Several years ago, in Bogotá, I fell in love. One of those fast, intense things that ends before you even have time to process it—but stays with you for years.
He was very unique. He was doing a PhD on nothingness. That was his thing at the time. The concept of nothing. He wasn’t the kind of guy who talked just to sound smart. He lived in his own world. He told me he was a street dog, but he was an artist.
His brain just worked differently. I’ve met smart people before—lawyers, CEOs, doctors—but this guy? He thought in a way I’d never seen up close. And not just about deep things. Even the way he ate was intentional. Like he was always paying attention.
Here’s the part that gets me: I never told him I was an artist.
Not once.
I grew up hiding that part of myself. Art was something I did in secret. I read a lot. I had thoughts. But I didn’t say them out loud. Not at work. Not with family. Not even to myself. Because honestly? I didn’t even know I was one—even though I was already painting.
So when I met this guy who was 100% himself—even if it made him weird—I just watched. I listened. I took it all in.
Then one day, he stopped answering the phone. And that was it. No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence. And I haven’t seen him since.
But here’s the thing: meeting him woke me up.
I realized I’d spent my whole life editing myself. And this guy, in his late 30s, with his skateboard and colorful socks, showed me that it’s okay to be who you really are. Even if it’s strange. Even if people don’t get it right away.
I’m not saying go fall in love in Bogotá (or maybe sí). I’m saying stop apologizing for the parts of you that don’t fit the mold.
He didn’t give me anything to hold onto. No promises. Not even a glimpse into his life.
But he gave me something better: permission.