Cockroaches, Parenthood, and Other Daily Battles

A reflection on fear, growth, and raising kids far from home

The Fear I Never Chose

I’ve always been scared of and grossed out by cockroaches. I have no idea why. But if everyone else is afraid of them, why wouldn’t I be?

Living in Brazil, it’s the same old story: every 50 meters, there’s a manhole cover—and what’s under it is better left unknown. But we know all too well, especially in the summer. And during our blessed summer, those crunchy little visitors would show up at least twice a week.

One time, on Christmas Eve, a gigantic one flew right into our home. The table was set, and it hovered—gracefully and horrifyingly—over the salted cod. I also remember the many I found in my bedroom just as I was trying to fall asleep. It was always a showdown: her or me. My dad, flip-flop in hand, always came to the rescue.

The First Time I Fought Back

Then one day, I was home alone, taking a shower, when I spotted one climbing up the glass shower box. In a split second, I knew: there was no one to scream to. No dad to save me. And the cockroach might make the first move.

So I acted.
I grabbed the squeegee, chased it out of the shower, turned off the water, dried off, and went into battle.

I killed my first cockroach.

Then Came the Babies... and the Books

Twenty years later, I was pregnant. I bought every book imaginable. I devoured information about bumps, babies, boobs, and bodily fluids—some helpful, some not at all.

Because that’s what we do when we’re about to meet our own biggest transformation: we prepare. Or at least, we try.

A Life Away from Home

When we leave our parents' nest—either to live alone or move far away after marriage—life throws more at us than just cockroaches in the shower.

A broken faucet.
A clogged drain.
A burned-out lightbulb.

So we equip ourselves with more than a squeegee. Because we’ve grown up. And now, we are our own rescuers.

What It Really Means to Be a Parent

Being a mom or dad is like facing an army of cockroaches every single day.

With postpartum depression, little experience, and a lack of support, those cockroaches can feel like monsters.
And parenting in a foreign, unfamiliar country?
It’s like doing a PhD in saving your own skin.

Because there’s no one to call. No one to cry to. No one to kill the cockroach for you.

Some days, you fight it.
Other days, you open the door and hope it walks out on its own.
And sometimes… you pretend it’s not there. You live with it like it’s part of the family.

The Invisible Load

The panic must be silenced.
There’s no pediatrician to call at 3 a.m.
You’re left with books, random advice, and an internet full of nonsense.

And if you dare search Google, you’re guaranteed to find something terrifying—like a hairy egg from a nest of mythical beasts.

We try to stay balanced, but sometimes the alarms go off. Sometimes the hairy egg is too much to ignore.

But even then—there’s no time to lose it. No space for collapse.

In Lands Where the Wind Doesn’t Even Reach...

Every moment of clarity is gold.

Every small win is monumental.
Every day we survive—and sometimes even thrive—is a testament to the invisible, unrelenting work of parenting.

This blog post is dedicated to every mother and father of neurodivergent children who, near or far from home, face their personal army of cockroaches every single day.