My dearest Moni,
Another year and here I am, sitting down to write to you; eleven years now since you left. This year I've had the odd health scare. The worst was a few months ago: I'd spent more than a month drinking liquorice tea, believing I was hydrating my body, and without knowing it I was poisoning myself. I started swelling up dramatically and my energy levels dropped through the floor. I went to the doctor thinking it would be nothing and found I had severe fluid retention, so severe that the fluid had seeped into my lungs, my blood pressure had shot up and my heart rate had fallen by 40%. I'm telling you in case someone reads this and it helps them stay alert: drinking too much liquorice can do this.
A scare like that took me back to you, to the hardest lesson your leaving taught me: nothing lasts forever, everything can end tomorrow. Over the years it's easy to forget; the day-to-day swallows you up and you slip into autopilot. But this year several things have forced me to stop and think. I live in a city full of nature. Being outdoors is something that fills me up. When I step outside I see green mountains, just like when I lived in Germany. That was what I loved most about living there. I live abroad, which is what I'd always wanted, I work without an office, we travel, I'm a mother… and despite all of it, I've spent these years worrying about not having enough time, without stopping much to look at any of the good. If the Cristina who left Valencia more than fourteen years ago could see the life I have now, she'd be amazed: it has everything she wanted and more. What would surprise her is that I still don't feel fulfilled by it. And I realise this isn't just me. I keep talking to people who accept feeling empty at work because "it is what it is" and they need the salary to pay the bills. It saddens me how normal it has become to live disconnected from ourselves, exhausted and full of noise, never stopping to ask whether this life makes sense to us. I think that's one of the great forms of slavery in modern life. It's important to realise that we alone are responsible for our own happiness; if you don't fight for it, nobody is going to do it for you. Only you can know what makes you happy.
Maybe that's why this year I've felt, more than ever, the need to create, to build something of my own, for my work to have a purpose and not just be an obligation. And artificial intelligence has helped me enormously with this: I learn much faster, I build much faster, and I do things that were impossible for me before. Plenty of people see it as a threat; I see it as an opportunity. An opportunity that could help all of us have a life with more meaning and be truly ourselves. Every person is an unrepeatable mix of qualities, interests and experiences, and that is exactly what makes us unique. Nobody can give the world what you can give; you just have to find your own way.
For now I'm still with my job at SAP, which is what it is for the moment, but alongside it I'm building two projects that genuinely excite me: Cristina Guiri, a personal blog where I write about reinventing yourself, building more income streams, starting something of your own and life across borders; and Iberova, with which I want to help anyone looking to invest in Spain or move here. Iberova is still under construction. Cristina Guiri, on the other hand, is born today. I decided I'd launch it the same day I published this letter, even with things still unfinished and plenty more to polish. I needed to force myself to stop waiting for everything to be perfect and simply start. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm walking towards where I want to be.
I'm writing to you from the air; I'm flying home from a work trip. The little one has stayed at home with her daddy, my travel companion and my inspiration, the family I want to carry on building with. My heart is in pieces for leaving her; I never imagined such a tiny person could awaken a love this big. I wish you could see what my life has become, and I wish you were here so I could tell you in person, the two of us in stitches and you calling me daft. I miss you so much.
A huge kiss wherever you are,
Cristina, your sister