Part II

Chapter 55 – Thunder


The song Thunder always takes me straight back to Easter weekend on the North Shore of Oahu — a moment that changed everything.

I had just moved into a new house by the beach, a quiet place tucked between the palms, where the ocean hummed like a heartbeat. My roommates had gone away for the weekend, leaving the house stocked from a huge Costco trip — enough food for an army. There were five chocolate monkey heads in the fridge. I thought they were just regular Easter treats. I had one.

I didn’t know it was mushroom chocolate — meant for five to seven people.
I found out the hard way.

At first, I was fine — working on my Aloha Bubble North Shore Legends project, lost in my laptop and the sound of the waves. But soon, everything shifted. The shadows began to move. The trees outside our window bent like they were alive, whispering secrets to each other. I lay on the hammock in the backyard, tears streaming down my face for reasons I couldn’t explain. It was Easter, and I was crying nonstop under the Hawaiian moon.

A sweet girl from California was staying in the house as an Airbnb guest. She saw me crying and felt sorry for me, alone on Easter, so she invited me to have dinner with her friends — nurses from Turtle Bay Hotel. I said yes, hoping a change of scene might help.

Dinner was beautiful — a seafood buffet with lobster, shrimp, and plates of color that could make you forget any sadness. But by the time we sat down, the mushrooms had fully hit. And suddenly, everyone around me looked like a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean — people morphing into sea creatures, eating with tentacles, laughing in distorted echoes. I blinked and realized I couldn’t stay. I politely excused myself, smiling, pretending nothing was wrong.
I walked toward the ocean.

The night air was soft, salty, electric. I had stayed at Turtle Bay before and had a favorite spot by the sea — a little bench near the edge where the waves crashed hard against the rocks. I sat there, whispering, “Please God, bring me back. Bring me back.” I knew something wasn’t right, but I wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to come home — to myself.
And that’s when Thunder started playing in my head.

The music video came alive around me — all those UFOs walking among people. That’s exactly what it felt like. I saw them. They were there. Shapes moving like light, half-human, half-energy. I wasn’t scared — just amazed. The moon was enormous, glowing gold like a portal. I thought of my grandpa — José — and felt him angry, protective, watching over me.

Then I looked at the ocean. Grandma was there too — and she was not happy either. The waves were wild, alive, roaring like thunder. I’d never seen the sea like that, not even at Waimea. It wasn’t just water — it was spirit. The mist rose thick and silver, and the ocean looked like it was breathing. The waves crashed so hard it felt like the earth itself was trembling.

The spirits were awake.

So I sat quietly, watching the sky, listening to the waves speak. The UFOs kept moving through the pool area, blending in with the crowd, watching me too. I could feel their energy — not bad, not scary, just powerful. Protective.

Later, when we drove home, I sat in the back of the truck, the wind in my face, and saw lights flashing across the sky like a freeway in heaven — streaks of blue and white moving fast and silent. Everyone asked what I had taken, and the nurses reassured me I’d be okay. I believed them.

We sat in their living room afterward, playing music, laughing, grounding again in the rhythm of the night. Eventually, I went home, feeling lighter, calm, as if I had walked through a portal and returned new.

The next day, when my roommates came back, they opened the fridge and gasped — one of the monkey heads was gone. That’s when we realized what had happened.
I wasn’t crazy. I was just… expanded.

Now, every time Thunder plays, I remember that Easter — the portal moon, the glowing sky, the UFOs walking among us, the ocean alive with spirit. I remember dying and coming back, again and again. Because that’s what I do — I survive. I rise.
I thank God. I thank Grandma and Grandpa. I thank Tupac, Whitney, and my legends. I thank the UFOs, too — because I know now, they were there to help me. They always have been.

That night, thunder wasn’t just in the sky. It was all around me.


Chapter 58 – I’ll Be Missing You
“I’ll Be Missing You” isn’t just a song to me — it’s my grandpa’s song.
It’s his anthem. It’s our story.

The summer of 2004 changed me forever.

I had flown to Alaska for a friend’s wedding, surrounded by white snow, mountains, and the soft light of a sky that never went dark. On that flight, I remember looking out the airplane window and seeing a single light shoot up toward the heavens — almost like a soul being carried away. I didn’t know it then, but that was Grandpa José Vieira.
I didn’t have reception in Alaska. When I returned to California and turned my phone back on, it was too late. He was gone.

I never made it to the cemetery.

For seven days straight, I played I’ll Be Missing You on repeat — morning, afternoon, night. My hardwood floors were covered with white tissue papers, a sea of grief. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I ignored every call. The house was silent except for Puffy and Faith Evans singing,

“Every step I take, every move I make, every single day, every time I pray…”
It was like the world had cracked open and everything fell silent inside me. Grandpa wasn’t just my grandfather — he was my father, my best friend, my protector. He raised his children, his grandchildren, and even his great-grandchildren. He loved all of us fiercely, with a steady hand and a laugh that filled the room.
He was the first person I ever loved and lost.

When I finally stopped crying, when the tissues ran out and the air felt heavy from too many tears, I realized Grandpa wouldn’t want to see me like that. So I did something I didn’t feel ready for — I went to spin class. I forced myself back into life, into movement, because that’s what he taught me: keep going, no matter what.

Grandpa never slept much. He was always up at night — playing cards with his brothers, laughing with friends, drinking beer and telling stories. Sometimes he took me along, and my little job was to grab beers for the table. Every time I did, someone slipped me a few coins — barato, they called it — my little tip. Those nights were magic to me. I loved staying up late, just like him. He knew I hated sleeping too, so he’d take me to work early in the morning. But by sunrise, we’d always be back home — buying bread, milk, and cleaning up for the new day.

That was Grandpa: night owl, worker, protector, magician of love.
Now, he’s my moon.

He was a Scorpio — deep, mysterious, strong. My moon is also in Scorpio, so that’s how I know we’re connected. When I look up at the night sky, I see him. He’s there, glowing, watching. Grandma is the sky around him — the rain, the sunset, the sunrise, the wind, the ocean — wrapping him in eternity.

Years later, when I was in Búzios, I felt him again. I was sitting by the window, the sun burning on my skin, feeling interrogated by the spirit world — so many emotions, so much unseen energy. Then, as night fell, I saw a star fall from the sky. It didn’t just vanish — it landed softly on the trees in front of me. And suddenly, the tree lit up with an angelic glow, golden and white. Behind it, a light opened like a gate to heaven.

That was him — my Grandpa — coming back, showing me he was here again, allowed to stay near and protect me. From that moment, I stopped crying. I didn’t need to. Because he was back. He’s always back.

Even in London, when I was cold and alone, I felt him. I saw him. He wept for me, seeing his granddaughter struggling to survive in a foreign city. But I made it through. I always do. He helps me every time.

The lyrics still make me cry:

“What a life to take, what a bond to break, I’ll be missing you…”
And this part, from another song that fits so perfectly, always brings me back:
“Wish I could turn back the hands of time,
Us in the six, shop for new clothes and kicks.”

Because that was us.

I remember when Grandpa used to take me to the fish shop to pick the fish for lunch. I was only five or seven years old, but I felt like such a big deal standing next to him. All the grandkids got to do it — our little special moments with him. Sometimes he’d take me to the supermarket, walking slowly through the aisles, letting me help him pick things. He always had a list — one for our house, and another for his oldest daughter, who had three kids and had just gone through a divorce. He’d finish our shopping, and then quietly fill another cart for her. No complaints, no big speeches — just pure love in action.
That’s who he was.

Always giving. Always providing. Always protecting.

I didn’t go to his burial, but every time I come back to Brazil, I visit him. I take cigarettes and liquor to his grave — little gifts, just like he used to enjoy. For Grandma, I bring chocolates. It’s our ritual now — our way of staying connected between worlds.
Scorpios know what’s hidden. They feel what others don’t.
They strike when it’s time — powerfully, unforgettably.
That’s me. That’s him.

Every night I pray. Every step I take. Every move I make. Every single day.
We can’t stop. We won’t stop.

Because love — real love — doesn’t die.
It just finds new ways to reach you — in a song, a breeze, a beam of moonlight.
Grandpa isn’t gone. He’s just changed form — energy, light, spirit — always near.

Chapter 58 – I have nothing


The Bodyguard was more than a movie — it was a masterpiece, a memory, a mirror of the way love protects, saves, and transforms. I can still watch it on repeat and feel every heartbeat, every look, every note that Whitney sang as if it were the first time.

Whitney was so talented — is so talented. She’s not gone; she’s just singing from another realm now, her voice echoing through heaven and across my heart. I Have Nothing isn’t just a love song — it’s a soul song. It’s what I used to feel every time I looked at my grandma.

“I have nothing, nothing, nothing… if I don’t have you.”

That line says everything. My grandma was my anchor, my warmth, my home. Without her, I felt like I was standing in an empty room — walls still standing, but hollow inside. And yet, her love is still here. She broke down my walls with the strength of her love, and even now, she keeps me standing.

When Whitney sings, “Don’t make me close one more door,” I feel that in my bones. Because there are doors you never want to close — like the one that led to my grandma’s room, where the smell of her sweet tea and her soft voice filled the air. That door stays open in my heart, forever.

Whitney’s voice — that power, that range, that spirit — is a reminder that strength and softness can live in the same breath. She was a warrior wrapped in silk. The Voice, always.

And when I listen now, I can feel Grandma singing along from heaven, smiling like she used to, whispering, “You don’t have nothing, filha — you have me.”
Her love still fills the room.

Her voice still carries me through.

And through Whitney’s song, I remember — love never ends. It just changes form. It just transforms into light.

Chapter 60 – All Eyes On Me


The first time I heard it — I swear Tupac says “Sara” at the beginning of the song. Every time that part plays, my heart skips. It’s like he’s calling me out directly, saying, “Pay attention. This one’s for you.”
All eyes on me.

That line hits differently when you’ve lived under the spotlight of judgment, when every move, every word, every breath is being watched, analyzed, misunderstood. I’ve been there — in courtrooms, in police stations, in cray hospitals — all eyes on me. It’s exhausting, but also empowering. Because like Pac said: “Until I die, live the life of a boss playa.”

And that’s exactly what I’ve done. Through every breakdown, through every accusation, through every time they tried to make me look crazy — I stood tall. Because I knew who I was, and I knew who had my back: my grandparents, Tupac, and my pacto with Deus. God.

When he says, “Straight to the depths of hell is where those cowards goin’,” I nod. Because I’ve seen that darkness, the kind that tries to swallow you whole. But like Pac, I rose from it — wiser, louder, freer. The future’s in my eyes too, because I still want the good things — not just cash and thangs, but freedom, peace, and purpose.

Sometimes I just listen to Tupac’s voice — talking, laughing, breathing — and it relaxes me. It’s like having a big brother who’s already been through the storm and came out shining. When he says, “The feds is watchin’, niggas plottin’ to get me,” I get it. I’ve felt that too. That paranoia when the world feels like it’s closing in — but you still walk proud.
Pac said, “They think I’m goin’ back to jail — they really on that dope.”

I felt that line deep when I was in the hospital in London — those damn keys, those endless watchful eyes. But even then, I smiled. Because they don’t know me. They never did.

This chapter is for my family — and for everyone who’s ever been judged, silenced, or doubted.

Live your life as a boss player. Until the day you die.

Because all eyes may be on you — but the only eyes that matter are the ones watching over you from heaven.

All eyes on me — and I’m good with that.


Chapter 62 – Taste
Awe… this song. It has so many wonderful lyrics. Every time it plays, I can’t help but smile — because I can hear Tupac through it. It’s like he’s vibing with me, both of us just enjoying the rhythm, singing along, exchanging energy through the beat. Some songs are just songs — but others? They’re conversations between worlds. This one’s ours.
“I be straight to the whip, no baggage claim…”

That line always gets me. No baggage claim — that’s so me. I travel light, just a carry-on, like I’m always halfway between places but fully present wherever I am. Maybe that’s the secret: you can move through life freely when you stop carrying what weighs you down.
“Whole lotta styles, can’t even pronounce the name.”

Exactly. So many styles, so many spirits. I’ve lived in London, Brazil, Germany, Hawaii — and every place added a layer, a rhythm, a style. Even Tupac and my grandma — their spirits have their own styles too. I see them, I feel them, even on Instagram sometimes when I scroll through old pictures and it’s like they’re right there, liking the post from beyond.

“Walk, talk it like a boss, I just lift a hand.”

Three million cash, call me Rain Man. Money like a shower, that’s my rain dance.
I laughed when I first heard that, because I literally did a rain dance in Hawaii once. The rain came down and I felt this electric connection — like I was manifesting something bigger than money. Abundance, peace, purpose. Three million? Why not. It’s not about the number — it’s about believing it’s possible.

“Say the wrong words, you be hangman.”

That part cracks me up — because my spirits, Tupac and my grandma, they’re wild. Hahaha. You don’t mess with them. They protect me in their own ways.
“Nigga, get your ass checked like a fuckin’ Nike!”

Yes! That’s the energy. Especially here in Brazil — some guys try to get loud, authoritarian, trying to dominate. But no. Sit down. Get checked like a Nike.

“I’m the black JB, the way these bitches scream.”
When I heard “JB,” I instantly thought of my grandparents.
J — José.
B — Bete.
My two anchors.

And then — “Like my nigga A.E.”
A — Ace (grandpa).
E — Elizabeth (grandma).

See? It’s all connected. The spirits speak through music.
“I don’t kick it with these niggas ‘cause they talk about ya.”
That’s me too. I keep my circle tight. I don’t waste time around people who gossip or doubt. My energy is too sacred for that.

“I’m rich in real life, I get that profit, copy.”

Exactly. Rich doesn’t just mean money — it means purpose, ideas, faith, and love. I’m building something — this book, movie, TV series. It’s a movement. A story that connects Tupac, Whitney, and my grandparents — the voices that guide me.

“(Taste, taste) LA, you can get a taste
New York, do you love the taste?
Overseas, let them bitches taste
Worldwide, they gon’ get a taste.”

Worldwide — yes, they will get a taste. This book isn’t just about music; it’s about energy, love, legacy, and faith. It’s about how rhythm crosses generations and galaxies.
Because some songs don’t just play — they taste like destiny.

Chapter 63 – Human

I love this song because it speaks straight to my soul — I am only human.
It’s one of those truths that sounds simple, but it hits deep when you’re living it. People look at me sometimes and expect answers, strength, healing — like I’m supposed to carry the world on my shoulders or be some kind of savior. But I’m not. I’m just a woman doing her best to walk through life with faith, guided by love and spirit, but still human — fragile, flawed, and learning.

“Maybe I’m foolish, maybe I’m blind
Thinking I can see through this and see what’s behind.”

That’s exactly it. Sometimes I feel like I see too much — the energies, the signs, the spirits. It’s beautiful but it’s heavy too. And people don’t always understand it. They judge what they can’t see. They call it strange or crazy. But really, I’m just living between two worlds — the spiritual and the human — trying to keep my balance.

“But I’m only human after all, don’t put your blame on me.”
Yes. Please, don’t put your blame on me.

I’m not a psychic. I’m not Jesus. I’m not here to save anyone.
I can share love, stories, songs — but I can’t fix everyone’s pain. I can’t carry the weight of people’s expectations or their judgment. I’m still figuring out my own journey, just like everyone else.

Some people have real problems — mental illness, voices they can’t explain, kids to feed, bills to pay, hearts that break and don’t heal right away. And yet, they get up every day and keep going. That’s strength. That’s being human.

“I’m only human, I make mistakes.”

This song reminds me to be gentle with myself. To remember that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. It’s okay to fall apart, to cry, to question, to feel lost sometimes. Because that’s part of being alive.

When I hear it, I think about Tupac too. He said it best —
“I can’t be responsible for every black male did.”

Exactly. We can’t be held accountable for what the world chooses to do. We can only be responsible for our own hearts, our own light, our own truth.
So I sing along — not as a cry for help, but as a declaration:

I am human. I feel deeply. I make mistakes. I grow. I forgive. I love.
And that’s enough.

Because even when people don’t understand me or the spirits I walk with —
I know that God does.

And He never asked me to be perfect.
He just asked me to be human.

Chapter 64 – Way Down We Go


Another great song — raw, haunting, and true. “We get what we deserve, Father.”
That line always gives me chills. It’s like my grandpa whispering those words from beyond — steady, wise, reminding me that life has a rhythm of justice, that every soul meets its own lessons in time.

“Oh, Father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?”
“Oh, we get what we deserve.”

Yes, we do. Every action, every intention — it all comes full circle. And when this song plays, I feel that truth deep in my bones.

For me, Way Down We Go isn’t just a song. It’s a mirror of the moments when life drags me to the bottom — the hospitals, the confusion, the endless testing of my spirit. Those places where they try to label me, medicate me, silence me. Where they look into my eyes and see an illness instead of a soul.

They don’t understand how sensitive I am to energy, how I feel people’s pain and darkness like static through my skin. They don’t see the spiritual war I fight quietly — light against shadow, faith against fear. And when the energy gets too heavy, I just want everyone to stay away. But no — way down we go.

“You let your feet run wild, time has come as we all, oh, go down.”
That’s when the test begins.

They run you down until you can’t no more.
They push, provoke, drain — but they will not win.
Because I know who I am. I know my truth.

There are people who struggle with real addictions, real mental illness — and my heart aches for them. But that’s not my path. My battle isn’t against the mind — it’s against energies, systems, forces that try to dim the light.

When I listen to this song, I close my eyes and see my grandpa’s face, calm and strong. He’s telling me to hold my head up, to remember that every descent has a purpose — that sometimes God lets us go way down so we can rise way higher.
And when the song ends, I always whisper:

“You can run me down, world. But I will rise again.”

Because even in the dark — especially in the dark — I remember who walks with me.
My grandparents. God. The spirits of truth and strength.
So go ahead — way down we go.
But watch closely.

Because every time they pull me under,
I come back shining brighter than before.

Chapter 65 – Kokomo (Part I)

Kokomo — the song that takes me right back to my teenage years.
Every time I hear it, I’m twelve again, sitting somewhere in Brazil, dreaming of beaches and palm trees, sunshine and romance — the kind that only existed in movies.

It was Cocktail that started it. Tom Cruise behind the bar, flashing that smile. I was so in love with him — the teenage kind of love, innocent and faraway. I’d watch the movie and imagine myself somewhere near that turquoise ocean, dancing barefoot in the sand, the music of Kokomo floating through the air.

I didn’t even know English then — not really. But that didn’t stop me. I would play the song on repeat, trying to sing along, my Portuguese accent mixing with the English words in the funniest ways. I wrote down the lyrics exactly how I heard them — completely wrong — and to this day, I still catch myself singing my version. It’s like a secret memory that belongs only to me.

Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya…
Those words were pure magic. I didn’t know where those places were, but I knew I wanted to go.

That song — and The Little Mermaid — were my first English teachers.

I would watch Ariel over and over, rewinding the VHS until it got fuzzy. Between Kokomo and Part of Your World, I learned more English than in any classroom. They were my window to another world, one that felt freer, lighter, full of possibility.

Years later, when I moved to Anchorage, Alaska, it was like life had flipped the map on me. From dreaming of Caribbean islands to living among snow, mountains, and moose. But Kokomo always reminded me of that sunny version of myself — the little girl who believed she could go anywhere, learn any language, live any dream.

Even now, when I hear that soft, breezy rhythm, I smile.

It’s the sound of innocence — of learning to dream in a new language, of believing in faraway places and movie magic.

Kokomo wasn’t just a song — it was my first passport.
A promise that someday, I’d find my own island, my own sunshine, my own peace.
Chapter 65 – Kokomo (Part II)

And you know what? I did find my own island — not just once, but twice.

Bondi Beach, Australia, was my first real taste of that dream I carried since Kokomo. The golden sand, the surfers gliding across blue waves, the smell of sunscreen and sea salt in the air — it was paradise. Every morning, I’d wake up, look at the ocean, and think: this is it. This is what I dreamed about as a little girl singing “Aruba, Jamaica…” in broken English.
I’d walk barefoot to the cafés, watch the sunrise paint the sky pink and gold, and whisper to myself, I made it. Bondi was my Kokomo, my own corner of peace and rhythm, where everything felt possible.

Then came Hawaii — the North Shore of Oahu — another island, another version of heaven. The air was different there, charged with spirit and energy. The waves spoke louder, the sunsets glowed deeper, and the moon seemed close enough to touch. It wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling — one that connected me to something far greater, to my grandparents, to Tupac, to the universe itself.

Bondi and Hawaii became my two Kokomos — one in the southern hemisphere, one in the middle of the Pacific, both carrying the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of freedom.
When I look back now, I realize that Kokomo wasn’t just about islands or beaches. It was about finding a home within myself — a place where I could breathe, dream, and simply be.

That little girl who sang the wrong lyrics grew up to live the right song.


Chapter 66 – The Archer

This is my grandma talking — ready for combat.
I have been both the prey and the archer.

I’ve been the one hunted and the one who had to aim back, not with hate, but with truth.
Who could ever leave me, Grandma, and who could stay?

That’s what I always ask. Through every betrayal, every silence, every goodbye.
We had to narrow down the spirits — there was too much noise. Too many voices, too many energies trying to come through at once. Now, it’s just the pact — the sacred circle — and the legends behind it.

They all speak through two spirits: Grandpa and Grandma… or Whitney and Tupac.
They’re the anchors of my soul, the messengers of both strength and song.

“All the king’s horses, all the king’s men
Couldn’t put me together again.”

Because once you’ve been shattered — truly shattered — no one can rebuild you but God.

And it’s true:

All my enemies in Hawaii started out as friends. Smiles turned into traps, kindness into betrayal. They tried to kill me, to get rid of me, to silence my voice. I went through it all — the abuse, the horror, the panic, the police, the cells, the so-called hospitals.
But I survived.

I survived because my pact was stronger. Because Grandma, Grandpa, Whitney, and Tupac were all with me — their spirits circling me like armor, whispering, Hold on.
In those moments, I remembered who I was — the girl who prays with her music and fights with her faith.

People said, “You’re crazy.” They didn’t understand.

But you can’t see the archer’s heart if you’ve never been the prey.
I reached out to so many people, to the stars I admired, to the ones who could have helped, but no one answered.

So please — don’t knock on my door now that I’ve risen.
Because the archer is awake.
And her aim is divine.


Chapter 67 – Mon Mec à Moi

I was introduced to Patricia Kaas when I lived in Alaska, at the Swiss Fishing Lodge where I worked after high school. I was only eighteen — wide-eyed, full of curiosity, and ready to see the world. My European bosses, Peter and Brigitta, played Mon mec à moi on repeat while cleaning fish, cooking dinner, or laughing with guests around the fire.

That’s how I fell in love with this German-French singer who sang about her man — her mec — with that smoky, timeless voice. The song felt like an old black-and-white movie, romantic and nostalgic, filled with mystery and charm.
Mon mec à moi, il me parle d’aventures…

Her man talked about adventures — and when she looked into his eyes, she could live there forever.

That lyric stuck with me. I was far from home, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and midnight sun, but somehow, through Patricia Kaas’ voice, I felt a little less alone.
Working at the lodge was magical — long summer days, crystal lakes, and the sound of laughter in German, French, and English all blending together. We worked hard and played hard. Every night after dinner, I’d sit by the fire with the others, the orange glow flickering across our faces, the cold Alaskan air wrapping around us like a secret.

The Swiss guys — tall, strong, looking like they had just stepped out of the army with their buff shoulders and confident stance — would pull out their guitars and violões. They’d start playing CCR — Green River, Midnight Special, I Heard It Through the Grapevine, Run Through the Jungle, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, and more.

Their voices carried through the still Alaskan night, blending with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind over the water. I’d close my eyes and listen, feeling that deep, earthy rhythm of Creedence Clearwater Revival echoing through the wild.
Peter and Brigitta treated me like their little sister. They taught me about European culture, about food, about slowing down and savoring life. Later, I went to visit them — first to Grindelwald, then to Switzerland — and it felt like stepping into a dream. They showed me around their world with love and pride.

When I hear Mon mec à moi or any CCR song now, I’m transported back to that time — to the smell of pine trees, to the laughter echoing in the lodge, to the feeling of being young and free in Alaska, discovering who I was meant to become.

That song was my first real taste of Europe — a melody that carried me across oceans, from the icy waters of Alaska to the Alps of Switzerland, and eventually, to the life I built traveling the world.

It was the beginning of something bigger — a promise whispered through music:
You will live a life full of adventure. You will find your own story.


Chapter 72 – California Dreamin’

Awe… this song always brings me right back to L.A.

Every time California Dreamin’ starts to play — that soft, wistful harmony of The Mamas & The Papas — I’m instantly transported to another life. My California life.

The palm trees swaying against a golden sunset, the endless blue sky melting into Pacific haze. I can almost smell the ocean air mixed with the scent of eucalyptus and car exhaust. I can see myself driving down the 405 or the I-5, even stuck in traffic — and yes, I miss it. I even miss that part. That’s how deep California gets under your skin.

That song is pure nostalgia for me. When I feel homesick, I put it on, and suddenly I’m back in Los Angeles — the place where everything once felt perfect. Life was full, warm, and golden. I worked, worked, and worked some more, but I loved it. I had my grandparents then, my anchors, my quiet strength. I didn’t think about spirits or signs — just spiritually. I did yoga, spin classes, and went hiking every single day.

It was the era of sunshine, sweat, and smoothies. I lived on buffalo wings, Smartwater, and Gatorade. I’d pop into 7-Eleven for a snack, hair tied up, wearing my capris, tan skin glowing from the California sun. I had my favorite hairdresser who always knew exactly how to layer my hair, and my nail salon in Ibiza — my little sanctuary of color and chatter.
California Dreamin’. That song feels like a love letter to a time when life made sense. When my only prayers were whispered into the wind at Runyon Canyon or along the Malibu coast.

“I got down on my knees and pretended to pray…” — that lyric hits me every time.
 Because that’s so L.A., isn’t it? Everyone pretending to pray, or maybe trying to. Searching for faith in yoga studios, in juice cleanses, in each other’s eyes. Los Angeles is full of people who’ve lost something and are trying to find it again.

Sometimes I think that’s why I fit in there — because I was also searching. But I didn’t realize then how perfect it all was. How every sunrise drive and late-night taco stop was a piece of heaven.

Now, when California Dreamin’ plays, I close my eyes, and it all comes rushing back — the sunlight, the freedom, the rhythm of a life that felt unstoppable.

I whisper to myself:
Live and die in L.A.

Because no matter where I go, a part of me will always be walking those sunlit streets, forever California dreamin’.

Chapter 73 – Will You Be There

Finally — MJ!

I grew up with Michael Jackson. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood and beyond: Black or White, Billie Jean, They Don’t Care About Us, Man in the Mirror, Thriller, Bad, and of course, Will You Be There. That one always gets me.

I remember the first time I heard it, how that opening choir gave me chills — it felt holy, like something divine was happening. And when he sang “Hold me, like the river Jordan”, I believed him. I felt that cry from his soul. He wasn’t just performing; he was praying through song.

I always loved the Free Willy movie, too — that whale soaring through the air while MJ’s voice carried it like wings. Pure magic. His music had that kind of power — it could lift even a whale into the sky.

On the other side of my fridge, there’s a photo of Michael Jackson next to Princess Diana — two icons, two legends, two souls gone too soon. I still look at them sometimes and whisper, you both changed the world.

Every time a random cat walks through my house — and there are quite a few — I think of MJ’s Remember the Time music video, with the Egyptian theme and all that gold. There’s something mystical about it, something timeless.

And fight 'til the end, but I'm only human…

Those words ring so true. Even the greatest — Michael, Whitney, Tupac, Diana — they were human. They carried the weight of the world on their shoulders, and still they gave us their light.

I’ll never forget where I was when Michael passed away. I was working at NBC Universal, just another regular day, and I had a doctor’s appointment. Then the news broke — they’d taken him to Cedars-Sinai Hospital. I was only a few blocks away. My whole body froze. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. It felt impossible, unreal. Like the world had suddenly gone quiet.

Some losses shake you to your core. When I think of Whitney, Tupac, Ayrton Senna, Princess Diana, Michael, Kobe, Paul Walker, Amy Winehouse, the Queen, my grandma, my grandpa, JFK, MLK… every one of them — it’s the same feeling. You remember exactly where you were. You stop everything. You hold your breath. Because for one brief moment, the whole world stands still.

It’s like a global heartbeat pauses, honoring their souls as they rise. Kings, queens, angels — going home to heaven.

And Michael… The King of Pop is eternal. His voice still carries us boldly through the years.
“In my darkest hour, in my deepest despair… Will you still care?”
Yes, Michael — we do. Always.


Chapter 74 – When You Believe

Another anthem. Another prayer turned into music.
Through my whole life, I always loved When You Believe — but it wasn’t until Hawaii that I truly lived its message. That song, and the movie The Prince of Egypt, became my light in the darkest chapter of my life.

I can still see it like it was yesterday — the Pupukea farm, the one with the giant gladiator door. I didn’t know then that it was built over a heiau — an ancient Hawaiian sacred site, a cemetery. The god Kū himself, they said, once drank the blood of Captain Cook right there. You could feel it — the place was charged, alive with old spirits and buried energy.

At first, I thought the whispers in my head were stress or exhaustion from working under the hot Hawaiian sun. But day after day, those voices grew louder. They told me the farmer — my boss — wanted to kill me. And truthfully, I was terrified. He did chase me around with a giant facão machete more than once. I was broke, stuck, and too scared to leave. I had promised to work through the summer. So I prayed. Hard.

Even a young couple from New York working there had a mental breakdown and were taken away on stretchers. That’s when I realized — it wasn’t just me. That place was haunted. The energy was too strong, too ancient, too full of unresolved stories.

So I turned to Whitney. I’d come back from those long, heavy days, lock myself in my little room, and press play — When You Believe on repeat. I’d cry until my body couldn’t anymore. But with each listen, peace came, slowly washing over me.

I’d play Whitney’s voice on repeat. “There can be miracles when you believe…”
That song became my shield. My prayer. My miracle.

It was also there, at the heiau, that something incredible happened. The spirits told me: Your Father owns everything. Do not be afraid.

At first, I didn’t understand. My father died before I was born. But that day, I realized who they meant — my Papai do Céu. God Himself. He came to me through the chaos and told me not to be afraid. To be strong. That I was protected.

And in that moment, I knew: I wasn’t alone.
Many nights we prayed
With no proof anyone could hear…
There can be miracles when you believe…

I prayed every single day. And God did hear me. Out of nowhere, I got a call from a friend in L.A. asking me to design her website, and another from Australia to build an AI insurance app. This was back in 2018. Doors opened when I had no strength left to knock. Just like that, doors opened. God’s timing. God’s way.

“We were moving mountains before we knew we could.” Those lyrics remind me of Matthew 17:20 — the verse a Hawaiian man once gave me when I was in the hospital near Stairway to Heaven.

If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can tell this mountain to move — and it will move. For nothing will be impossible with God. But for that kind of faith, you must fast and pray.

And that’s what I did.
Yet now I'm standing here, my heart so full I can't explain…
Now I look back and realize — I am speaking words I never thought I’d say. Writing words I never thought I’d write. That’s God working through me.

Now, looking back, I understand. When Whitney sang those words — “Though hope is frail, it’s hard to kill” — she wasn’t just singing for herself. She was singing for all of us. For me. For anyone who’s ever been blinded by pain, lost in fear, or searching for light in the middle of the storm.

I have been that person, crying through the rain, whispering, Help me, God. I believe.
And when I hear Whitney’s voice now, I hear my grandma too — whispering in Portuguese, Acredite, filha. Há milagres.
Believe, my child. There are miracles.
There truly are.

Because after everything I’ve been through — Hawaii, London, Brazil — I’m still here. Alive. Guided. Protected.
Miracles do exist. Wayne Dyer used to say, “Be the miracle you wish to see.” And somehow, through faith, through writing, through surviving, I’ve become part of that miracle.

I never planned to write this story — I’m a designer, not a writer — but God asked me to. And when I don’t obey, things fall apart. So I write. I tell our story — mine, my grandma’s, Whitney’s, God’s. Because I believe people will find it when they need it most.
And when they do, they’ll hear that small but resilient voice —
the same one that saved me —

whispering:
Help is very near.
There can be miracles.
When you believe.


Chapter 75 – Only God Can Judge Me

(Only God can judge me now)
(That which does not kill me can only make me stronger)
(That’s for real)

There are songs that touch your soul, and then there are songs that mirror your soul — and “Only God Can Judge Me” is one of them.

Every time I hear Tupac’s voice echo, I feel like I’m standing between Heaven’s door, halfway between this world and the next — one foot on earth, one foot in the spirit realm. That’s where I’ve lived for years now, balancing between the seen and the unseen, between faith and fear.

Tupac said, “My only fear of death is coming back to this b*** reincarnated.”*

And I feel that. Deeply. Because sometimes this world can be so heavy — too cruel, too judgmental, too blind to real pain. I’ve walked through that fire too many times. The hospitals, the labels, the whispers. The people who didn’t understand the spiritual war I was fighting. The ones who thought I was crazy instead of chosen.

But even standing between heaven’s door, I’ve learned one thing: God’s mercy is bigger than any man’s judgment.

When Tupac said, “Only God can judge me,” it wasn’t defiance — it was surrender. It was him giving his pain, his guilt, his struggle to the only One who truly knew his heart. I live that truth now. Because when I was on my knees, praying through the madness — when my spirit was crushed, when I was locked away and forgotten — the only voice that reached me was God’s.

And Tupac’s.

Through his music. Through his words. Through his energy.
Sometimes, in the still of night, I feel like I can hear him — that soft, raspy whisper through the veil — reminding me to stand tall.

“Keep your head up, Sara. They don’t know what you’ve seen. They don’t know what you’ve lived.”

It’s a strange comfort — knowing that even legends have fears, that even prophets like Tupac longed for peace beyond this earth. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Earth was never meant to be heaven. Maybe we’re all just walking between worlds, doing our best not to lose our faith.

So I live my life with the same fire:
To speak my truth.

To protect my peace.

To walk boldly with my scars.

Because only God can judge me now.

Not the world. Not my past. Not my pain.

And when my time comes — when I finally step through Heaven’s door — I’ll look back, smile, and say:

That which did not kill me made me stronger.
Only God can judge me.
And that’s for real.


Chapter 76 – Knocking on Heaven’s Door

There are sunsets — and then there are Hawaiian sunsets. The kind that stop time. The kind that make you forget pain for a moment. The kind that whisper, Heaven is not that far away.

That’s how I felt at the hospital by the Stairway to Heaven, looking out over those golden skies, each evening melting into colors too beautiful to describe. It was heaven and hell at once — paperwork, confusion, endless questions, spiritual chaos all around me — yet, when the sun began to set, peace found me.

It felt like my grandma was right there beside me in spirit. I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder, her calm voice reminding me to breathe, to trust, to hold on. The hospital stood at the base of the mountain where the Stairway to Heaven hike begins — and that view, that air, that light — it truly feels like you’re standing at Heaven’s door.
“Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door…”

Every lyric felt like my prayer echoing back from the clouds.

Guns N’ Roses were a big part of my high school and college years — loud guitars, wild energy, rebellion. But this song was different. Softer. Sadder. Truer. It wasn’t just rock; it was surrender.

In those moments in Hawaii, between the noise of the world and the silence of my thoughts, this song became the soundtrack of my healing. My body was weak, my spirit bruised, but my faith — my faith was still knocking.

It wasn’t about death. It was about release. Letting go of what no longer serves you, shedding old pain, and trusting that heaven hears your knocks.

And every time I looked up at that mountain, glowing in the last light of day, I felt my grandma smiling from above — telling me she was there, waiting at the door.
So I whispered back through the wind and the waves:

“Grandma, I’m still here. Still climbing. Still believing.”

Because now I know — every sunset, every mountain, every breath that carries peace — is Heaven’s door opening just a little wider.

Chapter 77: Another Brick in the Wall (Part II)

This song… it’s more than a classic. It’s a message — timeless, haunting, and strangely prophetic. Every time I hear “We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control,” it feels like the spirits are speaking through the lyrics — whispering reminders that true wisdom doesn’t come from classrooms, rules, or systems. It comes from life, from experience, from everything that can’t be taught or contained.

There are times I feel that line echoing deep inside me, especially when I think about how much of life tries to mold us into something we’re not. The schools, the expectations, the silent pressure to conform — it’s like the bricks of a wall we never agreed to build. But this song reminds me that we can break free, one thought at a time, one soul awakening at a time.

I remember listening to Pink Floyd back when I lived in Rio, lying on the floor with the window open, the night breeze rolling in, the sound floating through the city like a secret. Even then, I could feel it — the rebellion, the awakening, the truth hidden in the melody.

Now, when I hear it, I see it as a bridge between worlds — between the living and the spiritual, between freedom and control, between the voice of the soul and the noise of the system. It’s the spirits saying, “Remember who you are. Don’t let the world teach you to forget.”

We are all just another brick in the wall — until we choose not to be.


Chapter 78: Seven Nation Army

This song feels like my grandparents speaking — especially my grandma when she’s mad at the world for hurting me again. “They’re gonna rip it off, takin’ their time right behind my back.” Every word hits like a warning, a pulse, a heartbeat that won’t stop echoing through generations.

I can almost hear her voice in the rhythm, fierce and protective, saying, “Enough.” It’s as if she’s standing up to all the pain, the injustice, the people who tried to break me down or make me question my worth. That beat — steady, relentless — feels like her strength, her spirit marching beside me, refusing to back down.

And that line — “I’m talkin’ to myself at night, because I can’t forget.” That’s me. That’s the sleepless nights replaying everything I wish I could erase, the words I didn’t say, the memories that still sting. I know that feeling too well — the mind looping between past and present, trying to find peace in the noise.

“Don’t wanna hear about it.”

Yes. So true. I don’t want to hear another story, another excuse, another reminder of how cruel the world can be. Everyone has their story — from the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell — but this one is mine.

And through it all, that bass line keeps thundering, like my grandpa’s steady hands guiding me, like my grandma’s fire protecting me. Together, they remind me that no matter how loud the world gets, no army — not even seven nations — can destroy a spirit that refuses to surrender.


Chapter 79: Midnight Special

Another classic by Creedence Clearwater Revival — “Midnight Special” — and instantly I’m back in Alaska. The fire crackling, the air cold and wild, the stars scattered like diamonds across the sky. I can still see the Swiss guys — those strong, mountain-like men who looked like soldiers — playing guitar and violão, singing their hearts out under the moonlight. We sang Green River, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, and always Midnight Special. The sound of it carried across the wilderness like a prayer.

But this song doesn’t just take me back to Alaska. It takes me to my childhood home — to Grandpa. The way the song starts, it’s his voice in my memory: “Don’t complain. Get up.
 Help clean the house. And don’t waste food.” That was Grandpa — strong, practical, and full of love disguised as discipline. He never raised his voice without reason, and when he said, “Let the Midnight Special shine a light on you,” I imagine it was his way of saying: let goodness find you, let light follow your honesty.

Then there’s “Yonder come Miss Rosie…” That verse always makes me think of Grandma. I can picture her walking into a room, her apron tied, a note in her hand — determined and elegant all at once. In the song, Miss Rosie’s trying to free her man, and I can’t help but think of Grandma waiting on Grandpa after his card games, shaking her head but still smiling, still standing by him no matter what.

And then comes that warning: “You better do right, you better not gamble…” — that’s the universe echoing her voice. Grandpa might’ve liked his poker nights, but he was no outlaw. He was a man of integrity — a soldier, a provider, a husband who took care of his wife and family until the end.

Every time I hear “Midnight Special,” I feel them both — Grandpa and Grandma —

 standing by that Alaskan fire with me. The moon above, the wilderness surrounding us, the smell of smoke in the air. Maybe the bears were watching, maybe spirits too. But all I could feel was warmth — the same light the song speaks of.

Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me —
and may it always shine on them too.


Chapter 80 — New York, New York

If there was ever a song that captured the soul of a city, it’s New York, New York. Sinatra’s version made it legendary — that booming voice, that swagger, that confidence that made you feel like anything was possible. His rendition became the city’s heartbeat, its victory cry, its anthem of resilience. Even today, it echoes through Yankee Stadium after every home win and at celebrations that mark the best of life.

I’ve always had so many California songs — the ones that sound like sunshine, beaches, and endless highways — but I felt like I needed to add a New York anthem too. After all, that’s where Tupac and Whitney are originally from — two voices that shaped my world. There’s something about New York that breeds legends, a city that raises dreamers and fighters.

My own memory of New York goes back to when I worked at NBC Universal, right there at 30 Rock. That building is pure energy — you feel the pulse of the city in its walls.

 I remember one night, working late on a deadline, lost in lines of code and caffeine, I just didn’t leave. I fell asleep at my desk, and when the morning came, everyone thought I had arrived early. I just smiled and said nothing — because the truth was, I had never left.

That’s the thing about New York. It keeps you awake, chasing, believing, daring. It’s the city that never sleeps, and that night, neither did I.

When I think of Sinatra’s voice and the words “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere,” I can still feel the ambition that fueled me — the same fire that burns through every dreamer who ever walked those streets.

New York has that magic — it tests you, but it also teaches you how to rise.

🎵 Next Page — in Rhythm & Spirit.