They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but in my case, my eyes decided to tell a different story from a very early age. My vision, limited by biology but expanded by imagination, forced me to build shelters where others saw only shadows. Today, 16 years after putting down roots in Canada and with the perspective that only grey hair and well-healed scars can provide, I look back and realise that my answer to stress and heartbreak was never at the bottom of a bottle, but on the spine of a book. Let me explain.

My logbook in the face of adversity

From a young age, reading was my soothing catalyst. Whilst others sought to drown the sorrows of unrequited love or the frustration of a quarrel between friends in alcohol, I lost myself in literary and scientific texts. If the outside world became chaotic, I would open a book, for there, between the paragraphs, the stress would fade away. It was my way of realising that my problems, however great they might seem, had already been experienced and recounted by others centuries ago.

That young man I once was, deeply sheltered by a loving mother because of my visual impairment, had to learn to let go early on. At the age of 15, out of sheer conviction, I let go of my mother’s hand. It was my first major exercise in independence, my first unfiltered encounter with reality. That determination shaped me: I became a discerning man, perhaps a bit of a perfectionist, especially in matters of the heart. I wasn’t the sort to fall into just any arms; I sought a connection as profound as the books I devoured.

However, life teaches you that not everything can be controlled, not even with the most meticulous of perfectionism. My greatest heartbreak, the one that tore at the very fabric of my existence, did not come from a romantic break-up, but from loss. Seventeen years ago, my daughter Sofía slipped from my grasp at the age of eleven. That is a pain that cannot be healed by chapters, but is borne with the peace of knowing that love is not possession. Blessings, my dear ‘Pan de leche’!

I have had two great loves, two very different worlds. Sofía’s mother, in my beloved Venezuela, and the mother of my son Matthew, here in the white lands of Canada. In both cases, when the cycle came to an end, the parting was amicable, almost poetic. Many are surprised by this lack of conflict, but the fact is that my migration was not just geographical, but emotional. I learnt that to love is, fundamentally, to know how to let go. You cannot hold captive someone who no longer wants to be, or should not be, by your side.

Today, living this cultural duality — where Latin warmth blends with the serene pragmatism of the first world — I understand that stress and heartbreak are merely teachers disguised as crises. My refuge remains books and the piano keys; my son Matthew is my present; and Sofía is that light I don’t need to see with my eyes to feel every day. My recipe has been simple: read to understand, love to set free, and live with the certainty that, even if a single note on the piano goes out of tune, the heart always finds its way back to peace.

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