BOOK TWO: The true Hollywood Story

Chapter 1: Roots and Resilience – Growing Up in Brazil

My Father, My Guardian Angel

My father died before I was born.

When people hear that, their eyes widen with sympathy, often followed by a soft, “I’m so sorry.” But to me, it’s never felt like a tragic loss in the way others might imagine. I never had the chance to miss him—because, in my heart, he’s always been with me. I like to believe that he loved me so much, he didn’t want to share me with the world just yet. Maybe we had long conversations among the stars before I arrived, and he held me close in a space beyond time. That’s why I feel him near—an invisible force guiding me, protecting me, always watching over me.

They say I would have been a daddy’s girl. The kind of child he would’ve spoiled and never let out of his sight. And perhaps that’s exactly why he became my guardian angel—so I could roam freely, live boldly, and chase my dreams, while he stood watch from above. In every continent I’ve crossed, in every dark night and difficult decision, I’ve felt his quiet strength beside me. I never met him, but I’ve always known his love.

 

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Chapter 1.1: Raised by Giants: My Grandparents

Growing up in Brazil, I was wrapped in a cocoon of deep love and family strength—especially from my grandparents. My grandma was white, my grandpa was Black, and together they raised seven children—plus a set of twins who sadly passed away. I often say my family looked like the United Colors of Benetton. We had pale skin, dark skin, blonde hair, green eyes, curly hair, brown eyes—you name it. But there was never division. We were family. We were one.

My grandpa was the heart of our home. He owned a restaurant and a bar, cooked every day, and kept the house spotless. To me, he was larger than life—a teacher, a protector, and my first real role model. He’d sit watching TV late at night, and I’d sneak away from my mother’s watchful eye just to be near him. He never shooed me away—just gave me a knowing look and said, “If your mother sees you, you’re going back to bed.” Still, I always came back. I loved those quiet moments together—watching football matches, cheering for Senna in Formula One, and listening to him talk about legends like Pelé and Mike Tyson.

He taught me about negotiation without even trying. “Go buy bread,” he’d say, handing me two dollars. “No,” I’d argue, “I want three.” “Okay, four.” We’d laugh, and I’d go. Those little games sharpened my sense of confidence—skills that later helped me negotiate with major media networks and CEOs. Looking back, it all started in my grandfather’s kitchen.

My grandma was my rock—my second mother. She prayed daily, took me to school, and offered comfort with every prayer she whispered. Her faith was unshakable, even as she faced serious illness and underwent multiple surgeries. At times, she struggled with mental health and took medication, but her love and resilience never faltered. When I traveled the world competing in Taekwondo, I always called her. “Pray for me,” I’d say. And she always did. And things always worked out.

Chapter 1.2: The Lessons from My Aunties

I lived with different aunties throughout my life—each one playing a unique role in shaping who I am.

My oldest auntie was a fashion designer, always fixing clothes, creating beauty with her hands. I must’ve absorbed some of that skill naturally, because today I design apps, websites, and user experiences. Her creativity helped plant that seed.

My twin auntie had two daughters. We didn’t always get along—I know I was a handful—but she loved me like a mother. We fought, yes, but her warmth, patience, and loyalty have remained with me to this day.

Then there was my youngest aunt, who had three daughters of her own. I helped raise them—changing diapers, helping with homework, being the big sister they needed. Our bond has stood the test of time, and even today, we’re close.

Not every moment was easy. Sometimes I felt like Cinderella—sweeping floors, cleaning, carrying weight beyond my years. But I know now that those lessons—the chores, the discipline, the responsibility—were molding me into someone strong, capable, and independent.

Chapter 1.3: Identity, Belonging, and That Benetton Spirit

My family was a beautiful mix of skin tones, hair textures, and eye colors. But in Brazil, that never made me feel out of place. I looked like my grandpa, and I carried that with pride. It wasn’t until I moved to the U.S. that someone asked, “What are you?” And I’d respond, half-joking, “I’m purple with yellow polka dots.” To me, I was just me—Sara. My identity was shaped not by labels, but by the love and values instilled in me by the people who raised me.

Chapter 1.4: Jungle Journeys and Amazon Memories

One of the most unforgettable memories of my childhood was a trip to the Amazon when I was around ten. We stayed with local tribes deep in the jungle. The guide warned us about piranhas, crocodiles, and snakes. I was scared—but also amazed. I swam only where it was safe, fished with a string and meat, and nearly lost my fingers when the line turned red from the pull of a massive fish. I remember walking in the dark with a flashlight, seeing white dots in the water—crocodile eyes. It was wild. It was beautiful. It was Brazil.

My mom used to say I was born lucky. There’s a Portuguese saying: “Nasceu com o cu virado para a lua”—“born with your butt facing the moon.” I think of that often. Maybe I am lucky. Maybe it’s my father watching over me. Or maybe it’s the fierce love of all those who raised me that carried me through life’s challenges.

Chapter 1.5: A Childhood Etched in Love and Strength

I never had a traditional childhood, but I had love. I had a family. I had faith. And I had resilience. Every lesson from my grandpa, every prayer from my grandma, every argument and embrace from my aunties—all of it laid the foundation for the woman I’ve become.

Growing up in Brazil wasn’t always easy, but it was magical. It was mine. And I carry it with me—its colors, its sounds, its flavors, its people—wherever I go.

Chapter 2: Expanding Horizons — My Alaskan Awakening

At fourteen, I left Brazil behind and stepped into a world I never could’ve imagined: Alaska. My mother had married Greg Parker, and just like that, I found myself moving to the United States. There was no Google to prepare me, no way to look up what awaited me on the other side of the world. All I knew was that I was trading tropical heat for snow-covered silence.

I still remember that first breath of Alaskan air. The cold hit me like a slap. My hair literally froze. I had no idea a place could be so cold that your body would fight just to keep moving. It was a shock, but also strangely beautiful—like the Earth had wrapped itself in a silver blanket and was whispering, “This is where your next chapter begins.”

Chapter 2.1: A New Language, A New Identity

The students at my new high school were surprisingly welcoming, though their curiosity sometimes made me feel like a museum exhibit. “Do you have TVs in Brazil?” “Do you live in trees?” It was innocent enough, but also frustrating. I quickly realized that if I wanted to be taken seriously, I needed to learn perfect English. No accent. No misunderstandings. Just fluency.

So, I immersed myself. I joined sports—basketball, volleyball—and made it my mission to become a part of American culture, not just an observer of it. I made friends. I adapted. I became a part of something new.

Chapter 2.2:  Alaska Days of Discovery

Alaska was like a world apart—raw, vast, and stunningly pure. It was a place where nature ruled, and I found myself both humbled and invigorated by its beauty. Moving there during high school was a shock to the system, but it also became a time of deep self-discovery and unexpected blessings.

That’s when I met Woodry Ferguson. She wasn’t just a friend—she was my soul sister. She was a senior and I was a junior in high school. She taught me how to play volleyball and I taught her taekwondo. We were only children and workout buddies. To this day we remain friends for over 30 decades. We are very spiritual and we always find time to catch up over our busy schedules to speak about life, motherhood, work and business through the years. Her mom became like a second mother to me, always supportive, always present. When I needed help writing a scholarship essay, it was Woodry’s mom who edited it, encouraged me, and believed in me. That essay would later win me a scholarship to Seattle, changing the course of my life forever.

I had never lived somewhere so remote, where the sun barely set in the summer and hardly rose in the winter. The extreme climate matched the intense emotional growth I experienced. I tried new things, learned to adapt, and made lifelong friendships. Alaska forced me to slow down, reflect, and understand my strength in solitude. In a way, it gave me the stillness I needed to grow.

There were hikes through wild forests, bonfires by frozen lakes, and school dances where we had to stomp the snow off our boots before entering the gym. Alaska toughened me up—and softened me in ways I didn’t expect. I’ll always carry that northern light within me, guiding me, reminding me where I’ve been and how far I’ve come.

Chapter 2.3: Light and Darkness in the Land of Extremes

Alaska taught me about contrast. In the summer, the sun never really set. Days bled into nights, and the sky glowed with a kind of eternal twilight. It felt like magic. But winter... winter was another story. From 10 a.m. to 1 p.m., we had light. The rest was just cold, creeping darkness.

That darkness gets into you—not just your bones, but your spirit. You start to feel heavier. You begin to understand why people speak of seasonal depression. Even at fourteen, I felt it. The silence. The stillness. The way people seemed to retreat inward. But I refused to let it break me.

Chapter 2.4: Becoming a Fighter

It was during these long, cold months that I discovered Taekwondo. My instructor, Master Jeff Thompson, was no joke. He was strict and serious, the kind of teacher who believed pain was part of the process. He made me spar with boys who were twice my size. I’d get knocked down—sometimes both feet in the air—but I always got back up. “Are you okay?” he’d ask. “I’m fine,” I’d reply, even if I wasn’t. That was the rule: keep going.

Eventually, the bruises faded and the skills sharpened. I was named Student of the Year—twice. But success came with sacrifice. I got frostbite from training in the cold. I crashed my car multiple times on Alaska’s icy roads. I was chasing greatness, but it wasn’t without pain.

Still, that dojo became my sanctuary. And it gave me more than just discipline—it gave me love.

Chapter 2.5: First Love, First Loss

My first boyfriend was a fellow Taekwondo student. We trained together, dreamed big together. Eventually, we moved to Colorado Springs to try out for the Junior Olympic team. I thought he was the one. The one I’d marry. The one I’d build a life with.

But life had other plans. I found out he was cheating on me. The trust shattered. The dream collapsed. I ended the relationship, even though it hurt like hell. He kept reaching out for two more years while I was in Seattle. But I knew the truth—when trust is gone, love can’t grow.

Chapter 2.6: Summer school and house parties

After that heartbreak, I returned to Alaska behind on school credits, having left to chase Olympic gold. I enrolled in summer school to catch up. Meanwhile, Taekwondo stopped being a passion and started feeling pressure. Master Thompson became overly critical—telling me it wasn’t just a sport, it was an art. Maybe it was. But I was tired. Burnt out. We clashed. And one day, I simply walked away from it all.

That’s when the party girl emerged.

We were teenagers, wild and restless. When my parents left town, we threw house parties. I didn’t drink beer, but someone always brought a keg. The neighbors hated us. After the snow melted, my stepdad would see the evidence—beer cans everywhere—and I’d brace for the lecture. I got in trouble twice. The second time, I ended up in jail for a few hours. Just a scared teen sitting on a cold bench, realizing that the fun had spiraled too far.

That was my wake-up call.

I made one of the most important calls of my life—to the Fergusons. And they were there for me. No judgment. Just love.

The Lodge in the Wild

During this time, I also worked at a Swiss fishing lodge tucked deep in the Alaskan wilderness. It was one of those experiences that felt too surreal to be real — like living inside a dream carved out of nature.

The air was pure, the rivers teeming with fresh salmon, and yes — the bears were always nearby. I was surrounded by untouched beauty and international travelers, all drawn to this remote place. Every evening, we gathered around a long wooden table, where my boss — who spoke eight languages — would seamlessly switch tongues to speak with each guest in their native language. It was like watching a conductor lead a symphony of global conversation.

People came from every corner of the world, and somehow, amidst the cold air and warm meals, we all connected deeply. I made friends for life there — and later, I even traveled to Europe to visit some of them. It reminded me that even in the most remote corners of the earth, magic can happen when people come together.

Chapter 2.7: The Pivot

That experience forced me to refocus. I worked hard, earned back my credits, and eventually received a Fulbright scholarship—an incredible honor. It was my second chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

From Alaska, I leapt into the next phase of my life: Seattle.

Chapter 2.8: Alaska Taught Me Everything

Looking back, Alaska was a crucible. It froze me, burned me, tested me, and shaped me.

It gave me:

• My first heartbreak
  
  

• My first taste of independence
  
  

• My first fight—both in sport and in life
  
  

• My first jail stay
  
  

• And the understanding that no matter how dark things get, the light does return
  
  

Alaska was cold, but it carved fire into my soul. And that fire is what carried me into everything that came next.

Chapter 2.9:  College life in Seattle

From the chilly, quiet landscapes of Alaska, I transitioned to Seattle, where I attended college on a full-ride scholarship for Multimedia. It was a Fulbright scholarship, a dream come true, and I was eager to dive into the world of creativity and digital design.

Seattle was a whirlwind of freedom and discovery. Dorm life was my first taste of independence—exciting, chaotic, and sometimes downright exhausting. My neighbor in the dorms was notorious for throwing wild parties that kept me up night after night. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I filed a complaint, got released from my lease, and moved across the street to a beautiful waterfront apartment overlooking Lake Washington. It felt like a peaceful escape—until I found out that my noisy dorm neighbor had also been kicked out… and moved into the unit right next to mine!

That neighbor was Oliver Seaholster. And that twist of fate? It marked the beginning of one of the most unforgettable friendships of my life.

Oliver and I quickly became inseparable. Along with our tight-knit crew of college friends, we turned our new freedom into a string of adventures. We had a jacuzzi, so our apartment became the post-party headquarters. Oliver was a bartender, so the drinks flowed freely. We were young, a little reckless, and living for the moment.

Of course, not everything was smooth sailing. I learned a few hard lessons along the way—like the time I let someone crash on my couch, only to wake up and discover all my multimedia equipment was gone, including my Taekwondo tapes and trophies. Or the time I sent someone to sleep at Oliver’s place, and they walked off with his brand-new snowboards. I replaced them, of course, but I also learned that not everyone you welcome into your home is worthy of your trust.

Still, we found a way to laugh through the chaos. Oliver and I became infamous for our prank wars. He once hid rotten salmon in my apartment—I retaliated with ice buckets dumped on him mid-nap. He’d shout across the school cafeteria about my “girlfriend” Sarah, making sure everyone heard. I struck back with posters plastered across the city featuring him in boxers with captions like, “I want to be your kinky daddy” and “I’m your teddy bear.” Our prank war escalated to absurd heights, culminating in me starting a rumor that he was gay—which was hilarious considering he was always surrounded by the most beautiful women. It was all ridiculous and childish and perfect.

Another highlight of my time in Seattle was the bond I formed with a few guys in my audio class. We spent countless hours in the recording studio, listening to music, editing, and creating our own tracks. It was more than just learning—it was about sharing a passion for sound, experimenting with beats, and pushing our creative boundaries together. Some of my fondest memories are from those late nights in the studio, losing track of time in a world of music.

Academically, this was the height of the dot-com boom. Flash and multimedia design were exploding, and I threw myself into the work. I was so focused on building my portfolio that I sometimes skipped class to design from home. My portfolio teacher didn’t appreciate that. Even though I had the strongest portfolio in the class, she marked me down for attendance. My GPA suffered, but it didn’t stop me—I graduated with nine job offers in hand.

One of the best relationships I built during this time was with Andrea, my career advisor. She believed in me, challenged me, and became a great friend. Even after I moved to LA, we stayed close. But that’s a story for later.

After graduation, I accepted a job at a startup launched by former Microsoft employees. Their big vision? Compete with PayPal. I was earning forty dollars an hour—a big deal in the early 2000s. But after a while, the itch to explore kicked in again.

Oliver had always raved about London. He’d talk about its energy, the culture, the music, the fashion, the people. Eventually, I gave in. I booked a flight and went.

And oh, London.

From the moment I landed, I was enchanted. Everyone looked like they had walked out of a magazine—polished, purposeful, stylish. The music scene was electric—house, techno, and trance pulsed through the air, reigniting my love for rhythm and nightlife. London was alive. Its streets buzzed with a mix of modern vibrancy and old-world charm. And the Brits? Surprisingly like Brazilians—full of humor, intensity, and football obsession.

London didn’t just feel like a city. It felt like a home I hadn’t realized I was missing.

And so began the next great chapter of my life—falling head over heels in love with London.

Chapter 3: Falling in Love with London: A Journey of Self-Discovery

It all began when I flew from Seattle to London to visit Oliver. I remember the flight so clearly—exhausted and jet-lagged, but Oliver, ever the life of the party, handed me a Red Bull. At the time, I had no idea what it was, but that single can of energy sparked a lifetime love affair with Red Bull. The jet lag faded away as if by magic, and I was ready for my first London adventure.

Oliver was living in a shared house filled with creatives and misfits, and it was there I met Shane Maloney, an Aussie who would become a good friend. Shane worked at The Empty Bar, a secret gem of a place. From the outside, it looked deserted, but if you knew the knock, you’d slip into a packed underground bar pulsing with energy.

London’s nightlife was like nothing I’d ever seen. We hit iconic clubs like Fabric, The Fridge, The Church, and 414—each night a sensory overload of lights, sound, and freedom that made my soul come alive.

But it wasn’t just about the clubs.

It was the culture. The way the city moved. Everyone dressed sharply, walking through centuries-old streets like characters in their own story. Even tea became part of the experience—my first proper cup of British tea, with milk and sugar, became a daily ritual. I’ve tried tea all over the world, but nothing compares to the comforting simplicity of a proper British cuppa.

And then there was football.

I’ve always loved the sport, but in London, football was a religion. One day, some top DJs I’d met invited me to an Arsenal vs. Manchester United match—sold out for weeks, but somehow, I had a ticket. Patrick Vieira scored three goals that day, and the crowd erupted into song:

“Vieira, oh Vieira, oh...
He comes from Senegal, he plays for Arsenal...”

And here’s the wild part—Vieira is my grandfather’s last name. Hearing 60,000 fans sing my family name? That sealed it. I became an Arsenal fan for life.

The energy of the fans reminded me of home. Passionate. Loud. Devoted. Just like Brazilians—except they cursed in English.

I started going back and forth between Seattle and London. At first, I stayed with Oliver. Eventually, I found my own place in Stamford Brook, and that’s when I met Lily Blignout—an older, fabulous South African who quickly became my best friend. Her three-story house felt like a never-ending fashion shoot, filled with stunning South African models and a wild blend of cultures I had never experienced before.

Lily and I shared the top floor, complete with two jacuzzis. We spent our days dancing at clubs, smoking cigarettes, eating Kit Kats, and—of course—fueling ourselves with Red Bull. The London party scene was electric, and I embraced it fully. I became a devoted listener of Pete Tong and Carl Cox on BBC Radio One—soundtracking the most unforgettable moments of that chapter in my life.

But it wasn’t just fun.

I also connected with a few guys in my audio class, and we spent hours in the recording studio—editing, mixing, and losing ourselves in music. It was a space of collaboration and raw creativity, where we shared ideas, pushed boundaries, and bonded over a shared love of sound. It reminded me that I wasn’t just living; I was creating.

While London fueled my creative soul, it also pushed me into the professional world.

During the dot-com boom, my agents in London sent me to three or four interviews a week. Some companies were so laid-back it felt like a dream—people playing golf in the office or drinking at their desks. I learned quickly about the British tradition of heading to the pub with coworkers after work, a huge contrast to the American “workaholic” grind. In London, I learned a powerful lesson: Work to live. Don’t live to work.

Even the guards at Buckingham Palace, those famously stoic figures, would smile at me and ask where I was from.

And something else happened in London:
For the first time, I started to feel seen. I would hear, “You’re so beautiful,” from complete strangers. It didn’t happen in Brazil—where beauty is everywhere—or even in the U.S., but in London, I began to feel beautiful, inside and out.

London didn’t just change my surroundings—it changed me.

It gave me freedom. Expression. Discovery.
It gave me a mirror in which I could finally see who I truly was.

It was the city where I fell in love with myself.

And when Oliver and I decided to take a spontaneous trip to Amsterdam, that love only deepened. The energy, the openness, the freedom—it expanded my world. But it all started in London.

The city that saw me.
That held me.
That became my home.

Chapter 4: Amsterdam: The Detour That Changed Everything

Oliver and I had always shared an adventurous streak. So, when the opportunity came to visit Amsterdam, we didn’t think twice. No plans, no hotel—just two backpacks, two wandering spirits, and a train ticket into the unknown.

When we arrived, we quickly realized we had nowhere to stay. Our first instinct was the train station, but that didn’t last long. Security kicked us out in the middle of the night. Tired, cold, and a little disoriented, Oliver marched ahead with his usual urgency, while I trailed behind, soaking in the strange new world around me.

That’s when something inside me said, “Split up.”

I told Oliver I needed to explore on my own, to wander at my own pace. We had just been to one of Amsterdam’s famous coffee shops, and I’d had a cake—or maybe it was a brownie? Time had started to feel... strange.

Suddenly, I found myself deep in the Red Light District. Women stood in glass windows under neon lights, silently advertising themselves. It was overwhelming, surreal, and not at all what I’d imagined Amsterdam to be. I felt lost. Disoriented. Alone.

In that haze of confusion, I ducked into another coffee shop, just trying to get my bearings. That’s when something unexpected happened. The owner, hearing my accent, spoke to me—in Portuguese. It was like a sign from the universe.

He offered me a coffee, and as I sat down, I started talking to a guy who looked strikingly like Ben Affleck—my celebrity crush at the time. I opened up to him about how uncomfortable I felt wandering Amsterdam alone, how the Red Light District had unsettled me, and how I’d lost track of my best friend.

He listened patiently. Kindly. And then he smiled and said, “Let me show you the real Amsterdam.”

And just like that, the city transformed.

We spent the day walking through Amsterdam’s most beautiful parks and hidden gems—quiet corners most tourists never see. He showed me the canals, the bridges, the old bookstores, and tucked-away cafes that made the city feel like a living postcard. The chaos faded, replaced by a quiet sense of connection and wonder.

Eventually, he invited me back to his home. I paused—“Should I be walking with strangers?”—but something about him felt safe.

His name was Yaron, and when we arrived at his place, I couldn’t help but smile. The staircase was ridiculously steep—like climbing a ladder—and draped above his bed was a giant Brazilian flag. It was so unexpected, so comforting. It felt like home. In that moment, I knew: he wasn’t a stranger—he was family. Like an older brother I’d just met.

We stayed in touch after that day. When Yaron later moved to the U.S., we kept our connection alive across borders.

The next day, I called Oliver, and we reunited. I couldn’t wait for him to meet Yaron—this kind, thoughtful person who had totally reshaped my impression of Amsterdam. But, in classic Yaron fashion, he showed up four hours late. Still, when we finally met up again, I told him, “You’ve got to come to London. You belong there.”

We exchanged numbers, and I returned to London. A few weeks later, I tracked him down. There were no smartphones back then, so I called his mom, and she told me where he was staying. We reunited in a coffee shop in London—and just like before, we clicked instantly.

Chapter 4.1: London Life, Expanded

Eventually, Yaron moved in with me in London. We started out just the two of us, sharing bread, tea, and cheap wine. He was the steady presence, the voice of reason.

He’d bring the wine. I’d bring the mischief.

Sometimes we’d play football indoors. Other times, I’d head out to meet Oliver late at night, and Yaron would say, “Sara, it’s late. You can’t be walking around London alone.” But I always reassured him, and off I’d go—laughing into the night.

Then one day, while riding the Tube, I saw an ad for a house share. That’s when we met Lily Blignaut—my fabulous, older South African soul sister. The three of us moved in together, and life shifted once again.

We weren’t just roommates—we were a chosen family.

Yaron became the brother I never had. Thoughtful, protective, endlessly patient. His mom would send care packages filled with chocolates, biscuits, and crackers, and he always shared everything. Lily brought light, glamor, and nonstop laughter to our days. We were an unlikely trio, but we made it work—building a life out of secondhand furniture, small rituals, and deep connection.

It all started with a lost night in Amsterdam.

A brownie.
A stranger.
A flag hanging over a bed.

And a city that, in the end, gave me so much more than I ever expected.

Chapter 5: Wandering Through France, Switzerland & Italy

France: Art, Elegance, and a Tight Budget

After Oliver returned to London, my solo journey through Europe began. I landed in France, buoyed by the scholarship funds I had earned—an allowance from my aunt and step dad that was meant for tuition. But instead of saving for a house or car like they hoped, I used it to see the world. At the time, I was receiving three thousand a month, and I was determined to make the most of it.

By the time I arrived in France, however, my spending had gotten ahead of me. I was nearly broke, and my family refused to send any more money. Still, I had no regrets. Paris was magic even on a shoestring budget. The architecture, the fashion, the midnight streets buzzing with life—every corner was filled with beauty.

What struck me most were the sculptures—those grand, solemn statues of kings, queens, and warriors that seemed to whisper the secrets of France’s royal past. They were everywhere: in plazas, parks, and museums. The detail in their eyes, the folds in their robes, the stories carved into stone—they made history feel alive. Walking through Paris was like wandering through a living museum.

Chapter 5.1: Switzerland: A Journey of Beauty and Chocolate

From France, I traveled to Switzerland to reunite with friends I had made at a Swiss fishing lodge in Alaska. We met in Grindelwald, a breathtaking village nestled in the Alps. It felt like a postcard came to life—green meadows, charming wooden chalets, snow-capped peaks in every direction.

Switzerland was pristine. Everything was so clean and orderly, yet warm and inviting. I spent time inside the towering mountains, where silence echoed between the cliffs and the air was so crisp it made me feel reborn.

And of course—there was the chocolate. The Swiss didn’t just eat it; they crafted it. I learned about the art of chocolate-making, sampling pieces that tasted like velvet and sunshine. The combination of nature’s majesty and this sweet, indulgent culture made Switzerland feel peaceful and luxurious in a way that stays with me to this day.

Chapter 5.2: Italy- Eat, Pray, Love (and Pasta)

After Switzerland, I traveled to Milan, where Francesca—my exchange student friend from high school—was waiting. Milan was effortlessly glamorous. The fashion, the coffee shops, the polished locals—it was everything I’d imagined and more.

We roamed the streets of Milan and then set off for Venice, where time seemed to stop. With its winding canals and boat-only transport, Venice felt like a dream. We would sip espresso, wander over bridges, and watch the water reflect the pastel buildings like a painting in motion.

Eventually, Francesca and I parted ways, and I made my way to Florence—a city soaked in history and creativity. Florence was alive with art. Outside the museums, artists sat sketching, channeling centuries of genius onto their canvases. I spent my days getting lost in its beauty, feeding my soul with the Renaissance spirit that still lingers there.

One night in Florence, I had a steamy, unforgettable encounter with an Italian man—charming, flirtatious, and wildly passionate. Afterward, he cooked me his grandmother’s pasta recipe from scratch. Years later, I made that same dish for my friends, and they were obsessed. It was the kind of night that only Italy could serve: seductive, soulful, and seasoned with garlic and magic.

Chapter 6: Love in London

I was buzzing with excitement to be back in London after my European travels. That very night, we headed to the iconic Fridge Club, where Paul Carl Cox was spinning. The beats were pounding, lights flashing, and I found my usual place right next to the speakers, completely immersed in the music. Lily was with me, and everything felt familiar, electric, and alive.

That’s when a group of confident, stylish British guys walked in. Lily immediately pointed one out and said, “I like that guy.” I barely noticed him—I was too lost in the rhythm. But not long after, Lily went to sit down, and wouldn’t you know it, that same guy started chatting with me.

I hesitated. Lily had kind of called dibs, and I didn’t want to overstep. But he and I shared an instant connection—chemistry I couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard I tried. I kept texting Lily, hoping she’d come back and join us, but she didn’t. Meanwhile, he kept trying to pull me into his world, gently but persistently.

Eventually, he got me dancing. We didn’t just sway—we moved, together, like we’d been practicing our whole lives. We laughed, did silly workout moves, flirted through motion, and got caught up in something that felt bigger than us. And then, it happened—we kissed.

And not just a kiss. It was the kiss—one that melted time and space around us. I’d never felt anything like it. The music, the crowd, the intensity—it was as if we were the only two people in the room.

Later that night, he invited me to come along with him and keep the night going. That’s when Lily returned, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “We’re going home.” I turned to her and replied, calmly but firmly, “Actually, I’m not going home right now.”

It was just one sentence, but in that moment, everything shifted. It marked the beginning of something new—and the quiet end of something old. Our friendship would never quite be the same.

Chapter 6.1: The Next Day

He took me to his best friend’s house in Chelsea, where we stayed up talking and laughing until sunrise. His best friend, an Irish guy, told the most incredible stories—about his grandfather being featured on Irish currency, and about his Brazilian ex-girlfriend, which instantly piqued my interest. I loved how casual, connected, and open the night felt.

The English guy and I were completely in sync. He was smart, kind, funny—and the chemistry between us didn’t fade. He told me he was a manager and was moving to Australia in just a few days. Monday, to be exact. We ended up having breakfast together, talking about everything and nothing. It was quiet and sweet, a soft ending to such an intense beginning.

When it was time to leave, they offered to drop me home. But, in true me fashion, I had no idea where I was. I looked at the map upside down and completely confused everyone. We all burst out laughing. Eventually, I just asked them to drop me off at the nearest station and figured the rest out on my own.

Chapter 6.2: Aftermath

Back home, the reality of the night settled in. I had lost my phone during the chaos and hadn’t checked any messages. It turned out he had called. He wanted to see me again before leaving for Australia. He said it had been one of the best nights of his life. But I never got the message in time. And I never saw him again.

Still, that night stayed with me. It planted a seed. Between that experience, meeting other Aussies in L.A., and my friend Shane Maloney, I eventually made the leap and moved to Australia. That kiss, that night, that energy—it all became part of a bigger story.

As for Lily—we eventually reconnected. But something had changed between us. The bond had cracked, and though we tried to mend it, it was never quite the same.

Not long after, Oliver left London for more adventures. First Mykonos, then Thailand. He always had the travel bug, always searching for the next thrill. But for me, London was still where I felt at home. I wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

I dove deeper into London life—exploring new neighborhoods, making new friends, chasing moments of magic in the everyday chaos. The city had a pulse that matched my own, and I wasn’t done dancing to its rhythm.

I didn’t know what the future held. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t need to.

Chapter 7: My Adventure from Greece to Thailand via Egypt — A Close Call with Death

After leaving Italy, I made my way to Greece, eventually landing on the island of Ios—a place I had heard about through other travelers, described as wild, beautiful, and full of energy. Ios didn’t disappoint. It was a dreamy Greek island with whitewashed houses, narrow winding streets, and that unmistakable Aegean-blue sea stretching endlessly into the horizon.

I stayed at a popular backpacker hotel that was built into the cliffs, with sweeping views of the ocean and the most stunning sunsets I had ever seen. The vibe was free and easy—everyone there seemed to be on the same wavelength, chasing beauty, adventure, and unforgettable moments. I quickly made friends with a group of fellow travelers, and together, we’d spend our days lying on the beach, swimming in the clear turquoise water, and exploring the island on rented mopeds.

Nights in Ios were something else. The island came alive after dark—bars, music, dancing under the stars. It was the kind of place where the energy never seemed to die down. One night, we all went skinny-dipping under the moonlight. Another time, a bonfire broke out on the beach, and we stayed up laughing and sharing stories until sunrise. There was a magic to those nights—something wild and completely free.

I didn’t just find a party scene—I found a version of myself that felt completely alive. Ios reminded me how powerful it is to be surrounded by nature, community, and that spontaneous spirit of travel. It was a place that lit something inside me—like fire—and I carried that feeling with me long after I left the island.

After a wild summer on Ios—the party island of Greece—I decided to keep the adventure going. My next stop? Thailand. But the cheapest flight came with a twist: a 24-hour layover in Egypt.

I hadn’t done much research, and as soon as I landed, I realized just how unprepared I was. The heat hit me like a wall, and I quickly noticed that women were expected to cover up. Thankfully, my darker skin helped me blend in somewhat, but it was still a massive culture shock. At the airport, they took my passport and told me they’d be holding it while arranging my hotel for the night. Not ideal, but I tried to stay calm.

Before settling in, I decided I had to see the pyramids—I mean, how could I be in Egypt and not see one of the Seven Wonders of the World? This was before the days of Uber, so I jumped in a random taxi and explained what I wanted.

The driver seemed friendly enough, but he kept making strange stops. He brought me to shops selling oils and perfumes, urging me to buy something. I wasn’t interested, but I browsed out of politeness—plus, I thought maybe I’d get a souvenir for my mom, who loved perfumes. It all seemed innocent enough, but something in the air felt... off.

Eventually, we made it to the pyramids, and I have to say, it was breathtaking. Towering ancient stones, the golden desert, the camel I rode—it felt like I had stepped back in time. But then, out of nowhere, I spotted a Coca-Cola stand. Right next to the pyramids. It felt surreal, like ancient meets capitalism in the most bizarre way.

On the way back, things got weirder. We went back to one of the perfume shops to buy something, but when I tried to pay, my credit card wouldn’t work. The driver’s mood shifted fast—he went from friendly to furious. Without warning, he took a strange turn and started driving into unfamiliar territory. Narrow alleyways. Dusty streets. It felt like something out of Aladdin, but not in a magical way. I was scared.

My instincts screamed that I was in danger. I started praying—hard. I thought of my dad, who had passed away years earlier. I always felt like he was watching over me, and in that moment, I called on him. I told the driver, “If you just take me back to the hotel, I’ll pay you in cash.” For whatever reason, something shifted. He changed course and drove me straight to the hotel. I handed him cash, thanked every guardian angel I had, and got inside safely.

I was shaken, but alive. Later, I found out that when my friend Oliver and his sister visited Egypt, locals would ask him how many camels he’d take in exchange for his sister. Women travelers are definitely safer there with a male companion. I got lucky—very lucky.

Chapter 7.1: Arrival in Thailand

After that close call, I was more than ready for paradise. Following Oliver’s epic three-page Hotmail email (RIP to that account), I made my way to Thailand. It took two flights, a train, a boat ride, and a taxi, but eventually, I reached the island of Koh Samui. I’ll never forget opening the door to my bungalow and seeing Oliver fast asleep in the middle of the room—with a literal tree growing through the middle of it. I nudged him and said, “Hello,” and just like that, we were reunited.

We had both been inspired by The Beach, the Leonardo DiCaprio movie about finding secret, untamed paradise. That was our dream. And Thailand delivered. We explored markets, ate amazing food, and soaked in the beauty of the island. His sister was busy buying suits and art, while I was just vibing, loving every second.

Chapter 7.2: Full Moon Party and a Night to Remember

One of the highlights was the Full Moon Party—a legendary, three-day beach festival. Picture dancing barefoot under a full moon, with music booming from every direction and the scent of the ocean in the air. It was wild.

This was also where I discovered the original Red Bull—the Thai version. Unlike the stuff back home (which was still barely known in the U.S.), this one was unregulated, packed with stimulants, and sold in bulk. I bought a whole case. I had no idea it basically had speed in it. I stayed up for three straight days, completely wired. Vodka Red Bulls in buckets with eight straws were the thing.

At one point during the party, I lost Oliver. I wandered off and met an English girl. We ended up at a treehouse bar known for its “special shakes.” Curious and reckless, we ordered the strongest one—yes, the kind with mushrooms. At first, nothing happened, so we wandered back toward the beach. I dropped my lighter in the sand, and when I bent down to pick it up, the tree in front of me breathed. That's when I knew the shake was working.

From that point, everything was like a scene out of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Lights pulsed, sand danced, the night stretched into something surreal and alive.

Chapter 7.3: A Cliff, a Jump, and a Life Saved

On the second day, I met a Swedish guy. We decided to explore and stumbled upon a cliff overlooking the water. We thought, “Let’s jump!”—without checking how deep the water was. Innocent, foolish, and high on adrenaline.

I jumped first, curving through the air, and landed fine. He jumped right after me. But the moment he hit the water, it turned into a nightmare. Blood covered his face—he had hit coral—and he started slipping in and out of consciousness. I panicked inside, but I knew I had to act. I held him up in the water, swimming us both back to shore.

Once on the beach, I found a couple making out and begged them for a shirt to stop the bleeding. The guy handed it over, and I used it to press against the Swedish guy’s head. We ended up in a chaotic hospital full of injured partiers and crying kids. It was overwhelming. But my dad was with me. I felt it.

The Swedish guy needed 16 stitches, and he kept saying I saved his life. Anyone else might’ve left, but I stayed. I wasn’t going to leave him there alone.

My feet were torn up from coral, but I didn’t care. After I got him home, I wandered back along the beach and saw Oliver. The moment I laid eyes on him, I burst into tears. I finally let go of everything I was holding in.

Chapter 7.4: Reflection

That trip—from Greece to Egypt to Thailand—was more than just a travel story. It was a test of survival, intuition, and trust in the unseen forces guiding me. It reminded me how fragile life is, how quickly fun can turn into fear, and how important it is to listen to your gut.

I’ll never forget the pyramids, the party, the tree that breathed, or the boy I helped save. That journey changed me. It opened me up to the world, to danger, to joy, and to the reality that we are always just one wild decision away from the next great adventure—or disaster.

But I survived. And I lived to tell the tale.

Chapter 8: Ibiza – The Party, The Chaos, and The Escape

It was 1999, the cusp of the new millennium, and London had me hooked on its vibrant music scene. But there was one place calling my name—the birthplace of house and trance music: Ibiza. I told Lily, “I’m going to Ibiza."

She gave me a skeptical look. “It’s August! You need reservations!” But I was determined. “Nope, I’m going. It’s happening.”

Back then, travel was ridiculously cheap—99p flights were a reality, so I made my way there without a second thought. I didn’t make any reservations—big mistake. When I landed in Ibiza, I quickly realized how packed it was. No rooms in five-star hotels, no beds in hostels. Everything was full. I had no choice but to party for five days straight, because, well, what else was I going to do?

I was supposed to stay two weeks, but by the end of the first week, exhaustion was setting in. The nonstop parties were amazing, but it was the first time I found myself totally disillusioned with the British party crowd. They were a mess—puking, grabbing me, and shouting things like, “Oh my God, you’re so hot!” It was honestly a bit too much. They were a hot mess, to say the least.

But the clubs? Unbelievable. This was before VIP tables and bottle service, so getting into these clubs was like a rite of passage. Amnesia, Privilege—they were out of this world. And yes, people were offering me pills, ecstasy, and other stuff. I just kept slipping them into my pocket, knowing I had to keep my head cool and my wits about me. But I was wearing leather pants, and after a while, all those pills melted right through them, which was kind of a disaster.

Getting to the clubs was an adventure in itself. There were no Ubers back then, so the way to get to the party spots was to hop on a bus—yes, a school bus. And everyone on the bus was singing, “Hey, ho, we’re going to Ibiza!” The energy was contagious, and the excitement in the air was palpable.

One night, while wandering through town, I met a tall Norwegian guy named Thor. He was lost and didn’t know where he was going. I’d been there the day before, so I offered to walk him home. But when we got to his place, he insisted, “No, I need to walk you home.” It felt like a scene from a movie, but the night ended with a kiss. We stayed friends after that, and later, he had a layover in London before heading to Brazil. He brought his best friend along, and somehow, his best friend ended up dating Lily. It was all so random and unexpected! As for Thor and I, we kissed again before he left for Brazil, but we kept things casual. It was just one of those Ibiza moments.

I also met a Spanish girl who offered to let me leave my stuff at her house since I had nowhere to stay. She didn’t charge me anything. She was amazing, a total lifesaver. The island was so packed, and I was just running around without a plan. So I’d go to the clubs at night, and during the day, I’d visit other party places like the Eiffel Dome or just wander around. I survived on Red Bull, just keeping the party going. But after a week, I hit a wall. I needed a break. Ibiza was fun, but it had drained me.

So, I decided to leave. My next stop? Portugal.

Chapter 9: Portugal – A Breath of Fresh Air

After the chaos of Ibiza, Portugal was a breath of fresh air. The moment I spoke, the Portuguese immediately recognized my Brazilian accent, often within just two words. They could tell I was from Belo Horizonte, and it felt like I had found distant cousins—there was an instant connection. They were so warm, so welcoming.

I found a little place next to a beach, nestled by stunning cliffs. It was the perfect setting to unwind. I spent my days dancing to the local music, savoring the delicious food, and soaking in the rich culture. The beaches were beautiful, with big surf rolling in, and the cobblestone streets gave the whole place a timeless feel.

Portugal’s vibe was exactly what I needed—relaxed, friendly, and full of life. I made lots of new friends, and we shared stories, music, and laughter. It was the perfect escape, and it made me appreciate the simpler things in life. After the madness of Ibiza, it was exactly what I needed.

Chapter 10: Seattle to hollywood

Oliver went back to the U.S., and I stayed in London, determined to make it my home. But my mom, with her calm wisdom, said something that stayed with me: “Finish this chapter first—finish school—and then you’ll be free to do whatever you want.” I had built a life in London. I had friends, a rhythm, a future I could see clearly. The idea of leaving felt impossible.

But she was right.

Before I left, we had one last unforgettable party. There were all these hot South Africans, and one of them even tried to kiss me. I was too shy, though—I missed the moment. It was one of those magical London nights: music, dancing, laughter echoing in old buildings and cobbled streets. But just a few days later, I was on a plane back to Seattle, tears streaming down my face the entire flight. People must’ve thought I’d experienced some tragedy, and in a way, I had—leaving London broke my heart.

Back in Seattle, I threw myself into finishing school and fulfilling my scholarship. I did what I had to do. But everything felt grey. I moved in with Ollie, his sister, and another American girl in Capitol Hill. It rained endlessly. None of us were really TV people, but we spent hours watching Friends, smoking cigarettes, and reminiscing about our adventures in London and Europe. We felt trapped—like life had hit the pause button.

One night, Ollie turned to me and said, “Let’s move. Should we go to New York, Miami, or LA?”

We didn’t just talk about it—we did it.

We started in New York. It was one of the coldest winters on record. We went bar hopping, taking shots between venues just to stay warm. I remember turning to Ollie, my nose numb from the cold, and saying, “This place is amazing—but it’s not for us. Let’s go somewhere warmer.”

So, next came Miami. Beautiful beaches, clear turquoise waters, vibrant energy—but something felt off. It didn’t feel like the U.S. It felt more like a South American outpost, and not in a way that felt grounding. We couldn’t imagine building a life there.

Then, we flew to LA.

From the moment we landed, something clicked. The air felt lighter. The palm trees swayed like they were saying “Welcome.” We looked at each other and said, “This is it.” That was the moment we decided to move. We packed our things, loaded up Ollie’s car—including our goldfish—and drove to L.A.

Chapter 10.1: We landed in LA on September 11th, 2001.

We had no idea what was happening. We were staying at a hotel on Sunset Blvd, and that morning, I walked down to the parking lot. A homeless man looked me dead in the eyes and shouted, “It’s the end of the world! They’re bombing us!” I felt a jolt through my body. I rushed back to the hotel room and told Oli, “We need to turn on the TV now.”

What we saw stunned us—the Twin Towers were crumbling to the ground. Airplanes crashing, smoke filling the New York skyline, chaos erupting. It was a horrible feeling that day, an eerie silence descended over LA. All of our rental appointments got canceled, except for one—in Beverly Glen.

That one appointment became our new home. We moved into a house nestled between the hills, sheltered by trees and canyons, while the world outside reeled. We stopped on the side of the road and lit candles for the victims of 9/11. That day changed the world—and it shaped the way we saw our own lives. If we had picked New York instead of LA, we might not be alive today.

From there, the hustle began.

Chapter 10.2: From Car Sales to Major Networks: The Hustle Begins

Los Angeles was a different planet, and I had to hit the ground running. My first job? Selling cars. I had zero experience, but I knew how to talk to people. I quickly became one of the top sellers, charming clients with my energy. It was about survival and learning the city from the ground up. I was constantly figuring things out, growing street-smart fast.

But deep down, I knew I didn’t move to LA to sell cars.

Then, within just a few months, everything changed. I landed my first real graphic design job with J-Date, a dating site for American singles. That role became my foot in the door—and the door flew wide open. From there, things moved fast. I was suddenly immersed in the industry, connecting with agents who placed me on high-profile gigs with major players like Sony, Fox, DreamWorks, NBC, CBS, and Disney.

I became a total workhorse. I threw myself into it with everything I had—working eighty to a hundred hours a week like my life depended on it. I remember the Friday night calls from my agents: “Can you get this done by Monday?” I’d crack open a Red Bull, pull all-nighters through the weekend, and deliver without fail.

The hustle paid off. My four-year run with Sony alone was a whirlwind of intense deadlines, huge projects, and creative wins. I was delivering work that brought major returns, not just for me, but for the agencies too. They’d walk me into meetings saying, “Oh, it’s Sarah Vieira!” because they knew what I could do. If I was making sixty grand in three months, they were pocketing six to ten times that. I had become a high-value asset in a cutthroat industry—and I earned every bit of it with hustle, grit, and endless determination.

Chapter 11: Spinning at Crunch and yoga at Equinox

For a long time, all I did was work. Work, work, work. Oliver had moved to the beach in Manhattan Beach, and I was still going to Crunch in West Hollywood, doing my regular workouts on autopilot. Then one afternoon, something shifted. I was on the floor near the cycling studio when I heard Rapture by Blondie blasting through the doors. I peeked in and saw this high-energy spinning class—it looked like a club, but instead of vodka sodas, everyone was drinking electrolytes and sweating with purpose. I stood there thinking: What is this? I need to try it.

I asked around and found out the instructor was this guy named Bob Harper. Apparently, he was a big deal. So the next day, I showed up early—well, I thought it was early—but not early enough. I didn’t know you had to sign up an hour in advance to get a bike in his class.

I casually walked in and sat down, completely unaware of the spinning-world protocol. Bob, who was still very much in the closet back then, came at me with full diva energy. “Did you sign up?” he snapped.

Confused, I replied, “What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes and said, “My class is always full. Chances are you’re not going to get a bike.”

I asked, “Where do I sign up?”

He pointed downstairs with this condescending smirk. “But you're probably not getting a bike.”

I left the room, stunned. What an asshole. But I was also determined. I ran downstairs, got the very last spot, and marched right back up like I owned the place. And wow—the class was incredible. It was intense, euphoric, and totally addictive. I was officially hooked.

That was the beginning of my spinning era in LA. And yes, Bob was a diva—but his classes were fire. Crunch had great instructors like Andrew and Todd too, but Bob had this cult following. He was mean, sassy, and completely unfiltered… but people loved it. Myself included.

Bob and I had a strange dynamic. After a few classes, we started this silent game of dress-up. I’d show up wearing blue, and the next day he’d be in blue. I’d wear stripes, he’d wear stripes. People noticed—it became a thing. I started giving him music suggestions, handing him burned CDs with tracks from Robbie Williams or whatever I was into at the time. He actually played some of them. I even made him a Leo-themed CD for his birthday with The Lion King soundtrack and some dramatic rock ballads. I know—it was a lot.

I was probably too infatuated. There was something about the game, the attention, the drama. He was moody and intense, and it was like a soap opera every week. He’d snap like a total drama queen, and I’d just keep showing up, smiling and handing over a new mix. BJ used to tell me, “Just be the bigger person. Keep being nice.” So I did.

Then one day, Bob announced he was leaving to shoot a TV show for three months. That show turned out to be The Biggest Loser. He never really came back after that. He’d pop in here and there, but now he was Trainer Bob. TV made him seem warm and fuzzy. In real life? Not so much. But he had star power, and people couldn’t get enough.

And even though I rolled my eyes at the drama, I missed him when he was gone. He represented a chapter of my LA life where working out became more than just physical—it became emotional, even spiritual.

Around that same time, I started going to Equinox, too. It was more polished than Crunch, more upscale. I began trying different yoga classes—vinyasa, hot yoga, power yoga. Yoga was becoming huge in LA, and it fit the city’s obsession with wellness and mindfulness. It gave me balance, literally and figuratively. I loved the flow, the silence, the breathwork. It helped me slow down and find moments of stillness in a city that never stopped buzzing.

Between spinning at Crunch and yoga at Equinox, I found a rhythm in LA. It wasn’t just about working out—it was about community, energy, expression, and maybe even healing. The studios became like little sanctuaries. In a strange way, they became the heartbeat of my life there.

Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at how dramatic that spinning saga was. But it also reminded me how even the smallest, weirdest experiences—like battling for a bike in a dark studio—can become part of your personal legend.

Chapter 12: Working at Disney — A Surreal Journey into the Magic

Working with Disney was a dream come true. To say it was magical wouldn’t be an exaggeration—it was a surreal, pinch-me moment that stretched into years. I walked into those offices and felt like I was stepping into a storybook I’d somehow written myself into. There I was, a Flash Web Designer helping shape the future of one of the most iconic entertainment brands in the world.

My boss Roger was more than just a creative director—he was a force of nature. He was vibrant, eccentric, brilliant, and most of all, deeply human. Roger had battled cancer and won, turning to homeopathic treatments and channeling his energy into completing triathlons. He made a promise to himself that if he lived, he’d do one triathlon every year. And he kept that promise. He not only lived—he thrived. His strength, resilience, and positive energy were infectious. When he invited me to join the Disney Triathlon Team—lovingly called the Disney Tri Team—I said yes, without hesitation. It added an entirely new dimension to my life: structure, health, community, and that adrenaline-fueled high that only training and crossing a finish line could bring.

As if that wasn’t enough, I was also chosen to model for Disney’s Dream Weddings. Talk about a surreal twist—there I was in full bridal glam, part of the fantasy I’d only seen on TV and in glossy brochures. Between my creative work, my training with the triathlon team, and the wedding shoot, I felt like I was living in the center of a real-life fairy tale.

Chapter 12.1: Breaking Ground with Flash and Park Integration

Professionally, my work at Disney was both cutting-edge and intensely demanding. Flash was king at the time, and I dove deep into it. One of my proudest projects was creating a leaderboard that connected park gameplay with the Toy Story Flash website I designed. Guests at the Disney parks could actually play games that tracked scores and interacted with the digital experience online.

I didn’t fully realize how revolutionary it was at the time. It was one of the earliest examples of physical-to-digital integration—bridging the experience between what guests did at the park and how they engaged online after leaving. Looking back, I was ahead of the curve, innovating in real time, fueled by instinct and curiosity. I didn’t have all the answers—I just figured it out as I went, which made it all the more thrilling.

Chapter 12.2: Perfection, Pressure, and Pixel-Wide Warfare

But as enchanting as the Disney brand was on the outside, the internal culture had its shadows. Disney demanded perfection—and I mean pixel-perfect. Every detail mattered. There were countless meetings just to adjust a single button, align an element, or tweak the tone of a graphic. Projects that might take three months at another company could take a year at Disney. There was simply no room for error.

The competition was intense. Conference rooms were filled with some of the sharpest creative minds I’d ever encountered. But with brilliance came egos. It wasn’t uncommon to see people verbally shredded in meetings—cut down with perfectly polite, yet razor-sharp comments. No swearing, no yelling—just precision-level criticism that could deflate you like a balloon. It was its own kind of battlefield, and you had to grow thick skin fast.

Still, the pressure taught me how to stay composed, deliver excellent work under scrutiny, and advocate for myself. I learned how to navigate high-stakes environments with grace.


Chapter 12.3: From Paper to Pixels: Transforming Disney Vacation Club

One of the most game-changing projects I led was the digital transformation of the Disney Vacation Club (DVC). Until then, the club operated in a completely analog world—brochures, phone calls, paper-based bookings. It felt outdated, clunky, and ripe for change.

Disney brought me in to help flip the script. My mission? Help reinvent how members experienced the Disney Vacation Club through a full digital transition. It was no small task. We had to preserve the luxury, charm, and trust of the DVC brand while streamlining and modernizing its user experience.

The project was massive and required coordination across departments, teams, and leadership. We built a sleek, user-friendly interface that allowed members to book vacations, explore resort options, and manage memberships—completely online. The moment it launched, it revolutionized how DVC operated and how customers engaged with the brand.

I remember thinking: This is what I came here to do. I wasn’t just designing—I was shifting the future of a legacy brand.

Working at Disney was the kind of experience that rewires you. It taught me discipline, elevated my design thinking, connected me with mentors and visionaries, and gave me once-in-a-lifetime opportunities—from triathlons and weddings to web innovation and brand reinvention. And while the magic was real, so was the grind. But in the end, it shaped me into the designer, professional, and woman I was becoming.

Chapter 13: Freelancing for DreamWorks, Sony Pictures, ABC, and Fox Sports

DreamWorks was an incredible experience—one of those career moments you always remember. I had been brought in as a freelancer to temporarily cover for someone on maternity leave, and although I knew it was short-term, I gave it my all. It was a dream job, especially because I got to work on the War of the Worlds website. Tom Cruise had been one of my childhood heroes, so being part of that project felt surreal. I was so proud of the designs we delivered.

There was talk of extending my contract, maybe even making it permanent. But as Christmas approached and my assignment came to a close, I had this deep sense that it was time to move on. The opportunity was there, but I didn’t feel a personal connection to the environment. The people were kind, the work was amazing—but something in me craved more freedom, more variety. I wanted flexibility, creativity, and the ability to jump between exciting projects. That’s what freelancing had always given me.

So, I walked away from DreamWorks knowing I had contributed to something special, and ready for the next adventure.

Freelancing opened doors I never imagined possible. It became more than just a way to work—it became a way of life. I thrived on the energy of new challenges, of working with different teams, of getting to create something fresh every time.

Sony Pictures was one of my most long-term clients. For four years, I worked on countless high-profile projects, including the Spider-Man and Charlie’s Angels websites and interactive Flash presentations for AXN. Sony became like a second home in those years, and I earned a solid reputation for delivering strong creative work under pressure. I was treated with a lot of respect there, which made the long hours and high expectations feel more than worth it.

At ABC, I created Flash animations for various promotional campaigns. The fast-paced nature of network TV was intense, but exciting. Then came Fox Sports—one of my favorite gigs. I worked on a Flash presentation for their bid to win the Olympic TV broadcasting rights. This was huge. NBC and Fox were the two final contenders, and the project gained a lot of media attention. My boss, Neal, the VP of Marketing at Fox, was fantastic to work with. After the presentation went out to the Olympic Committee, they received a letter saying our deck was “a breath of fresh air.” Even though we ultimately got outbid by NBC Universal—by $1 billion, no less—it still felt like a personal win.

I’ll never forget when Neal returned from Europe with a thank-you gift for me. That gesture meant so much. It wasn’t just about the work—it was about being seen, valued, and appreciated. And for a freelancer, moments like that are everything.

These freelance years shaped my career and built my confidence. I worked hard—sometimes eighty to a hundred hours a week—but I loved every minute. The hustle, the late nights, the tight deadlines... it was exhausting, but also incredibly rewarding.

And I wasn’t alone. I had people in my corner, like my best friend Barbara Jeane—BJ. She wasn’t just my workout buddy for our Runyon Canyon hikes between spin and yoga classes. She was also one of my greatest mentors. I remember when a Sony executive made me cry on a call. I called BJ, completely shaken, and she calmly coached me through how to respond. “That’s unacceptable behavior,” she said. “Call back. Set a boundary.” I was trembling, but I repeated exactly what she told me. And to my shock, the executive actually apologized. “I’m sorry. I was out of line,” he said.

It happened more than once—with other clients too. Like a plastic surgeon whose website I was designing. He had no respect for women and was constantly condescending. BJ, once again, reminded me of my power. “Call him,” she said. “Politely, but clearly, tell him how he should be treating you.” I did—and every time I followed her advice, it worked. These were tough, but vital lessons, and I carry them with me to this day.

Freelancing wasn’t just a job—it was a personal revolution. It was how I built my confidence, found my voice, and carved out a career on my own terms.

Freelancing allowed me to leave my mark across multiple networks, each project shaping my skills and helping me grow not just as a designer—but as a professional navigating Hollywood. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it. Every client, every challenge, every late night, brought me closer to the career I had envisioned when I first stepped foot in Los Angeles.

Chapter 14: The Entertainment Industry – My Job at CBS and the Stars

After years of freelancing, I was ready for something more stable. I wanted consistency, a creative team I could grow with, and a place that felt like home. That’s when I landed a full-time role at CBS.

Working at CBS was an incredible chapter in my career. The team was like family—my art director and creative director were not only talented but truly invested in helping us all grow. Cindy Ann, one of the other designers, was such a kind soul, and Holly, who had come all the way from Australia, brought so much heart and humor to the team. We were a tight-knit group, sharing laughs, creative energy, and late nights pushing pixels to perfection.

Our office was right next to The Late Show with David Letterman, and every day felt like walking into a slice of entertainment history. People would line up outside for The Price is Right, and I'd roll in, parking my little Mini Cooper on the CBS lot, thinking, Is this really my life?

It wasn’t uncommon to hear helicopters landing near the building. That was our unofficial cue that a celebrity had arrived. The smoking area was right by the helicopter pad, and sometimes, that’s where the most unexpected encounters happened. I didn’t recognize half the stars, to be honest—I just treated them like anyone else. They’d often come outside before a show, nervously puffing away, and we’d have a chat like two normal people. I think they appreciated that I wasn’t starstruck.

One afternoon, a crew member from Letterman’s show came out looking totally frazzled. They were about to go on air. We shared a cigarette and a conversation—nothing flashy, just two people connecting before the adrenaline hit. Moments like that made the place feel so real, even in the glitz of showbiz.

Then there was the Beyoncé moment.

I had this habit of never wearing my badge. I know, not the best idea at a big network studio, but it always slipped my mind. One day, a security guy whispered to me, “Beyoncé’s rehearsing. Wanna take a peek?” I figured, Why not? So I went. I walked into her rehearsal, and suddenly it was just me, her team, and Queen B herself. She looked over at me with that look—you know the one. And I thought, Damn girl, we’re the same size. You’re not that skinny! I had a total moment.

Her team noticed me pretty fast and rushed over. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Clearly, I didn’t look official without my badge. I had to leave, but honestly, I didn’t mind. I was more of a Rihanna fan anyway.

You could always feel when a big star was nearby. The energy in the room shifted. But what I loved was that so many of them were surprisingly normal—nervous, polite, even shy. I wasn’t the type to get dazzled by celebrity, and maybe that’s why I had those rare, genuine exchanges. They weren’t looking for fans. They were just people doing their job, like the rest of us.

Creatively, CBS was a powerhouse. My creative director had an intense eye for detail and pushed me to level up in every project. I grew so much as a designer there—refining my process, thinking strategically, and learning how to work on high-profile campaigns under pressure.

CBS brought a whole new wave of creativity. I designed digital campaigns for major network initiatives like the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, Big Brother 8, The Amazing Race, the Fall Preview, and the Upfronts. I also collaborated directly with show producers to craft marketing campaigns for CSI: New York and CSI: Miami, which were huge hits at the time. One of the most meaningful projects I worked on was the 9/11 Memorial website. It featured a bold, emotional design using black-and-white photography contrasted with red and black highlights. The site came close to winning a major award, and to this day, it remains one of the designs I’m most proud of.

But the industry was changing fast. Flash, the tool we’d all relied on, was dying. The iPhone had taken over, and mobile design was the new frontier. Just as our team was gearing up to transition to this next phase, we got the news—layoffs. Just like that, the whole department was dismantled. Cindy Ann, who was pregnant at the time, was the only one kept on, and that was likely for legal reasons. The rest of us were suddenly out.

It was a gut punch.

One day, we were a thriving creative team; the next, we were gone. Flash was being buried, and mobile had officially taken over. The writing had been on the wall, but it still hurt. CBS had become a second home, and letting go of that comfort and community was hard. But there was also something liberating in it.

I had a choice: stay stuck in what had been, or evolve.

I chose to evolve.

I dove headfirst into learning mobile design. I studied everything—responsive design, touch interfaces, user flows. The industry wasn’t waiting for anyone, and I wasn’t about to be left behind. It was scary, but also invigorating. Reinventing myself became part of my identity. Each time I pivoted, I got closer to the future I wanted.

Losing my job at CBS was one of those defining moments. Painful, yes. But also full of possibility. It reminded me that nothing in this industry is permanent—and that’s not a bad thing. It keeps you on your toes, forces you to grow, and makes you resilient.

CBS gave me friendships, creative milestones, and unforgettable run-ins with the stars. But more than that, it reminded me that sometimes the end of something stable is the beginning of something transformative.

Chapter 15: Losing My Grandpa and His Light to the Sky

That summer was a tough one, but Ollie really came through to cheer me up. We ended up hopping from pool party to pool party all over LA—Skybar, The Standard, the Mondrian, Chateau Marmont, Roosevelt—you name it, we were there. We’d show up pretending to be guests, sipping overpriced cocktails and soaking up that endless California sun. Eventually, the hotel staff started catching on, but by then we had already figured out how to get on the actual guest lists. It was pure improvisation, but it worked. We were young, wild, and running from reality.

Then came Woodry’s wedding. It felt like a return home—back to Alaska, where everything started for me. The wedding was stunning, nestled deep in a remote area so far off the grid I didn’t even have cell reception. In a strange way, it was peaceful. But that peace was shattered the moment I landed back in LA.

My cousin called with the news: my grandpa had passed away while I was at the wedding. I’ll never forget the flight to Alaska and how I’d seen the most beautiful beam of light shooting into the sky. I had no idea that at that very moment, his soul was leaving this earth. I missed the funeral. I missed the chance to say goodbye. The grief hit me hard—he was my rock, my world, the first person in my family who had ever left me.

I spent a week crying alone in my apartment, with “I’ll Be Missing You” by Puff Daddy and Faith Evans on repeat—the same song written for Biggie. It was the only thing that made sense in my haze of heartbreak. I played it until the lyrics were etched into my bones.

But my grandpa hated laziness. He was the kind of man who taught me to stand up, be strong, and move forward—no matter what. So that’s what I did. I forced myself to get out of bed, and I threw myself into Bob’s spin classes. It became my escape, the one place I could release my grief without needing to explain it to anyone.

I’ll never forget the day I walked into class, feeling like a ghost of myself. Everyone could feel it—my aura was heavy. People kept their distance, like they instinctively knew not to mess with me. But Bob looked straight at me. He didn’t look away. He just saw me—something deeper, something broken. And for the first time in weeks, I smiled. Just a little. But it was a spark. A lifeline.

He had no idea he’d helped me that day. Just by seeing me. Just by not looking away.

It wasn’t easy after that. Grief comes in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes violent. But little by little, I found my footing. I kept showing up to class. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. And through all of it, I carried my grandpa’s voice with me: keep going, Sara. He would’ve wanted me to build the life I dreamed of. And I still am. Every day.

Chapter 16: The Emmy Dream and NBC Family

After my time at CBS, I landed a job at NBC, where I dove into some of the biggest shows in the world—The Biggest Loser, America’s Got Talent, Miss Universe, Miss USA, 30 Rock, Nashville Star and just about every reality hit under the sun. The NBC site was a beast—massive, multi-layered, and constantly evolving.

One of my proudest accomplishments came while working on The Biggest Loser website. I poured my heart and soul into it, managing over 100 pages and seven microsites, each one tied to huge sponsorship deals. It was intense, but I stayed focused, professional, and determined to deliver my absolute best. The result? An Emmy nomination. It was a huge moment. All those sleepless nights finally meant something.

Leading up to the Emmys was a magical time. My stepdad generously offered to help with my dress, and I chose a silver beaded Karen Millen gown in London. But in the end, I wore a dramatic pink gown from a French designer—floor-length, over two grand, and unforgettable. I felt powerful in it, like I belonged on that red carpet.

But more than the fashion or the nomination, the true reward was NBC itself. NBC became my family. We laughed together, worked late together, supported each other through every hurdle. Emmy night was electric—we may not have taken home the trophy (it went to Jimmy Fallon, who I absolutely adored), but we felt like winners. Because we were.

During my time at NBC, I also achieved a major career milestone:
Out of eight designers, I was selected to redesign the NBC.com homepage. It was a massive honor. Having my design front and center on one of the biggest entertainment websites in the world was surreal. That homepage was the digital front door of NBC—and I got to shape it. It’s one of the accomplishments I hold closest to my heart.

And then came the groundbreaking NBC Live iPad App.

At the time, no other network had done anything like it. We were pioneers. The app was a live, interactive experience designed to sync with shows in real time—something completely new. The project started off rough. During a major leadership meeting, our big boss Steve Andrades—a visionary Scorpio like my grandfather—hated the direction the team presented. He felt it was too complex, too clunky. After that, he asked my boss, Penny Yost, to put someone else on it.

It was a Friday afternoon. The deadline was Monday.

Penny, who knew I worked fast and clean, called me into her office. She believed in me. I asked her if I could go home, crank my music, crack open a Red Bull, and just get to work. She agreed.

I worked straight through the weekend—no breaks, just pure focus. By Sunday afternoon, I had the new design ready. When I walked into the office Monday morning, every senior VP was congratulating me. The project was back on track, and I had saved the day.

Steve then assigned me as the sole UX/UI designer for the NBC Live iPad App. I worked closely with him from then on—a challenging but rewarding experience. Steve didn’t sugarcoat things, but I appreciated his honesty. Over time, I learned how to navigate senior management with confidence. I always did exactly what was asked, but when I had a better solution, I’d create an alternative comp as well. About 30% of the time, Steve picked my version. He had vision, and I learned to present mine with equal clarity.

I’d say to him, “Steve, I did what you asked—but here’s another layout I think could elevate it further.”
He’d pause, look, and simply say, “OK.”

Penny would smile at me with her eyes. She was my protector at NBC, my Gemini soul sister. We’d spend hours chatting in her office—she was one of the best managers I’ve ever had.

In the end, Steve awarded me an internal NBC Award for my courage to speak up and for the success of the NBC Live iPad App. I also received an Ovation Award for the innovative design of the app.

NBC gave me more than a title or a nomination. It gave me lifelong friendships. It gave me moments that felt like scenes from a movie. And it reminded me that success isn't just measured by trophies or bylines—it's measured by connection, growth, and the memories you make on the way.

So, no, I don’t have an Emmy statue on my shelf. But I have stories, I have joy, and I have a family I’ll never forget. And that, to me, is the greatest award of all.

NBC gave me so much: recognition, career growth, incredible colleagues, and an irreplaceable sense of belonging. We even enjoyed unforgettable perks—Lakers games, road trips to Palm Springs, and more.

I didn’t need an Emmy on the shelf to know I had made it. I had built something meaningful, surrounded by people who saw me, respected me, and pushed me to grow.

Chapter 17: The London Awakening and the Big Decision

After four incredible years at NBC, where I had lived the dream—Emmy nomination, work featured in Smashing Magazine, massive shows like America’s Got Talent under my belt—I reached a crossroads. I had done it all. My designs were being recognized, copied, referenced. I was at the top of my game... but something inside me felt off. I wasn’t creatively fulfilled anymore. I loved NBC, but I didn’t want to live on autopilot, repeating the same cycle year after year.

Then the real shift came—my boss, the one person I admired and trusted the most at NBC, announced he was leaving. That hit me hard. He had been my anchor. With him gone, everything suddenly felt different. It was time for change.

Right around then, a Russian friend of mine who worked at Disney invited me to London for a visit. She knew how much I loved the city and insisted I come for a week. I wasn’t ready to fully leave NBC yet, but I needed space. So I took time off and told everyone I was having surgery—my little excuse to disappear for a bit (especially since I already had an Australia trip coming up). I booked my flight and escaped.

London was a breath of fresh air. My friend’s boyfriend, whose family owned golf courses, showed us the posh side of the city. We dined at Richard Branson’s restaurant, wandered through exclusive clubs, and laughed like we were living in a movie. For a week, I forgot about the pressure and expectations. I just existed—and it felt amazing.

But what truly marked the trip wasn’t the fancy dinners. It was football. Arsenal—my team—was playing Chelsea, and I was determined to go. Everyone told me I was crazy for wanting to pay 900 pounds for a ticket. My friend tried to talk me out of it, but I looked her dead in the eye and said, “Watch me.” That game reminded me of who I was—determined, ambitious, unstoppable. Arsenal won. I was seated on the Chelsea side, holding back tears while surrounded by blue jerseys. That awkward, triumphant moment? I’ll never forget it.

Later, a charming English guy with Chelsea season tickets offered me a seat to another game, and we hit it off. We started dating, and everything felt exciting and new. But my friend’s boyfriend—always perceptive—warned me. “He’s not right for you,” he said. I didn’t listen. When I returned to LA, I started a long-distance relationship with him anyway, hoping it could lead somewhere.

Back at NBC, I mentioned my upcoming trip to Australia to a newly promoted art director. He raised an eyebrow and said, “You’ve taken a lot of time off, especially with that surgery.” I smiled politely, stepped outside for a cigarette, and stood there, staring at the sky. That’s when it hit me—I was done. I was done justifying my need for freedom.

I walked back into the office, looked him in the eye, and said, “You’re right. I’m not going to Australia for two weeks… I quit. I’m going for as long as I want.”

His face dropped. It was his first day as art director, and one of NBC’s top designers had just walked away. But for me? It felt like exhaling for the first time in years. I wasn’t scared. I was free.

That moment changed everything.

I took the leap and launched Vieira Interactive Inc.—my own digital agency, built from scratch in 2012 in Los Angeles. We focused on product design, UX, UI, mobile apps, and full-scale websites. And the clients rolled in: 24 Hour Fitness, Australian Financial Review, ABC, Amgen, CBS, Disney, DreamWorks, FOX Sports, JDate, Miss Universe, Motorola, NBCUniversal, Sony Pictures, PWC, Subway, Verizon, Warner Media—the list kept growing.

There were awards too:
🏆 Emmy Nominee: Outstanding Creative Achievement in Interactive Media
🏆 American Business Award (The Stevies) – Art Director
🏆 Ovation Award – for creating an innovative iPad app
🏆 Featured in Smashing Magazine – TV Show Web Design Trends & Examples

But one of my proudest moments came from a side project. I tried building LA’s first parking app—Parker. At the time, nothing like it existed on the App Store. It would alert you when a meter was about to expire, show tow-away zones, and help you navigate the city without tickets. Everyone loved the concept. I designed all the screens, mapped it out, even hired a development team in India.

But the tech wasn’t there yet. Not at the scale I needed. I was doing everything manually—mapping out the city zone by zone. It was too advanced, and I didn’t have the budget or the resources to bring it fully to life. Eventually, I let it go. It broke my heart, but I learned from it. Timing is everything.

London gave me my awakening. It gave me the clarity to walk away from a job I had outgrown, the confidence to start my own company, and the freedom to chase bigger dreams. I wasn’t just designing websites anymore—I was designing my life.

Chapter 18: The Caipirinha Wake-Up Call

Things with the English guy had progressed quickly. We were talking about me moving to London to live with him, dreaming up a shared life together. So, when I decided to take him to Brazil—my homeland—I thought it would be a fun, vibrant escape, a chance to blend our worlds.

We drank a lot of caipirinhas, Brazil’s signature cocktail made with cachaça, lime, and sugar. What I didn’t account for was how strong they were—cachaça isn’t your average spirit; it’s 151 proof and hits like a truck when you’re not watching. One moment we were laughing at the bar, and the next, things turned dark—fast.

He started opening up in ways I wish he hadn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was ego—but what came out of his mouth made my blood run cold. He told me he was involved with a gang. He said he wanted me to be his “trophy wife,” that I’d never have to work again. At first, I laughed, thinking it was some sick joke, but he went on to explain how they made money: illegal activities, stealing from people, ducking the law. My hands began to shake. I kept my face composed, trying not to let on that I was quietly panicking.

I played along long enough to escape the night, but I knew deep in my gut: I had to get away—fast. It wasn’t just about ending a relationship anymore. This man was dangerous.

Chapter 18.1: The Night Everything Fell Apart

Two days later, the situation exploded.

I had gone back to the hotel to grab my things and figure out a plan to disappear. Everything had been booked under my name, which meant I was on the hook for anything that happened next. And just as I arrived, one of the staff tapped me on the shoulder and said:
“Your boyfriend is breaking everything in the room.”

Apparently, after I left, he came back in a rage and trashed the suite. The staff didn’t know what to do. They were scared. He was yelling, throwing furniture, and speaking in half-broken Portuguese and English. They begged me to handle it because they thought I had control over him. But I didn’t. No one did.

Then it got worse.

He came back to the hotel—this time with the police. He had racked up a massive bill—Dom Perignon, luxury add-ons, room damage—and someone had to pay. They said it was anywhere between five to twenty thousand dollars. And guess whose name was on everything? Mine.

That’s when he started making threats—to me, to the manager. “Come with me now, or I’ll destroy everything,” he said. “I’ll kick the shit out of him.” The man was unhinged. Then he asked someone for a lighter, threatening to burn the place down.

Even though many of the staff didn’t fully understand his words, they could read his energy. It was volatile, and it was escalating. The Brazilian employees—God bless them—started stepping in. Their protective instincts kicked in. They stood in front of me, calm but ready.

I looked around and realized: this was no longer just a breakup. It was a near escape from something much darker. And somehow, my angels got me through it.

Chapter 18.2: A New Beginning in Copacabana

January 1st. The city was bursting with tourists. Every hotel was booked. I was exhausted—shaken but still standing.

The Brazilian staff, who had seen everything unfold, went out of their way to help me. They found me a room in a hotel in Copacabana, with a stunning view from the top floor. I didn’t have to beg. They just knew I needed it. Their kindness saved me.

When I arrived, a security guard—a massive man, easily over 6 feet and 300 pounds—opened the door and gave me the most unexpected, warm hug. That’s when I finally broke. I started crying uncontrollably, not from fear, but from sheer emotional release. It was like someone had lifted the weight of the past week off my shoulders.

I collapsed into the bed, ordered a steak and a glass of bubbles, and stared out at the view of Rio de Janeiro, glowing under the January sun. I was heartbroken, but free. Lost, but alive. Somehow, the universe had carried me through chaos and dropped me into this moment of peace.

That night, I danced alone in the room. Champagne in hand, music playing low, I swayed under the moonlight and whispered to myself:
“This is your reset.”

Chapter 18.3: Turning the Page

That trip changed everything. I realized I could never go back to London, not after what had happened, not with him knowing where I lived. I needed space, I needed healing—and most of all, I needed distance.

I made the decision to move to Australia. It felt like the farthest I could go from everything that had just happened. But before I made the leap, I planned a three-month trip to Europe, a soul-cleansing journey to clear my head and reconnect with who I was before all of this.

Brazil had nearly broken me. But it also woke me up.

That caipirinha may have shaken my world—but it also saved my life.

Chapter 19: Remote Work and the Roman Dream

After quitting NBC and launching my own business, Vieira Interactive Inc., I needed a change of pace—a fresh chapter, a shift in scenery, a deeper breath of life. So, I decided to travel around Europe for three months, with one catch: I wasn’t taking a break from work. I was still doing contract work for Disney as a UX designer and collaborating remotely with Belkin in Los Angeles. That meant balancing conference calls, deadlines, and deliverables with plane rides, sightseeing, and spontaneous adventures. It was the early days of digital nomadism, before remote work became the norm. And somehow, I was doing it all.

Rome had always lived in the corners of my imagination. After movies like Gladiator and Eat Pray Love etched it deeper into my mind, I knew it was the first place I wanted to land. I booked a little hotel just steps from the Colosseum. When I arrived from the train station and opened the window to my room, I couldn’t believe my eyes: there it was—ancient, powerful, and majestic, glowing under the Roman sun. Locals walking by paused to take in the view, shouting “Ciao, bella!” A few even came up to snap photos from my window. In that moment, I wasn’t just traveling—I was living in my own movie.

Each morning felt like a celebration. I’d have a cappuccino and croissant, open my laptop with a view of Roman ruins, and dive into work. There was something exhilarating about answering Disney emails while hearing church bells ring in the distance or taking a quick walk to clear my head and passing by fountains older than most modern cities.

The architecture was mesmerizing, every statue and stone carrying centuries of stories. The Vatican, in particular, left an imprint on my soul. The first time I tried to enter, I was wearing a tank top and skirt—only to be stopped by a kind but stern Italian woman who informed me I wasn’t dressed appropriately. I ran to buy a scarf, wrapped myself up, and entered a world unlike any other. The grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica, the soul-stirring silence of the Sistine Chapel—every brushstroke of Michelangelo’s ceiling felt sacred, as if heaven had touched Earth. I remember standing beneath it all, utterly still, tears welling in my eyes, feeling my grandma’s presence. I knew she would have been proud. It was one of those full-circle moments where time pauses, and all you can do is whisper thank you.

My trip to Europe was also a scouting mission. I was looking for a country where I could live and work remotely full-time. But this was long before remote jobs were common in Europe, and I quickly realized how ahead of the curve I was. After three months of magical cities, soulful meals, and balancing deadlines with dreams, I decided it was time to return to L.A.—but not for long. Australia was already calling, and I was ready to leap into the next chapter of my adventure.

Italy left a mark on me. The culture, the warmth of the people, the deep roots of history in every stone—it was unforgettable. Rome reminded me of the beauty of slowing down while still pushing forward. It was the perfect blend of past and future—just like the path I was on.

Chapter 20: Europe – Scandinavia and the Mermaid

As I stood in the Vatican, a sense of grace and gratitude washed over me. I thought of my dad—how he used to read the Bible every morning, trusting that the answers to life’s challenges could be found within its pages. That sacred space, infused with centuries of devotion, made me feel closer to him and to God. I felt like everything was aligning—my past, my faith, my roots. I was exactly where I needed to be.

Rome had been a dream come true. A bucket-list moment that delivered on every level—history, beauty, meaning. But after that soul-nourishing experience, I was ready to keep going. Europe still had more to show me. Next stop: Scandinavia.

I planned to visit Sweden, Denmark, and Norway—a region that had always fascinated me. I’d just had an unforgettable moment in Rome, including an unexpected rooftop view of the Colosseum thanks to an Italian I met at my hotel. He offered me a free stay in his apartment building, and it felt like the universe was aligning surprises in my favor. I wanted to stay longer, but I had already made plans to meet a friend from NBC in Ireland, so the journey had to continue.

Sweden came next. Stockholm was cold—freezing, really—and I quickly realized it wasn’t going to be the festival scene I remembered from my London days. At one club, everyone looked about 14, and in my 30s, I definitely felt out of place. That was the moment I officially retired from clubbing.

Things got a little more adventurous from there. I was supposed to take the train back to Stockholm from Gothenburg—but I ended up on the wrong one. Before I knew it, I was in Denmark, and it was the last train of the night. I figured, why not? I made the most of it.

Wandering the streets of Copenhagen, I heard the Brazilian song Ai Se Eu Te Pego blaring from a bar. It stopped me in my tracks—it was a piece of home. I walked in and instantly connected with a group of strangers who felt like old friends. We danced, laughed, and celebrated the unexpected. That night became one of my favorite random memories.

Eventually, I made my way to Malmö, Sweden, to meet up with my first boyfriend from Alaska, who happened to be Swedish. Reconnecting after all those years was a strange mix of nostalgia and comfort, and it added another layer to my Scandinavian story.

Then came Norway—and what a chapter that was. I met up with Thor, an old friend I had met years ago in Ibiza. He welcomed me with open arms and showed me around the city like a local. We explored magical spots off the beaten path—hidden cafes, scenic overlooks, and winding roads that felt like they belonged in a fairytale. Norway was just beginning to light up for the holidays, and the city glowed with warmth despite the winter chill.

One of the highlights was visiting Santa Claus’ house. It was whimsical and heartwarming—letters from children around the world piled high, each one filled with hope and wonder. Then we visited the famous naked statue in Oslo (The “Angry Boy” in Vigeland Park, maybe?)—a quirky, unforgettable moment that made me laugh out loud.

Thor, now married and expecting a baby, was still the same generous spirit I remembered. I stayed in a cozy hotel nearby, but things took an unfortunate turn—two of my iPhones were stolen. One was my work phone, and it threw everything into chaos. I was supposed to meet up with other friends in Norway, but without a phone, it all became a logistical nightmare. Thor kindly offered for me to stay at his place instead, and I accepted. His support was a godsend at the time.

But not long after, things got complicated. His wife, who was away in Romania, wasn’t thrilled about me staying there. I totally understood—perception matters, and I never wanted to cross a boundary or make anyone uncomfortable. I felt horrible. I ended up moving to one of his friend’s houses instead, just to give everyone peace of mind. It was an awkward, soul-bruising moment, one of those life curveballs that humbles you. I was grateful for the kindness I’d received, but also ready to move on.

So I did.

I headed back to Copenhagen and visited the Little Mermaid statue. I had always loved the Disney version, but when I read the original story by Hans Christian Andersen, it hit me hard. The real tale isn’t about happily ever after—it’s about sacrifice, heartbreak, and unreturned love. The mermaid gives up everything for a prince who never loves her back, and in the end, she dies, trading her voice and immortality for a soul she’ll never fully receive.

Standing by that statue, I felt the weight of that story. I connected with it deeply. After all the emotional ups and downs of my trip, it felt like a mirror to my soul. I even realized I still had the key to Thor’s house in my pocket. Without thinking twice, I threw it into the sea. I needed to let go—of the confusion, the guilt, the past. That key belonged to a moment that was over. I was moving forward.

Scandinavia taught me a lot. About trust, timing, boundaries, and friendship. About letting go of what no longer serves you and making peace with what was. And despite the awkward moments and setbacks, it gave me unforgettable beauty—serene lakes, stunning architecture, and laughter with people I may never see again, but who shaped that chapter of my life.

The Little Mermaid didn’t get her prince. But she still believed in love. So did I.

With that, I closed the door on Scandinavia, boarded a flight to Ireland, and looked ahead to whatever magic the Emerald Isle had waiting for me.

Chapter 21:  Ireland and Scotland – Castles, Conflicts, and Clarity

After my adventure through Scandinavia, I flew to Dublin to meet up with an old co-worker from NBC. Ireland had always intrigued me, especially after meeting so many Irish people over the years. The moment I landed, I felt something familiar in the air. Their vibrant culture—the music, the laughter, the drinking and dancing—reminded me so much of Brazil. There was this undeniable zest for life everywhere. Dublin pulsed with energy, and I found myself completely wrapped up in its charm.

We had a wonderful time exploring the city—pub-hopping, eating traditional food, and listening to live music. There’s something magical about how the Irish celebrate life. But even amidst the fun, I felt a subtle tug in my heart, as if something deeper was waiting for me beyond the parties and pints.

Next, we ventured up to Northern Ireland. Coincidentally, the Queen happened to be visiting at the same time. People around us were saying things like, “You really shouldn’t be here right now,” but I’ve never been one to shy away from a little chaos. As fate would have it, we ended up meeting two incredibly good-looking investors—charming, sharp, and full of potential. The kind of encounter that makes you wonder, Was this just a coincidence, or is the universe trying to tell me something?

I was in the early days of building Viera Interactive, the digital studio I had just founded. I also had an app concept I was developing for a parking system in West Hollywood—one of those ideas you just know has potential. I’m the type of person who loves lifting up my friends and promoting the people I care about. But it became clear during this trip that my travel companion didn’t quite share that same energy. She wanted the spotlight only on her and her projects. That shift started to weigh heavily on the trip—and on our friendship.

From there, we made our way to Scotland, where the landscapes stole my breath. The castles were grand and haunting, and I even tried haggis for the first time—a bold move, I know. But by then, the tension between us was undeniable. I knew that if we kept traveling together, our friendship might not survive. So I made a tough call: I cut the trip short.

We didn’t speak for nearly a year. She called, messaged, asked for a second chance, and I knew deep down that she realized how much she had hurt me. There’s a saying: “You really get to know someone when you marry them, travel with them, or live with them.” That trip had tested us, and for a while, we failed.

Eventually, though, we found our way back to each other. I went to her wedding, and we managed to mend what was broken. Time gave us perspective, and forgiveness brought us growth. Our friendship survived the storm—and came out stronger on the other side.

Chapter 22: From Munich to Berlin – A Rollercoaster Nightmare

I had big expectations for Germany. Everyone told me, “If you love London, you’ll fall head over heels for Berlin.” So I was excited, hopeful, and traveling solo again—just how I liked it. My first stop was Munich, and honestly, it didn’t disappoint. The energy was vibrant, the food incredible—those sausages at the local markets were unforgettable—and the nightlife buzzed with life. I even went to Pasha, a popular nightclub, and met some interesting people. Munich had that old-European charm mixed with just enough edge to keep things exciting. I was all in and eager to see what Berlin had in store.

But the journey from Munich to Berlin turned into an unexpected nightmare—a true rollercoaster of chaos.

I took a super-fast train, speeding along the Autobahn. Everything seemed fine, except we kept making these strange, sudden stops. Each time, I’d get out to have a quick cigarette. The only other person I saw was the guard, who never smiled, just stared at me with this cold, watchful gaze. It gave me the creeps, but I shrugged it off.

Then we stopped at a station called Halo. Same routine: I stepped out for a cigarette. But when we returned, the guard lingered just a few seconds too long… and the doors closed. The train took off—with everything I owned still on board. My phone. My wallet. My passport. Gone.

I stood there in complete shock. Alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on my back. No way to call for help. No German vocabulary to fall back on—my high school-level phrases weren’t cutting it. I tried asking around, but no one spoke English. It was surreal.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, a little boy—maybe five years old—nodded when I asked if he spoke English. To my absolute relief, he did. He helped translate for me and got the adults around to call the train. I had to wait four agonizing hours at the station, but eventually, I arrived in Berlin. Thankfully, my belongings were still on the train.

But the nightmare wasn’t over.

I had booked an Airbnb, and just as I arrived, the host canceled on me. No explanation, no apology—just a rude message and no place to stay. This was back when Airbnb didn’t have reviews or safeguards. Desperate and exhausted, I scrambled to find a hotel, landing on the only place available.

I wish I hadn’t.

The hotel looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Dolls. Everywhere. On shelves, in corners, on the front desk. Their glassy eyes followed me, and every creaky step on the floor sounded like a warning. But I was too tired, too drained to care. I checked in, telling myself I’d survive the night.

That night, things got worse. I started seeing red dots all over my body—some kind of rash spreading fast. I panicked. My chest tightened. My throat felt like it was closing. I truly thought, This is it. I’m going to die alone in a doll-infested hotel in Berlin.

I called my cousin in LA, hysterical. I asked her to reach out to my doctor—Dr. Michelle Israel—who had been my physician for over 20 years and someone I completely trusted. This was before WhatsApp and easy global calls. My cousin contacted the 24-hour emergency line and gave Dr. Israel my email. Within minutes, she replied with calm, reassuring words: “You’re not dying. Breathe. It’s likely an allergic reaction. Take an antihistamine first thing in the morning—you’ll be okay.”

That email saved me. It calmed me down, reminded me I wasn’t alone, and gave me a plan.

The next morning, I set out to find a pharmacy. But even that was a challenge. I asked at least ten people if they spoke English. No one helped. No one even acknowledged me. It was like I was invisible. Frustration, fear, and exhaustion hit me like a wave. I almost cried in the street. I’d never felt so isolated.

Eventually, I found a pharmacy, got the medication, and started to feel better. I changed hotels immediately—I couldn’t spend another second in that haunted dollhouse. I needed a reset.

And what better place than Berghain, Berlin’s most famous nightclub? Known for its exclusivity and epic parties, it felt like a symbolic comeback. Miraculously, I made it past the bouncer. But the experience didn’t live up to the hype. The music was too underground, the vibe too cold. There was a huge Universal sign on the wall, and the irony struck me—everything about the place felt disconnected, impersonal, alien. Maybe it was the emotional residue from the last few days, or maybe Berlin just wasn’t for me.

Germany hadn’t been the magical European dream I hoped for. Instead, it tested every ounce of my patience, resilience, and sense of self. By the time I was ready to leave, I was emotionally drained. The trip had started with so much hope, but by the end, I just wanted to go home.

Not every journey turns out the way you imagine. But even in the worst moments, you learn something about who you are—and how strong you’ve become.

Chapter 23: Blue Lagoon Back to LALALAND

My last stop was meant to be the Blue Lagoon in Iceland—a glowing, milky-blue oasis nestled in a lava field. I had imagined it countless times: slipping into the warm mineral-rich waters, letting the steam rise around me as my body melted into peace. After everything—Scandinavia, Ireland, the tension in Germany—I craved stillness. Just me, the water, and silence.

And in many ways, I found that. Iceland was breathtaking. The light felt different there, almost otherworldly, casting the land in soft blues and silvers. The air was cold, sharp, and clean—like something from another planet. The Blue Lagoon was stunning, exactly as promised. The moment I slipped into the water, I felt everything release. The minerals kissed my skin. I closed my eyes and floated, thinking, Maybe this is what healing feels like.

But peace didn’t last long.

Out of nowhere, my boss from LA called. He asked me to come into the office immediately. I froze. As far as they knew, I was still “working remotely” from Los Angeles, not drifting through Europe, changing hotels every few days, desperate to find a white wall to take meetings in front of—this was before Zoom let you blur your background. I’d become an expert at pretending I was in LA, when in reality, I was everywhere but. Germany. Northern Ireland. Iceland. Anywhere that wasn’t home.

I remember one particular hotel room I had booked at the last minute. It was small, dark, and not at all inspiring—but I needed good Wi-Fi and a clean wall behind me. I scrambled to pull myself together, wet hair wrapped in a towel, steam from the geothermal spa still on my skin. I logged into a meeting pretending like everything was normal. It was so far from normal.

Despite the calm I had begun to feel at the Blue Lagoon, that call from LA snapped me out of it. I had to pack everything up—again—and race back across the world, back into the madness of LA.

I never made it to the Lagoon the way I had wanted to. I dipped in, sure. But I didn’t soak in it. I didn’t let myself be there. And that, to me, felt symbolic of the entire Europe trip. Almost magical. Almost transformative. But not quite. Interrupted. Unfinished.

So back to LA I went.

And it wasn’t just the trip that felt over—it was an entire chapter of my life.

Freelance work was drying up. Nothing was flowing. I was exhausted from all the shifting, moving, chasing. And I realized I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I didn’t want to force things that weren’t working. I needed a reset.

So I made a bold decision: I was going to move to Australia.

When I got back to LA, I rented an Airbnb in Redondo Beach and made the cleanest break of my life. I gave away everything. All my furniture, clothes, appliances—gone. I invited my friends over and told them to take whatever they wanted. It was like Christmas in May. People left with bags of treasures and tears in their eyes, because they could feel it too: I was shedding a life I had outgrown.

I had already let go of so much—places, people, comfort zones—and it was time to let go of LA, too. It no longer felt like mine. I needed something new. Something wild. Something with a completely different rhythm. It felt liberating. Every item I let go of made space for something new. Something better.

Europe hadn’t given me the answers I thought I was seeking, but it had given me clarity: it was time to leap.

And so, I turned the page. Australia was calling—and I was finally ready to listen.

Chapter 24: Down Under - Australia

“What we think, we attract.”
That mantra had been echoing in my mind as I sat in Redondo Beach, soaking up the summer sun and dancing at parties surrounded by Aussies. Their energy, their charm, their stories—it all felt like the universe was nudging me toward Australia. Every detail pointed to a new chapter, one I hadn’t written yet but could feel unfolding.

I made up my mind: I was going to Australia.

But when I shared the news with my new Aussie friends, they burst into laughter.
“Wait, you’re going now? It’s winter over there!” they said.
“Trust us, stay in California for a few more months—come in October, when summer’s just getting started.”

That advice stuck. And for once, I listened. Instead of rushing, I waited. I stayed in West Hollywood, wrapped up a few things, and mentally prepared myself for the leap. October came, and with it, so did I—touching down in Bondi Beach, Sydney on October 22, 2012.

I stepped off the plane and was greeted by a rainbow stretched across the sky, dolphins playing in the waves, and even whales spotted off the coast. The water shimmered in crystal turquoise. The surfers were gorgeous, the people welcoming, and the energy? Electric.

Everything felt like a sign from the universe saying,
“You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

I had created a vision board back in LA—cutouts of Bondi Beach, Icebergs Pool, the Great Barrier Reef, and dreams of finding love again. I wanted connection, purpose, joy. I didn’t want to live to work anymore—I wanted to work to live. I wanted real friendship, deep relationships, and a new sense of belonging.

What really sealed the deal?
One night in LA, I’d watched a clip from Bondi Rescue. The lifeguards, the ocean, the community—it was intoxicating. I thought, That’s it. That’s where I’m going.

And now, here I was.
“G’day, mate”—Australia was officially my new chapter.

Chapter 24.2: Falling for Bondi

My first week, I stayed in Kings Road, still finding my rhythm. I had planned to visit Bondi a little later, but after one walk down the beach, that plan went out the window.
It was love at first sight.
The vibe was pure magic—sun-kissed locals, relaxed energy, salty air. I didn’t need more time to think.

Within two days, I made the decision:
I’m moving to Bondi.

I didn’t know many people, just a few acquaintances from LA and London—Holly from CBS, Shane Maloney, and one friend who had invited me to look her up when I got to Sydney. That was it.

But Bondi made it easy. I quickly met others—people who shared my love for the ocean, connection, freedom. I had no job lined up, no real plan. But somehow, everything just flowed.

Chapter 24.3: The Moment Bondi Became Home

On that second day, I was sitting on a bench overlooking the beach, sipping a new Red Bull flavor and thinking, Nope. Still like the original better. The waves crashed below, the sun kissed my face, and this overwhelming sense of peace settled over me.

This was it. This was home.

Someone told me about Gumtree—Australia’s version of Craigslist. I started browsing apartments and found one that seemed too good to be true. I had no idea how close it was to the beach—or to one of the most iconic places in Sydney: Icebergs.

I showed up at the address, confused, thinking I had the wrong place.
I called the landlord and asked, “Am I in the right spot?”
He simply said, “Turn around.”

And there he was—standing on the balcony overlooking the ocean, waving at me with a big smile. I couldn’t believe it.
This was the apartment.
Right in front of Icebergs. Front-row seat to Bondi Beach.

He invited me upstairs, and from that first conversation, we clicked. He was everything West Hollywood wasn’t—grounded, real, chill. He had a posh English accent and worked in events. The apartment was effortlessly stylish. The vibes? Immaculate.

I moved in immediately.

Chapter 24.5: A Dream Come True in Bondi Beach

Living with him felt like a dream—one of those rare moments when the universe aligns everything perfectly. He wasn’t gay (which, in West Hollywood, was rare for a guy with that much style and charm), but rather a down-to-earth Brit with a taste for good music, clean design, and chilled mornings.

We lived on Notts Avenue, one of the most iconic streets in Bondi. Every morning I’d wake up to the sun rising over the water, waves crashing against the cliffs, and surfers gliding across the ocean like poetry.

I was finally living the life I’d always dreamed of—but more than that,
I was living a life that felt real.

There was no ego, no chase for status, no Hollywood BS. Just simple beauty, great energy, and real people.

Bondi didn’t just steal my heart—
It reminded me who I was.

This wasn’t just a new chapter.
It was a new beginning.
Down Under, I had found something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

And the journey had only just begun.

Chapter 24.6: Bondi and My Friend Martini

One of the most meaningful connections I made in Bondi was with my dear friend Martini. He was a brilliant film producer, sharp-witted, charming, and full of life. When I found myself between places to stay, Martini—generous as ever—offered me his posh Bondi home instead of letting me spend a fortune on hotels. “You stay here,” he said, “you belong here.” He truly took me under his wing.

He always said he loved me for my mind—my intelligence, my quick thinking, and the way I could dream up projects and design ideas on the spot. He wanted me to help him build a yoga app—he had all these big visions—but we never actually got started. We were always too busy partying, sharing stories, or soaking up the sunsets over drinks at The Bucket List, his favorite weekend ritual.

Martini had an electric personality and a big heart. After staying at his place for a week, I noticed he struggled with insomnia. He’d pop sleeping pills just to try to rest, but I, being a night owl myself, was often still awake too. We’d sometimes talk for hours late into the night—about life, ideas, and all the things we still wanted to create.

Before I left, I told him I wanted to cook him a special dinner as a thank-you. He asked if he could invite a few friends. “Of course,” I said. We went to the Sydney Fish Market together, picked the freshest prawns, crab, and kingfish, and I made a huge seafood paella. His “few friends” turned out to be twenty people! But the food was a hit. Everyone had seconds. That night was filled with laughter, stories, and music. I’ll never forget it.

Martini had a beautiful way of introducing people—with warmth, reverence, and always highlighting their most impressive traits. He spoke highly of everyone, lifting them up with his words.

Tragically, he took his own life not long after, leaving a letter to his family. The insomnia must have become too much. I’ll never forget that day—it was the same day as the Martin Place siege in Sydney. I canceled everything and went to his funeral. We celebrated Martini’s life the way he would’ve wanted: with stories, love, and a toast to a true legend.

Bondi changed me in so many ways, and Martini was part of that. He showed me kindness when I needed it, believed in my creativity, and reminded me that being brilliant isn’t always enough—you also need peace. I carry his memory with me, always.

Chapter 24.7: A Dream Come True in Bondi Beach

Eventually, life shifted—as it always does. My flatmate and I went our separate ways, but those early days in Bondi were unforgettable. He had this incredible little dog named Princess—quiet, smart, and dignified, like she understood city etiquette better than most people. We’d carry her in a bag to the park, and not a peep from her. Not even a bark. She’d just sit there patiently, vibrating with excitement but completely silent until we reached our destination. Same routine on the way back. It was unreal.

My flatmate was fun, charming—a total water polo player-slash-social connector—and he introduced me to everyone. His friends always said we looked like the perfect couple, but I didn’t want to blur the lines. There was definitely a connection, but I wanted to keep things light, friendly, and uncomplicated. And it worked… mostly.

One of the people he introduced me to was Greg Atkin, and he became a major force in shaping my Australian experience. Greg was effortlessly connected—he seemed to know everyone, and more importantly, he brought me into the fold. Boat parties, rooftop gatherings, costume parties—he showed me the best of Bondi and beyond. Through him, I met Elisa, who owned this fabulous Asian costume shop, and we went all out dressing up for theme nights. It was the kind of fun that makes you feel young and alive again.

One time, Greg went on holiday and asked if two Olympic water polo players could crash at the house. Of course, I said yes—and suddenly, I was making avocado toast and poached eggs for literal Olympians. They were down-to-earth, funny, and ended up introducing me to even more of their athletic, gorgeous, successful friends. It was like stepping into a Bondi fantasy—sun-kissed, sporty, social, and full of opportunity.

But I wasn’t just floating through it all. I was determined to work and build a life here—not just vacation. Within three months, I landed a sponsorship with Fairfax Media, which was huge—Australia’s version of NBC meets The New York Times. They brought me on to redesign their website, and my design stayed up for years. It was my first big break in Australia and a major step toward building real roots.

That’s where I met Mel, who quickly became one of my best friends. She was a true-blue Aussie with the warmest heart, and she helped me understand the culture, the humor, the slang—and the subtle differences between Australians and Americans. Through Mel, I was welcomed into a whole group of English and Aussie friends, and suddenly I had a tribe. Sunday roasts became a ritual. I spent holidays with them—Christmas, New Year’s, birthdays—they became my family away from home.

Mel’s wedding was pure magic. Her bachelorette party was wild, and the wedding itself was held near the Australian Zoo with the most breathtaking view. I remember thinking, This is my life now. Surreal and stunning in every way.

At Fairfax, my boss Raji was another gift. He believed in me and pushed hard to get me sponsored. I’ll never forget that. A South African guy with a London-born wife and adorable kids, Raji brought such warmth to the workplace. On my first day, I somehow ended up babysitting his daughters, which still makes me laugh. He’d tell them, “If you want to see Sarah, you’ve gotta behave,” and they’d giggle and call me the Taekwondo girl. It was one of those sweet, strange, only-in-Australia memories that stays with you.

I started to really settle into the rhythm of Australian life. I noticed how everyone seemed to be at the pub by noon, grabbing a beer like it was totally normal. I remember one of my coworkers offering me a pint at lunchtime, and I was like, “It’s noon!”
He laughed and said, “Yeah, exactly.”
The vibe was just so relaxed, so grounded. It was a far cry from the hustle and pretense of LA.

But what truly made Bondi feel like home was the daily beauty all around me. The sunrises and sunsets were next-level. I’d wake up early just to catch that moment the sun cracked over the ocean—pinks, oranges, golds painting the sky. It looked like the universe had its own Instagram filter. And every day at 5pm, Bondi would come alive—people running along the beach, swimming at Icebergs, doing yoga on the cliffs. The energy was addictive.

And yes—I finally swam at Icebergs. It was one of those “pinch me” moments. I remember asking this hot Aussie guy drying off, “How’s the water?”
He smiled, totally casual, and said, “It’s fresh.”
I had no idea that “fresh” was Aussie code for “freezing-your-face-off cold.” But I jumped in anyway, and yep—it was like diving straight into the Antarctic. I came up gasping, laughing, alive. And now I finally understood the name Icebergs. That cold wasn’t just refreshing—it was a rebirth.

Funny enough, after late-night parties or boat days, that icy dip became my go-to hangover cure. It snapped you back to life like nothing else. It was that contrast—from loud, wild nights to quiet, icy mornings by the sea—that made Bondi so special.

That was the rhythm of my life now.
Sun, salt, new friendships, career breakthroughs, and the kind of personal growth you don’t get when everything goes according to plan.
In Bondi, I found freedom, love, purpose, and peace—all wrapped in sea breeze and sunshine.

I hadn’t just landed in Bondi. I had finally landed in my life.

Chapter 24.8: Bondi Bubble

After the fallout with Atkin, walking away from our apartment on Knott Street felt like leaving behind a piece of my soul. That ocean view held so many memories—mornings over coffee, beach walks, and laughter echoing off the waves. But I knew I couldn’t stay in the shadow of something that was no longer mine. I found a cozy little studio just behind our old place, and even though I still woke up to the same ocean view, it now represented something different: a fresh start.

It was in that tiny studio, still healing, that my life began to take a new shape. I met a group of English guys who quickly became my Bondi brothers—funny, protective, and always down for a good time. Christmases turned into beach BBQs, nights blurred into sunrises, and I finally started feeling like myself again.

Then came The Bucket List. That beachside bar became more than a hangout—it was my sanctuary. Sundays (and honestly, Saturdays too) were spent basking in the sun, barefoot with champagne in hand. Eventually, I was a regular. I knew the bartenders, the bouncers, and even the DJ. If someone got stuck outside, they’d call me to help them get in. I went from a broken-hearted girl with a view to someone people recognized and remembered.

But the thing about Bondi is, it’s not just a place—it’s a culture. Aussies live differently. Everything’s casual, abbreviated, and hilarious. Breakfast? “Brekkie.” Sunglasses? “Sunnies.” Presentation? “Prezzo.” It was like learning a new language. And I loved it. Everyone was fit, up at 5 a.m., running along the sand, doing yoga, surfing. It was the healthiest, happiest environment I’d ever lived in.

I even got to check a few things off my bucket list. The Melbourne Cup was like stepping into a fashion runway of bubbly-fueled chaos. When Oliver visited, we went to Icebergs and a water polo event. It was surreal to show him how far I’d come from our Seattle days.

Later, I traveled up to Brisbane to visit Shane Maloney, who I’d first met in London. But it wasn’t all glam—I developed a massive phobia of the giant Aussie cockroaches in his house. After a few too many insect encounters, I bolted to the Great Barrier Reef. 

From the moment I arrived in Queensland, I knew I had to experience the Great Barrier Reef. It had always been one of those bucket list dreams—something I'd seen in nature documentaries but never imagined I’d get to live. As our boat approached the reef, the water transformed into this surreal shade of turquoise so clear you could see all the way down to the coral gardens beneath.

I put on my snorkel and dove in, and that’s when the magic began.

It was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I felt like a little kid again, full of wonder. Schools of vibrant fish darted past me—neon blues, sunny yellows, soft purples—each one looking like it had been painted by an artist. Some came close enough to touch me, completely unbothered by my presence. A sea turtle swam by slowly, like it had all the time in the world. I even spotted a reef shark cruising in the distance, graceful and calm.

Floating above the coral, I was mesmerized by the colors and textures—some soft and swaying with the current, others rigid and sculptural. The reef was alive, breathing, pulsing with energy. I could feel it. And for a few moments, I became part of that world. Everything above the surface disappeared—the noise, the pressure, the plans. Down there, I felt weightless and deeply present, like nothing else existed.

It was humbling too. I was just a tiny dot in this massive, ancient ecosystem, and it reminded me how precious and interconnected life is. I came up for air, grinning, heart full. That day at the Great Barrier Reef changed something in me—it gave me a new appreciation for the planet and a renewed sense of awe for life’s beauty.

My visa journey was a rollercoaster. When Fairfax stopped sponsoring, I bounced around agencies—eventually landing at Saatchi & Saatchi, working on exciting projects for St. George Bank. The office had a view of the Opera House, and I even ran into Gerard Butler at a local coffee shop (yes, that Gerard Butler—on my mood board for years). We chatted about the World Cup. It was one of those pinch-me moments that Bondi kept delivering.

Still, there were hiccups. Visa challenges forced me to temporarily leave Australia, so I jetted off to Bali—somewhere I’d never planned to visit alone. But it turned into three unforgettable weeks. Despite tight funds, the magic of Bali made me feel rich in experience. When I returned, a coworker lent me her Manly Beach apartment, and every morning commute felt like a postcard.

Eventually, I landed a high-paying UX role at an insurance company—$950 per day. It felt surreal. My boss, MC, was amazing. Our team gelled, and I met Claudio, an Italian water polo player who became like a little brother. He and Neil were my go-to guys, my protectors. We ended up at wild Bondi parties, including one where we had to swim through sharky waters in Rose Bay just to get to the boat. It was insane, dangerous, and completely unforgettable.

Amidst all this, I came up with an idea: Bondi Bubble—an app to connect locals and travelers to real-time deals, events, and all things Bondi. With encouragement from coworkers and inspired by Bondi’s startup culture, I self-funded the project. I founded Bondi Interactive, pulled together a team, and started building my dream.

It took off quickly. The app was everywhere. People were downloading, businesses were signing up, and buzz was growing. To celebrate, I threw an epic launch party—penthouse, pool full of bubbles, free drinks, food by Bavarian Café, live DJ, media coverage. The only way in? Show the app on your phone. I dropped $30K into that night—and it was totally worth it.

But success came at a price. I was working insane hours—11 projects at once—juggling UX design, coding, marketing, and pitching investors. I was burning out fast. I had the talent, the idea, and the momentum, but no time to breathe. Eventually, my savings dwindled. The new visa I had made it impossible for companies to hire me. My hands were tied. I was forced to leave Sydney.

The hardest part wasn’t the money—it was the feeling of defeat. I had poured my heart into the Bondi Bubble. And when someone once said, “Be careful the bubble doesn’t burst,” I brushed it off. But when it burst, it stung. Yet even in failure, there were lessons: in resilience, in knowing when to let go, and in recognizing when something isn’t sustainable—no matter how brilliant.

Luckily, the Bondi community held me up. Lee let me crash in Bronte while she traveled to Brazil. And just when I needed it most, Julian gave me a chance at a new company working in cutting-edge virtual and augmented reality. It felt like redemption. I even got to go to Hawaii and work remotely for a few weeks, finally catching my breath after the madness.

Bondi changed me. It healed me, challenged me, and pushed me beyond what I thought I was capable of. The bubble may have burst, but the woman who came out of it? She was stronger, bolder, and more determined than ever.

Bondi didn’t just change me—it woke me up. It stripped away the noise, the doubt, the fear, and left behind someone who knew her worth. The dream might have shifted, but I didn’t lose myself in the process—I found a new version of me. One who’s unshakable, full of fire, and ready for whatever comes next.

Chapter 25: Bali, the Gili Islands, and a Visit to Bruce Lee

I had to leave Australia briefly to switch my visa, and I chose to spend those three weeks in Bali. On the way, I had a layover in Hong Kong—and I knew I had to take that moment to visit the statue of one of my greatest legends: Bruce Lee. Seeing his figure in person, standing strong and fierce on the Avenue of Stars, was surreal. I had always admired his philosophy, his discipline, and the way he pushed boundaries. That moment felt like a tribute, a bow to the warrior spirit in both of us.

But truthfully, I didn’t connect with the city itself—Hong Kong was far too crowded for me. People everywhere, long lines starting as early as 5 a.m., constant noise, and sensory overload. One day there was more than enough. I was ready for something slower, quieter, warmer.

And then… Bali.

I arrived expecting a temporary escape. What I found was a slice of paradise I never wanted to leave.

From the moment I landed, something in my soul softened. The sunsets and sunrises were equally as breathtaking as Bondi’s, casting golden light over rice fields and oceans alike. Bali’s magic hit me fast—and deep.

I spent time in Ubud, immersing myself in yoga classes, breathwork, and long massage sessions that felt like therapy for my body and spirit. I met an extraordinary woman there—an important local figure—who took me under her wing. She had a private driver and insisted on showing me around the island. Her kindness was humbling, and I’ll never forget how she cared for me like an angel sent straight from heaven.

Then there were the Gili Islands—my little heaven on earth. No cars, no chaos. Just sandy paths, bicycles, and horse-drawn carts that acted as taxis. It took two hours to walk around the entire island, and I did it often. There, life slowed down completely.

I met the owner of a beachfront hotel, formed a tribe with fellow travelers, and watched the sunset every single night with music in the background and gratitude in my heart. We laughed, danced barefoot, shared stories, and existed without pressure. No stress, no urgency. Just being. Just living. It was one of the happiest and most peaceful times of my life.

The connections I made there were real—true brothers and sisters who understood the beauty of simplicity. Every day felt sacred, like time had paused just for us to remember what life could feel like when we let go of fear and expectation.

When my Australian visa was finally approved, I had to leave the island… and I cried. Saying goodbye to that energy, that peace, those people—it hurt. But I left carrying Bali within me.

I love Bali.
It reminded me that joy doesn't need permission.
That paradise is often a place—but also a feeling.
And that sometimes, the greatest journeys are the ones we never planned.

Chapter 26: Aloha Hawaii

After everything that happened in Australia, I needed a fresh start. I decided to leave everything behind and head to Hawaii, intending to stay for just two weeks. I packed light with only a carry-on, leaving my entire one-bedroom apartment—couch, bed, fridge, washing machine—safely in storage. Little did I know, those two weeks turned into 3 years.

Hawaii was a complete escape. The North Shore’s breathtaking beaches were mostly empty, and I loved the solitude. There, I was able to connect deeply with nature, watch beautiful sunsets, and witness the whales—mothers who traveled from Alaska to give birth. They’d leap out of the water, sometimes 30 times in a row, in an incredible display of life and resilience. It felt like a scene from a Vegas fountain, but even more majestic and powerful.

What stood out the most to me was the constant presence of rainbows, especially after the daily rains. The temperature was perfect—always around 70°F—and the surrounding mountains seemed to take on mystical forms, with faces carved into the landscape. There was something magical about it all. And on top of that, I found peace. It was the first time I felt free from the pressures of the world, a chance to truly reconnect with myself and with God.

Hawaiian culture has such an interesting connection to England, from their flag to various aspects of their traditions. Even though it’s an American state now, it has deep roots from when England had control over it. I really started enjoying learning about the culture, especially the history of the surfers, the ancient kings, and the unique traditions that are still alive today. It felt like I was discovering a whole new world of rich history and vibrant community, and it made my time there even more special.

Even though it felt like paradise, most people living there were retired or had achieved a lot of success. I met all sorts of people—from surfers to artists, and even some of the daHui, who were known to have a gangster reputation. But what was interesting was how multi-dimensional everyone was. You’d think of them one way, but then you’d get to know them and realize there was so much more underneath, like a whole different side to their story. It was such a unique mix of people from all walks of life, and it added to the richness of the experience.

But even in paradise, things weren’t always as serene as they seemed. Some people were caught up in drugs, and there were whispers about UFOs and portals that added a layer of mystery. Life wasn’t always perfect, but there was a sense of freedom that I hadn’t experienced anywhere else.

Still, there were challenges. The darker side of Hawaii came to light when I faced some dangerous situations— I came face-to-face with my own vulnerability, but throughout it all, I felt an overwhelming sense of protection from my daddy and God. The journey tested me in ways I hadn’t expected, but it was through those trials that I found my true strength.

In many ways, it felt like a life lesson wrapped in a paradise, like the plot of The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio, but for me, it happened in Hawaii. I was in this dreamlike state, surrounded by beauty, but the reality I faced was far from perfect. Yet, despite all the hardships, I emerged stronger and more connected to my faith.

Looking back now, I realize how much Hawaii changed me. It was probably one of the hardest chapters of my life, but it completely reshaped who I am today. I’ve survived hell and come out the other side—stronger, wiser, and more connected to the world around me. It was a journey of self-discovery and resilience, one that I will never forget.

The waves on the North Shore were unlike anything I’d ever seen before. They were massive—some as tall as three-story buildings, reaching up to 60 feet high. It was awe-inspiring to watch them crash and curl, each wave powerful and unpredictable. I could spend hours just sitting there, mesmerized by their sheer size and force. Watching surfers tackle these giants was incredible, their skill and bravery in the face of such massive waves left me in awe. There was something so raw and beautiful about it all, a reminder of nature’s power and the strength required to ride it.

I’ll never forget my first time at Waimea Bay. I went to check out the waves, thinking I had it under control. I mean, I knew how to surf and could read the ocean pretty well, but this wave… it was like the water had a mind of its own. Out of nowhere, it pulled me in, dragging me farther from the shore. I was so far out, and the power of the water was unreal. I remember feeling pure fear as the waves yanked me back into the ocean. There was no escape, no way to fight it. The lifeguard was just watching me, and I tried to stay calm, thinking, “Just breathe, keep it cool.” Then, as if the ocean decided to spare me, a wave came and spit me right out, flinging me up beside the lifeguard. He looked down at me with a little grin, clearly amused, but I couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief and awe. That moment really showed me the force of the ocean and how tiny we are in the face of it.

It was crazy to watch, honestly. The kids would just dive straight into these massive waves with no hesitation. I’d be standing there, feeling my heart race, thinking, “Where did they go?!” As the foam from the waves engulfed them, I’d panic, thinking they were lost beneath the surface, but then—just like magic—their little heads would pop up a few seconds later, further down the beach, giggling as if it was the best thing ever. Their parents would be watching calmly, not a trace of worry. Meanwhile, I was freaking out, wondering how they could stay so cool in the face of something so powerful. It was like these kids were completely in sync with the ocean, as if it was part of them. The lesson was clear—when you’re relaxed and just go with the flow, things seem to work out. But the moment you tense up, that’s when the fear takes over. It reminded me so much of life—sometimes, when we stop resisting, we flow through challenges more effortlessly.

Chapter 26.2:  Aloha Spirit 2.0

After everything that happened in Australia, I knew I needed a fresh start. I booked a two-week getaway to Hawaii—just me, a carry-on, and a vague idea of hitting the reset button. I left everything behind: my apartment, my furniture, my whole Australian life packed up and in storage. I thought I’d dip into paradise, regroup, and return with fresh energy. But those two weeks turned into three years.

Hawaii was the kind of escape I didn’t know I needed. The North Shore welcomed me with empty beaches, towering waves, and a calm that felt like medicine for the soul. I’d wake up to perfect 70-degree mornings, take long walks by the water, and watch whales breach like clockwork, their movements almost choreographed—mothers who had made the long journey from Alaska just to give birth in these safe, warm waters. It was nature in its most divine form, like watching life dance in front of your eyes.

Rainbows became a daily occurrence. The skies would open for a quick rain, and minutes later, a rainbow would stretch across the island like a sign from the universe. The mountains took on mythical shapes, sometimes looking like faces carved by the gods. The energy was powerful, sacred. It was the first time in a long time that I truly felt still. Free. Reconnected to myself—and to God.

There was so much to learn. I was fascinated by Hawaii’s unexpected connection to England—from the flag to remnants of colonial influence—and even more intrigued by the rich Polynesian traditions that remained deeply embedded in everyday life. The stories of ancient kings, warriors, and the original surfers added another layer of respect to the land and sea I was quickly falling in love with.

But Hawaii wasn’t just postcard sunsets and soothing breezes. It was layered, complicated. Most people I met were retired or incredibly successful, the kind of people who had either escaped the rat race or mastered it. Artists, surfers, spiritual seekers—even members of the da Hui, who carried both reverence and a bit of a gangster reputation. And yet, no one was what they first seemed. These were multidimensional people, all living stories deeper than the surface revealed.

There was also a darker side. Some locals struggled with drugs, others with mental health. Whispers of UFO sightings and spiritual portals floated around like urban legends—or maybe truths, who knows. There was a surreal quality to it all, like living in a dream that occasionally slipped into a nightmare.

I worked on a farm for a while in the North Shore—trying to get back to basics. But the peace was short-lived. The farmer and workers smoked so much weed that it clouded the air—and eventually, my judgment. The farmer started saying strange things, things he shouldn’t have known about me. I felt exposed, like I was being watched, not seen. The spiritual paradise began to twist, and my intuition screamed: Get out.

So I pivoted—fast. I took on web design work again and moved back into a hostel, hoping for a fresh start. But that was short-lived too. A man staying there made me feel unsafe. When I reported him, the owner took his side and kicked me out. Suddenly I was in the middle of a tourist season, homeless in paradise.

Then, a blessing: a local guy named Bob, who worked for a surf brand, offered me a room and a job. He wasn’t perfect—he drank, smoked—but he gave me safety and space to breathe. We formed a strange but comforting bond, and for a while, it felt like things were stabilizing.

Until the day I fainted in his car.

I saw the white light—like the white light. Something inside me let go. When I came to, I was at the hospital, being poked and scanned. No explanation. Just a warning from my body that it had had enough. Bob became overprotective after that, insisting I stay inside and rest, but I started to feel trapped again.

And just like that, another miracle: an old friend called out of the blue and offered me a web design gig for her yoga brand. I said yes instantly. That project was my lifeline. It gave me the money and motivation to find a quieter, healthier place to live. Slowly, I started healing—working, creating, praying, and letting go of the trauma that had followed me through so many time zones.

But the ocean never stopped teaching me.

At Waimea Bay, I thought I understood the waves. I was wrong. One rogue current dragged me deep, far from shore. The lifeguard just watched, calm, like he knew I had to ride it out. And somehow, I did. A final wave tossed me back to land—bruised, breathless, but alive. It was the perfect metaphor for Hawaii: stunning, terrifying, humbling. It could kill you—or set you free.

I’ll never forget watching the local kids tackle those monster waves. No fear. Just flow. I’d panic every time they disappeared under the foam, but they’d pop up downstream, laughing like it was nothing. Their parents didn’t even flinch. That was the key—surrender. You fight the wave, it crushes you. You ride with it, it carries you. Just like life.

Hawaii broke me open and stitched me back together. It was the hardest, rawest, most sacred chapter of my life. Not everything was pretty. But everything was real. And real is what changes you.

Chapter 26.3: The Hawaiian Awakening — Faith, Survival, and Spiritual Rebirth

It all began in Hawaii, a place I never expected to call home. I arrived thinking I needed rest—a little sunshine, ocean air, maybe a chance to reset. What I got instead was a full-blown spiritual initiation. The island didn’t just give me a break from the world—it cracked me open and remade me from the inside out.

At first, it was quiet. Peaceful. Healing. Bob, a kind-hearted man I met on the North Shore, offered me shelter and a job when I needed it most. His life was far from perfect—he drank, smoked, partied—but there was safety in his presence. In a time of instability, his generosity anchored me.

But peace can be deceptive. One ordinary afternoon, I bit into a piece of chocolate that changed everything. Unbeknownst to me, it was loaded with psychedelic mushrooms—enough to send five people on a trip. I had eaten the whole thing.

What followed was terrifying and surreal. The world twisted around me. The trees leaned in like they were alive, and shadows stretched into shapes I couldn’t comprehend. I lost my sense of space and time. I collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed, my body heavy and shaking. All I could do was pray.

“God, please. Please bring me back. Please don’t let me lose myself.”

Somehow, I was taken to the ER. They ran test after test but found no clear cause. No diagnosis. Just confusion. Yet deep inside, I knew what had happened. I had touched something beyond myself—something I wasn’t ready for. And yet, I had been spared. That night, I went to sleep shaken, but grateful.

The next day, I tried to go on with life as usual, but nothing felt normal. Reality kept blurring at the edges. I ended up at dinner with two nurses—both strangers, yet strangely familiar. One of them, it turned out, had been at the hospital when I had fainted weeks earlier with Bob. It felt like divine choreography, like I was being shown: You are seen. You are not alone.

But then it all took another strange turn. As the evening wore on, the people around me began to shift—literally. Their faces distorted. Their energy changed. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was imagined. It felt like I was slipping into another realm, and fear started to take hold.

But instead of panic, something inside me clicked into place. I remembered my training in Taekwondo, the discipline, the control. More than that, I remembered my faith. I closed my eyes and grounded myself in God, in truth. This is not real. You are safe. You are held.

Eventually, I escaped to a quiet beach and watched the ocean, trying to center myself. That’s when I saw them—strange lights in the sky, moving in impossible ways. UFOs? Portals? I don’t know. But I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I felt... awake. Like the veil between this world and the next had been lifted, just for a moment.

Time lost all meaning. The experience stretched for hours, maybe days. But eventually, I returned—shaken, exhausted, and somehow more me than ever before. I was told later that what I had taken was five doses in one. It should have broken me. And maybe, in some ways, it did.

But it also rebuilt me.

Back at home, my flatmate—who happened to be a nurse—helped me make sense of everything. She’d seen the signs of trauma and guided me through recovery. Ironically, the same woman who helped me through my darkest night had her own breakdown not long after. I’ll never forget that day.

It was the royal wedding—Harry and Meghan’s big day. I was curled up on the couch watching the celebration when she burst through the door, pale and trembling.

“I think I just hit someone,” she whispered, then broke into sobs.

It was jarring—this woman who always held it together, now falling apart. I listened as she recounted the panic, the blur of headlights, the confusion. She wasn’t sure what had happened, and the uncertainty was eating her alive. I stayed calm, grounded her, reminded her we’d figure it out together. In that surreal moment, it felt like the world had flipped upside down—her crisis clashing with the fairytale unfolding on TV. But that’s life, isn’t it? Light and dark. Celebration and chaos. Intertwined.

In the days that followed, I reflected deeply on everything Hawaii had shown me. I had faced fear, near-death, and visions beyond explanation. But I had also touched the divine. I had felt God’s presence more vividly than ever before—not in a church, not through a sermon, but in the raw, unfiltered intensity of survival.

Hawaii stripped me down and built me back with faith as my foundation. It wasn’t a simple spiritual retreat. It was a wild, messy, holy transformation. I entered that chapter lost, fragile, still running from old pain. I left it alive. Awake. And finally, whole.

Chapter 26.4: Waves of Change

Hawaii had always carried a mystique for me—an image of paradise, healing, and spiritual connection. But the truth? It was wild. Chaotic. Raw in ways that caught me off guard.

When my flatmate—who had become a friend—decided to move to the Big Island, it made sense. She needed calm. We both did. The energy on Oahu had become too unpredictable. The crowds, the unpredictability of people, and the emotional ups and downs made the island feel unstable.

Soon after she left, the owner of the house I was living in dropped a bomb: he was moving back in. Something about his energy felt off, but I didn’t question it right away. I decided I’d rent a room from him again after my travels. I was leaving for Brazil, then Montana, and thought maybe space and distance would give me clarity. I was wrong.

When I came back, the cracks split wide open.

At first, things were okay. I started working on the Aloha Bubble project—an e-commerce dream infused with the essence of Hawaii. I was selling everything from coasters to photography gear to yoga mats, all tied to the island’s vibe. My designs were strong. The photography was stunning. People were excited. I could feel something big brewing.

But success has a way of revealing people’s true colors.

One night, out of nowhere, the landlord told me he wanted 3% of my business. Just like that. As if I owed him a slice of something I’d built with my own hands. I refused. And that’s when things turned dark. The tension grew until it snapped. He tried to hit me. I defended myself, instinctively, thanks to years of Taekwondo. But in a cruel twist of irony, I was the one arrested.

That moment shattered something in me. I had stood up for myself and still ended up in handcuffs, sitting in a cold cell while the man who attacked me went home. He had connections. He worked with the government. The system failed me.

When I was released, I discovered that everything I owned had been thrown onto the street—my iPad, passport, hard drives, artwork. Years of my life, dumped like trash.

A friend, Dahui, came to my rescue. He offered me shelter, and for a while, I thought I’d find stability again. But the chaos kept following me. A restraining order was issued against me by the landlord. I couldn’t go back to collect anything that was left. I was a ghost in the place I had once called home.

Eventually, even Dahui had to let me go.

With nowhere else to turn, a neighbor I barely knew—someone from the nearby farm—invited me into his home. He was physically limited, quiet, smoked a little weed. He lived with his daughter and had a calm way about him. It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe. And that was enough.

Still, the energy on the island was shifting. I could feel it closing in on me. One night, he looked at me and said: You gotta go. No explanation. Just that. And I knew—my time here was over.

I didn’t argue. I packed up everything into a rental car and left. I didn’t even know where I was going. My only options were the hostel (which had never felt safe), or Turtle Bay, the luxury resort up north. I couldn’t afford it, not really, but I booked a few nights anyway.

Turtle Bay was calm. Clean. Safe. And wildly expensive. But I needed to breathe. One evening, I saw Medina, the Brazilian surfer, with his family. For a split second, I wanted to run up to him and say, Take me home. But I didn’t. He didn’t owe me anything. Just because we spoke Portuguese didn’t mean we shared anything beyond that. I stayed quiet and watched him walk away, like a reminder of a world I once belonged to.

Everything was unraveling. I tried to call my grandma—my anchor—but each time, my family blocked it. She’s tired. She’s sleeping. Maybe later. But I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. My grandma didn’t need to speak to connect. Just breathing together over the phone was enough for us. That was our prayer. Our language.

Hawaiians believe this land is the last place God created before resting. That the island is a gateway, the final point before the soul moves on. Maybe that’s why it tests people the way it does—because it’s sacred. I believed that. Still do.

One of my last nights at Turtle Bay, I tried to soak it all in. I sat in the jacuzzi under the stars, barefoot. But the cold crept in. I’d had frostbite in Alaska before, and my body never really recovered. I fainted. I don’t remember much, only that the staff treated me like a nuisance. Like I didn’t belong. I wasn’t a guest anymore, and they made sure I knew it.

The paramedics came. I was half-conscious. Shivering. One of them handed me a thin blanket, and I just kept saying, I’m so cold. But they didn’t really care. I realized then how invisible I had become.

So I left.

Everything I had—my designs, my business, my dreams—was on pause. I bought a ticket back to Montana. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t part of the plan. But it felt like the only place left to go.

I didn’t know what I was walking into. But I knew what I was walking away from: chaos, betrayal, abandonment—and somehow, also magic. Because even in all the darkness, Hawaii had shown me something I couldn’t unsee. That I was stronger than I thought. That I could survive the unraveling.

This wasn’t the end.

It was just the tide pulling back… before the next wave arrived.

Chapter 27: Montana

Montana greeted me not with peace, but with silence—the kind that stretches across wide open spaces and echoes back everything you’ve tried to outrun. The mountains stood tall and still, as if waiting for me to break. I came here thinking I would find rest, maybe even healing. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the call that shattered everything.

It was my cousins. Their voices were calm, but I could feel something underneath. And then they said it—Grandma was gone. Just like that. The woman who had been the anchor to my storm, the voice in the silence, the prayer behind every risk I’d taken—gone.

At first, I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. I thought it was a misunderstanding, or worse, some kind of twisted joke. Maybe they were hiding something. Maybe she was still there, waiting for my call. I ran through every conversation I’d missed, every unanswered instinct to reach out. I had tried—three weekends in a row—but something always got in the way. Now I knew why.

They said it started with her knees, but that wasn’t it. The doctors found water in her lungs. Within days, she was in the hospital, tubes in her, unable to speak. And then they stopped feeding her. Just like that. No final words. No goodbye. I never got to hear her voice again.

The grief didn’t come all at once. It arrived like a tide, steady and suffocating. One moment I was numb, the next I was breaking down in the middle of the kitchen floor. I kept hearing her voice in my head—her soft breath, the way she would just sit with me in silence, letting our spirits talk when words didn’t matter.

She had always known me in a way no one else ever did. She saw past the noise, the chaos, the masks. She saw my soul. Losing her wasn’t just losing a person—it was losing a lifeline to everything pure, everything grounding. My compass had vanished.

That night, I hit my breaking point.

The pain, the confusion, the weight of everything I had endured—it was too much. I sat in the dark, the gun in my hand heavier than anything I’d ever held. It wasn't just a weapon. It was the culmination of every heartbreak, every betrayal, every moment I had felt alone. I understood, for the first time, how people could find themselves on the edge. I was on that edge.

But then, I heard her.

Not audibly, but in that way you feel someone who’s always been part of your bones. Her voice came to me, soft and strong, like it had been countless times before. “You fall nine times, you get up ten.” And just like that, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her down.

I got in my car and drove to the lake. The water glimmered under the moonlight like it was waiting for me. I stood there, tears pouring down my face, holding the gun. I whispered to her, to the sky, to whatever God was listening to. Then I threw it—far into the lake. I watched it disappear beneath the surface, swallowed whole by the stillness. And I felt something lift, just a little.

She was there. Not in body, but in spirit. I could feel her with me.

The next few days were strange. I started acting differently—out of character, like I was being pulled by something unseen. I began using my stepfather’s china, this delicate tea set passed down from his mother. I didn’t know why, but each night I would make a cup of tea and leave it by the window. It felt like a ritual, like a gift for the spirits—like the offerings Hawaiians leave for their ancestors. Maybe it was my way of reaching her, of saying, “I remember you.”

I still wanted to go back to Hawaii. Some strange part of me believed her spirit was there, as if I’d find her between the waves and winds. But just as that pull grew stronger, my body gave out. My back seized up again—worse than before. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t move. I was stuck in bed, paralyzed by pain. And maybe that was the universe’s way of saying, not yet. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face the island again.

I laid there for days, asking myself the same questions over and over. Was I being punished? Was this a test? Or was it just life—raw and unrelenting?

But slowly, something shifted. The grief didn’t go away, but it softened around the edges. I started hearing her more clearly in the quiet moments. Her strength lived in me, whether I was ready to see it or not. The tea became more than a ritual—it became a reminder. A symbol that even in the smallest things, we find connection.

Montana wasn’t peaceful, but it was honest. It stripped everything down to the core. It gave me space to fall apart and the stillness to start putting myself back together. And somewhere in the middle of that pain, I realized I didn’t need to chase her. She was never gone. She was in every breath I took. In the quiet, in the ritual, in the rising every morning when all I wanted was to stay down.

She was with me. And that meant I could keep going.

For her.
For me.
For everything still waiting to be written.

Chapter 28 La La Land

After leaving Montana, I headed back to L.A. to stay with Norm. It was December, and though the city was drenched in holiday lights, I felt anything but festive. I stayed with him through March, but even with Norm’s attempts to support me, I was drifting further into my own darkness. Every day felt like I was just going through the motions.

Norm’s place was supposed to be a safe space, but my mind was everywhere. I started smoking weed again, trying to numb the pain that kept resurfacing. Being back in California brought mixed emotions. The weather was sunny, but I felt an ever-growing cloud hanging over me. I spent days driving aimlessly around the freeways, not really knowing where I was going but never feeling like I truly belonged anywhere.

At night, Norm would try to talk some sense into me. Woodry, along with everyone else, had already told me that going back to Hawaii would be a mistake. But despite their warnings, my heart kept pulling me there. I couldn’t explain it. It was like my grandma was still reaching out to me, and Hawaii was the only place where I felt I could reconnect with her spirit. The urge was undeniable, even though I knew it was madness to go back to an island that had nearly swallowed me whole before.

Finally, against everyone’s advice, I made the decision to return to Hawaii. It was as if my heart had already made the choice for me.

…I was retracing every step, every memory, like I was searching for some kind of answer hidden in the places that once meant so much to me. The Hollywood Bowl, with its breathtaking view at sunrise, became a quiet refuge where I could just sit and let my thoughts drift. Some mornings, I’d drive up Mulholland Drive, winding through those familiar curves, taking in the city below that felt both comforting and alien all at once.

I visited all the old spots, from Beverly Glen, my old house to the small apartment I used to rent on Lexington in West Hollywood. I would drive past the houses in Bel Air where we used to party, the laughter echoing in my mind like it was yesterday. I even made my way out to Zuma Beach, where I once pushed myself through the grueling Disney Malibu triathlon. It was like I was trying to collect pieces of my past, hoping that revisiting them would somehow stitch together the broken parts inside me.

But instead of finding clarity, all I found was a deeper sense of loss. The memories were there, vivid and bright, but they felt like they belonged to someone else—someone happier, someone who still believed in the magic of new beginnings.

Revisiting all those places was comforting because L.A. has always been the city of angels to me. It’s where I feel most at home, where the city itself seems to open its arms and welcome me back every time. L.A. is where I truly discovered who I was. I came here as a baby, just in my twenties, and it shaped so much of who I am today. It’s where I found my footing, my confidence, my dreams.

Being back here felt like the city was whispering to me, reminding me of those dreams. This is where it all starts, right? People come here searching for something — to become superstars, to find themselves, or to chase the wildest possibilities. L.A. is that kind of place, magical yet tricky. You can easily get lost if you don’t know your way, but for me, every road here seems to lead back to myself. Every corner, every drive down Sunset or Mulholland, it’s like a familiar embrace, calming my restless heart.

I was still in the middle of figuring out who I was after all the chaos. I had a lot of unresolved emotions, and I was struggling to find my footing again. Being in LA seemed like the right place for me to reconnect with myself. It had always been the city where I found peace, where I had discovered so much of who I was, back when I was younger and chasing dreams.

I spent my days in the city I loved—driving around, visiting all the places that had once meant something to me. The Hollywood Bowl, Mulholland Drive, my old apartment in West Hollywood—all these places reminded me of who I used to be. I felt like LA had always embraced me, and this time it felt like home once more. The magic of the city, the energy, the constant sense of possibility, it gave me a sense of comfort, even though I was still grappling with my grief.

After everything escalated with Norm, I knew I had to make a choice. I broke the window out of frustration, and in the aftermath, I called 911. I wasn’t sure what I had just done, but I knew I needed help. When the authorities arrived, they took me to the hospital, but by the time I got back, all of my stuff was out in his yard. It was like déjà vu from everything I had gone through back in Hawaii, when I had lived in that house with a difficult landlord. But this time, it felt even worse—Norm, who was supposed to be like a father figure to me, was treating me like a stranger.

I went back to his house to knock on the door, trying to make sense of the situation. But instead of getting any answers, Norm called the cops on me. In LA, things can get tense fast, and within moments, the police were at his door. It was surreal. One wrong move, and it could have gone very differently. The cops were quick, their flashlights blinding me in the night, and all I could do was stay calm. They told me Norm didn’t want me there anymore, and they refused to let me stay or take my belongings. He had my car keys, my computer, everything—basically, all of my personal possessions.

I had nothing but my wallet. I was in Pasadena, which is so far from anywhere familiar, especially in a city like LA where everything is spread out. There was no hotel around, no place that felt safe or welcoming. I had nowhere to go. I didn’t want to burden any of my friends—I thought they’d see me as someone causing drama. I didn’t even have anyone’s phone number anymore. I’d lost everything when I lost my phone, and even though I had friends from college and from my time at Disney and NBC, it felt like too much to ask of them.

I tried to find a police station to get some guidance, but LA is massive, and every station I went to send me to another one farther away. I was walking for hours—two, maybe three hours—through dark streets, not sure if I was being reckless or just trying to find something that made sense. In the end, I found a place near a river and sat there, feeling like I had no choice but to rest. It wasn’t safe to keep walking, but I couldn’t find the strength to go on. I prayed for my family—my grandma, my dad, my grandpa—to watch over me. I stayed there, trying to calm myself, and waited for the light to return so I could try again.

When the sun came up, I made my way to another station and finally spoke to an officer. He listened to my story but explained the situation in a way that made it clear: there wasn’t much they could do. Norm co-signed for the car, so technically, it was both of ours. Even though I paid for it, the legal situation was a gray area. They couldn’t just go to his house and take it. I understood the logic, but I also knew that without that car in LA, I might as well be stranded.

At that point, Norm offered to pay for one Uber ride, but that was it. I had no car, no real options, and I had to figure out where to go next. My first instinct was to head back to West Hollywood. It was familiar to me, a place I knew, and I thought it might give me some comfort. I also considered reaching out to my hairdresser, someone who had always been there for me. But I didn’t want to burden him with all my chaos, even though I knew he would help if I asked.

I thought about Andrea, a college friend, and others I knew from Disney and NBC. But I didn’t feel ready to ask them for help. The whole situation felt complicated. Eventually, I realized that heading back to West Hollywood was my best choice. It was the neighborhood I knew best. At least there, I’d have the chance to breathe, even if I didn’t have a clear plan. But even then, it wasn’t as simple as just showing up. My stuff was still at Norm’s house, and I couldn’t even get to it. I had things that meant the world to me—my Taekwondo medals, old photos of my family, my Disney memorabilia. Those things were part of my past, my memories, the pieces of who I was before everything spiraled.

But now, all of that felt so distant. It was hard to let go of the thought of losing those items—things I had kept because I planned to pass them on someday. But in that moment, all I could do was move forward, hoping that things would settle down soon. Maybe it was time to let go of the physical stuff and focus on what really mattered: finding my way forward and taking care of myself.

It all started when I lost everything. I was in West Hollywood—a place that once felt like home—but standing there, I felt completely disconnected. No money. No plan. Just me walking down Santa Monica Boulevard, as if my whole world had crumbled around me. I wasn’t just physically lost. I was spiritually, emotionally, mentally unmoored. It felt like I had nothing. No anchor. No purpose.

Then, out of nowhere, I met a group of drag queens—tall, powerful women dressed in glittering Chanel bags, towering heels, and diamonds sparkling under the harsh LA lights. They were radiant. Fierce. And somehow, they saw me.

They didn’t hesitate. They walked right up and wrapped me in this massive, unapologetic group hug. There was warmth, there was love. Real, human connection in the middle of the chaos. They didn’t ask for explanations. They didn’t need to. It was like they just knew. And for a brief moment, I felt held—by people who didn’t know me but saw me anyway.

Still, I wasn’t ready to talk. I needed to be alone. I hugged them back, thanked them softly, and walked away. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just needed silence. Space. Time to process.

I headed to Equinox. That gym had always been a place where I could lose myself, sweat out the noise, and fall into the quiet between moments. I went straight into the sauna, hoping the heat might melt away the storm in my mind. The steam enveloped me. I sat still, eyes staring through the glass toward the Hollywood Hills, and for a second—I felt her. My grandmother. Like a soft whisper in my ear reminding me I wasn’t alone. That everything would, somehow, be okay.

That’s when my phone rang. It was Jaron.

He’s one of my closest friends, the kind of friend who knows all the mess and madness of your life—and sticks around anyway. We met in Amsterdam during one of my lowest lows, and ever since, he’s been one of those people who always seems to show up at just the right time.

He was in LA, staying at The Standard downtown. “Come stay with me,” he said before I could even explain. “I’ve got a room. Crash here, no questions asked.”

I didn’t argue. I grabbed an Uber and went straight there. That hotel felt like a slice of my old world—familiar but also distant. When I arrived, he wasn’t there yet. Typical Jaron—running late. He finally arrived, exhausted. I could see it in his eyes. He apologized, over and over, saying he had a big meeting the next day and needed to sleep. I told him it was fine. I didn’t want to unload all my chaos on him. I said I was okay, even if I wasn’t.

He passed out, and I wandered the hotel alone, still buzzing from the inside out. The Standard was full of the usual Hollywood mix: celebrities, influencers, and people who didn’t know who they were pretending to be someone they weren’t. You couldn’t tell who was real and who wasn’t—so I just treated everyone like they mattered.

I had some surprisingly deep conversations that night. Strangers asking me about Allah. About faith. About purpose. Random, but also not. It felt like the universe was nudging me. Asking me to look inward. To face myself.

By the time Jaron left the next morning, he was rushing out again. Always busy, always on. But before he walked out the door, he turned to me and said, “The room’s paid for another night. Eat, drink, smoke—whatever you need. Just rest. We’ll catch up later.”

That small gesture hit hard. I didn’t need much—but just knowing someone had my back in a tangible way meant everything. He didn’t have to say a lot. I already felt the care in his silence.

That morning, I decided I was leaving LA.

It was time to go back to Hawaii.

Despite everything that had happened there—despite the pain, the chaos—I knew I needed to return. It was the only place that felt even remotely like home.

I called Woodrie, my best friend in Alaska. She’s always been solid—calm in the storm. I didn’t get into the details. Just told her I needed to go back. That Hawaii was where I needed to heal. Without hesitation, she helped me with the ticket. No judgment. No twenty questions. Just, “Be safe.”

At the airport, waiting for my flight, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while: peace. A flicker of hope. I knew I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I was on my way. Back to my roots. Back to the ocean. Back to spirit.

As the plane lifted off and I stared out the window at the clouds below, I felt something shift inside me. The worst had passed. I had survived. And I was still here.

Still standing.

Still flying.

Back to Hawaii—where the real healing would begin.

Chapter 29: The Return to Aloha
As I boarded the plane back to Hawaii, a familiar calm settled over me. The chaos of the airport slowly faded as I found my seat, buckled in, and gazed out the window. The world below grew smaller, and my heart felt lighter. This wasn’t just a trip—it was a return. A return to a place that had once held me, healed me, and reshaped my view of life. Hawaii wasn’t just a destination. It was a feeling. A rhythm. A spirit. It was aloha.

I slipped on my headphones and pressed play. Whitney Houston’s “When You Believe” filled my ears. That song had carried me through countless storms, and in that moment, it felt like a prayer. A reminder that faith—even the tiniest seed of it—could move mountains. Matthew 17:20 echoed in my mind: “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, nothing will be impossible.” I closed my eyes, letting Whitney’s voice wash over me. Hope was rising again.

Above the clouds, I began to reflect—not just on the journey ahead, but on the legends who’d shaped the way I see the world.

I thought of Ayrton Senna. The fearless Formula 1 driver who lived on the edge of life and death every time he got behind the wheel. Watching his story during some of my darkest days reminded me: pressure is a privilege. He faced death with grace and passion, dying while doing what he loved. If he could meet fear with such courage, surely I could face my own battles with that same fire.

Then came the beautiful game—futebol. My mind flashed to Neymar at the 2016 Olympics. Brazil, still haunted by the 7–1 defeat in 2014, carried the weight of redemption on his shoulders. And with one final, perfect penalty, he gave the nation what it had been aching for—hope. That wasn’t just a gold medal; it was healing.

And of course, R9—Ronaldo, the original. The man who collapsed with a seizure and still stood up to play. His strength wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual. The day I fainted in Hawaii, terrified and vulnerable, I thought of him. If he could rise again, so could I.

My thoughts drifted deeper into the Pacific. To the soul of Hawaii.

Eddie Aikau.

His name is more than legend—it’s a symbol of love, courage, and sacrifice. Eddie was the first lifeguard at Waimea Bay, braving monstrous waves to save over 500 lives. But it was his final act that defines him most. When the Hōkūleʻa canoe capsized, Eddie paddled into the open ocean, chasing help that would never come. He never made it back, but his spirit lives on—in the water, in the waves, in every act of courage. Eddie would go. That’s not just a slogan. It’s a philosophy. A way of life.

That’s aloha: risking everything out of love, giving without needing anything in return. It’s the divine breath in all of us. The heartbeat of these islands.

As the flight attendants passed through the aisle with snacks and smiles, I felt another wave of gratitude. For legends. For their stories. For the way they find us exactly when we need them.

Below us, the islands began to appear—emerald mountains rising from sapphire seas, like guardians of the sacred truth. My heart fluttered. I was almost home.

I remembered what Oprah always says: energy doesn’t lie. What you put out, you get back. That’s the magic of manifestation, of alignment, of being in flow with the universe.

I began thinking about all the other legends—big and small—that have shaped my journey. Tupac. Michael Jackson. Whitney. Icons who spoke to my soul through music and truth. But then, there are the unsung ones too.

Like Tams—my dear friend with Alzheimer’s—whose laughter and joy reminded me that even in fading memory, love remains.

Like the drag queens in West Hollywood, glittering under city lights, who embraced me when I was lost and reminded me that family doesn’t always have to be blood. Sometimes, it’s found in hugs, rhinestones, and radical compassion.

Legends are everywhere. They aren’t always rich or famous. Sometimes they’re just someone who shows up when you need them. A stranger with a kind word. A friend who pays for your flight when you can’t. A client who calls at just the right time. Proof that the universe is listening.

Matthew 7:7 floated to the front of my mind: “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened.” It’s in those quiet, serendipitous moments—when you think no one’s watching—that the door creaks open and you realize: God was there the whole time.

The plane touched down, wheels hitting the tarmac with a soft thud. I stepped out and the warm, humid air wrapped around me like an old friend. The scent of plumeria. The whisper of palm leaves swaying in the wind. I was back.

Back to the land of Aloha. To the rhythm of waves. To the stillness of the mountains and the pulse of the earth.

But this time, I wasn’t the same.

This time, I returned stronger. Wiser. With stories etched into my soul. With faith in my bones. With aloha in my breath.

I was ready—to give, to receive, to rise.

Because once you’ve known the spirit of aloha, you never walk alone.

Chapter 29.1: My Legends, Spirit Gods

There are those who walk beside us, even when we can't see them. Guiding us, whispering truths into our hearts, lifting us when we fall. I call them my Legends—a divine entourage made of spirit gods, icons, artists, friends, ancestors, and protectors who have shaped me, inspired me, and continue to lead me forward.

Whitney Houston, my queen of strength and soul. Her song "The Greatest Love of All" taught me to love myself first. "My Love is Your Love" and "Step by Step" carried me through days of doubt.

Tupac Shakur—Makaveli—your words, "California Love," "Keep Ya Head Up," and "Only God Can Judge Me," reminded me to fight, to believe, to keep going.

Eminem stirred the fire in me with "Lose Yourself" and "I’m Not Afraid." He reminded me that I am never alone in the storm.

Kobe Bryant, Senna, Pelé, Ronaldo R9, Neymar—legends of the field and court who made the impossible look easy and taught the world the beauty of passion and persistence.

Matthew 7:7-8 – “Ask and it will be given to you…”
Matthew 17:20 – Faith the size of a mustard seed moves mountains. These words anchor me.

When I fainted, it was God who brought me back with light. I’ve felt His hand. His voice comes through the stillness, the music, and the wind.

Oprah Winfrey, Wayne Dyer, Robin Williams, Paul Walker, Michael Jackson, Bruce Lee—each of you carried the torch in your own way.
“Be water,” Bruce said. “Using no way as way…” That philosophy lives in me now.

Martin Luther King Jr., your dream still echoes through every act of courage I take.
President Roosevelt, President JFK—your leadership and vision ripple through generations.

The movies—The Lion King, Finding Nemo, Gladiator, Practical Magic—aren’t just films, they are lessons.
Maximus, “What we do in life echoes in eternity.”
Caesar, and every soldier, lieutenant, firefighter, and lifeguard—your bravery defines the word legend.

From Eddie Aikau, who rode the waves to rescue others, to my teacher Carol, and my brilliant friends Woodrie, Jaron, Oliver, and Dr. Michael Israel—you all helped sculpt my spirit.

I also honor the great gods of the islands:
Ku, god of war and prosperity.
King Kamehameha, the unifier.
Queen Liliʻuokalani, whose grace and resistance remain a light in Hawaiian history.
The Aloha Spirit lives in me.

To the legends of rhythm—Pete Tong, Dr. Dre, and all the music that saved me.
To my old bosses at Disney, CBS, NBC, FOX Sports, and those who led me while I lived and worked in Australia—you taught me, challenged me, and gave me the tools to fly.

Most of all, I thank my Grandma and Grandpa, my Daddy, and all my Guardian Angels. You watch over me still.

And to God, the original Legend, the Source of All—my forever light.

These are my Legends. They live in the music, the wind, the ocean, the moonlight, and in me.

Chapter 29.2: Waves of Change

Hawaii wasn’t just about waves of water—it was about waves of destiny, of reckoning, of legacy. As I walked along the shoreline in Honolulu, wind brushing my face and salt clinging to my skin, I felt something ancient stirring in me. The waves crashed loud and constant, as if echoing the voices of those who had come before me, legends both known to the world and those only known in spirit.

These weren’t just waters; they were sacred. They carried stories—of kingdoms, rebellions, warriors, gods. The spirit of King Kamehameha still roamed these lands, I could feel it. His strength. His conviction. He united the islands through vision and courage, not just warfare. Beside him, Queen Liliʻuokalani, the heart of the Hawaiian people, whose song still plays in the wind like a soft lullaby to her people. And then there was the God of Ku—protector of war, yes—but also of personal strength, of the fire it takes to rebuild a life when it’s been torn apart.

I wasn’t here to be a tourist. I wasn’t here to escape. I was here because the island had called me. And when Hawaii calls, you listen.

I looked to the mountains—stoic and eternal. I remembered the motto that lived deep inside me now: "Be water, my friend." Bruce Lee's words had come to define my way of navigating the unknown. “Using no way as way, having no limitation as limitation.” That was what life had become—an improvisation, a dance, a swim through chaos with grace. Bruce taught discipline and freedom in the same breath. He was a poet of motion and intention.

I needed that. I needed him. I needed all of them. I felt JFK beside me in spirit—his courage under fire, his dream of a better world, his ability to rally people to hope. Roosevelt’s grit. Maximus’s silent strength. Caesar’s strategy. The nameless soldiers and navy officers, the lieutenants and captains who never made it into the history books but changed the course of history anyway.

I closed my eyes and saw them all—Paul Walker driving fast toward purpose. Heath Ledger laughing at fear. Prince redefining identity. Dr. Dre created rhythms that shaped a generation. Pete Tong behind the decks, making music feel like a movement. Pele sprinting across fields with grace. Senna, fierce behind the wheel, always on the edge between control and chaos. Michael Jackson, moonwalking through darkness into light. Einstein bending time and reason. Matthew Perry reminded us laughter could come from pain.

And then, my personal legends—my grandma, my grandpa, my daddy. Each of them leaving behind pieces of themselves in me. I could hear my grandma’s voice in the rustle of the palm trees, and my dad’s laugh in the crash of a big wave. These were my roots. This was my truth.

Even the corporate giants I’d once worked for—Disney, NBC, FOX Sports, CBS—had given me mentors, leaders, and characters who’d pushed me, challenged me, helped build the armor I now wore. Australia had its own heroes too. I carried them all.

And then, there were the guardians I could never see but always felt—my angels. My guides. My God. My divine team, always beside me, just like the tide.

As the sun dipped into the ocean, the water glowing with fire, I realized this wasn’t just another chapter. It was a summoning. A spiritual call to rise to my highest self.

The waves were no longer something I feared. They were messages. They were energy. They were a test—and an invitation.

I stepped into the water.

And I whispered, “I'm ready.”

Because I wasn’t just here to surf the waves of change.

I was here to become one of them.