I always feel thankful for my life. Especially on my birthday.

I remember my childhood as a very happy one. I grew up by the sea. My parents left the busy streets of Buenos Aires looking for a quieter life on an island in the south of Brazil.

They traded suits... for bare feet.

And since I can remember, boats were part of my life.
It wasn’t a rare sight to watch me crawl across the deck when I still wore nappies.
Dolphins were almost an everyday sight.
I collected shells. Played in the sand. Befriended crabs.

And from as early as I can remember... I knew I wanted to live on a boat.

As I grew older, the dream evolved. I didn’t just want to live on a boat. I wanted to travel the world on one.
But I never imagined that dream as a solo adventure. In every version of it I could picture, love was there.

Last year, I sat down to write my birthday letter feeling so grateful I had it all.
Boat, dogs, plans, a person, a life I’d fought five years for. I wrote about not knowing what to wish for because I did indeed already have it all.
I meant every word of it.

But one day the life I’d been building for years wasn’t the life I was living anymore.
And in just one year… I lost it all.

But here’s the one thing I remember clearly from last year’s letter: I was thankful for all the things that hadn’t gone according to plan, because life had been more generous to me than my own plans ever were.

One year later, I find myself learning the same lesson all over again.

Life didn’t happen the way I’d planned.

Was it painful? Extremely. Still is.
But I picked up the pieces, left some behind and threw myself into a new adventure.

Now I find myself sailing through French Polynesia.
I wake up in paradise, befriend all my favorite animals, spend half my days underwater and get to make wishes to rainbows and shooting stars. The most difficult part is having to convince myself this is actually my life.

So my dream of sailing around the world and ticking places and sea creatures off my bucket list is very much alive. But it was always more than that.
What about the part I thought I'd lost entirely?

Well, I’ve come to realize I haven't lost that part either.
Love didn't disappear when my old life did.

The people in my life - my family, my friends and even people I didn’t expect - showed up and soaked me in love until, little by little, I stopped questioning whether I was loved at all.
And if screaming underwater bubbles of excitement at every fish that crosses my path isn't love, I don't know what is.

Love has been everywhere. I was just looking for it in the wrong place.

So it’s my birthday and, once again, I find I can’t wish for anything.
Because if you really think about it: sailing, diving and being surrounded by love…
that was pretty much my dream all along. I just pictured it looking different. But once again, life was more generous to me than I could ever have been.

As I turn 33, I’m learning that sometimes my wildest dreams don’t come true because life manages to have even wilder ones in store for me. And being here right now is a pretty poetic way of discovering that my dream life didn’t end when I thought it would.

So maybe I was onto something when I said before:
Dreams do come true.
But sometimes they take the scenic route.

Hopefully by next year, I'll have finally learned the lesson.

MP ◡̈

Let’s connect everywhere! You can also find me here:
📺 YouTube
📸 Instagram
🎥 Huub’s channel

What I wasn't expecting was that sharing these stories and reflections with you would become such an important part of my healing as I continue rediscovering my own voice. Reading your replies and feeling your encouragement has become one of my favorite parts of this and I truly hope this exchange has been just as meaningful for you.

If that’s the case, there’s one small thing you can do that helps more than you probably realize: sharing these letters with someone who might enjoy them too.

This newsletter is still small enough that every new reader truly makes a difference. If these letters have ever made you laugh, reflect or call someone you love, sharing one with a friend is one of the kindest ways you can support my work.

So if there’s someone in your life who enjoys sea stories, sailing, travel, thoughtful writing or simply the occasional questionable life choice... I’d be so grateful if you’d send them a letter you loved.

Substack has a referral system, so if you’d like to use your personal referral link, you’ll find it below.

Refer a friend

There’s even a little leaderboard, which I suspect might bring out some healthy competitiveness in a few of you. ◡̈

Visit the leaderboard

I’d love to see this little corner of the internet filled with more kind and curious people like you.

Thank you for helping these stories find their way into the world and for supporting my journey.

Much love,
MP ◡̈

Do you have a favorite video on the internet?

Well, I do. Noni trying to get the right timing to sing along to “Lady”. There are probably plenty other videos I love that are more meaningful, but this one gets the prize because I've seen it more times than I can count and it never fails to make me laugh.

My bestie knows that, so she sent me this:

Of course I laughed, as I always do, but the prompt got me thinking (a lot), and I decided to come share my thoughts with you.

If this is your first time reading a letter from me: hi, I'm MP. I've spent the last six years building a life at sea, literally, as my (ex) partner and I bought a sinking boat and brought it back to life plank by plank. But when it was finally time to enjoy everything we'd built, I found myself having to walk away from it and into a life with far fewer certainties than I thought I'd have a year ago. This newsletter is where I’m sharing what comes after a heartbreak when your hunger for your dreams won’t let you even grieve in peace.

Doesn’t it feel great? To get to enjoy something as if it was the first time?

Funnily enough, that same day, I was talking to my cousin, who’s thinking about becoming a scuba diver. He was asking me all the questions. What it feels like. What you learn first. What’s hard. What’s scary.

As a diving instructor, I could answer every question he had before starting his journey. And talking through it all, trying to remember what it felt like when I first started diving, got me so excited. And I realized it made me wish I wasn’t a diver yet, just so I could experience the thrill of starting to dive all over again. The excitement, the challenges, the fears, the wonder when you learn that you can empty a mask full of water while still underwater, the joy of mastering new skills, the first time you dive as a certified diver, the butterflies, the first starfish, the first moray eel, the first octopus… how I wish I could live it all again.

But here's the catch: we can't live it all again. That's both the beauty and the unfairness of life. A first time can only happen once. And the last time usually comes unannounced.

I didn’t know that sunny morning, enjoying a mate on the deck of Yabá, reading my Kindle with my dogs by my side, that it was going to be the last time I got to do that. So all that’s left is the hope that I made sure I enjoyed it.

Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t know.

And maybe that's the charm of ordinary days. We rarely realize they're precious until they've become memories.

Now that I had to start over, almost nothing around me is familiar anymore (my relationship, my dogs, my home, my dreamed-of future), but if I try to look at it from the bright side… that can only mean that I’m about to do a shit ton of things for the first time. How strange… and exciting!

But hang in there. I’m not wishing you that your life gets turned upside down like mine did so you can start doing things for the first time. If anything, I'm a little envious of anyone whose life is still familiar enough to accidentally take it for granted. So I hope your life stays wonderfully ordinary.
I just hope we notice it before it becomes a memory.

Maybe that's why, even in the middle of the chaos and even on the days my mind feels stuck in the past, I'm still clinging to my sense of wonder.

Being jaded? Hard pass, at least for me.

I'd much rather keep being impressed by the world.

Because I’m learning a secret: you only live once, but you do it every day.

Much love,
MP ◡̈

PS: I wish I could tell you I've mastered the art of awe, but I haven't. Some days I just miss my old life and my old boat and don't want a single new first time, thank you very much. But I'm here, starting to see the world in more than black and white again. And I'm doing my best to notice and enjoy every moment I can. Because I hope that one day I'll look back and realize these were the good old days. And I want to make sure I appreciated them… while I was living them.

You’re reading Letters from the Sea by MP ◡̈
If this writing means something to you, supporting it is just a way of saying keep going.

Support this newsletter ◡̈

Thank you to Jeff, Tomas, Isa, Brian, BigFattyBbq, Brenda, Joe, Ralph, Nigel, Rick, Russ, Stephen, Terry, Colihan, Bill, Meyer, Kevin, Jason, Curtis, Larry, Richard, Liz, John, Andy, Jeanne, Dave and Jorge for supporting this newsletter.
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Let’s connect everywhere! You can also find me here:
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🎥 Huub’s channel

If you'd like to keep following along, here's where you can find me:

🌊 My newsletter: my favorite place to tell stories about life at sea, share my questionable choices and reflect on whatever comes next.
ahoymariapaula.substack

🎥 Huub’s YouTube channel: you'll find me sailing aboard Limonada as we explore French Polynesia.
https://www.youtube.com/@HuubVlogs

🎁 Three free months of Huub’s Patreon: Huub kindly offered my readers and supporters three months of free access to his Patreon, including behind-the-scenes moments and extra updates between the YouTube videos.
No subscription or credit card required.
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📸 My instagram: little moments from everyday life at sea.
https://www.instagram.com/ahoymariapaula/

🎬 My YouTube channel: a little quiet for now, but hopefully not forever.
https://www.youtube.com/@ahoymariapaula

Whether you decide to follow along or not, thank you once again for being here and helping make this adventure possible.

I hope our paths continue to cross somewhere along this next adventure.

With love,
MP ◡̈

If this is your first time reading a letter from me: welcome. And sorry. You've joined me at a pretty intense moment. I usually write about sailing, diving, reflections from life at sea and whatever mess my life currently is. Which right now is quite a lot, so buckle up.

We can all agree that there's no such thing as a perfect boat. Every spec is a compromise. You gain space, but you lose speed. You gain speed, but you lose comfort. I spent 5 years rebuilding Yabá and I know her well enough to admit that her main defect was, (please don't laugh): I loved her too much.
In the way you love something you're terrified of losing.

I didn't just rebuild her. I designed her to be mine. She was the first home I ever owned. Every single detail on her was chosen by me, as I was designing the life of my dreams. The color of each wall, the decoration of each room, the shape of the light switches, the knob of every cabinet door, the plates, the cutlery… everything was carefully (and heart-fully) hand-picked by me.

Rebuilding her took everything from me. She became my biggest challenge, my proudest life project and eventually even my identity. And when we finally launched her and started living at sea, the thought that echoed through my mind the loudest wasn’t "I can’t believe I’m finally living the dream”. It was: “I hope nothing goes wrong”.

Unfortunately, “A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.” I would have loved to keep Yabá perfectly sheltered from storms, but that’s not what I rebuilt her for. I built her to explore the world. The truth is that out there, every boat is at the mercy of the weather. Anything can happen at any moment. And somewhere along the way, protecting the dream became more important than living it.

And my tragedy is that not enjoying sailing her defeated the point of every effort I’d ever made to be able to sail her. I worked so hard to have my Ferrari that taking her out of the garage gave me more stress than joy.

I spent years preparing for a storm that never came.
Then life hit me with one I never saw coming.
Before I even had the chance to overcome my fears, the worst of them came true and I lost the boat and the life I dreamed on her regardless.

So yeah, I never got to drive my Ferrari.

And now I can't help but wonder: what was the point?

If I look back, the effort I put into Yabá should have paid me back in joy, not in worry. But it kind of didn’t. And I don’t think the solution would have been to love her any less. So what is it?

When I throw myself into my questionable adventures, I wonder how it feels for my parents. Of course they’d think I’m safer at home. But is that the life they truly wish for me? Setting me free comes with a price for them too. But I like to think that watching me truly live my life gives them something even greater than peace of mind. They’re happy to see me go, not because they love me any less, but because they love me enough to let me.

So in my search to learn how to love and let go, I’m testing my parents’ will to love and let go once again: I’m throwing myself in a new adventure, which brings us to my latest questionable life choice.
Sailing French Polynesia during whale season has always been a dream of mine and, even in the midst of the chaos, I’m not gonna let this opportunity pass.

Some days are still incredibly hard. I still catch myself reaching for a life that isn’t there anymore. But dreams don't stop being dreams just because life gets messy.

So as I take the leap I say: let’s get our Ferraris out of the garage! Let’s leave harbor. Let's wear the perfume. Let's use the good plates. Let's sail the boat. Because the whole point of chasing a dream isn't to finally have it. It's to actually live it.

I wish I'd figured that out while Yabá was still mine. But at least now I’m keeping my eyes peeled to not let my next dreams escape. Not this time.

This time, I'm going to drive my Ferrari.

MP ◡̈

You’re reading Letters from the Sea by MP ◡̈ If this writing means something to you, supporting it is just a way of saying keep going.

Support this newsletter ◡̈

I know many of you have been wondering where my adventures continue from here and whether you'll still be able to follow along. For the next chapter, you'll find me sailing around French Polynesia over on Huub Vlogs. So if you'd like to keep following my journey beyond my newsletter, you can find me here.

But it’s time, so let’s just rip the bandaid, shall we?

Ben and I have separated. And I’ve left Yabá.

I know. I’m shocked myself too. Because I really believed deep in my gut that we were forever, but apparently life had other plans.

If this is the first time you’re coming across my content, let me introduce myself real quick: I’m a girl who’s passionate about the ocean and have been working on building a life at sea for the past 6 years of my life. And by building I mean quite literally building, as together with my (ex) partner we bought a sinking boat and brought it back to life plank by plank. Unfortunately dreams don’t always work the way you want them to and now I find myself walking away from a life I worked really hard for with every single cell of myself. But I’m ready to continue pursuing what makes me happy and my letters will reflect my new journey.

I kept hoping to find the right way to share this… the smooth version, the one that makes sense in a few lines and doesn’t leave too many questions hanging…
I don’t think that version exists. So I’ll just give you the most honest one instead.

We spent six years rebuilding a boat together. Six years of sawdust and epoxy and YouTube comments and really, really bad days and some of the best days of my life too. And in the process, somewhere along the way, his feelings had changed.

It wasn’t an easy realization. And it wasn’t an easy choice either. Leaving Yabá didn't just mean leaving a boat. It meant walking away from my home, my daily life, a dream I spent years building, a community I loved, an identity I'd grown into and the future I thought I was going to have. How could I just walk away from all of it?

But once I knew about how he felt, staying wasn’t really an option… at least not for someone like me.

I eventually realized that the life I dreamed so hard about wasn’t the same if I wasn’t fully happy inside it. So with all the pain in my heart, I had to open the tight grip of my hand, only to realize I was the only one holding on.

Because our journey was documented on YouTube, we felt the need to share the news with our audience. I never imagined I’d find myself talking to a camera about my own separation. But there I was, in tears, opening up.
I’m grateful that most people simply felt sad with us. But separations bring out questions and speculation and I couldn’t keep reading comments suggesting I was leaving because I was scared of sailing, or leaving for someone else, or because I hated boat life, or simply abandoning ship when my reality was quite the opposite. I felt I had the right to have a voice.

So here is my truth:

I wish I never had to leave Yabá. I wish I was still there living my dream. But my dream was traveling the world by boat while also being madly in love and that involved other people whose feelings I have no control over.
Leaving Yabá was never about leaving the ocean. If anything, it just showed me how much I still want to build my life at sea. At the end of the day, I’m just a girl who loves the ocean and who still believes she’ll find the right person to love it with her.
I’m still going to sail, still going to chase that specific dream… except that for now, I’m just me, writing letters, figuring it out as I go and hopefully making some more questionable life choices so I can share them here and we can laugh about them together.

Which, honestly? Is very on brand.

I don’t know exactly what this new chapter looks like yet.

But I’ve learned enough by now to know that the not-knowing is usually where the good stuff hides.

The manta didn’t show up where I planned. The bull sharks weren’t on my list. The best dive of my life happened because an 80-year-old man needed a buddy and I said yes without thinking.

So after a very long time saying no to myself, I’m saying yes without thinking again.

Let’s see where we end up.

Love,

MP ◡̈

PS: Thank you for being here. Not just now, but since the beginning. A lot of you found me through Yabá and I know this is a lot to land in your inbox on a random Tuesday. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you.

Chapter 01

The year was 2014 and I was boarding a plane to Europe for the first time.
My destination was Vlissingen, in the Netherlands, where I would spend a semester as an exchange student at Hogeschool Zeeland.
Back home in Brazil, only one student per year was selected for this program.
I was very glad the stars aligned for me to be the one, but I had no idea how much this trip would shape my life.

There were many stories from those months that could be told: the cultural shocks, the trips, the friendships, the freedom of being 20-something on a new continent. But this chapter isn’t about Europe.
It’s about the start of an adventure I didn’t even know I was signing up for.
The one that would eventually lead to Yabá, the sea and everything in between.

It’s about how I met Ben.

You know those love-at-first-sight stories? The ones where you look at someone and just know?

That was absolutely not the case for us.

If anything, it was quite the opposite.

Let me explain.

HZ had a large program for international students, alongside regular classes in Dutch for local students. There was an unspoken segregation: locals and foreigners didn’t really blend. Not intentionally, not maliciously, just practically. Most of us didn’t speak Dutch, so we attended the English-speaking classes and naturally formed our own bubble.

And then there was Ben, the link between the two worlds.

Belgian. Fluent in Flemish. Dutch family. He understood both worlds. Or at least a lot more than anyone else coming from abroad. But, technically, he was considered an international student, which meant he was “part of our group”. By the time I arrived, he had already been living in Vlissingen for a year and, because of his friendly nature, pretty much everyone knew him.

Need a tip? Ask Ben.
Bike broken? Ben can fix it.
Need a SIM card? Ben knows where to go.
Library rules? Ben will explain.

And so on ad infinitum.

He was that person. Helpful. Resourceful. Popular. Always surrounded by people.
The best parties? At his place. He was the man.

And I, shaped by far too many teenage movies, had already decided that the good-looking popular guy couldn’t possibly be that great beneath the surface.
So I had zero interest in befriending him.

The more people praised him, the more skeptical I became.
Eventually, I found him mildly annoying.

Actually, I think I really disliked him.

Poor guy, didn’t even know I existed.

One afternoon, in the cafeteria, I was eating lunch alone when I heard:

— You’re new here, I haven’t met you yet! Can I sit with you? No one should eat alone.

I looked up as I was about to bite my sandwich and who was it?
Him. Ben. My nemesis.

— Sure!

I might be many things, but I’m not mean. Since he was already there, we might as well talk.

And we talked.

And talked.

And kept talking. Long enough for me to quietly admit to myself that maybe I had misjudged him. I didn’t tell him that part, though (he only found out five years later).

As the semester unfolded, we became really good friends. We shared laughs, inside jokes and often finished each other’s sentences.

But that was all we were.

Friends.

I was there to study, travel, meet people, see new places, drink a little more than I would at home and have loads of fun. And I definitely wasn’t there to find a relationship, because I already had that back at home. I had a boyfriend, was happy about it and had no interest in changing that.

・・・

It was a Wednesday.

It was raining.

Actually, it was pouring.

I was studying for an exam the next day. My stomach was rumbling but I was unwilling to step outside.

He texted.

I must have sounded so miserable he didn’t even reply.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door of the house I shared with six other international students and there he was. Soaked. Holding two supermarket bags.

— I brought things to make us some dinner while you study and also some yogurt and granola for you to have breakfast tomorrow before heading for the exam. By the way, I hope you like pasta.

He said it casually. As if this was completely normal.
And maybe it was. But it didn’t feel normal to me.
I remember thinking: Who does this? What does he expect in return?
I had a boyfriend.

This felt like a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

“I need to be clear,” I told him.
“If this comes with second intentions, it’s not going to happen.”

He looked almost offended.
— I don’t have second intentions. You don’t like the rain. I don’t mind it. That’s it.
— I’m just not used to being treated like this.
— Don’t you have a boyfriend though?
I stayed quiet.
— You don’t think your boyfriend would go out in the rain for you?
I didn’t answer that either.
— If you ever realize you deserve better, give me a call. I might still be in love with you.

Things definitely became strange between us after that. Shortly after, the semester ended and it was time to go back to reality, carrying a suitcase filled with memories and one sentence that refused to leave me.

On many occasions, when I felt small, I would remember his words.

It took me a while, but the day he predicted eventually came:
I realized I wanted more.

Single and ready to reset my life, I decided to move to Spain.

While visiting old friends from my exchange semester, the memories resurfaced. Talking about our time in Vlissingen, I remembered my times with Ben, especially that rainy night and our last conversation.

And three years after that night, believe it or not, I called him.

When I landed in Brussels, he was waiting for me.
And this time, I wouldn’t make him stand in the rain alone.

He was right.

This story is part of something bigger I’ve been working on behind the scenes.
What you just read is a still-raw draft of the opening chapter of a book about the untold stories behind the rebuild of Yabá.

Yabá only entered my life because I can count on a partner who is as much a dreamer as he is a doer. So it felt honest to begin at the real beginning.

The book is taking shape slowly, written between anchorages, passages, and whatever job happens to sit next on the to-do list.
For now, you know as much as I do: there’s a story to be told and I’m doing my best to tell it.

Thank you for reading something this vulnerable.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

MP ◡̈

PS: To the one who saw us way before I did: thank you ❤︎

If you’d like to follow along beyond these words, you can find us here:

📺 Our YouTube channel
☕️ Support the journey on Patreon (access exclusive content)
📸 Instagram (for everyday glimpses of life aboard)
🎥 Our 7th anniversary special

2025 was a year of discovery, learning, challenges, beauty and many small victories we always take the time to celebrate. We left familiar waters, discovered new places, made new friends and gained a whole lot of experience along the way. We lived unforgettable moments at anchor, under sail, and everywhere in between. But knowing that you were out there, reading, watching and following along, is what truly made this journey special.

Learning things from scratch in front of so many people can feel incredibly vulnerable, yet all we felt from you was encouragement. You patiently watched us grow and we are deeply grateful to be able to share this life with you.

Thank you for being part of this journey.

For your messages, your kindness, your support, and your quiet presence along the way. It truly means more to us than we can put into words.

To mark the end of the year, we’ve just released our final video of 2025: a small recap of the moments that shaped this season and a glimpse into what we’re dreaming up for 2026. If you feel like joining us once more before the year turns, we’d love to have you there.

As we head into the holidays, we hope you’re surrounded by warmth, peace and the people you love.

2026 is already looking very promising for Yabá. We’re hoping to add many more miles under her keel and discover new landscapes from her deck. This life truly is a dream come true and we only get to live it thanks to you. So our biggest wish for the coming year is that your wishes come true too.

May 2026 be as generous to you as you’ve been to us… tenfold!

Much love,

Ben & MP (and the sea dogs)

When people look at the life I chose to live (buying a rotten boat, rebuilding it and now living full-time aboard), one of the first assumptions they make about me is how brave I am.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the compliment. I think being brave is a wonderful thing.

But it’s time I confess:
I wasn’t born brave.

Let me explain.

The first time I went scuba diving, I almost gave up before the whole thing even started.

As I sat on the boat in my neoprene suit waiting for my turn, I decided to jump in the water to cool down. It was filled with jellyfish. They didn’t sting (maybe because of the suit) but just the idea of being surrounded by them was enough for me to lose control of my breath and let out a few desperate screams.

Then, when we finally went underwater, I realized something unexpected: I wasn’t scared of the depth or the breathing (that part felt quite natural actually), what terrified me was (drum roll🥁) the sea life.

Yep. I literally closed my eyes every time we got near a fish.

At one point, my instructor held a spider crab and offered it to me. I shook my head faster than I ever have in my life: NO THANKS!!!!

Knowing that fish terrified me should have been a good enough reason never to dive again, right? After all, the whole point of diving is to see them.

But deep down, I still wanted to. Even though they scared me, they also fascinated me. I wanted so badly to be the girl who dives and befriends fish... So I kept trying.

The second time I dived, I was still scared, but a little less. Then I decided to go for my Open Water training. And I’ll give my fear some credit: I was probably the diver who surfaced feeling the happiest every single time, because being near the things that scared me was also incredibly exciting.

When it was time to become an Advanced Diver, that came with the challenge of night diving.
I said I didn’t think it was for me (I’m scared of the dark even on land, lol).

During my first night dive, I had to repeat to myself:

“Whatever the flashlight points at exists. The rest of the darkness doesn’t.”

That silly little trick got me through the dive. And by the end, I was shocked at how the same place could look completely different at night, and now I love it.

Step by step, I was overcoming those little challenges and doing everything I had to do to finally become an instructor, who, guess what? Is not scared of fish anymore.

But if you read my manta encounter story, you know I wasn’t exactly keen about deep diving with bull sharks.

And when I went diving in Iceland, I wrote a farewell letter to my parents… just in case. But I went anyway.

Fear has always been there. But so has the choice to do it regardless.

And that’s not just with diving, it’s been like that throughout so many aspects of my life: when I travelled alone for the first time, or when I first started driving, or rebuilding the boat, or putting our story out there for the world to see, or even now when I moved aboard Yabá and everything was new. I cannot say fear hasn’t been there.

My point is: I’m not naturally brave.
Quite the opposite, actually.
But I chose not to let my fears stop me.

And maybe that’s what we should look for after all; not fearlessness, but deciding that what we want is worth feeling afraid for.

So I force myself to be brave (or at least pretend to be), again and again, because I know what’s on the other side of fear: life as I dream it.

And little by little, that’s how I’ve built this version of myself, not born brave, but becoming brave, one trembling decision at a time.

Every time, fear was there. And every time, I did it anyway.

Maybe courage isn’t something you’re born with. Maybe it’s more like something that grows quietly in the background, one small act at a time. You earn it by not letting fear have the final word.

So if you ever look at someone’s life and think “I wish I was brave enough to do that”, maybe you already are. Maybe you just have to start, even if scared, unsure or unready, and watch courage bloom from there.

Our lives should be built around our dreams (+ values, aspirations, beliefs, etc), not our fears. And if you’re not doing something that could bring you closer to becoming a fuller version of yourself because you’re frightened, please, listen to me instead of listening to that fear.

Because if life happens to you anything like it did to me, you don’t have to be brave to begin.
You just have to begin.
And I truly believe bravery will meet you along the way.

MP ◡̈

(I thought it was a good idea to end the letter with this photo of me steering Yabá a few days ago while Ben wasn’t even supervising. Another fear that just got its butt kicked.)

It was 4:30 am, still dark, still sleepy… and suddenly, the wind decided to pick up. The night before we had agreed we’d leave right after breakfast, because a strong wind was forecasted for the next evening and our anchorage wouldn’t be safe.

The wind woke me up and of course I woke Ben:

— I think the wind made it here sooner

Magic words to get any sailor out of bed.

The anchorage that had seemed calm just hours before was now testing our nerves. To make things interesting, a big speedboat nearby basically nudged us into action. We couldn’t wait for daylight or a calmer breeze. We had to move. Now.

What followed can only be described as pure chaos. Forty minutes just to free the anchor that was tangled in some mysterious fishing net. The windlass kept blowing the fuse. We were drifting dangerously close to a floating farm. Loïc was in his underwear and had a knife and a mask ready, just in case he needed to be the hero who jumps in the sea to free the propeller.

All this in pitch black, we could see the rocks because our deck light was bringing them to life, while the plotter kept alarming us that we were too close.

At one point, the anchor was finally loose from the bottom but hopelessly stuck in the fishing structure. And we were drifting straight for rocks. I held my breath as if sucking in my belly could make Yabá smaller and further away from disaster. Ben slammed the throttle and, just in time, yanked the rope that had us pinned, turning Yabá away from the rocks by… not millimeters, but 3 or 4 meters, which is way too close.

It was terrifying.

Once free, the black of night still surrounded us. I could still see the rocks from the reflection of our deck lights, but now they were being left behind. I finally released my breath as Yabá surged forward. Phew.

...

Fast forward a little: 6:45 am, near Ilha de Buzios, and the universe decided to reward us: Dolphins appeared. But not in a “I think I see some dolphins there” way. More in a “there are so many dolphins playing in our waves” way. They truly were surfing Yabá’s waves as the sun rose behind them. First time this has ever happened to us, and we wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for the early chaos.

A perfect reminder: adventure and beauty often arrive together.

By 7 am we had the engine off and were finally sailing. Two sails up, reaching eight and a half knots (our best speed yet) and big waves tossing us around. I was lying in the bow cabin, levitating from bed by the motion of the sea. That kind of vertigo is not my favorite, but watching Yabá glide through it all with such strength made me not doubt my life choices anymore.

We made it to our destination safe, sound and hopefully a little wiser.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Life at sea (and life in general) is exactly like this: messy, unpredictable, sometimes terrifying… and yet, unbelievably beautiful. The moments that scare us, challenge us, and take our breath away are often the ones we’ll remember the most.

So I take it all.

The storms, the leaps, the unexpected dolphins… they all belong to the same story.
A story that is not flawless, but it’s perfect as it is.

MP ◡̈

🎥 You can watch the dolphins playing with Yabá here (it’s right at the begininng)

PS: If you do watch, you’ll see that Ben says “after a nightmare of an anchorage” but doesn’t really explain why it was a nightmare. And because you read my letters, now you know why! I’m glad you’re here and I hope you’re too ◡̈

Whenever I looked back at the MP I was five years ago, the one who fell into the trap of buying a doomed boat, I used to feel ashamed.

“I was so naive.”
“I can’t believe I fell for that.”
“I can’t believe I bought a sinking boat.”

I didn’t regret it, but I wasn’t proud of it either.

Back then, Ben and I thought we were ready for the adventure of owning a boat. We imagined all the places it would take us. And yet the five years that followed looked nothing like those dreams.
Only now, as I turn 32, we're finally living the life that made us take the leap in the first place.

Now, back in the same waters where it all began, I can look at that younger version of me with different eyes. Instead of shame, I quite admire her.

Because here’s the truth:
It was still the pandemic. Ben and I had just moved to Brazil. We’d been locked at home for months. And then one day, we decided to hit the road. We woke up at 4 am, drove 800km to see what could be our future boat, our future home. We slept in the boot of our car. And the next morning, we went very thirsty to the well. We overlooked all of Yabá’s defects and focused only on the life she might one day give us.

It took a while, but that life eventually happened.

So now, for the first time, I can look at my past self and love her. Thank her. Her naiveness and her bravery brought me here today.

We’ve been building for five years. And I was many versions of myself during that time. A dreamer. A hard worker. A worrier (of course). But always, a resilient one.

We’ve been traveling for just over a month now, and I’ve already lost count of the times I’ve had teary eyes, whispering to myself: “I can’t believe this is my life.”

And now, Yabá has carried me to a new destination, where I get to blow out the candles this year. Every birthday, my wish has always been the same: to be happy.

But this year… I think I’m out of ideas.

Because it doesn’t feel fair to wish for something I already have in overflowing abundance. I’ve been happy in many ways before, but this happiness feels different. I’m surrounded by the people (and dogs) I love most, living the literal life of my dreams.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

Things didn’t go exactly as we planned. But I believe they went exactly as they should.

So today I dare to challenge the iconic phrase:
“I love it when a plan comes together.”

And instead say:
“I love it when a plan doesn’t come together.”

Because while I’ll always keep planning and cheering for my plans, I’ve learned to welcome the unplanned bits with open arms too.

So cheers to all the things that didn’t go to plan. Because life was way more generous to me than I could ever be.

And as for my candles, well, life has already given me more than I dared to wish for, so this year my only wish is simple: to keep living it fully. But don’t tell anyone, or else it won’t come true!

MP ◡̈

— Do you guys surf?

And my answer was:

— If by surfing you mean standing up and doing maneuvers… no.
But if you mean trying to stand up and do maneuvers, then yes!

— And do you kitesurf?

— If kitesurfing means going far and doing tricks… no.
But if it means managing to move forward while trying not to face-plant, then yes!

— Do you fish?

— If by fishing you mean catching… absolutely not. But if fishing means dragging a line through the ocean for hundreds of miles without success, then yes, we fish a lot.

I consider us lucky people, in so many ways. But for some strange reason, that luck does NOT extend to fishing.

By now we’ve sailed more than 1000 nautical miles with Yabá, most of them with a lure dragging behind us, hoping some curious fish might take the bait and become our next meal. And so far we’ve: celebrated phantom nibbles, had our hook destroyed by something hungry and reeled in lines that were mysteriously clean. But, despite Ben’s determination and my overly enthusiastic “fishy fishy fishy” chants, we never caught a fish.

That was until…

Back in February, I was trying something new (a DIY vibe had taken over me) and I was playing with air-dry clay. Valentine's Day was coming, and I thought it’d be cute to make something for Ben.

I decided to make him a fish necklace. My inspiration? The absolute need of breaking the fishing curse. While molding the clay all I could think about was catching a fish.

It came out a bit lopsided and clumsy, like all great first attempts. I painted it, varnished it, added a lil smile, threaded a string through the tail and called it done.

On Valentine’s Day, I gave Ben the fish and told him very seriously:

“I made you this to bring you luck. This fish will break the curse. It’s going to change everything. This is a lucky charm. We’re going to catch a fish. Trust me.”

Ben laughed but seemed to loved it and wore it straight away.

The next day (I promise is true even though I'm very aware it doesn't sound like truth) we went for a sail, put the line out, and five minutes later we heard it.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

THE REEL. WAS. UNREELING.

Ben looked at me, eyes wide, and shouted:

— FISH ON!!!!

I didn't even know how to proceed. This was a first indeed!

Of course I didn’t believe it at first. I thought it was a plastic bag or something.

But no. It was real.

Ben fought the line like a true sea warrior and pulled out the biggest cutlassfish I’ve ever seen.
(It may be the only one I’ve ever seen. But nonetheless the biggest.)

Ben grinned from ear to ear.

I squealed.

We high-fived over our catch.

Our friend said:

“Judging by the looks of it, that’s not breaking the curse, that is the curse. That fish looks like a demon from hell.”

We laughed of course, but didn’t care. We cooked the cutlassfish that night and it was one of the tastiest fish we’d ever had, as it tasted exactly like victory.

My grandpa used to say, “Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay, las hay.”
(I don’t believe in witches, but they exist.)

And that’s kind of how I feel about that fish necklace.

Do I really believe the charm carried some supernatural force that summoned a fish out of the sea? Not exactly.

But it’s too good of a coincidence to explain away.

The funny part?

That was in February.
It’s now August.
And we haven’t caught a single fish since.

So maybe the necklace was like a ticket: One entry and done.

I don’t know.
What I do know is: it worked.
And I still can’t explain it.

Because magic isn’t meant to be explained.
It’s meant to be believed.

MP ◡̈

•••

PS: I decided that I’m gonna gather all my belief again and make Ben a new charm to see what happens. It shouldn't hurt, right?

PS²: What if it works?!

And yet, there’s a part of my heart that feels heavier than I thought it would.

The departure day is here. We weigh the anchor and we're off. But not before a quick detour. Instead of heading straight to our next destination, we sail slowly through the bay, so we could pass by my parents’ house and they could wave their goodbyes from the shore.

I look for them with my binoculars and see my mum, dad, uncle and grandma waving their scarves in the air, wishing us fair winds, sending their farewells.

They watched Yabá disappear into the mist, just as I watched their home, my home, disappear into my tears.

I think it's safe to say we all cried.

Our next destination is 250 nautical miles ahead, and the excitement is enormous, but not big enough as to leave no space for anything else. Because there’s also room for pain.

It’s the pain of saying bye to the people I love most and knowing, with a knot in my chest, that I’m breaking their hearts too.

This life I chose, this life I’ve been working so hard for, isn’t just a dream, it’s my calling. And staying, and becoming an incomplete version of myself, wouldn’t make anyone any happier.

We all know I have to go.

They say they are so proud. But the tears won't stay in.
I say I'm so excited. And the tears won't stop being shed.

So I go, and I cry, because I’ll miss them.
They watch me go, and they cry, because they’ll miss me.

It hurts, so we wish this pain didn’t exist. Or do we?

Well, not really. This pain doesn’t mean something’s wrong; it means something matters. So I’m actually glad I get to feel (and even cause) this pain. This pain only exists because we love being together. It’s actually a privilege to be feeling this kind of ache. Our bond matters this much.

So I sit with this pain and embrace it, because I’m not chasing this dream instead of love, but I’m carrying love with me. Across every wave. Into every anchorage. I know they’re with me wherever I go.

So, if you’ve ever felt that same tangle, the gratitude of getting to live something special, mixed with the ache of what you’ve left behind, just know you’re not alone.

We're all just figuring out how to balance the price of some things. I'm coming to find this is quite a high one, but one that I'm willing to pay.

My parents gave me life, something impossible to pay back, so the least I could do to honor them is live a full one.

And I truly hope you are living your own version of a full one too.

MP ◡̈

🎥 You can watch the farewell (and the 250 nautical miles trip) here

When I became a scuba diver, I started a bucket-list, collecting underwater dreams the way some people collect fridge magnets.

Cage diving with great whites? Check.
Following a turtle in crystal-clear water? Check.
Hearing whales sing on a night dive? Check.

And there was one dream, amongst others, I hadn’t checked off yet. My number one, top-tier, holy grail of underwater encounters: swimming with a manta ray, the ocean's version of a magic flying carpet.

And while dreaming is great, chasing the dream is where the thrill actually happens. So I researched the best places to meet mantas, bought the tickets, booked the dives, the hotel, packed the fins, kissed my parents goodbye and flew from Brazil all the way to Costa Rica.

Wanting to leave the best for last, I spent the first days hiking volcanoes, exploring the jungle, spotting sloths and colorful frogs, climbing hollow trees and soaring above the tree canopy on ridiculously long zip-lines.

Costa Rica is stunning.
Wild. Lush.
Pura Vida.
Home to the kindest people.
Just my type of place.

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for.
As soon as I arrived at the dive center, they asked what I most wanted to see. With more than 30 incredible dive sites to choose from, they wanted to tailor the experience to my preferences.

— Macro? Micro? Sharks? Schools? What do you want to see?
— MANTAS!

I shouted. Possibly too loud and definitely too enthusiastically.
I couldn't believe when that was followed by a:

“You’re in the right place, at the right time... except… this year they’re not showing up.”
WHAT?

Apparently, the mantas had discovered a new cleaning station and, to my disappointment, were now partying somewhere else.

“But we do have bull sharks!” they offered happily, as if that was in any way a reasonable consolation prize.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve met a bull shark before, but let me give you the résumé: highest testosterone levels in the animal kingdom, aggressive, territorial and unpredictable.

No, thank you. Hard pass.

I could’ve pouted my way through Costa Rica, cursing the no-show mantas and the missed expectations. But still, I was in Costa Rica. And diving is diving.

So what if things didn’t go as planned? The best part about wildlife is exactly that: they’re wild. Mantas had chosen a different place that year because they were free to do so. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

So I let go of the manta dream (for now) and enjoyed my scheduled dives. Sleeping white tip sharks, frogfish, octopus, giant schools of jacks… I had a blast. I didn't get manta rays, but I got eagle rays and stingrays instead.

All the dives were incredible.

And just like that, it was time for my last dive.

There was a new diver on board needing a buddy.

Meet Mr. Ralph:
80 years young. American. Diver since the age of 30. A living legend in neoprene. I basically glued myself to him for the afternoon, bombarding him with questions and begging for stories from his 50 years of underwater adventures. He told me about his time in Thailand, the Red Sea, the Philippines, Mexico, Galápagos… the list went on and on.

Of course his bucket list was full of checks, but there was one thing still missing:

— I’m really enjoying it here, but I’m disappointed I won’t make it to the Bat Islands. I’ve always wanted to dive with bull sharks, but they only go with groups of at least three, and it’s just me who wants to go.
…
— Let’s do it!

I didn't even hesitate.

Why am I like this? I had already packed my bags. My hotel and dive package were ending that afternoon. I didn’t have a place to stay. Another dive wasn’t really in my budget. But now I had a mission:
Get Mr. Ralph his bull sharks.

We found a third diver, a place to stay and the next morning we boarded the boat to the infamous Bat Islands.

You know those perfect days with calm seas and a shining sun with no clouds in the sky? Yeah, it was definitely not that.

The skies were so gray it almost looked like night and the waves were furious for reasons I still haven’t figured out.

Half of me was hoping the dive would be cancelled. But the other half, rooting for Mr. Ralph, wanted it to happen no matter what.

The second half won.

The ride to the Bat Islands took three hours. Just before we arrived, we surfed a wave so hard I flew to the other side of the boat, hit my foot, and opened a small wound that bled. I quickly went from brave and excited to “oh god, how well can they smell fear?”.

But it was too late to give up.

Getting equipped was tough. The boat was shaking from side to side with a considerable amount of violence. I put on one piece of gear at a time, in between getting seasick.

A bleeding foot. An upset stomach. I had good reasons to call it quits. But again, I didn’t.

I could’ve wondered why I was doing this for a stranger, but, knowing myself, I knew exactly why.

Everyone ready?

Splash. We jumped in.

We started descending until we reached the bottom: 30 meters deep.

The first surprise: a garden of eels. I’d always wanted to see one! I played with them: moving close and they’d all vanish into their holes. Backing away and they’d slowly reappear. They really did look like a garden. I was so entertained I kind of forgot that sharks could show up at any moment. I looked up and there it was.

If you imagine a shark, you probably picture a side view. But the scary one is when all you see is a round shape with three fins, which means it’s coming straight at you.

It came closer and closer, until it wasn’t just a silhouette anymore. It was a full bull shark, just two meters away, locking eyes with me.

I wanted to hold my breath and disappear, but that’s not allowed when diving.

Once I understood that the shark only wanted to see what was going on and then leave me to it, the fear dissolved. Instead of dreading the next one, I found myself excited for their arrival. They looked bulky, sure, but also elegant. Curious. Close, but not aggressive.

It was incredible to share that moment with them.

Manta who? I couldn’t believe I almost skipped this experience.

We were surrounded. They swam circles around us. First close, then wider and wider until they disappeared. It was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.

One of the divers signaled that he’d reached half a tank and it was time to start ascending.

During our safety stop (that’s the last few meters of the dive where you hang out and let your body get used to surface pressure again), I noticed a shadow.

A big shadow. Swimming toward me.

Wait.

Is anyone else seeing this?

Am I hallucinating?

Could narcosis kick in this shallow?

Or is that really…

…a manta?

YES.

A manta ray swam right over me, gently wiggling its wings as if to say, “surprise".

My breathing tickled its belly. Or at least that’s what I like to believe, because the manta danced as the bubbles popped against its majestic body.

I squealed (not internally, you could actually hear me underwater).
I was laughing, crying and screaming all at once.

Seeing a manta ray up close? Check.
Crying inside my mask? Check. (That one wasn’t on the list, but it happened anyway.)

That was my last chance of seeing a manta on that trip.

I saw it in the final minutes, at the final few meters, of the final dive.

Actually, I saw it in the extra time, because I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

If it weren’t for that chain of choices, the kindness toward strangers, the willingness to stretch myself just a little more and those last-minute yeses, I would’ve missed it.

It doesn’t matter if that encounter lasted seconds, minutes or hours. Because the impact it had on me will ripple for a lifetime.

Dreams do come true.
But sometimes they take the scenic route.

MP ◡̈

•••

PS: Thank you, manta, for the present of your presence. And thank you, Mr. Ralph, for being the push I didn’t know I needed. I thought I was doing you a favor… but I’ll never forget what you did for me instead.

If this made you grin, gasp, or google “narcosis”, feel free to share it with someone who might enjoy it too. Thanks for being here. See you in the next adventure! ◡̈

By the way: Narcosis is a condition that can affect divers at depth and it feels like being drunk underwater. Just in case you were wondering if I hallucinated the whole thing. I’m pretty sure I didn’t:

In 2019 I went to Iceland.
Actually, the story starts a little before that. Shall we dive in?

In 2017, I fell in love with someone (Ben♡) who lived in Belgium. I was working as a scuba diving instructor at the time, and as soon as the Brazilian summer was over, I was ready to fly to Europe to be with my one true love (how dramatic, I know).

Yes, I’m the kind of person who dives in head first when it comes to following my heart. But the responsible side of me wanted at least to have a job before moving across the world. I found an offer that I really liked: working as an instructor during the European summer in Croatia. I sent my CV and got approved for a call with the boss. For a Brazilian, it was way outside my comfort zone to schedule a call with someone whose name I couldn’t even read because it was written in Gaj’s Latin alphabet.

When we finally spoke, it was peak summer in Brazil (so peak winter in Europe), and the guy on the other end was wearing a hoodie with the hood up and glasses. I could barely see his face. He asked a couple of questions and I was hired. YAY!

But then I thought:
I don't understand his alphabet, he's not really showing his face and he hired me way too quickly… should I step back?

My mom would love it if I were that sensible. Of course I went anyway.

It only hit me that I might be a little crazy when I was sitting on the ferry from Split to Hvar.

What if he asks to keep my passport? I'm not handing that over, no matter what. I can't afford to be human traffic material now that I'm in love.

I laughed at the thought of my parents getting angry at me for putting their only child (myself) in these kind of situations. I shook the thoughts away and hoped for the best.

Spoiler alert? I'm alive and had a great summer, exactly like the moment I saw my boss waiting for me at the dock I knew I would.

...

The following winter, my boss was working in Iceland. And because the nights are long, the days short, and the air freezing cold, the company he worked for had this great policy: employees could invite a family member or friend to stay in their lodge and join the tours.

MP, the company is offering this and you're the only person I know that is crazy enough to want to come diving in Iceland in December. What do you say?

Going to Iceland was already on my bucket list, but diving in Silfra was actually a dream.

The planets aligned. A week later, I was on the plane.

When I landed, the company van was already waiting at the airport. The driver was a girl.

— What brings you to Iceland in December?
— I came to dive!
— Oh, I was diving until last week, now I’m just doing transfers.
— I see… it's getting too cold now, right?
— Actually I don't mind the cold, but last week when I was diving one of my clients died, so I'm giving it a break.
— 🫥

That didn’t stop me.

What could have stopped me (and should have) was the fact that I didn’t have much experience with dry suits and wasn’t feeling totally confident.

We did a pool session to break the ice (heh), and I just couldn’t find the sweet spot for the choker.

If you don't know what the choker is… 🥁 it's a choker. A literal one you wear tight around your neck to keep water out and keep you warm (and alive).

After the test I was ready for the dive.

I actually wasn't, but hey, who's keeping score?

And off to Silfra I went!

To dive. In Iceland. In December.
In glacial meltwater.
Between two tectonic plates.
And ancient lava rock.
In the rift between North America and Eurasia.
In extreme conditions.
With earthquake risk.
Hoping that the -30°C wind chill blowing in from Greenland would ease up (it did!).
Dealing with a regulator that froze and went into free flow.
And left me with a half-empty tank (whether it was actually half full is a conversation for another time).
And an inflator that stopped working because, well, it was frozen too.
Wearing double the amount of weight I’d normally carry.
And having to walk 500 meters with it (and the rest of the gear) strapped to my body.
Across snow.
Through snow.
With limited mobility from the layers upon layers of thermal clothing.
Inside a drysuit meant to keep my body dry, but only if I managed to seal it tight with the choker (I did).
Which demands the delicate art of finding the fine line between “tight enough to keep freezing water out” and “loose enough to let blood circulate.”
(Because passing out underwater in a remote place like this really shouldn’t be on anyone’s travel itinerary.)
And all of that…
To be there.
In water with infinite visibility, melted straight from a glacier.
To touch two continents at once, from in between them.

From. Between. Them.

And then, to surface.
Feeling a kind of euphoria that made me ignore the fact that my face was numb, laugh at my hair that was literally freezing (I could hear it stiffening into icy strands), forget how my cheeks stung from the cold burn of glacial water and embrace my new look with lips so swollen it looked like I’d had a bad filler job.
(Turns out blood vessels rush there in a bit of a panic when your body’s trying to keep you alive)

And even though I was looking (very) funny, I felt proud.

Because just like that, I had joined the select club of divers who’ve experienced the Silfra fissure.

I still can’t believe I was there.

And that’s what courage (and a little bit of recklessness) did to me.

The courage to follow my heart and cross an ocean for a guy.
Which led to the courage to hop on a ferry into the unknown.
Which led to the courage to dive into freezing water.
Which led to a stronger, happier, braver version of me.

I’m not saying you should cross oceans, hop on ferries, or dive into glacial rifts.

But maybe what I’m saying is that you should take the leap toward whatever makes your heart beat faster.

Because life is so much more fun on the other side of fear.

MP ◡̈

•••

PS: In case you're wondering, Небојша is pronounced “Neboisha".
And because destiny loves these little twists, this Serbian name means “fearless". 🥹

PS²: Nebo, I LOVE YOU!

You might know us from YouTube (or maybe not), so you probably know the outline (well, maybe not): In 2020, Ben and I bought a sinking gigantic wooden boat and with zero experience began the wild task of rebuilding her. Yabá became our home, our biggest adventure (yet) and the center of an incredible journey that’s been unfolding ever since.

Now we’re making our way up the Brazilian coast, sailing the most we can, still building (because a boat is never truly finished), and still learning every day (because that’s what you do when you’re alive).

Even though we’ve been filming and sharing our journey on YouTube, this space, Letters from the Sea, is meant to be something a bit different.

Not everything fits into a video.

The doubts we don’t say out loud, the beauty we can’t always capture on camera, the thoughts we just process later on, the tiny things that remind us why we do what we do.

That’s what this newsletter is for: sharing a different side of our story.

Some weeks, I'll share a reflection from life at sea, a question I’m sitting with, an untold story or just a note from a quiet anchorage.

Other times, it might be a lesson I’ve learned along the way (something too valuable to keep to myself), a behind-the-scenes moment, or the occasional thing I’m reading or thinking about.

If that sounds like something you’d like to read with your morning coffee (or tea, if you're more like me), I’d love to have you signing up and joining me out here. 💌

You’ll hear from me once in a while, nothing overwhelming. Just the occasional letter in your inbox, like a message in a bottle from this floating home of ours.

I’m very excited for this journey, but mainly for bringing you along. So thanks for jumping aboard.

MP ◡̈

•••

If you'd like to explore more of what we do in the meantime, here are a few links:

📺 Our YouTube channel

☕️ Support our journey on Patreon

📸 Instagram – where we share glimpses of daily life

🎥 One of the happiest days we ever lived