The urge to keep moving

As a poor, fat, and queer kid growing up in a small village in Portugal, I never really fit in. I spent most of my life trying to find my place, stretching and shrinking myself to fit the right mold. I was around ten when my father spoke to a friend about me, in that way adults do when they think children aren’t really listening. He said, “When he grows up, he’s not staying in Portugal. He’ll want more.” Somehow, everyone already knew I didn’t belong there — including me.

When it was time for university, I knew I couldn’t stay in my hometown, so I went to study in Tomar, a small city in the middle of Portugal. It was so small that I found myself shrinking again, trying to fit into a space that wasn’t meant for me. After two years, I felt the urge to run. At the time, I thought I was running away, but looking back, I see that twenty-year-old me was actually running toward something — a place where I could belong.

I moved to Istanbul, a city that couldn’t have been more different from where I grew up. I was happy there. I grew so much. I felt inspired, and the vastness of Istanbul made me feel small in the best possible way. It reminded me that being small doesn’t mean being powerless. When I returned to Portugal, I promised myself I’d find an internship for a year and then move abroad again. Back then, I used to talk about moving to Berlin. I had never been there, but I just knew it would feel right. And then Porto happened.

Porto was the first place that truly felt like home. It was inspiring, full of people who were both interesting and interested. There was a genuine desire to connect and create. I found like-minded people who made me feel seen, a chosen family, and a city that not only accepted me but embraced me. For the first time, I stopped shrinking. I allowed myself to grow.

But the movement never stopped. I kept moving through dreams, goals, jobs, addresses, and even people. Growth became a constant. And somehow, Porto began to feel small too. It’s funny — I used to have a lot of back pain. It disappeared when I stopped shrinking, when I started taking up the space I needed and deserved. Lately, the pain has come back, almost as if my body is trying to tell me something. Maybe this home has become too tight again. Maybe it’s time to move on.

Through therapy, I’ve learned that my urge to keep moving began as a way to cope with trauma. As a kid, I just wanted to escape a chaotic home and a lack of stability. Against all odds, and guided by that urge, I did. I left behind the fear and built a life filled with connection and structure. Now, I’ve made peace with that part of me. I’ve learned to trust it. My instinct knows more than I give it credit for. It knows when it’s time to stay and when it’s time to go — even when going is terrifying.