When Culture Becomes a Cage

 I know the theme of this blog is mostly about integration — the real work I’m doing to heal old trauma and shame after my ketamine sessions.

But I can’t do that work honestly without talking about where I come from — and what it’s like to be Brazilian, living in Utah, wanting to feel at home in your culture… but finding that it’s not always as safe or welcoming as it looks on the surface.

I’ve said it before: I’m proud of being Brazilian.
I love our food, our calor humano, our wild sense of humor, the way we can make a party out of anything.
I love Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, capoeira, MPB, our hospitality, our generosity.
And like any good shadow work — I see the flip side, too: how fanatical we can be, how easily we turn faith into an identity badge you either wear perfectly or get shunned for refusing to.

You saw this in me when I obsessed over Palmeiras during the last Club World Cup — that same devotion runs deep in our DNA. Brazil is wired for faith. So what happens when you mix that with Mormonism? You get people who think they’re not just any chosen people — they’re the most chosen, living in God’s place, doing His work.

So imagine what that does to you when you’re the odd one out.

Recently I met another Brazilian. Barely knew me, and the first question out of her mouth?
“Do you go to the Brazilian ward?”
Innocent on the surface. But underneath? It throws me right into defense mode.
Now I have to explain that I haven’t been Mormon for 13 years — which, for most Utah Brazilians, basically makes me a heretic with a smile.

Same thing happened a few months back with another seemingly sweet woman.
We’d run into each other a few  times, started connecting — then she dropped, “But Heavenly Father has been so wonderful and I’m so grateful for this gospel.”

Suddenly, I’m cornered. If I tell the truth — “Hey, I’m not Mormon anymore” — the warmth evaporates. She disappeared after that.

Or the time my coworker invited me to dinner with her Brazilian friends. Beautiful food. Seemed genuine. Then they brought in the older missionary couple. Church talk dominated the whole table. Even after I’d told her I’m not LDS anymore.

I’m not here to attack anyone’s beliefs. I know these folks are sincere, good-hearted people — but they’re living in a bubble. They don’t realize how invasive these questions feel. They don’t know how they turn what should be warm, cultural connection into a trap: Are you one of us, or not?
And I’m not here to defend myself anymore either. I’m just here to live.
To enjoy real connection, to finish school, build my businesses, heal my soul, protect my peace.

But sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere to breathe. I can’t even grab Brazilian food on Sundays because everything’s closed — while back in Florida, I could meet Craque Neto at a bakery, or see Palmeiras in the Florida Cup, and nobody gave a shit what church I went to.

Even when I was a hardcore Mormon, it was hard to relate. You couldn’t open up without getting told to fast or pray it away. The church selfies, the constant Mormon quotes — they made my real questions feel taboo.

And you know what hits me the most?
I “grew up” in Utah. Not even my Utah-born LDS friends got this invasive. They knew how to let faith be personal. In this Brazilian bubble, faith is the price of admission. And if you won’t pay it, you’re out.

I know they mean well — but good intentions don’t mean they get to hijack my story.
They won’t get my healing journey. My ketamine work. My love for math. My Amazon FBA hustle. My meditation practice, my passion for Jiu-Jitsu, my obsession with music and history outside a Mormon lens.

And that’s okay.
Because the whole point of this integration is learning to trust my gut. To say No more.
No more shrinking my truth for anyone’s comfort. No more polite nods when people put me back in the box I bled to crawl out of.

I’m not here to be convenient.
I’m not here to be a testimony project.
I’m here to live free — wildly, inconveniently, beautifully free.

That’s what this healing is for.

— FG