Built from the brightest moment in the darkest place.
It was the last day of the year when I found myself in a place most tourists avoid.
I had signed up for a favela tour in Rio. In Brazil, a favela means more than just a poor neighborhood. It’s a place where buildings climb over each other like vines, with colors brighter than the sky and lives harder than the ground beneath them.
As we climbed higher and higher through narrow stairs and uneven paths, the guide told us stories that stayed heavy in the air. About families with no hospital nearby. About houses that sometimes collapsed in the night. About a leader who kept the community alive by selling danger to others. Life was fragile here. People survived, but barely.
Then we reached the top. I was tired, guarded, and expecting a gift shop that would try to trick me. But instead, I walked into something different.
It was a small room that looked like an artist’s studio, open to the mountain air. Inside stood a man with the most colorful hair I had ever seen — wild curls tied with bright ropes, bouncing with energy. He didn’t try to sell us anything. Not yet. First, he sang. Then he danced. Then he did magic tricks that made even the most tired traveler laugh.
His joy was enormous. Bigger than the room. Bigger than the mountain. It filled every corner. He offered us clean water. A toilet with flowers. A place to rest for a while. And he did it all with pride.
That’s when I saw the dolls.
Each one carved by his hand. Their faces simple but kind. Their limbs made of soft rope. Their hair matched his — wild, bright, joyful. You could choose any color combination. And once you did, he would carve your name on the front, or any message you asked for. But on the back of every doll, one sentence was already waiting:
“Help yourself.”
I picked my doll. He carved it with care. And before handing it to me, he said something I’ll never forget:
“Take care of her. Put her in your kitchen. Cook good food every day, so she can eat too.”
It was the most human moment I’ve ever had while buying something. It didn’t feel like a sale. It felt like a blessing.
I was earning six figures then. Living in the U.S. Building my career.
But compared to the light in that man’s eyes, I felt poor.
He had nothing, yet gave everything — joy, pride, presence, and art.
I carried that doll down the mountain, and I’ve carried that feeling ever since.
Carve is my way of passing it forward.
So that even on hard days, someone like that man is still out there. Still dancing. Still carving. Still believing in people.
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