The wise poet Vinicius de Moraes once said, “É melhor ser alegre que ser triste, mas para fazer um samba com beleza é preciso um bocado de tristeza.” (“It is better to be happy than sad, but to make a beautiful samba, you need a touch of sadness.”)

The wise poet Vinicius de Moraes once said, “É melhor ser alegre que ser triste, mas para fazer um samba com beleza é preciso um bocado de tristeza.” (“It is better to be happy than sad, but to make a beautiful samba, you need a touch of sadness.”)

On the surface, it looks like a poetic observation about music and emotion. But for me, it goes much deeper. It’s not just about the contrast between joy and sorrow, or the idea that one defines the other, a concept the blue character in Pixar’s Inside Out gently reveals to us. No, there is something more profound in Vinicius’s words: the truth that sadness forces us inward, unshielded, raw, and utterly human. It strips away distractions, pretense, and noise. It reconnects us with our core in a way joy rarely does.

Joy, with all its brilliance and lightness, is a surface emotion. It dances, it laughs, it lifts, but it floats. Sadness, by contrast, anchors us. It is heavy and quiet, and in that quietness we are able to listen to the deeper layers of ourselves. It slows us down and demands reflection. And perhaps because it is more uncomfortable, it becomes more transformative.

In the business world, however, we don’t often talk about sadness. We talk about success, growth, resilience, innovation, and when things go wrong, we discuss mistakes, lessons learned, or challenges turned into opportunities. These are all safe terms. Sadness is not part of that vocabulary. And yet, after thirty years working at CI&T, I’ve come to recognize that sadness has its role. It is different from the sadness we experience in our personal lives. It is not romantic or existential. But it is no less real.

Corporate sadness rarely arrives without warning. It follows other, more primal emotions: frustration when things don’t go as expected, anger when we face obstacles we feel we shouldn’t have to face, or disappointment in ourselves or others.

But after those pass, after the adrenaline fades, after meetings end, and after numbers are reviewed, what remains is a quieter, more enduring feeling: sadness. Not just the sadness of defeat, but the sadness of recognizing limits. That we tried and it still wasn’t enough. That we didn’t know what we should have known. That we failed not from lack of effort, but because we are, in the end, fallible.

Unlike the quick fire of anger or the sting of disappointment, sadness lingers. It doesn’t shout. It stays silent, but it doesn’t leave. It waits with us in hallways, at our desks, in our reflections. It slows us long enough to feel instead of only act. For me, this explains why certain years at CI&T remain marked by sadness. For me, those years were 2001 and 2023. Only two years in a thirty-year journey, but still.

If there is a positive side, it is this: sadness brought us back to ourselves. It forced us to ask who we were, what we truly wanted, and what we were willing to become. These moments of vulnerability became the starting point of cultural renewal. They made us better listeners, better leaders, and more connected colleagues. From sadness came not only recovery, but reinvention.

In 2001, we grew explosively, more than we should have. The following year, we nearly failed while trying to fix all the problems we had created. That year taught us sustainable growth. Growth is great as long as it comes with quality, without diluting values or lowering standards. The marks of that lesson are still visible in our culture.

The market downturn of 2023 caught us unprepared, and we have only ourselves to blame for that. It was hard for everyone, and our response was average. Not the best, not the worst, just average. Unacceptable for those who aspire to lead the market. Since then, preparation, anticipation, and scenario simulation have become central to our strategy and execution.

One of the most powerful aspects of corporate sadness is its collective nature. In personal life, sadness often isolates us. In organizations, when experienced openly, it can become a source of solidarity. There is something powerful in shared acknowledgment of difficulty. When we stop pretending everything is fine and admit we are hurt, we open the door to honesty, and through honesty, to trust.

I saw this happen in both years. Those were the moments when I understood that culture is built not only in celebration, but also in hardship.

That solidarity, forged in sadness, becomes the foundation for future resilience. It is not born from charisma or polished presentations, but from long nights, honest conversations, and mutual support among people who care. It builds a kind of trust that cannot be faked, and a kind of loyalty that endures even the hardest years.

So yes, I agree with the poet. It is better to be happy than sad. But sometimes sadness carries a deeper beauty, a more lasting lesson. And just like samba, which would not move us without its sorrow, our journey, in life or in business, would not be as meaningful without the seasons of sadness that shaped it.

Let us not fear these seasons. Let us use them. Let them teach us, humble us, and connect us. Because in the end, the moments that hurt the most may be the very ones that take us further than we imagined, not in spite of sadness, but because of it.