This is something I’ve discovered relatively recently, even though I’ve read books about habits for years and clearly love the topic.

When I was younger, I always said I didn’t like routine. I used to believe routine was the enemy of freedom. I claimed I loved it when every day was different, when things were unpredictable. That was one of the reasons I said I loved my job: working with clients, never knowing what kind of stories I would hear or which problems we would need to solve.

That part is still true. I do love working with people and hearing a different story every day. But now I suspect the real reason might be simpler: I love gossip😂. Not because I hate routine.

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These days, my mornings are very predictable. I wake up at 6 a.m. during the week, have my coffee, and go to the gym. Sometimes I have 30 minutes, sometimes 45. Very rarely, I have a full hour. No matter how long I stay, I always come back home full of energy, ready to “start” my day, as if it hadn’t started already.

This habit, or this routine, or call it what you want, is about much more than a rush of endorphins. It’s about the quiet of the morning, drinking my coffee in a house that’s usually loud. It’s about having time just for me. A few minutes when no one depends on me, when I don’t have to show up for anyone else.

But like everything in life, this habit has a downside.

On the days I don’t wake up and go to the gym first thing, my day starts so slowly. It feels like it takes forever to find my energy, to get moving, to be productive. So much so that last week, even though I had booked a personal training session at lunchtime, I still woke up at 6 a.m. and went to the gym. I only walked on the treadmill, with no effort at all. I was just there to keep the habit alive.

Today was supposed to be another one of those days.

I had booked a spinning class at 12:30, and my initial thought was: I’ll still wake up early and go to the gym. But when I opened my eyes, my bed felt especially comfortable. It was raining outside. My daughter was sleeping peacefully next to me. It was one of those moments you don’t want to interrupt.

So I didn’t.

Luckily, both of my kids made the same decision, and we all woke up around 8 a.m. It was an amazing night of sleep.

As expected, my morning was slow. It felt like my day started hours later than usual. But that spinning class—WOW—was one of the best I’ve ever done.

The music was great, the energy was high, but two things made a huge difference.

First, we said out loud, several times, that we were strong. And somehow, that simple word made us feel stronger. It was incredible to notice how much words can affect how we feel.

Second, in the middle of the class, we stopped, got off our bikes, and started dancing.

Yes… DANCING.

The energy in the room completely shifted. It was fun, freeing, and surprisingly powerful.

I entered the class with one kind of energy. I left with a completely different one. It felt just like those mornings when I work out early: I was ready to conquer the world.

So yes: routine is powerful. Control is comforting. Habits can anchor us.

But today reminded me of something just as important: we can’t control everything, and sometimes changing the routine is exactly what we need. Opening ourselves to new experiences can lead to unexpected and wonderful results.

I almost skipped that class. I wasn’t particularly excited about it. I even thought about giving up. I left the room thinking about buying more classes instead.

Today also showed me, once again, how powerful words can be, especially when we say them out loud. It’s incredible how much language shapes our energy, our mindset, our experience.

So I’d like to invite you to think about this:

What do you want to be?
Who do you want to be?

Say it out loud.

What do you want to achieve?

I’ll start.

My word is EXCITED.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll say “I am excited” several times—always in the present tense. And if my energy drops during the day, I’ll say it again. I’ll check in with myself at the end of the day and see how it shaped my experience.

Now it’s your turn.

Which word are you choosing to define yourself? If you feel like sharing, reply to this post or comment with your word.

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It started on Friday, with something surprisingly rare: I slept reasonably well. Anyone who has small children knows how much that alone can change a day. (For context, tonight my 18-month-old decided to party, so I slept for only 3h30.)

That same day brought small but meaningful wins for . Almost ten new followers in one day (huge success for us), real conversations opening up, and our first collaboration happening shortly after (posted today). It reminded me that we are moving in the right direction, even if traction takes time.

But Friday was also the day my mother, brother, and stepfather returned to Brazil after spending 40 days with us.

It was the longest visit we’ve ever had. When my children were born, my mother was here too, but that time felt different. Hormones were louder then. I was in survival mode.

This time, we were present.

The past 40 days were truly special. Watching my kids bond with them, play, laugh, and create memories together was something I didn’t know how much I needed. We didn’t travel far, as my husband can’t leave Portugal because of the transplant list, but we went to our countryside house, slowed down, and my husband and I even had a few days off together. It felt simple, yet extremely special.

Lately, I’ve been feeling nostalgic, not sure if it started when my husband and I were away without the kids or after my mother left. My current playlist is “Eletronicas 2000,” which probably explains a lot.

I’ve been thinking about the life I miss sometimes. A life where my decisions affected only me. Where sleeping late on a Sunday meant a slightly less productive Monday… and nothing more. I love my kids deeply and can’t imagine life without them, but I also miss my younger self. The one whose worries were performance reviews, unanswered emails, or whether I could take time off to travel.

I miss being responsible only for myself.

When we first decided to move abroad to study, the consequences of that decision belonged only to my husband and me. And I think that’s one reason asking for help still feels hard. As if I need to keep proving, to myself more than anyone, that living far from family and friends is something I can handle.

Eight years abroad should be proof enough. And honestly, we should never have to prove anything to anyone but ourselves.

When my husband was first referred to the transplant team, people naturally asked why we didn’t move back to Brazil. The answer has always been the same: our life is here, in Portugal.

Yes, our family and many friends are in Brazil. Yes, their presence would be a huge help, especially during and after the transplant. But moving back would mean dismantling the life we’ve built here: closing our home, navigating a new system, adapting two small children, rebuilding everything from almost scratch. Right now, the risks feel greater than the returns.

Family matters deeply in decisions like where to live. But it can’t be the only factor (especially not now).

Still, this decision no longer affects only me. It affects my children. The relationships they build. The bonds they form. And their ability to connect closely with others.

We’re lucky. We have friends here, many with kids. And our parents visit often. My children know their grandparents. They talk about them. They miss them. I can see the bond, and that reassures me.

But there’s another side to living abroad that still catches me off guard.

You see people age.

You miss children growing up: and not just your own, but nieces, nephews, friends’ kids. You get photos and videos, but from one year to the next, they’re taller, different, more themselves. Technology helps maintain connection, but it can’t replace presence. The hugs. The cheers. Being there.

And then there are our parents.

Each visit makes the changes more visible. They’re a bit slower. A bit more tired. They need more rest. And when they’re with us, we all quietly pretend nothing has changed as if love could stop time.

But we know. And after they leave, they need time to recover. Some call it getting back to routine. I call it aging.

We expect people to age. It’s natural. But when it’s our parents, we still believe, somewhere inside, that they’re forever.

Living abroad reminds us they’re not. It reminds us that none of us is.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest consequences. But also one of the most important lessons. Because if distance makes us see this more clearly, it also makes us cherish every moment more deeply. Every visit. Every ordinary day together. Every shared meal, laugh, and silence.

Living abroad didn’t make me braver.

It made me more present.

If you live abroad, or far from the people who raised you, I’d love to hear from you.

What are the consequences you feel the most? What do you cherish more now because of the distance (it can be food-related also :) )?

Sometimes naming these things together makes them a little lighter.

I’ve always been the kind of person who believed I could control everything.
Plan well. Prepare more. Anticipate outcomes.

And then I decided to become a mom.

My journey to pregnancy was not exactly a Hollywood movie. It took two years, one miscarriage, and medical treatment. From the very beginning, life gently suggested: this might not go the way you planned.

Did I listen?
Not really.

When I finally got pregnant with my daughter, there were actually two babies—one didn’t develop. Another reminder that control is mostly an illusion.

Lesson learned?
Still no.

Early in my pregnancy, my husband was hospitalized for 22 days with a rare type of pneumonia. Another reminder.

Did I learn the lesson then?
Also no.

The rest of the pregnancy felt… suspiciously fine. I worked full-time, traveled, exercised, ate well, took all the vitamins, and did all the exams. I felt great.

Ah yes. The comforting illusion of control.

At 32 weeks, I had my first bleeding. Then rest. Then optimism. Then—at 34 weeks—another bleeding and an emergency C-section.

Did I learn the lesson then?
I told myself the hormones were confusing my judgment. Surely later I’d understand.

Fast-forward.

Hormones “back to normal.” I definitely understand now that I can’t control everything.

Right?

Well.

The plan was: return to work, focus on my career, and, when my daughter turned 18 months, then, and just then, try for baby number two.

Reality: I stopped birth control when my daughter was 10 months old “just to clean my body,” and less than a month later, I was pregnant again. I went back to work not knowing I was pregnant, assuming exhaustion was just… life.

Once again: control is optional. Reality is not.

Did I learn the lesson?
Not really.

This time, I knew the drill. Healthy habits. Exercise. Exams. Vitamins. This pregnancy will be different, I thought. This one will go all the way.

At 28 weeks: bleeding.

What followed were months of hospital visits due to different bleedings, transfers between hospitals due to lack of space, and long days where I couldn’t even carry my daughter, who was not yet 18 months old.

Trying to stay mentally strong while leaving one child at home and protecting another inside my body was… a new level of challenge.

Did I finally learn the lesson?
Still no.

My son was born at 36 weeks. He stayed in the hospital longer than I did, but not for long. Soon, we were home. All four of us. Tired. Happy. Healthy.

Now I understand that I don’t control everything.

Except… I didn’t.

Back to controlling schedules. Outcomes. Expectations. Even joy. Life, of course, responded by constantly changing the plans. We were always late. (Something that never happened before kids.) But somehow, we were okay.

February 2025. Surely by now I’ve evolved.

Surely.

Then my husband was hospitalized again—this time with a liver infection related to his autoimmune disease. Ten days in the hospital. Me working full-time. Two small kids at home. Trying to be in three places at once.

Even in chaos, I tried to control every outcome. To make the unexpected… expected.

When my husband was discharged, we began learning about the liver transplant process. One sentence kept coming up:

“You need to control your expectations. This process is completely uncontrollable.”

That should have been it.
The final lesson.

So naturally… I started therapy.

If life hasn’t managed to teach me that I can’t control everything, maybe therapy will.

I’ll keep you posted.

This Substack will talk a lot about the uncontrollable—emotions, situations, parenting, relationships, and the stories we tell ourselves to feel safe.

So tell me:
Have you learned that you can’t control everything?
Or are you, like me, still negotiating with the universe?