There’s a photo I keep returning to.
My father at around 18 years old — standing shirtless under palm trees, shoulders relaxed, chest open, a quiet confidence on his face. I don’t know where it was taken. I don’t know what he was thinking in that moment. But his posture, his frame, the way he held himself… that part feels familiar.
Recently, at 55, I recreated the photo.
Same pose. Same bare chest.
A different man — but somehow the same silhouette.
When I saw the two images side by side, something shifted inside me. The resemblance wasn’t only physical. It was an echo. A connection that reached across time, across memory, across everything that was lost and everything I still carry forward.
My father died when I was six.
Forty-five years old — younger than I am today.
The years we had together were short, but his presence is still alive in me: in the way I move, in the shape of my shoulders, in my instinct to stand upright when life gets heavy. It is a strange, beautiful thing: to grow older than a parent you barely got to know — and yet feel them pulsing in your muscles and your breath.
Why this matters to me now
The photo reminded me of two reasons why caring for my health and fitness isn’t a hobby — it’s an act of love, presence, and longevity.
1. I want to feel alive today.
Not just “healthy.”
Alive. Present. Awake in my body.
I want to start my mornings with clarity, carry energy into my work, stay playful in my movements, feel my breath expand without effort, and end the day with the sense that my body supported me in everything I did.
This is what longevity means to me in the present:
a daily commitment to vitality — physically, mentally, emotionally.
2. I want to stay active for the people I love in the future.
My father was gone too soon.
I didn’t get to play football with him.
We never worked out together.
He never saw me become who I am.
Maybe that’s why I treasure every moment of movement with my kids today.
It’s a joy to compare the “Powerhouse” with my daughter Emilia — who has become a Pilates teacher herself. It’s a gift to still play in the same football team with my son or share a tennis court with him.
And one day — hopefully far from now — I want to be the kind of grandfather who can get down on the floor, run in the garden, carry a child on his shoulders without hesitation.
(No pressure, Emilia and Tiago — this is a long-term vision, not a timeline. 😉)
When I think of longevity, I don’t imagine anti-aging hacks or futuristic supplements.
I imagine presence.
I imagine availability.
I imagine moments I don’t want to miss.
Longevity is not about adding years at the end — it’s about deepening the years in the middle
The trend around longevity is growing — and that’s good.
But beneath the hype lies something ancient and human:
the desire to stay connected.
To ourselves.
To our families.
To our purpose.
Movement, breath, strength, mobility — they are all the tools that keep this connection alive.
At Purajana, we talk a lot about emotional well-being, about posture, about how the body shapes the way we move through life. This photo reminded me that longevity is part of that same conversation.
Because the way we care for our body is also the way we care for our presence — today and for the years we hope to share with the people who matter most.
A final thought
When I look at that photo of my father, I don’t just see a young man standing under palm trees.
I see the beginning of a lineage of movement.
A continuity of strength.
A quiet reminder of how fragile and precious our time is.
And when I look at the re-created photo of myself, I see something else:
a promise.
A promise to stay alive in my body.
To honor the life I have.
To be here — fully — for as long as life allows.
