My Journey as an Azorean-Portuguese Canadian

My story begins on a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic, Flores, Azores. In the 1980s, the island’s population was around 2000, and while life was simple and deeply connected to nature, opportunities were limited. My young parents dreamed of a better life, one with more security, more possibility. Canada, in their eyes, was a land of prosperity and hope. They had family who had already made the leap, and they were doing well. So, with a few packed belongings, my two-year-old brother in one arm and one-year-old me in the other, my parents left behind the only home they had ever known for the snowy unknown of Ontario.

March, as it turns out, might not have been the best time to move to Canada. My mother, stepping onto a landscape of grey skies, mud, and leafless trees, was unconvinced that this was the promised land. But my father’s older brother and his family took us in, helping us get on our feet. We quickly adapted to the Canadian way of life— a big television with endless channels, Nintendo, Tim Hortons donuts, and Kentucky Fried Chicken as our weekend treats. My mother, like many immigrant women, embraced the independence that Canadian culture encouraged. She started working, taking ESL classes, and carving out a life for herself.

By the time I was six, my parents had separated, and my mother and I were on our own. Her ESL teacher encouraged her to speak English at home to help solidify her learning. So, we did. Over time, my Portuguese faded, and as we continued to immerse ourselves in Canadian culture, I never questioned it.

Until I did.

When I was ten, I returned to the Azores on a family vacation with my dad, stepmom, and brothers. That’s when it hit me—I wasn’t a real Portuguese. I couldn’t speak the language fluently, and the realization landed heavily in my young, sensitive heart. I felt like something was wrong with me, like I wasn’t smart enough, like I had failed somehow. That moment left a mark. I built resentment toward my culture, distancing myself from it, believing I didn’t belong.

For years, that wound remained hidden beneath the surface. But through my own healing journey, I came to understand that I wasn’t just carrying my personal pain—I was carrying generations of unspoken grief, loss, shame and survival. I began exploring ancestral healing, uncovering the traumas that had been passed down through my lineage. Slowly, I started to reconnect—to my roots, to my homeland, to the wisdom and magic woven into my ancestry.

This journey has been a profound part of my healing and has deeply shaped my work today. In my No More Mind Games 1:1 mentorship, I guide others in uncovering and healing the inherited wounds that shape their sense of self. We all carry stories in our bodies that are not solely our own. But when we bring awareness, compassion, and deep healing practices into these spaces, we reclaim what was lost.

Healing is not just personal, it is ancestral. It is cultural. It is a remembering.

If my story resonates with you—if you have ever felt disconnected from your heritage, unsure of where you belong, or burdened by wounds that seem older than you—I invite you to explore this work with me. There is wisdom in your lineage waiting to be reclaimed, and a home within yourself longing to be found.

Let’s walk this path together.