The soft, stubborn whisper of the universe saying:
“Hold on. Something is coming.”

And now… I speak to you.

You—who’s perhaps still in it.
Who’s tired.
Lost.
Faking smiles.
Running on fumes.

Let me tell you something I wish someone told me:

You’re not broken.
You’re becoming.

You’re not too late.
You’re not too far gone.
You’re just at the part of the story where the fire doesn’t burn you down—it does the opposite.
It makes way for growth.
For soil.
For roots.
For what comes next.

You don’t need to have it all figured out.
You don’t need to know where it’s all going.
You just need to breathe.
And take the next small step.

Even if your hands are shaking.
Even if your voice trembles when you say, “I’m still here.”

Because that’s what life responds to—not perfection, but presence—and the choice to keep showing up.

It unfolds for those who stay in it.
Who keep walking, even when the path disappears.
Who still believe—even when they don’t know what they’re believing in yet.

So let the ending come.
Let it fall apart.
Let it burn if it must.

Because what is meant for you will not vanish—it will wait.
Or return.
Or transform.

And if it doesn't?
You’ll build something better.
Wiser.
Truer.

Because you are not weak for falling.
You are not failing for feeling lost.
You are not behind.
You are becoming.

And if you’ve made it this far—if you’re reading these words with a heart still beating, a soul still searching—Then you’re already doing it. You’re already rising.

And just like me—or maybe in your own quiet, unexpected way—you’ll open your eyes, look back, understand, and see it for what it was: not an end.

But the beginning—hidden in plain sight, even while everything seemed to be falling apart—
a maze of quiet, intertwined paths unfolding beneath you, right there in the midst of it all.