Saudade is a Portuguese word “denoting an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent someone or something.” If you, like me, are also away from loved ones, you may have felt that, especially around special dates – even if you did not care much about them when back home. This year, on March 4th, Brazilians officially commemorate one of the leading national festivities, Carnival, ending celebrations that usually begin a month prior. In today’s post, I am expressing my saudade and opening my heart to our community in hopes you feel comfort knowing that you are not the only one navigating complicated feelings towards adapting to a new place and culture.
I never thought I’d miss you. You were always there - too loud, too crowded, too much. You arrived every February with wild colours, pounding drums, and an insane amount of glitter. I watched from the sidelines, convinced I had no part in you. I let the bloquinhos pass me by, skipped the road trips, and ignored the music spilling into the streets. I told myself I wasn’t the type to lose track of time in a sea of people, dance until my legs ached, and let confetti stick to my skin. Listening to my marchinhas playlist was enough. Or so I thought.
Now, miles away, wrapped in winter layers, I watch from even farther away. February means something entirely different here. It’s quiet. The air is cold. No drums echo through the streets, no bursts of laughter from costumed crowds, no scent of spilled beer and sunscreen. No last-minute costume decisions, no groups of friends running late, but never in a hurry. Just winter, routine, and nostalgia that lingers like the ghost of a song I barely learned to sing.
I miss watching the parades on TV, pretending I didn’t care while secretly getting lost in the hypnotic rhythm of the samba schools and cheering for the Beija Flor. I miss the feeling of knowing that, for a few days, nothing else mattered - not work, not deadlines, not the weight of everyday life - just joy, music, and the warmth of people coming together.
I scroll past videos of packed streets, of laughter that carries through the screen, of a kind of collective joy that I haven’t witnessed in a while. And suddenly, I understand. You are no longer just a date on the calendar - you are a feeling I can’t recreate. Movement, connection, a brief moment where nothing mattered except the beat of the tamborim and the people beside you.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from missing you, it’s that moments are fleeting. We always think there will be another opportunity, another time, another year. But life moves fast, and suddenly, the things we once took for granted become memories we can no longer touch. One day, I’ll come back. And this time, I won’t stand on the sidelines. I’ll say yes. Until then, I’ll carry you with me, in the rhythm of a distant samba, in the glitter I find in old clothes, in the realization that joy should never be postponed. Because the biggest regret isn’t missing something you love. It’s realizing you never let yourself love it in the first place.