Gilda Moratti is the daughter of the founder of San Patrignano, one of Europe's most important rehabilitation communities that for over 40 years has offered free help to thousands of girls and boys with addiction problems. In Gilda’s journal titled Terra, published by Francesco Brioschi Editore, the protagonist Terra is the founder of humanitarian and educational foundations. Terra is a strong, enterprising and determined woman. She fights to protect the environment and animals. Her mission is to track down criminals, smugglers and traffickers and, one by one, bring them to justice. Over the years, dangerous intelligence operations take her to the four corners of the world, until one morning when the course of her life changes forever.

Inspired by her own true story, Gilda’s diary Terra recounts the suffering caused by illness and an almost miraculous rebirth. After being diagnosed with terminal cancer, she must find the strength within herself to survive. Alongside conventional treatment, she embarks on a path to healing: she practices meditation, lives in close contact with nature, and revisits and reworks her past through her travel diaries. Over time, she learns to let the pain wash over her, to recognise it as necessary; and at the same time, she must first fall apart if she is to put herself back together again.

Gilda, you live in Ibiza, surrounded by animals. How many are there with you today?

At the moment I have seven dogs, ten cats and a massive parrot.

Do the cats and dogs get along, or are they constantly fighting?

Primarily, yes, they fight. But they have always been part of my life. They also shield me from many things—especially what I call annoying frequencies. Both my parents had dogs, cats and other animals, so I was surrounded by them from the moment I was born. I often feel that they resonate with me more deeply than humans do. They protect me.

Your book, Terra, is difficult to define. It is part novel, part diary, part memoir. The journalist Stella Pende wrote the introduction and calls your way of narrating a “roller coaster of storytelling”. Terra herself is the central character, and Cleopatra, one of your dogs, seems almost like another protagonist. Was Cleopatra a special dog for you?

I would not really say that there is one special dog. Each of them embodies something very strong within me. Cleopatra has certainly been very important because she is so silent and discreet, but also incredibly present. Presence is a quality that I find both challenging and extraordinary. She really embodies presence.

Terra has a life that in the beginning reads almost like a John le Carré or Graham Greene novel. You are in Africa, there is danger, there are traffickers, and you are trying to protect endangered animals—elephants, rhinoceroses and other species—from the enormously lucrative criminal trade. Why did you put yourself through all those dangerous experiences? You had children. Why this urge to follow Andrea and Gregory into such extreme situations?

That is a beautiful question, and I am not sure I can answer it completely. I suppose it began somewhere in my stomach. I had loved animals from very early childhood. They were always part of my life, and at a certain point I decided I wanted to do something about the way the trade turns living beings into commodities. Then, as often happens, when you genuinely desire something, the universe puts you in front of what you are looking for. Around 2010 or 2011 I met Andrea Crosta. He became like a brother to me and also a great teacher. He had been working in the private sector very closely with intelligence services, particularly Mossad, on different kinds of illegal trade. His mission was to try to break the trade in endangered species, beginning with elephants and rhinoceroses, which are among the most targeted animals. We met over dinner in Milan and immediately connected. His idea was to tackle one of the most horrible and lucrative criminal trades by using intelligence methods: informants, tracing networks and connecting the dots from the demand for animals all the way through the entire chain of the trade. By the end of that dinner, we were already talking about working together. We founded what was initially called the Elephant Action League and is now Earth League International. I was trained for the work and worked closely with people from intelligence services, including the FBI and Mossad. It became my job.

How did a Milanese girl from a very well-known family involved in something completely different arrive at this?

My background was actually quite unusual. My family created San Patrignano, so although I had a conventional education in Milan, I also spent a great deal of time there. And San Patrignano was what I would call the real stuff—the real life.

What is San Patrignano?

It is a community that helps people with addiction. It began with drug and alcohol addiction and has also helped people with other forms of addiction, including gambling. It started in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when drug addiction was often treated as a disease without much understanding of what people actually needed to rebuild their lives. My father started it. I was about two years old when we were living on this enormous hill with very few people, in trailers. Over time it became one of the largest rehabilitation communities in the world. People come from all over the world, and the programme is free. It tries to help people re-establish a relationship with themselves, beginning with very basic things.

You grew up with an idea of helping other people, but you also describe in Terra a period when you yourself had problems with alcohol and drugs. Was that connected to what you were seeing and experiencing?

Yes, I had problems myself. I think it was another kind of shield, something very deep and personal. It was one of the ways I tried to make sense of the outside world. Having grown up around San Patrignano and knowing what happens when people live that kind of life, I went through that path myself too. I suppose my soul needed to experience everything: drugs and alcohol, danger, and also being completely selfless for other people. So when I met Andrea, I found his project fascinating. The idea of trying to dismantle this trade by using intelligence methods, governments and other institutions was compelling. I stayed involved for many years.

You love adventure and Gregory Colbert, a photographer and documentary filmmaker, took you to extreme places such as Antarctica, to the Amazon, to Thailand. Did you have a constant need to see things for yourself?

Definitely. Gregory came into my life a couple of years before Andrea. They both taught me an enormous amount about nature and about how nature operates. They taught me that when we do not respect nature, the consequences can be enormous. I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to go to some of the harshest places. Living for two months in the Amazonian jungle with a tribe was one of the most intense experiences I have ever had. Antarctica was extraordinary and peaceful, but also very sad, because from one year to the next you could see the ice melting. I worked in Thailand with tigers and with elephants, where you could see the destruction of forests caused by different trades, including soya and rubber. I wanted to see all of it, and when Andrea came along, I wanted to help. I wanted to try to leave the world in a better condition for our children. What I did not understand at first was the toll that this life would take on me. When you work undercover with traffickers, spend months without speaking to ordinary people, constantly pretend to be someone else, and witness not only the trafficking of animals but also the trafficking of women and children—because the criminal networks overlap—my heart started to crack. I decided to get out. It was difficult because that kind of life is addictive. Adrenaline is addictive. Eventually I had to leave, and that is why Terra begins in Switzerland.

In Switzerland, where you were skiing, with your children and your dogs, where everything seemed calm, something happened that changed the whole story. You suddenly became very ill.

From one day to the next I felt extremely sick. I went to hospital and was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer that had also spread. I was told that I did not have much time left—perhaps a maximum of two months. And a new journey began.

Your husband took you to London, where you had a home, and you describe the experience with extraordinary intensity. How did you find the courage to write about illness, fear and weakness?

Most of Terra is a journal. Then I rewrote and edited parts of it. It took me three years to write because it takes courage to speak about weakness, fragility and illness, but the same impulse that had come from my stomach when I decided to work against the trafficking of endangered species came again. I felt this propulsion from my stomach and my heart, and it led me into this new journey. Terra is only a small part of that journey, but I wanted to share it because I believe that through sharing, without judgement, we evolve. Many people are going through what I went through, or through something completely different. It does not have to be illness. People experience pain of every kind. I believe that by sharing openly, without judgement, we can evolve as human beings and become better versions of ourselves.

It is striking that there is very little self-pity. You do not hide your fear, but you also do not ask the reader to pity you. Instead, you are deeply grateful—to the people around you, to your husband, your mother, your siblings, your friends, to the doctors and nurses.

I do not like to sound sentimental, but I think the love that surrounds me keeps me in a good place and continues to keep me healthy. I have an enormous amount of gratitude. I had very bad luck, as unfortunately so many people do, but I am surrounded by love. For me, that is enough. More than enough. It is beautiful.

You are in terrible pain at times and know that you may die. Are you afraid of dying?

Of course. Everybody is afraid of dying, myself included, but there is a little twist in the way I think about it. It is very personal and has nothing to do with religion. I believe that death is a portal to something else. I believe that when I die, I will be in a different form, but that it will still be me. I have thought about this since I was a child. I was always intrigued by death, which I encountered very young because of San Patrignano and the AIDS epidemic. I had friends of very different ages, and I saw death: felt it, smelled it, perceived it and sensed it. So yes, I am afraid of dying, like everyone else, but I am not in total despair about it. I have more awareness of it, perhaps, and I remain curious. I leave a little door open. I do not shut it completely. I try to look at death from a different angle. For me, that helps.

Your children, your husband, your siblings, your dogs, your friends—and even the doctors and nurses surround you with love. Yet you resist staying in hospital. Eventually they tell you that you have to go home. You go to Tuscany, where nature becomes almost another character in the story. At the same time, medicine continues. You begin to study, meditate, write and search. Then you meet Dr Joe Dispenza. What did he add to the medical treatment you were receiving?

The medicine is incredibly important. It is keeping me alive, and I am profoundly grateful for it, but after I was diagnosed I spoke to many people who had been ill and were still alive years later. They all kept telling me the same thing: “It is all in the head.” I kept thinking, what does that actually mean? I was in an incredibly difficult situation. I was in pain and under enormous stress. I could not understand how it could simply be a matter of positive thinking. So I started digging. I read constantly. I spoke to physicians and to people working in different areas of science. I became fascinated by questions about energy, frequencies and the relationship between mind and body. I began to think that if the way we think and feel affects what we emit, then perhaps I had to change not only what I thought but also what I was putting into the world. I wanted to understand the science behind these ideas, so I went very deeply into the subject. That eventually led me to Joe Dispenza. He is a chiropractor who also works extensively with meditation, and he has studied what happens to people when they meditate, including changes in the chemistry of the body. I read scientific papers and tried to understand what was actually being demonstrated and what was not. As soon as I was physically able to walk again, I wanted to experience meditation for myself. I went to retreats where thousands of people were meditating together. I began practising seriously. I am still here five years later, and it has been an extraordinary journey. I will tell you something that may sound strange: I am grateful for this disease because it forced me to change my entire view of life. I am happier now than I was when I was completely healthy. Of course there are moments when I am terrified, moments when I feel as though I cannot breathe. Of course I would rather be perfectly healthy. But the illness has also been a teacher for me.

Is the cancer still there?

I am managing it. The medication I take does not eradicate it; it keeps it under control, and not always perfectly. Sometimes I am completely clear of symptoms, and at other times I am not. The illness is still in my body. When I was first diagnosed, I was told I might have two months. It has now been five years. Science is extraordinary, and there are many more treatments than chemotherapy alone: biological medicines, mRNA approaches, new techniques and new vaccines. There are many possibilities.

Do you take medication every day?

Yes. I take pills every day, and the treatment is intense, but I can manage it.

Do you still meditate and work with Joe Dispenza?

I meditate every day. Joe has become a dear friend and helped me enormously. I went to several of his retreats and they were very important to me, but I always move on. I am a bit of a geek when it comes to learning: I love studying, and I love understanding things. Meditation helps me keep my mind steady when I have difficult moments. It is an incredible tool for me. I also do a lot of breathwork. I spend a great deal of time in nature because, for me, nature is the greatest healer. I love walking barefoot. I love taking off my shoes and simply being outside. I look at the moon and the sun. These things are healing for me.

Are you writing another book?

Yes, a pure novel. Terra is a novel in the sense that I wrote it as a novel, but everything in it actually happened. I simply changed my name because it felt strange to use my own. The next book is genuinely fiction. I do not want to give too much away, but I will tell you more when I have a publisher.

How do you live with your illness psychologically?

Most of the time I forget about it. I take my pills as part of my routine, just as many people take medication for diabetes, blood pressure or cholesterol. I remember it more when I have to go for my check-ups, which happen every three months. And three months goes very quickly.

Is there a moment of anxiety every three months?

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Human nature is fascinating because we get used to almost everything. There are days when I really do not want to think about it. I simply think, I cannot be bothered. Other times I completely forget, and my doctor calls to remind me about the tests. And then there is the rest of life. I have three children. Anastasia is now grown up and is starting university; the other two are younger and there is always something happening. I keep myself extremely busy. And life is great—most of the time, life is great.

Dancing seems important in your life: you write about it with great affection. What happens to you when you dance?

I dance in different ways. I danced as a child, just as I did horse riding and piano. I have always loved music. Dancing helps me release things. Living in Ibiza makes it easy because from May to October you can dance almost anywhere. When I am going through a difficult period, I can simply go to a nightclub, dance for three or four hours and come home feeling completely different. It is liberating. It feels ancestral to me, like singing.

Ibiza is famous for nightclubs, freedom and a certain kind of excess, but you also describe it as a place of nature and healing. Why do you live there?

Because it has two sides. It is an extraordinary, healing island, but there is another side of it too. There is light and there is darkness. My character likes both equally. I can go dancing and misbehave, and the next day I can meditate in the woods and watch the sunset. I am happy with both.

Do you never get bored there, even in winter?

I love winter in Ibiza. It is one of my favourite times. I do not really stay here in July and August because it is too hot and too crowded. I love Greece, I love Switzerland, and I travel whenever I can, but from the middle of September until the end of May, Ibiza is paradise. There are far fewer people than in August, the weather is usually beautiful, and it is a very active place. People hike and run. I swim in the sea until December. I can go out early in the morning and swim for an hour. I lead a normal life. I love sport and I need to move. If I do not move, I go a little crazy. I walk a lot. The hikes here are incredible, and I can walk on an empty beach with the dogs. There is a lovely community, people are here throughout the winter, and there are good schools for the children.

There is a very famous 1946 film called Gilda, with Rita Hayworth, who sings and dances. Was that why your parents called you Gilda?

I really do not know. But my father made me watch that film a trillion times. I remember sitting with him on a big sofa watching it, and he was ecstatic. He loved dancing and singing, so I suppose he liked Rita Hayworth very much.

You dedicate Terra to your father, who seems to have had a particularly strong influence on you. What did he think when you were living this extraordinary and sometimes dangerous life?

As you can imagine I was not the easiest daughter. But I think my father was, in a way, very proud, especially during the ten years I spent working against trafficking. He was also very frightened, of course. But he understood that, in my own way, I was trying to do something similar to what he had done with San Patrignano: to make the world a little better. My mother was proud too, and another enormous piece of luck in my life is that we have a very close family. We call ourselves a tribe. My aunts, my uncle, my cousins—we are many, but we are extremely close. We speak all the time and we laugh about stupid things. We take the mickey out of one another. We make jokes. Most importantly, we have fun.

Does that sense of humour give you strength?

More than you can imagine. It is one of my tools. I think it is in our DNA, particularly on my father's side of the family. We make a joke even when something is not funny, because somehow we end up laughing about it. I suppose it is better to laugh than to cry. Crying is important, of course. But sometimes you can also turn something into a laugh. It is good for the heart.

The recipe is laughing, dancing and nature?

That is a very good recipe. For me, it is.

There is an idea that stays with me from Terra: changing your point of view. Your father once told you about a tribe that mourned the birth of a child and celebrated the death of a person. What does that story mean to you?

My father was very interested in tribes, and one day he told me about a very secluded tribe—I do not remember whether it was in South America or Africa—that had a ritual of mourning when a baby was born and celebrating when someone died. I was fascinated by it. I began looking into it and found that there are indeed cultures in which death is accompanied by celebration, dancing, singing and gifts for the departed soul, while the birth of a child can be approached with a different kind of ritual. It made me think again about the importance of changing our point of view. Something we find unbearable may look completely different from another angle. There are always different angles—even with death.

One thing that cannot be romanticized is pain. You describe terrible pain in the book, and you have the courage to say when you are suffering. Pain is part of being alive, but it is not beautiful.

No. Pain is definitely not beautiful.

But you have found a way of living with uncertainty, with treatment, with fear, and at the same time with an extraordinary appetite for life.

I cannot control everything. I can manage what I have. I can learn, I can change my point of view, and I can remain curious. I can be with my children, with my family, with my animals. I can dance. I can walk barefoot in nature. And I can keep learning.

Gilda, thank you. It has been a great pleasure to speak with you.

Thank you, Alain. It has been a pleasure for me too.