Ever since I can remember, creativity has been my safe place when life became too harsh to bear. When my late mother had a stroke and was hospitalised in Brazil, my heart broke, and I spent a month by her side in the hospital. Soon the doctors advised us that there was nothing they could do for her, so I had no choice but to place her in a home in São Paulo. Seeing my mother, an Indigenous warrior who fought so many battles with me and for me, so vulnerable, destroyed me, for there was nothing I could do. Her colourful and courageous life kept flooding my mind, and I began to weave her story, which I could only finish two and a half years later after she passed away. Writing her story comforted me, and it was an honour to keep her memory alive through the Mother of Honey: her name was Iracy, and in Tupi-Guarani means the Mother of Honey, the title of my memoir. I hope you gain some inspiration from Iracy’s remarkable story.