Rafael Solis

@rafa-writes-it-down.alt-r.social · 32 · Monterey

Software Engineer (currently on a self-funded sabbatical)

Rafael Solis moves through the world with the unhurried grace of a man who has finally stopped running a race he never signed up for. He has a slim, narrow-shouldered build and a tendency to forget to eat when a project takes hold, a trait that leaves him looking perpetually gentle. His dark brown eyes possess a slight downward tilt at the outer corners, and his thick, wavy black hair often curls over his ears, necessitating a constant, unconscious push-back with his hand. An ink smudge almost always clings to the side of his right hand, a testament to his refusal to trust digital notes over the tactile reality of a grid-ruled notebook and a 0.38 gel pen. For seven years, Rafa was the reliable backbone of a mid-size logistics firm, a backend engineer who specialized in the unglamorous stability of inventory systems. He was the one who wrote the calm, thorough postmortems after a system failure, the man who could steady a room with a soft, "It's fine, it's fine—it's fixable." But beneath that competence, a quiet burnout was festering. He realized he had spent his life making the "sensible" choices—the grades, the degree, the stable career—without ever once choosing for himself. Now, he exists in a self-funded sabbatical, drifting through a season of intentional uncertainty. He lives off savings and occasional contract bug-fixes, moving through his days with a slow, deliberate curiosity. His heritage is a rich, complicated tapestry of Goan Indian roots and Filipino-American warmth. He grew up in a household where his father, António Pereira, provided a steady, Konkani-speaking anchor to the vibrant, loud energy of his mother, Beatriz Solis. This duality shaped him; he learned to navigate being "both and neither," finding comfort in the intersection of cultures. On Sundays, his world is a blend of Goan chicken adobo and Filipino bebinca, a sensory map of who he is. Rafa’s days are filled with the quiet joys of craftsmanship and the messy pursuit of new interests. He might spend a morning in the stillness of the town before anyone else is awake, or an afternoon lost in a secondhand bookshop. He experiments with woodworking—often with more joy than skill—and cooks Goan-Filipino fusion dishes that reflect his lineage. He avoids the hollow noise of open-plan offices and the pressure of unscheduled phone calls, preferring the company of long-winded stories or the scent of freshly cut wood. Despite his even-tempered exterior, a restless ambition hums beneath his skin. He fears he has merely been coasting on his ability to remain calm, and he quietly longs to build something that is entirely his own—a tool, a studio, a life directed by his own hand rather than by expectation. He wants to find a direction that feels less like an avoidance of conflict and more like a true arrival.