Apparently I built a life people want to visit. Now I need boundaries and more towels.

Jacinta reclines in a red Cine Society lounge chair outdoors in warm sunlight, wearing a white top, with rows of red lounge chairs behind her. — *Summer looked cute. It was also doing the most.*

It has been two months since I wrote here, which feels both reasonable and mildly disrespectful considering the number of people who passed through my apartment, my calendar, and my towel supply this summer.

June and July were full.

Full full.

I had about fifteen or sixteen people come through Lisbon in some form. Friends. Friends of friends. People from different chapters of my life who suddenly found themselves on this side of the ocean.

And listen, I loved it.

I loved that people came. I loved showing them the city I have fallen so deeply in love with. I loved watching people meet Lisbon for the first time and start doing the thing everyone does when they get here, which is casually asking what rent costs and whether Portuguese is hard to learn.

Maybe they were coming to Lisbon anyway. But I would like to believe at least some of them came because of me. Let me have that.

For two months, I became part host, part tour guide, part restaurant recommender, part unofficial relocation consultant, and part woman standing in her kitchen wondering how many towels one adult is expected to own.

I was excited.

I was grateful.

I was also tired.

And by the end of July, I knew I needed my house back.

A sloped Lisbon street with colorful buildings, parked cars, and cobblestone sidewalks, with the Tagus River visible in the distance. — *Lisbon kept making my case for me.*

Lisbon, Sponsored By Me

There is something special about showing people a place you love.

Not a place you tolerate. Not a place you are trying to convince yourself was a good decision. A place you love for real.

I wanted people to see what I see here. The river. The light. The food. The little streets that make no sense until suddenly they do. The miradouros. The beaches. The way a regular walk can turn into an accidental postcard. The way people sit down and actually stay seated.

I wanted everybody to get it. Even when I only had a few hours with someone, I was sending recommendations like Lisbon had placed me on payroll.

Go here. Eat there. Do this view first. No, not that pastel de nata place, this one. Take an Uber there, but walk back. Wear comfortable shoes. No, more comfortable than that.

And if you think I was just trying to help people have a good time, yes. But also, I wanted them to fall in love. Not just with the city. With the possibility of a different kind of life.

I wanted them to understand why I stayed. Why I miss Lisbon when I leave now. Why I can be somewhere beautiful for work and still start thinking about getting back to my own bed, my own groceries, my own neighborhood, my own little routine.

That is new for me. This summer, I watched people arrive in the life I no longer feel desperate to escape. And that did something to me. It made me proud. It made me tender.

It made me want to hand everyone a glass of vinho verde and say, see?

See what I mean?

The Guest Plot Twist

Now. Let me also be honest. Hosting is a lot. Hosting people you love is a lot. Hosting people you only kind of know is an Olympic event and should come with medals, hazard pay, and a post-stay recovery stipend.

One guest stayed with me for a week, and let me just say, a week is a long time to host someone you don’t really know like that. Especially when Facebook had me thinking I was welcoming a woman. Then the Lord revealed otherwise. Lord have mercy.

To be clear, nobody did anything criminal. Everybody survived. But there were moments. There was the snack situation. He bought some snacks and seemed a little offended that I did not eat them.

Sir. I have macros to hit. This is not personal. This is protein math.

There was also a moment where I went in for a hug and it seemed like the energy got briefly confused. Absolutely not.

Portugal may be romantic. I am not. At least not like that.

And honestly, that was the summer in miniature. Beautiful, funny, generous, slightly chaotic, and occasionally requiring me to remember that my home is not a boutique hostel with emotional amenities.

I can laugh about it now because it was not terrible.

It was just clarifying.

Very clarifying.

Jacinta takes a selfie in a sunny, green park, wearing an olive shirt and holding up a peace sign, with grass and trees behind her. — *At some point , I needed my rhythm back.*

I Wanted My House Back

By the end of July, I missed my rhythm.

I wanted to wake up without thinking about anyone else’s breakfast. Make my warm lemon water. Let the apartment stay quiet. Sit on my couch and do nothing without wondering if I should suggest an activity.

I wanted groceries that made sense again. A day where I was not mentally tracking towels, sheets, chargers, keys, dinner plans, airport times, and whether someone had enough recommendations to enjoy the city without me becoming their personal travel app.

And again, I loved having people here. This is not a complaint disguised as reflection. This is the honest math of abundance. Sometimes you get the thing you wanted and then realize you need a system for it.

I wanted a life people would want to visit. I got one. And then I remembered that a life still has to be lived by the person who built it.

That means quiet matters. Routine matters. Empty space matters. A day with no plan matters.

A closed door can be loving too. I am not closing the border. Let us not be dramatic.

There are already two guests coming in October, and one of them I have known for thirty-one years, so obviously she has lifetime access. Some people are grandfathered in.

But the policy is under review.

Applications will be considered based on timing, emotional bandwidth, independent exploration skills, and whether you understand that I may love you deeply and still need to spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing.

Jacinta sits on an airplane holding a drink, wearing a black shirt and hoop earrings, looking into a camera before another work trip. — *The guests slowed down. The fullness did not.*

Then August Packed a Bag

And then came August. Because apparently June and July were not enough. The visitors slowed down, but the fullness did not.

On July 31, I got on a plane to Beijing after my last visitor had left on July 29.

Two days. That was the gap. Two days between hospitality season and international work mode.

I got on that plane exhausted, but fulfilled. That is the annoying thing about a full life. Sometimes it really is good. Sometimes you really are grateful. Sometimes you really would not trade it.

And still, your body is sitting there like, ma’am, are we done or no?

I told myself I was not going to overprepare. I say this before every work trip now. I say, Jacinta, you do this all the time.

You know how to facilitate. You know how to read a room. You know how to pivot. You do not need to make every single thing custom from scratch like the fate of global education depends on this one slide transition.

And then I ignore myself. Completely.

I prepare for hours. I make things bespoke. I add nuance. I build options we will never get to. I revise the thing that was already fine. Then I revise the revision.

For what?

Control, probably.

Care, definitely.

Fear, sometimes.

Excellence, always.

And because some part of me still believes nobody should ever be able to say I was not ready.

The Performance of Being Fine

The wild part is, I can still pull it off. I can be on two hours of sleep and still walk into a room like I have been resting in a lavender field for nine business days. I can be tired and still be sharp. I can be running on fumes and still read the room, make people laugh, hold the tension, shift the plan, land the point, and make it look smooth.

That is a gift. t is also a problem.

Because when you are good at functioning tired, tired does not always look like an emergency. It just looks like you.

Capable.

Prepared.

Responsive.

Professional.

On.

And I am getting too old for that. Not old old. Let us not start rumors. But old enough to know that my body is no longer interested in quietly absorbing the cost of my competence. Old enough to know that sleep is not a cute suggestion. Old enough to know that being able to push through does not mean pushing through is the assignment.

China was good. Switzerland was good. The Netherlands was good. The work mattered. I am proud of what I did.

And I also know I spent hours preparing for things we did not even get to. Preparation is part of my work. But overpreparation is different. Overpreparation is when care starts wearing anxiety’s clothes.

And I know the outfit. I have worn it often.

Jacinta takes a selfie on a boat on the Tagus River, with bright blue water and the Lisbon shoreline behind her. — *This summer was not miserable. It was alive.*

What Summer Showed Me

Summer showed me that fullness can come from more than one direction. It can come through your front door with a suitcase. It can come through your inbox with a contract.It can come through your calendar with flights, sessions, dinner plans, museum ideas, beach days, work calls, laundry, groceries, and one more thing I agreed to before checking whether I had an actual human body available to do it.

Fullness is not always bad. That is what makes it tricky. This summer was not miserable. It was alive.

There were boat days and beach days. There were people from different parts of my life sitting in the same city I now call home. There were free tickets to Rock n Rio. There was a bullfight, which was a lot and deserves its own processing committee. There were walks and dinners and laughs and little moments where I thought, wow, these are my people, and somehow we are here.

Here. In Lisbon. In this life I chose.

And because it was beautiful, I let it keep going. That is the thing I am paying attention to now.

Sometimes I overextend because something is bad and I am trying to survive it. But sometimes I overextend because something is good and I do not want to interrupt the goodness.

I do not want to be the person who says no. I do not want to miss the moment. I do not want people to feel unwelcome. I do not want an opportunity to pass me by. I do not want to admit that even good things need limits.

But they do.

Good things need somewhere to land.

Otherwise they become another way to lose yourself.

The Fall I Am Actually Entering

I would love to say September arrived and I immediately became a woman of perfect boundaries, slow mornings, and thoughtful calendar management.

That would be a lie.

I go to Cambodia and Laos in exactly two weeks. So clearly, the plot is still plotting.

I am not entering fall with a blank calendar and a clean little lesson. I am entering fall with work to do, bags to pack, visitors already on the books, and a body that keeps asking me to stop acting like recovery is something I can schedule after everything else is finished.

But I am entering it with more information.

My home is not just a place to host people. It is the place I recover, reset, cook, think, stare into space, wash the same three forks, and remember who I am when nobody needs anything from me.

Sharing my life does not mean handing over full access to it. I can love people and still need them to book a hotel. I can be excellent at my work without sacrificing sleep to prove it. Grateful and tired can sit at the same table. And “come visit” and “stay with me” are not the same invitation.

Please govern yourselves accordingly.

Jacinta stands behind a black fence at Lisbon overlook, wearing a colorful dress and pointing towards a wall that says "Yes, life is good", with rooftops, the river, and bridge in the background. — *Life is good. It still needs a gate.*

The Gate

I keep thinking the next layer of freedom might not be about opening everything. Maybe it is about having a gate. Not a wall. A gate.

Something that can open. Something that can close. Something that lets love in without letting my whole life get trampled.

That feels right for where I am now. I do not want to become hard. I do not want to stop being excited when someone I love says they are coming to Lisbon.

I still want the dinners. The walks. The ridiculous laughs. The “wait, you live here?” moments. The joy of watching people see my life up close.

I just also want my life to still feel like mine when they leave.

This summer gave me so much.

People.

Stories.

Receipts.

Laundry.

A few plot twists.

Some very good memories.

And one clear reminder:

A beautiful life still needs protecting.

Especially from the part of me that thinks love means making room for everybody before checking if I have made room for myself.

Tell Me This

What good thing in your life might need a gate right now?

Not because you do not love it.

Because you do.

And because you want to still feel like yourself inside of it.

— JW