#wolfjournal

April 24th, 2026

“I recognized you in every lifetime I didn’t live yet.”

— Unknown

She once asked me if I thought we would still have something

if we ever fully moved on from each other.

And I said no—

but not because I don’t feel it.

I said it because I was thinking practically in that moment,

not emotionally.

Emotionally,

I don’t really know how to imagine us as something fully separate.

Because what I feel with her doesn’t sit on the surface.

It goes deeper than that.

She once told me about IFS in therapy—

Internal Family Systems—

the idea that we all carry different parts inside us.

And that sometimes people don’t just meet you in your life…

they reach those deeper parts.

The ones that feel like recognition.

Like familiarity you can’t explain.

And I think that’s what she is for me.

Not just someone I loved.

But someone who felt like recognition itself.

Like something in me responded to something in her

that I didn’t even know was waiting to be awakened.

That’s why I understand why people say “twin flame.”

Not as something magical or perfect—

but as a connection that feels like it runs underneath everything else.

Like it doesn’t depend on proximity.

Or timing.

Or circumstance.

It just… exists.

And I feel that with her.

Even when things are unclear.

Even when life moves forward.

There’s something in me that still recognizes her.

And I think part of me always will.

Not as something that traps me—

but as something that shaped me.

Something that stays with me

even as I keep growing.

My love for her doesn’t feel small.

Or temporary.

It feels like something that changed the structure of how I love at all.

And right now, that’s just what’s true for me.

— Troy

April 5th, 2026

When it hits—

my chest tight,

my body wanting to stay still—

I get up.

Because staying makes it heavier.

So I walk.

And she goes with me.

Not in the streets, not in the air,

but inside me,

in every step I take.

Sometimes I cry.

Not because I’m breaking,

but because I’m letting it out

instead of holding it in.

I miss her.

I feel her in my chest,

in the silence,

in every piece of me that remembers.

But I don’t stay stuck anymore.

I feel it—

and I move.

April 4th, 2026 at 9:16PM

I started my walk and something in me broke open.

No warning.

Just tears.

The kind you don’t plan.

The kind your body holds

until it finally feels safe enough

to let go.

I didn’t try to stop it.

I just kept walking.

Step by step,

breathing through it,

letting everything I had been holding

fall away.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe it was everything.

The memories.

The changes.

The weight of becoming someone new

while still carrying pieces of who I used to be.

But I didn’t collapse.

I didn’t run.

I felt it—

and I kept going.

And somewhere along the way,

it got lighter.

Not gone.

But lighter.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like.

Not forgetting.

Not avoiding.

Just learning how to carry it

without letting it stop you.

April 3rd, 2026 às 12:18PM

Às vezes, conhecer alguém por muito tempo… não significa conhecer profundamente.

A gente acha que sabe como a pessoa é, até que percebe camadas que jamais imaginaria.

E então chegam notícias devastadoras.

E, estranhamente, você não fica surpreso.

Porque, olhando de perto, as peças finalmente se encaixam.

Não é sobre raiva.

Não é sobre julgamento.

É sobre reconhecer a realidade e decidir onde você coloca sua energia.

Escolher sua paz.

Escolher sua integridade.

Escolher a si mesmo, mesmo quando dói desapegar de quem já foi parte da sua história.

April 2nd, 2026

I’m graduating this June.

A bachelor’s degree—

something I once wasn’t even sure I could achieve.

There was a time

I doubted myself more than I believed in anything.

A time where this didn’t feel possible.

But here I am.

And now, I’m holding an acceptance letter

for a Master’s in Financial Planning at the University of Georgia.

What?

Sometimes I have to pause and really take that in.

Because the truth is—

nothing external really changed overnight.

I did.

My mindset.

My discipline.

The way I chose to show up for my own life.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson in all of this:

the limits I believed in

were never real.

They were just perspectives

I hadn’t outgrown yet.

Because the moment you start believing

that something is possible—

you move differently.

You build differently.

You become someone who gets there.

And suddenly,

the life you once questioned

starts becoming the life you’re living.

The sky was never the limit.

I was.

April 1st, 2026 at 10PM

Today marks seven years since I started at Wells Fargo.

Back then, I didn’t fully know who I was.

I just showed up.

Somewhere along the way, showing up became discipline.

Discipline became stability.

And stability started to feel like a life—my life.

I built something real.

Not perfect.

Not final.

But real.

And now I’m in a different place—

not starting,

not finished,

just… aware.

Aware that I’m no longer becoming by accident.

I’m choosing what comes next.

And it feels different.

Quieter.

More intentional.

Because the truth is, these seven years didn’t just pass.

They shaped me into someone

capable of building something bigger, someone who can hold his own, dream bigger, and still move forward.

This moment isn’t an ending.

It isn’t just a milestone.

It’s a quiet checkpoint that says:

you’ve grown.

You’re ready.

March 31st, 2026

I loved the way you kept the balcony door open

just to smell the rain,

to hear it fall like it belonged to you.

I loved how your fingers moved

when you got excited—

like when I promised to watch

one of your Studio Ghibli movies with you.

The way you smiled

when I ordered tacos on a Saturday night.

I loved the quiet things too—

cooking together,

getting lost in puzzles,

watching something scary

while we stayed close

on your dad’s old recliner.

I loved the smell of your hair

right after you washed it.

The way you asked my opinion

on everything—

clothes, shoes, furniture—

like my voice had a place

in your world.

I loved the way you read.

And even more,

the way you never judged me

when I read in my own way—

slow, careful, still learning.

I loved when you listened

to my Portuguese songs

and danced

like nothing else mattered.

And maybe that’s what stays with me the most—

not the big moments,

not the beginning or the end,

but all these small, ordinary things

that somehow

meant everything.

March 30th, 2026

You said you miss me.

And I didn’t say it back.

Not because I don’t.

I do.

Every day.

I miss you in the quiet moments,

in the spaces where your presence

used to live so easily.

But I held it in.

Because I could feel

you were already carrying too much.

And I didn’t want my words

to become another weight

on your shoulders.

And maybe…

because I needed to protect

my own heart too.

Because I know what happens

when I let everything out.

When I love without holding back.

So I stayed quiet.

Not empty—just careful.

Not distant—just choosing

not to give more

than the moment could hold.

But the truth is still here,

even if I didn’t say it out loud:

I miss you.

More than I let you see.

Just… not right now.