Originally written in Portuguese, translated by OpenAI.
When people ask me how I started writing letters, I answer that it wasn’t planned. Life pushed me here. A widow, mother of three, grandmother of two, and a businesswoman in the tech field, I used to be completely absorbed in my work. Until I discovered Slowly, an app that connects people from all over the world, and I realized that within it was an entire universe to explore—no passport, no boarding gate, but with the same thrill as a journey.I began shyly, exchanging just a few messages. But soon I realized it wasn’t just about “meeting people,” it was about diving into other realities. Receiving a letter from someone on the other side of the world is like opening a new window inside yourself. It’s reading about how the seasons are experienced in other places, smelling and imagining the taste of foods I’ve never tried, hearing about music I might never have discovered on my own, and learning life stories that feel like they came straight out of a book.
At first, the language barrier seemed like a challenge. But I discovered that, in practice, it doesn’t prevent a genuine connection. On the contrary—it made me learn, research, make mistakes, and laugh at those mistakes. I discovered new words, cultural nuances, and expressions that don’t have a perfect translation but carry universal feelings. And this exchange went far beyond vocabulary: it taught me patience, curiosity, and respect for the other person’s time and reality.
Over time, I realized I also had stories to tell. And that these stories, even the simplest ones, had value. Writing letters became an exercise in presence. Unlike instant conversation, a letter requires pause, reflection. It’s the time you set aside to think about what you truly want to say, what is worth recording. I discovered I had much more inside me than I imagined, and writing became my way of putting it into the world.
With each letter, I learned more about myself. I discovered I can laugh alone remembering a joke someone told me months ago. That I can be moved by the description of a sunset I’ve never seen. That virtual friendships can be just as strong as those in person. That it’s possible to create bonds with people I may never meet face to face, but who still leave deep marks on my path.
I received advice I still keep to this day. I shared victories and failures. I told stories about my hikes through the woods, about my French bulldog named Robson Roncador, about the music that carried me through important stages of my life. I revealed moments of vulnerability I might not have had the courage to tell to those nearby. And in return, I received stories of courage, love, resilience, loneliness, faith, friendship… stories that changed the way I see the world.
Slowly also brought me unexpected lessons. I learned to respect silence, because sometimes the other person’s life is busy, or they’re not ready to reply. I learned that “response time” doesn’t define the importance of a connection. I learned that a simple text can carry more affection than a thousand pretty words.
Little by little, I noticed I wasn’t just getting to know new cultures—I was rediscovering myself. This exchange made me question things I once considered absolute truths. It made me revisit concepts, see other perspectives, and most importantly, reminded me that there is no age limit for learning something new. Today, at 56, I can say I have friends all over the world. Some send me photos of sunsets, others of their favorite meals. Some write about politics, others send poems, short stories, haiku, share existential doubts… and even tell me about the animals they encounter in the nature reserve where they work—I’ve received accounts about bears, porcupines, and wild boars. And I love each one of them in their own way.
This experience pulled me out of my comfort zone and gave me back something I didn’t even know was missing: the ability to be enchanted. When you make space to listen to real stories, you begin to see beauty where you didn’t before. You realize that, even in different countries, with distinct cultures and opposite realities, we all carry the same questions deep down: “Who am I?”, “What makes me happy?”, “Who do I want to be from now on?”
Slowly isn’t just an app for me. It’s a daily exercise in empathy, patience, and curiosity. It’s proof that technology can truly bring people closer if used with intention. It’s a reminder that, even in a rushed and noisy world, there is still space for deep, slow, meaningful conversations.
Today, I can’t live without this exchange of letters anymore. They inspire me, challenge me, and remind me that, no matter the distance, there will always be someone willing to share a piece of their own story—and to listen to mine.
P.S.: This text was originally written in Portuguese. Some words may lose a little of their charm in translation—but I hope the essence remains the same.
