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Can I tell you that my story cakes straight from the gut? And when I say gut, it’s the best word used, when my central nervous system made a huge shut down to my digestive system, among other symptoms. I’ve learned from a teenager time that the body attacks it self. I made myself of glass since I started being medicated for my first autoimmune syndrome, long after my first signs of illness. That didn’t stop me ever to travel, to search for connection, to exercise, dance, love. The moment I decided to move abroad, things shifted. It took me 5 years to unlearn. 5 years after learning in q hard way that the body does not attack it self in that sense. It protects itself, and so my new long self healing journey as an immigrant, (un)learner, started. I was born in Portugal, already had a period of grateful times in Italy to study, and several countries, cities and lost villages to take holidays. As a Scout, major adventures happened as well in my early life like in hiking Swiss mountains and observing ice from a heart-shaped-toilet window outside a chalet or camping near lakes with frogs and get bitten by insects; And building tables from wood, using hats like a Tom Sawyer character. The best one I could think of is actually simple as going to a valley after several hours walking, and connect to a piece of land that does not have electricity or water or toilet and stay for a week where we could help rebuild and paint a village that is not easily accessible by many. Many memories I kept, although memory is a big concern when it comes to try keeping them when auto immune kicks in. Some say “You cannot heal in the same toxic Environment” - That toxicity resides not in the surroundings such as place only. Can be people too. Let’s just put there anything, because I’m fairness our conscious mind can build that toxicity too. And poison our hearts and bodies without permission. I came to Ireland without a job. Once I passed the test of the struggles of the first 2 years, I started travelling on this gorgeous green island, where silent sheep are bigger number than humans, narrow countryside’s roads are secrecy to our own voices and cold winter days are mystic opportunities to embrace our shadows and work the ego. I came to Ireland without expectations, without possessions but with a tremendous joy to start something. I had skills and knowledge, not only from my work experience or studies, but this Portuguese way of ‘turning anything into something’ when needed. Open heart and open mind, leaving behind the safety and lack of growth from my home and loosing safety to the unknown. When we immigrate, hopes and dreams and fire and soul comes all in. Your spirit is exposed, your inner child has a new playground. Innocence, meaning In no-sense, finds life in every difficult aspect, pieces of someone else’s puzzles made of metal, creating wounds to a glass people, and boundaries are something unfamiliar to the trust and blindness you develop in the playground. But reality kicks in, symptoms are stronger, masks unveiling and the sense of belonging takes a new direction. What can an immigrant expect when all suppressions from past conditions and belief systems shatters makes your roots go wandering for hydrated connection and points in all directions in your body; where the brain is not in the head but was all along in your gut giving you intuitions and directions; your eyes opportunities to see; the skin a layered protection and identity; your nose the sensing of fears and bullshit; your hands the gift of giving rightful; the throat and neck and voice from that narrow road directing to a green scenery and landscapes; a top of the head floating invisible crowns of bright light connecting to a higher self without judgements. My journey in Ireland gave me back the sense of Self, only after loosing it. Gave me back the meaning of a home without feeling belonged to any realistic one. My sense of home was all within, in the unknown.