Part 3

Chapter 81 – California Love

The California anthem — California Love! Every time I hear it, it brings me straight back to L.A., cruising down Mulholland Drive or Sunset Boulevard with the windows down, the warm wind brushing my face, and the city lights glittering like diamonds.
California knows how to party

In the city of L.A.
In the city of good ol’ Watts
In the city, the city of Compton
We keep it rockin’… we keep it rockin’.

Yes, they do! Only in L.A. do you get people from all over — from Orange County to Hollywood — coming out to party every night, and even harder on the weekends. It’s a vibe, a rhythm, a whole lifestyle.

There’s nothing like that West Coast energy — the sunshine, the palm trees, the music blasting from every car stereo. The sense that everyone’s chasing something — a dream, a role, a hit song — but still finding time to live, dance, and laugh.
Let’s show these fools how we do it over on this West Side!
Always.

The West Side really is better — Venice, Malibu, Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and beyond. It’s freedom, faith, and a touch of wild magic. Tupac captured that energy perfectly — that California spirit of endless summer, of hustle, of shining no matter who’s watching.

California love will forever live in me — because that’s where my wings first opened.


Chapter 82: These Boots Are Made for Walkin’

Such a great song — that classic beat, that sass, that confidence! I remember spinning to it at Crunch in West Hollywood, legs on fire, sweat dripping, feeling unstoppable. That song always made me feel powerful — like nothing and no one could stand in my way.

But the moment I hear it now, it takes me somewhere completely different — to Indonesia, to the island of Gili Air. That’s where I met my friend Boots — yes, that was really his name — who owned a small hotel right on the beach. I used to hang out there every evening, listening to him DJ while watching the most breathtaking sunsets over the water.

The sky would melt into colors of pink, gold, and violet, the sound of waves blending with the music and laughter. There was always this easy rhythm to life there — barefoot days, salt in my hair, peace in my heart.

I met a group of kind brothers on the island who looked after me like family. Every night, after dancing or chatting under the stars, they’d walk me home to make sure I was safe. It was such a simple, beautiful gesture — pure island kindness.

Every time I hear These Boots Are Made for Walkin’, I smile. It’s not just about strutting in heels or spinning in L.A. anymore — it’s about the freedom of walking your own path, wherever it takes you… from the studio lights of Hollywood to the quiet beaches of Gili Air.
Those boots have walked far — and they’re still walkin’.


Chapter 83: Step By Step

(Whitney Houston — The Anthem of Perseverance)
This song is one of my all-time favorites — Step by Step. I often play it to calm myself down, to remind me that everything will be okay, and that I’m still moving forward no matter how slow it feels.

My favorite part is when Whitney sings:
“Oh, but I won't let my spirit fail me
Oh, I won't let my spirit go
Until I get to my destination

I'm gonna take it slowly because I'm making it mine.”

That verse hits deep. It’s like a prayer for endurance — a promise to myself that I won’t let my spirit fail me until I get where I’m meant to be.

I’ve always thought this should be the firefighters’ song — a real anthem for those who keep going, no matter what. And after 9/11, I used to think of this as New York’s song — about rebuilding, standing tall again, step by step.

The music video gives me chills every time — Whitney in that long coat, standing strong against the city lights. I actually had a similar coat once, but I left it behind at Heathrow Airport on my way to Sweden in 2012. Maybe it was meant to stay in London — the city of strength and dreams.

There’s a part in the song that says:
“Stone by stone (yeah), brick by brick (oh, yeah)...”

And every time I hear that, I can’t help but remember Hawaii — and that day when that Irish-Hawaiian kid threw a stone at my knee for no reason. I’ll never forget how angry and helpless I felt when the police did nothing. His dad owned a big surf rental company on the North Shore, and everyone protected him because of that. Cameras caught it, people saw it, and still — nothing. Corruption at its finest.

He was under 18, full of anger, living off his dad’s money, smoking all day, doing drugs, and thinking he ruled the island. Hawaii was bittersweet — so beautiful yet filled with darkness beneath the paradise postcard. I loved the locals, the sunsets, the sunrises at Waimea Bay — but I also saw the ugly side.

I’m just grateful I got out. Too many innocent people never do. I still remember the story of that Brazilian maid who was killed, and the couple imprisoned for life — but she was innocent. Another victim of the North Shore system. She was from Portland art student who ended up in jail while the real monsters walk free.

Sometimes life feels unfair — but like Whitney says, you keep going:
Step by step. Bit by bit. Stone by stone. Brick by brick.

You don’t stop. You don’t give up. You hold on until you reach your destination.
And maybe that’s what Hawaii taught me in the end — that no matter how hard it gets, I’ll keep walking… step by step.

Chapter 84: King of my Castle
(Wamdue Project — The Beat of Empowerment)

This song has such an incredible beat — perfect for dancing, working out, or even a good spin class. The moment it comes on, I can feel my energy lift. There’s something hypnotic about it — that deep, steady rhythm that makes you feel powerful, grounded, and in control.

“Must be the reason why I’m king of my castle.”
That line always gets me. Because that’s exactly how I feel — I am the queen of my own world, the ruler of my space, the King of my castle. No one else gets to decide how I live, love, or dream.

Whenever I hear it, I picture myself riding through life with that same energy — confident, untouchable, free. Whether I’m spinning at the gym, dancing in my living room, or just driving with the windows down, this song reminds me of my strength.
It’s not about arrogance — it’s about owning your power.

We all go through moments when people try to knock us down, make us doubt who we are, or take control of our story. But when this beat drops, I remember — this is my life, my journey, my castle.

I’ve built it stone by stone, just like Whitney said in Step by Step. Every mistake, every lesson, every heartbreak — they’ve all become part of the walls that protect my spirit.
So when I say “I’m King of my castle,” it’s not just a lyric. It’s a declaration.
A reminder that I’m the one holding the crown — and I earned it.


Chapter 85: Stairway To Heaven
(Led Zeppelin — A Song for the Soul)

This song will always remind me of my grandma. Every time I hear “Stairway to Heaven,” I’m transported back to those quiet mornings in the hospital — just her and me, watching God paint the sky with colors too beautiful to describe. The sun would start to rise around 5 a.m., and for a few precious minutes, everything felt still. Sacred. As if heaven itself had opened its gates to let a little light shine through.

“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the West,
And my spirit is crying for leaving…”

Those lines always hit deep. I remember feeling that same ache — that spiritual pull between this world and the next. My grandma was ready for peace, and I could feel her spirit getting lighter each day, as though she was already standing on that stairway, one step away from heaven’s door.

We didn’t need to talk much. The silence between us said everything. There was love, understanding, and gratitude — all wrapped up in those glowing dawns. She taught me that heaven isn’t just a place we go when we leave this world… it’s a light that lives inside us, a melody that never fades.

When the guitars build up in the song, I can almost see her smiling — strong, gentle, eternal. She used to say, “Don’t cry when I’m gone, just look for me in the sunrise.” And she was right. Every pink sunrise or sunset that breaks through the clouds feels like she’s saying hello.

“And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune…”
That line makes me think about the harmony between heaven and earth — how love continues to echo even after we’re gone.

“Stairway to Heaven” isn’t just a song to me; it’s a bridge — between worlds, between hearts, between the living and those who guide us from above. My grandma climbed her stairway with grace, and I know she’s still watching those sunrises with me, whispering through the light:

“Keep going, my love. The show goes on.”

Reflection
Sometimes I think my grandma is the DJ of my spiritual soundtrack. Every song that plays at the right moment, every light that flickers through the clouds, every unexpected warmth that surrounds me — it feels like her. Music has always been how she reaches me.

“Stairway to Heaven” is more than a memory; it’s a reminder that the ones we love never really leave. They just change form — from touch to light, from words to melodies. And when the music plays, I know she’s near.


Chapter 86: Insomnia
The Beat That Never Sleeps

What a classic! An absolute anthem of the late ’90s and early 2000s. Every time Insomnia by Faithless starts playing, it takes me straight back to London after my college days in Seattle — the time when I lived for the weekend, for the music, for that energy that only London had.

I used to go clubbing almost every weekend — Fridge Bar, 414, Fabric, Ministry of Sound, The Church, The Office… all amazing places, each with its own vibe and heartbeat. London back then was vibrant, alive, electric. The nights never really ended; they just faded into early mornings with laughter, lights, and the feeling that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

I loved house music — always did. The rhythm, the message, the freedom. I loved to dance, to lose myself completely in the beat. Insomnia was one of those songs that united everyone in the room — hands up, eyes closed, feeling the drop.

Maxi Jazz had this calm but powerful voice that made the whole song hypnotic. The irony, of course, is that he wrote it because he literally couldn’t sleep. I can’t get no sleep. The line became iconic — and somehow, I could relate. Those restless London nights, full of dreams and thoughts that wouldn’t stop spinning even when the music did.

And sometimes now, when people piss me off or send bad energy my way, I joke with my grandma’s spirit:
"Give them insomnia!"

It’s our little inside joke with the spiritual world — playful revenge, lighthearted but powerful.

This song reminds me of that part of my life when I was awake — really awake — to everything: love, music, freedom, and life itself. The energy, the rhythm, the sleeplessness of creation.

London was the city that never slept. And maybe that’s why Insomnia will always be my song — because, deep down, I’m still dancing through those nights, wide awake, unstoppable.

And now, when I listen to it, I feel that divine rhythm running through my soul — the beat that never ends. Maybe God doesn’t sleep either; maybe He’s up there DJing the universe, keeping our hearts in sync with His music. Because even when I can’t get no sleep, I know He’s wide awake, watching, guiding, and keeping the beat going — step by step, beat by beat, miracle by miracle.

Chapter 87: We Will Rock You
The Anthem of Champions

What an epic anthem! We Will Rock You by Queen — a song that needs no introduction, no warm-up, no buildup. The moment those stomps and claps start, you feel it in your bones. Boom, boom, clap — that rhythm shakes something ancient inside the human spirit.

Every time I hear it, I’m instantly back in high school in Alaska, bundled up against the cold, cheering under the stadium lights. The football team charging onto the field, the crowd roaring, everyone stomping their boots in sync with that unstoppable beat. It wasn’t just a song — it was power. It was youth. It was victory.

Later in life, We Will Rock You became something bigger for me — it became the sound of greatness. I can’t help but think of Kobe Bryant every time I hear it. They used to play it before basketball games — that same fire, that same spirit. It was the sound of warriors getting ready to conquer.

When I worked at NBC Universal in Los Angeles, I got to live one of those “pinch-me” moments. One afternoon, an email went out to the entire company — “Two extra tickets available for tonight’s Lakers game.” Without hesitation, I replied, “I’ll take them!”

That night, I found myself sitting in the NBC box at the Staples Center, watching the Lakers play live. The energy was electric. Kobe was on the court — graceful, fierce, determined — the embodiment of the song itself. We Will Rock You blared through the arena, and the crowd stomped, clapped, shouted in unison. It was pure magic.

That’s what this song does — it unites people. It’s more than just an anthem; it’s a declaration of strength. Whether in a freezing Alaskan football field or under the bright lights of Los Angeles, it says the same thing: You can’t stop us.

Every time I hear that beat now, I feel like I’m part of something bigger — a reminder that no matter what life throws at me, I’ve got that fire inside. The same fire that fueled Queen, that moved Kobe, that echoed through stadiums full of dreamers.

We will, we will rock you.
Yes, we will — one stomp, one clap, one miracle at a time.

Chapter 88: Pure Shores
From Greece to Thailand — and a Miracle in Egypt

Ah, The Beach! It’s amazing how movies can shape our dreams. I remember watching The Beach in college in Seattle — Leonardo DiCaprio escaping society to live freely on a hidden island in Thailand. I didn’t know it then, but that film would soon become a preview of my own adventure.

Not even a year later, I found myself in Greece, and one day, my best friend at the time sent me an email — a Hotmail, of course — saying, “Come to the beach!” He was in Thailand and wrote me a three-page guide explaining exactly how to get there from Greece.

So off I went.

I booked a flight with a 24-hour layover in Egypt. When I landed, they asked me to leave my passport at the airport and sent me to a hotel. That already felt strange, but I didn’t think much of it — I was too excited about seeing the pyramids.

I took a cab, and at first, it was wonderful. The driver was cheerful, talkative, stopping at perfume oil shops where the air smelled of amber, sandalwood, and jasmine. I wanted to buy some oils, but for some reason, my card didn’t work. Thank God it didn’t.

On the way back, everything changed. His smile was gone. He took a different route, one that twisted through narrow roads and sand-colored streets — it looked straight out of Aladdin. My heart sank. I could feel danger in my bones.

So I started praying. Deeply. Then I told him I had cash at the hotel and would give him a big tip if he took me back right away. For a tense moment, he said nothing — then turned the car around. When we reached the hotel, I ran inside. My hands were shaking, but I was safe.

That night, I thanked God for saving me. I didn’t have my passport yet, but I had my life — and that was everything.

The next morning, I flew to Bangkok, then took a boat, a ferry, and a taxi, finally arriving in Koh Samui — just in time for the Full Moon Party. The island was electric — the air buzzing with music, laughter, and freedom.

It felt like stepping straight into The Beach.

But when I think of The Beach, it’s Hawaii that truly captures its spirit for me. The lush jungle, the raw beauty, the isolation, the moments of silence when it’s just you and your thoughts — I lived that. I went through my own kind of bootcamp in the wild, learning to survive, to listen to nature, and to find strength in solitude. Just like Leo in the movie, I learned that paradise isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it tests you, strips you down, and rebuilds you stronger.

Now, whenever I hear Pure Shores by All Saints — that ethereal, oceanic melody that played through the film — it feels like coming home. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve gone, how fearless I once was, and how deeply the ocean’s energy runs in my soul.

Because sometimes “the beach” isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. A reminder that paradise is not out there — it’s within you, waiting to be discovered, step by step, wave by wave.


Chapter 89: How Do U Want It

Now this is Tupac in full swagger mode — that unapologetic confidence, that rhythm of someone who’s lived a hundred lives in one lifetime.
“Doin' eighty on the freeway, police catch me if you can…”
Every word drips with freedom — the kind that can’t be bought, only earned through fire.
When he says “Forgive me, I’m a rider, still I’m just a simple man,” — that’s the line that gets me. Because behind the fame, the chaos, the headlines, Tupac was really saying what many of us feel: I’m just trying to live my truth.
No pretense, no filter — just heart and hustle.
And then the line that seals it for me:
“All I want is money, fuck the fame, I’m a simple man.”
I love that. Because fame is noise. But success — real success — that’s peace, security, and champagne shared with the people you love.
“Mr. International, player with the passport…”
That’s me too. Always chasing dreams across borders, boarding planes with purpose, chasing sunsets and soul growth. A traveler, a survivor, a dreamer with stamps on her soul and her passport.
When Tupac sings, “Howwww do you want it!” — it’s not just a lyric.
It’s a challenge. A question from the universe itself.
How do you want it, Sara?
Fast and wild, like eighty on the freeway?
Or slow and sweet, like champagne under a London moon?
Whatever it is — I want it real.
Always.

Chapter 90: Run Through The Jungle

When I hear Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, I swear it sounds just like my grandma’s voice when she’s mad — not at me, but at the spirit world.

That fierce tone that shakes the air when she says, “Enough already, leave her alone!”

And that’s when things start to break — iPhones, glasses, computers, bottles — one by one. It’s like the spirits get startled and scatter, leaving behind a trail of chaos. That’s why the pact is smaller now. Too many restless souls used to come through.

There was one time, right after I left Búzios, when I took a cab to the airport. But for some reason — or maybe a voice from beyond — told me to get out and walk through the jungle back to Rocinha.

I don’t know what came over me, but I listened.

Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by spikes, thick vines, scorpions, and spiders. Yet I wasn’t afraid. It was like something ancient was testing me — or maybe protecting me. I could almost feel my grandma walking beside me, whispering, “Keep going, darling. You’ll make it through.”

And then there was Hawaii.

That night I had to really run through the jungle.

I had just come back from L.A., and my friends — the only ones I had — had moved away. I had nowhere to go. So I went to Waimea Valley after hours, thinking it would be peaceful, familiar, maybe even healing.

But that peace didn’t last. The peacock started screaming like an alarm, echoing across the valley. Within minutes, two men appeared from the shadows. Their faces were dark, unfriendly — dangerous.

Something deep inside me screamed run! and I did. I leapt over a wall I couldn’t possibly climb in daylight. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was Tupac, my guardian brother, giving me wings.

I ran straight toward the Heiau — the ancient Hawaiian temple and burial ground.
No Hawaiian would dare go there at night. I stopped just outside and whispered to the gods — to Ku, to Kamehameha, to Queen Liliʻuokalani — asking for permission to enter and protection to stay.

Then I found a chair, hidden in the dark, and sat there — silent. The men searched for a while but never called the cops. That made it worse. It meant they wanted to handle things their own way.

By 3 a.m., I felt something push me off the chair.

No one was there — just me, the wind, and the unseen. But I knew it was time to move. The spirits had woken me to save me.

So I ran again — barefoot, through the wetjungle, guided by some invisible hand. The trees seemed to part just enough for me to pass. I didn’t stumble, didn’t bleed, didn’t break.

When dawn broke, I found myself near the white spirit waterfall — exhausted, shaking, but alive. I followed the stream until I reached a small cave, where I hid until the sun was high.

By noon, an old security guard I knew from before drove by on his golf cart.
“Hi, Sara,” he said, smiling softly. “You can’t stay here, darling. Come on, let’s get you back.”

And that was that. No police. No questions.

Just another chapter in my life where I ran through the jungle — chased by fear, guided by faith, protected by something greater.

Every time I hear Run Through the Jungle, I feel that rush again.
The drums, the pulse, the heartbeat of survival.

And I remember — I’ve already outrun the darkness once.
Maybe that’s why I’m still here.


Chapter 91: I Need a Doctor

There are songs that hit you like lightning — not because of the beat or the fame behind them, but because they know you. I Need a Doctor by Eminem and Dr. Dre isn’t just a song to me — it’s a mirror. It’s my story, my survival, and my conversation with my grandma through the veil between this world and the next.

It was COVID, and no one could visit. The world outside was terrified, and inside, I was fighting for my life. No one thought I’d make it.

The doctors removed my uterus and ovaries without my consent. They opened me up, drained eight liters of water, and realized my organs didn’t look good. So instead of scheduling another operation, they took an executive decision to remove everything. My straight belly — the one I’d earned from years of ab workouts — was gone. I had stitches from below my breasts all the way to my crotch. I couldn’t move from the bed for days, weeks, months.

When I was stuck in that hospital bed for three months — two surgeries, tubes, pain, isolation, and fear — this song became my lifeline.

But she was there — my grandma. Not in body, but in spirit. Her voice was in the sky, in the hum of the machines, in every faint whisper that said, “Don’t you dare give up.”
Every time the chorus played —

“I’m about to lose my mind, you’ve been gone for so long…” —

I felt like I was screaming into heaven itself, begging her to come hold my hand again.
It had been a year since she passed. I missed her more than words could say. I didn’t want to keep living without her — but God had other plans.

For three long years after that, I had to do curativos every single day — cleaning, changing, healing the open wound in my belly — a wound that seemed to symbolize everything I’d lost. But somehow, I survived. I got a job, saved up, paid for the final surgery, and came back to life.

That was my miracle.

When Eminem raps,
“I told the world, one day I would pay it back, say it on tape and lay it, record it…”
I feel that deep in my bones. That’s this — this project.

My story. My testimony. My way of paying it back to my grandma, to God, to everyone who thought I wouldn’t make it.

Because no one saw my vision then.

They said it was wack, but they don’t know what dope is.
That verse —

“All I know is, you came to me when I was at my lowest…” —
is exactly how I feel about my pact, about my grandma.

When everyone else left, when I was down to nothing but faith, she came back. Not in the way the world would understand — but through dreams, signs, whispers, protection.
Eminem says, “Me and you were like a crew. I was like your sidekick.”

That’s me and her. My grandma and I were partners — a two-woman army. No one really understands what she means to me. She was my reason, my rhythm, my anchor.

When I was in Hawaii, alone and hunted by danger, I would scream inside my head — “I need you, Grandma!”

But she was already gone. My aunt had kept us apart during her last weeks, and I never got to say goodbye.

I believe with all my heart that she heard my cry that night — that she left this world to protect me from the other side.

Even now, I can hear her in Eminem’s voice when he says,
“Get up, Dre!”

That’s her — shouting from heaven, “Get up, Sara!” when I was too weak to move, too broken to believe.

And when Dre raps about the friends who disappeared —

“They said they was ridin’ to the death, but where the fuck are they now?” —
I feel that truth burning inside me.

When I needed them, they were gone. Every single one of them.
But my grandma — she never left.

It’s just me, her, and the pact now. The rest? Ghosts. Fair-weather friends, gone with the wind.

Now, I’m not the same woman who lay in that hospital bed.
I’m not begging for life anymore — I’m living it.

And when I hear I Need a Doctor, I don’t cry anymore.
I smile. Because I did get my doctor.

God and my grandma — they brought me back to life.
I’m still here.

And that, right there, is the greatest comeback story of all.



Chapter 92: The Fate of Ophelia
 
The first time I heard The Fate of Ophelia, I froze.

It sounded like she was saying “Oh Filha…” — my daughter — in Portuguese.

It felt like my grandma calling me from the other side, her voice wrapped in the music, soft but powerful, filled with love and longing.

This song reminds me of my grandparents singing to me when I was little.

I can still see my grandpa tapping his hand gently on the table, keeping the rhythm, and my grandma smiling as she sang, her voice pure and kind. It was the sound of home — of peace — before life became complicated, before I had to learn what loss really meant.

Every note of that song carries their presence. It feels like it was written just for me, for us — for all the daughters who still hear their ancestors whispering through time.

When I listen, I close my eyes and it’s as if they’re both right here again, in the same room, humming to me through the walls of heaven.

Maybe that’s what The Fate of Ophelia really means — not a tragedy, but a promise.
A daughter being remembered.

A song that bridges worlds.

Because in every “Oh Filha…”

I hear my grandma calling me home.

And when the tide rises and the moon pulls the ocean close,
I feel her spirit moving through the waves,
reminding me that love never drowns — it transforms.
Our fates are like rivers, bending and breaking,
but always finding their way back to the sea.

That’s why every time I’m near the ocean — especially in Hawaii, standing by Waimea Bay, where the water glows under the moonlight — I feel her there. The same voice, the same rhythm, the same eternal current.

It’s the call of my ancestors,
and I know that no matter where I go,
the sea will always carry me home.

Chapter 93: Have You Ever Seen The Rain

Have You Ever Seen the Rain
Oh, I have seen the rain — in Hawaii.

The kind that falls every fifteen or thirty minutes, just long enough to paint another rainbow across the sky.

In Hawaii, you can stand in one spot and be drenched, then take a few steps and suddenly you’re dry again.

That’s Hawaii — magical, unpredictable, alive with light and water and the promise of the golden pot at the end of the rainbow.

But this song doesn’t just remind me of the beauty of the islands.

It reminds me of the hardest storm I ever faced — when I was stuck in that crazy hospital, alone and exhausted, but still holding on. They didn’t force medication on me, and I hadn’t taken anything. But I almost gave in. I remember one day asking for something to numb the pain — not the physical pain, but the grief that was consuming me. The nurse looked at me and said softly,

“I admire how you’ve been here for so long and haven’t taken anything.”
That was my cue. My sign to stay strong.

So I didn’t take anything.

What I really wanted was a pill for grief — for the ache that came from missing my grandma so deeply it hurt to breathe. I used to sit for hours by the window, crying silently, staring at the mountains and the ocean, feeling the emptiness stretch out around me. And then, one day, as my tears fell harder, I noticed something — the rain outside began to pour just as fiercely. It was in sync with me.

The more I cried, the heavier it fell.

Until suddenly, it made me stop — just for a second — and smile.

That’s when I felt her. My grandma. She was there.

In the rhythm of the rain, in the wind brushing against the glass, in the hush that followed each downpour.

She was the rain.

God had allowed her to come back.

In Hawaii, they say the spirit walks through the islands last — it’s the final place a soul visits before leaving the earth. That’s why I went back to Hawaii after everything, without even realizing why at first. I thought I was going back to heal, but really, I was going back to meet her again.

Now I know — every time it rains, she’s with me.

In the pink sunsets, in the pink sunrises, in the wind that brushes my hair.
That’s my grandma — not gone, just transformed.

So yes… I have seen the rain.

And I’ve seen love come back with it.


Chapter 94: Stayin´Alive

This song has such a good vibe — timeless, funky, full of energy and life. Every time I hear it, I’m transported back to the dance floor — to the flashing lights, the laughter, and that unmistakable beat that makes you move whether you want to or not.

I remember dancing to Stayin’ Alive at Olympia, a club in Brazil, when I was just fourteen. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but somehow I always found a way in. The music was loud, the crowd electric, and for a few hours, the whole world made sense. It also takes me back to the legendary Disco 54 — that golden era of glitter, rhythm, and freedom.

Years later, I’d hear it again in the most unexpected moments — like watching Jimmy Fallon’s hilarious sketches with Justin Timberlake, or when my hot old roommate in Australia would blast it in our apartment. He was a total ladies’ man, always charming, always smiling, and that song was practically his anthem.

But beyond the memories and the fun, Stayin’ Alive has a deeper meaning for me now. Because, honestly — I am staying alive. Over and over again.

There were so many times I could have died — in the hospital, in the jungle, in strange countries where things could have gone horribly wrong. Somehow, every time, I made it out. Bruised maybe, but still breathing, still dancing, still here.

So yeah, it’s kind of funny… but not really.

Because every time I hear that beat —

"Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive" —

it feels like my personal soundtrack.

A reminder that no matter how many times life tried to take me down,
I got back up, put on my metaphorical disco shoes,
and kept moving to the rhythm.

Because that’s what survivors do.

We keep stayin’ alive.

Chapter 95: Keep Ya Head Up

Only Tupac could calm me down. His voice — raw, real, full of truth — always reaches something deep inside me. Keep ya head up, he says, and somehow, no matter how heavy the world feels, I do.

Some say, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.”

Tupac flips it and gives it power — “I say the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots.”
It’s poetry and protest all at once. His words don’t just hit your ears; they hit your soul.

I love how he gives a shoutout to his sisters on welfare — “2Pac cares if don’t nobody else care.”

And I believe him. Tupac really does care. He wasn’t just singing about struggle; he was living it, feeling it, carrying it for everyone who couldn’t.

This line always gets me:
“They got money for wars but can’t feed the poor.”

That’s the truth right there — decades later, still the same story. It makes me think of all the people I’ve met across continents — from Brazil to LA, Hawaii to London — people just trying to survive while the world spends billions on destruction.

Tupac’s message is timeless. Every time I hear his voice, it’s like he’s talking straight to me — telling me to rise, to believe, to keep my head up no matter what.
Because life will try to break you, over and over again.

But as long as Tupac is playing somewhere —

as long as his voice echoes through the pain and the chaos —
I know I’m not alone.

So when the world gets dark, I turn him up and remind myself:
I’m still standing.
Still dreaming.
Still keeping my head up. 

🎵 To Be Continued — in Rhythm & Spirit.