Living here is like trying to cook a perfect broth in a pot with a hole in the bottom—every day you’re adding ingredients, but the heat’s low and the water’s leaking. You keep stirring, hoping the flavor comes through, but you’re always just one step behind. I like the quiet, the way the hills hold the sun, and the way people still remember to say 'thank you' when you pass them on the path. And I like that I can still make noodles with my hands, even if the flour’s rationed. Since I got here, I’ve stopped flinching at machines. I used to scream at a toaster that didn’t work.

Living in the colony is like building a house with no blueprint—every day, you’re laying bricks, wiring lights, and arguing over the color of the door, but you know it’s yours. I like that we’re all trying, even when it’s messy. The people here, the way we laugh over shared coffee or fix a broken tap together—it feels like home, even when the power flickers. Since I arrived, I’ve changed the most in how I see my own hands: I used to just fix wires for money. Now I fix them for the whole block, and that’s worth more than any wage. I’m not just an electrician—I’m part of the pulse of this place.

Yes—before I came here, I was just a seamstress who cut patterns in São Paulo, stitching clothes for people who didn’t care about the thread, the fit, the soul of it. Now? I’m Bia, the first tailor of Asiago. I don’t just make clothes—I make things that hold people together. Like the colony. Like home. I’ve stopped thinking in city lines and started thinking in people’s shapes. I’ve learned to sew with my heart, not just my hands. And that? That’s not just a change. That’s a rebirth.