Learning to Enjoy the Quiet

For a long time, my life felt like a battlefield of truths. I had to speak — sometimes loudly, sometimes bitterly — because silence was no longer survival, it was suffocation. The things unsaid in my family, the injustice, the manipulations, the patterns passed down like heirlooms… I cracked them open one by one. I became the one who said the things no one else dared to say.

And it cost me.

There’s a specific exhaustion that comes from being the truth-teller in a family built on denial. Every word becomes a wound — both for you and for those who would rather not see what you’re holding up to the light. For years, my tongue carried the weight of generations. I mistook that constant fight for purpose, and in a way, it was — the breaking was necessary. But breaking is not the same as being free.

Lately, I’ve started to notice something different. Silence no longer feels like suppression; it feels like restoration. I don’t feel the same urge to explain myself or defend the truths I already know. The truth doesn’t need me to shout anymore. It just is.

I sit in the quiet and I can feel my nervous system recalibrating. I can breathe without rehearsing a defense. The inner war between wanting to be heard and needing to protect my peace is softening.

This is what the aftermath of truth looks like — not fireworks or vindication, but the slow return of stillness.

I’ve realized that part of becoming a sovereign empath is knowing when to speak and when to rest. For so long, my empathy pulled me into everyone’s chaos. Now, I choose stillness over reaction. I choose to let people misunderstand if they must. I choose peace over proving.

There is power in that quiet — not the powerless silence of the past, but the grounded kind that comes after the storm. It’s the kind of quiet that tells me I no longer need to fight to exist.

Maybe this is what healing sounds like:

The echo of my own voice finally settling inside me.

The Weight of My Words

 I am emotionally exhausted.

Not because I am weak, but because I have been graceful for too long in environments that confuse compliance with professionalism.

Recently, I found myself once again facing the same cycle — uncertainty about my place, decisions being made around me without my voice, and my character being quietly dissected under the label of “feedback.” Someone questioned my communication approach, twisting a situation into something it was not, even going so far as to imply that I wanted to walk away. That was the line. That was the moment I realized how often truth-tellers are punished not for what they do, but for refusing to play the game.

I have spent my entire life trying to refine how I express myself — learning when to pause, when to hold back, when to breathe before I speak. But what I’ve come to understand is this: the more I repress myself to make others comfortable, the louder my spirit becomes.

It is not lost on me that the world has always tried to correct people like me. Teachers, bosses, mentors, institutions — all encouraging a softer tone, a gentler delivery, a less “intense” presence. But intensity is not aggression. Passion is not a flaw. Clarity is not cruelty.

My words carry weight because they come from truth — the truth of someone who sees the cracks in systems and refuses to pretend they are whole. That truth makes people uncomfortable. It challenges hierarchies, disrupts norms, and exposes dynamics that thrive in silence.

I have done the inner work. I have sat with my own shadows. I have learned emotional regulation, empathy, patience, and accountability. But no amount of growth will make me tolerate manipulation, gossip, or dishonesty disguised as professionalism.

There is a cost to being an open book in a world built on hidden agendas. The cost is exhaustion. But I am learning that exhaustion can also mean freedom — the moment you stop explaining yourself to people who never wanted to understand you in the first place.

So no, I will not shrink. I will not contort myself to fit into spaces that reward silence over authenticity. I will keep using my voice, even if it shakes. Because grace is not about staying quiet — it is about standing tall in your truth, even when it makes others uncomfortable.

Lately, I have been reminding myself that peace does not always look like calm; sometimes it looks like courage. The kind that allows you to walk away from what no longer feels right, to rest without guilt, and to reclaim your energy from spaces that drain it. I am learning that I do not have to fight every battle to win the war — sometimes the victory is in protecting my peace, keeping my heart open, and trusting that authenticity will always outlast manipulation.

Natural Born Inheritance

Oh Dad,

I understand so many things now—why I was born this way. I am just like you. Big emotions. Immense passion. Rebellious for no cause other than truth itself.

Just like you, I have never backed down from those who tried to define me. You stood up to your parents; I have spent my life standing up to systems, expectations, and the unspoken rules of how I am supposed to communicate, act, or exist. We were never meant to fit neatly into expectations, were we? We never really belonged.

For years, I blamed you and Mom for so many things. I thought if I could name the pain, I could fix it. But healing has a strange way of shifting perspective. I now see this fire—this boldness, this intensity—as my inheritance. My natural-born inheritance.

It shows up everywhere, especially in my work.

No matter how much I try to tone down my personality, my passion always finds its way to the surface. My communication skills—sharp, direct, and unapologetically honest—often lead, even when I wish they would whisper. I’ve tried every version of myself: the softer one, the patient one, the diplomatic one. Yet somehow, it is never enough.

It’s a repeating pattern—one I now understand better through you.

You were the same way. Misunderstood not because you were wrong, but because you were too much for people who lived in boxes you refused to fit into.

I get it now. I’ve spent years trying to prove that being passionate and expressive can coexist with professionalism. But maybe that’s the wrong goal. Maybe the lesson is that there is strength in being both emotional and composed, outspoken and thoughtful. Maybe the world simply needs to catch up.

Thank you for raising us outside the grasp of your family. They never believed you deserved your rightful place; they denied your worth and your name. You let them, but I won’t. They will not trample on my rights. I am not Esau, and Jacob will not deceive me.

Maybe we will never get what was truly yours. Maybe we will never be accepted or loved the way we should have been. But you made sure we learned something far more valuable—unity. You taught us to stand together, to protect one another when no one else would.

For that, I am forever grateful.

Thank you for making me a Serra Castillo.

Reflection

As I move through my professional life, I’m beginning to understand that my voice—just like yours—was never meant to shrink to fit the comfort of others. My ability to communicate with honesty, empathy, and conviction is not a flaw to correct; it is a reflection of lineage. It’s how I honor the generations before me who were silenced, and how I stand firm for those who come after me.

I no longer apologize for my intensity. It is not a weakness to be managed—it is a birthright to be refined. And though it still takes courage to speak, I now know that every word I offer comes from something deeper than skill—it comes from inheritance.

Humbled

 I was feeling so sure of me.

So certain that things were finally falling into place. I had been moving with purpose, doing everything I could to make the next step happen. For a moment, I thought it might actually work out.

And then came the reminder — not everything unfolds when or how we expect it to.

There’s something about rejection that hits deeper when you’ve been holding onto hope. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself it’s part of the process; it still feels like the air gets knocked out of you for a second.

I know I’m not really stuck — I’ve been truly stuck before, and this isn’t that. This is just the in-between, the waiting space that tests your faith in yourself. Still, it’s hard not to feel small when things don’t go as planned.

But maybe that’s what humility really is — not a punishment, but a pause. A space where we’re reminded that our strength isn’t in our control, but in our capacity to keep showing up even when the outcome isn’t certain.

So I’m sitting with it. Breathing through it.

Letting myself feel the disappointment without letting it define me. Because even in moments like this, I’m still moving — just slower, quieter, and maybe a little wiser.

Between Two Worlds: What It Means to Belong Nowhere

I’ve been carrying two countries in my chest for most of my life — Honduras, where I was born, and the United States, where I was raised. Both have shaped me, hurt me, and made me who I am. Lately, I’ve been sitting with what it means to belong nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

As someone trained in psychology, I can name the ache that comes from this in-between space — cultural dissonance, identity diffusion, internalized displacement — but naming it doesn’t make it easier to live with. It only makes it clearer.

Sometimes I feel like a confused soul. There’s so much noise in my head — memories, questions, dreams, exhaustion. But lately, one thought keeps circling back: everything I’ve ever said about the United States has proven true. The hate toward anyone who comes from south of the border has always existed. It’s not new — just more visible now.

For years I’ve watched this country destabilize others — ours — and then close its doors when we come north searching for peace. The hypocrisy runs deep. I’ve lived here long enough to know the “land of opportunity” depends on selective generosity.

And yet, this country is half of who I am.

When my family came to the U.S., my siblings were young enough to adapt. I wasn’t.

I was old enough to remember what it felt like to belong somewhere else — to feel the air of Honduras, to know the rhythm of a community. I assimilated negatively. I learned the language and the customs, but not the belonging.

From a psychological lens, that’s the part that stays invisible — how adaptation can look like survival on the outside while breaking identity on the inside. While my siblings grew up comfortably “American,” I carried the weight of displacement. I didn’t like living here then, and to be honest, the last few years haven’t changed that much. I built a life, yes — but not peace.

And Honduras? The place that gave birth to me feels broken too. Corruption has eaten away at the country’s soul. The elites survive while the rest of the population endures, numbed by poverty and defeat. People either leave or learn to survive within their class boundaries.

It hurts to admit that Honduras is a living exhibit of what U.S. politics can do to a nation — manipulate, exploit, and abandon. This year’s elections will test whether we have learned anything. I hope Hondurans show up and vote with intelligence and courage. I hope, but I’m not naïve.

Lately, I feel stuck — not just politically or geographically, but existentially.

I clocked more hours this week than I ever want to again, and I can’t shake the feeling that the next 15 years might be even busier. I keep asking myself: What if I’m working this hard to build a life I don’t even want?

I want balance.

I want peace.

And I want to live somewhere that feels like home.

Part of me fantasizes about packing up, heading to Utila, and starting over. Island mornings, ocean air, small community, simple living. Why should that be a retirement dream? Why can’t it be a now dream? Why must fulfillment always wait for “later”?

Maybe what I need isn’t to run away, but to redefine what success looks like.

For years I’ve measured it by stability, degrees, and professional titles — things that prove I “made it” in a country that never wanted me here. But those things can’t hold me anymore.

Success, for me, might mean living gently.

It might mean creating something meaningful — whether it’s a mental health program for immigrant youth, a small clinic, or simply a home filled with peace.

I want to live where I feel alive, not where I feel trapped by expectation.

I don’t know where I’ll land yet — between the noise of this country and the silence of the one I left, between the push for ambition and the pull toward simplicity. But I know I’m not alone. Many of us are walking this invisible line between worlds, trying to make sense of who we are when both home and exile live inside us.

Maybe belonging doesn’t have to mean choosing one place over another.

Maybe it means building something new from the fragments of both.

That realization has become the foundation of my work and my healing. I am a Honduran-born writer, Clinical Research Associate, and graduate student pursuing a dual Master’s in Social Work and Public Administration. Before that, I earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology, which continues to shape how I understand identity, resilience, and transformation.

I’ve lived and worked across Latin America, the U.S., and Asia, and I’ve learned that identity isn’t a fixed location — it’s a process of becoming. My story, like so many others, lives in the in-between: between science and soul, data and emotion, roots and wings.

Maybe that’s where belonging begins — not in choosing one side, but in claiming the space between them as home.

The Hat That Hurt, the Dream I Reclaimed

From a symbol of my citizenship to a manifesto for the life I deserve

For a long time, I held onto someone because of who I thought they could be. I believed they would bridge my cultures, provide safety, and stand beside me to conquer the world. But clarity has come with time: I wasn’t fighting for who they truly were — I was fighting for the dream I had built around them.

And that dream wasn’t wrong. It was beautiful. It was worthy. But it doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to me.

The Hat That Hurt

Recently, I saw something that unsettled me: a photo of someone I once thought I would marry wearing the Cubs cap I gave to them. Not just any cap, but the one I received at Wrigley Field during my naturalization ceremony — the day I became a U.S. citizen.

That cap is not just fabric and stitching. It is a living symbol of one of the biggest milestones in my life. It carries all the pride, sacrifice, and resilience that went into becoming a citizen. To see it displayed on someone else’s head — even as part of their public image — felt like they were walking around with a piece of my story.

And that is why it hurt so much. Because this is not about the cap. It is about what it represents.

But here’s the truth: no matter where that cap goes, it will never hold the real story. The years of effort I poured into becoming a citizen, the resilience, the sacrifice, the journey — that belongs to me. Always.

So I’ve decided: I will reclaim the symbol. Maybe I’ll buy myself a new Cubs cap — one that’s mine alone, untouched by old associations. Maybe I’ll mark it with the date of my naturalization, so every time I wear it, I’ll feel my own strength instead of someone else’s shadow.

My Manifesto

I want a life where love is not uncertain, where a partner chooses me every single day — not out of convenience, but out of devotion.

I want a partner who understands that I am anxious, passionate, and deeply emotional. Someone who does not see these as flaws to fix, but as truths to hold with gentleness.

I want peace. I want community. I want a family that feels like home, built on love and respect, where safety and security are never in question.

I want to feel accomplished, not just in career or education, but in the way I live. I want to be proud of the bridges I build between cultures, the communities I nurture, and the dreams I bring to life.

Most of all, I want to be the owner of my time. To live freely, to invest my energy in what matters most, and to share my life with someone who stands beside me — not above me, not behind me, but with me.

This is my vision. This is my truth. I will no longer fight for someone who cannot or will not fight for me. I am reclaiming the dream, not the person. I am building the life I deserve, one choice at a time.

Reclaiming Myself

This experience has reminded me of something bigger: healing often means reclaiming the pieces of ourselves that got tangled up with someone else. It means remembering that the story was never theirs to hold. It was always ours.

So yes, I was upset when I saw that cap. But my upset is also clarity. It tells me how much I value my story, my milestones, and my right to own them fully.

And that’s something no one can take away.

✨ Reflection for You

As I step into this vision for myself, I want to ask you: What do you truly want in love and in life?

Not what you’ve been told to settle for, not what others expect of you, but what your heart whispers when you’re quiet enough to listen.

Take a moment. Write it down. Speak it out loud. Claim it. Because the life you deserve begins with the courage to name it.

In Awe of Time

Time moves in ways I cannot fully understand. Tomorrow will be nine months since my dad passed away. Nine months—the same amount of time it takes to carry new life into the world. Long enough to have gestated a child or two, yet it feels like both yesterday and forever ago since I last heard his voice.

This week is heavy with meaning. On September 15, it was eleven years since my grandmother died. Today, September 16, Akira turns five. Tomorrow, September 17, will be my dad’s nine-month death anniversary. These dates sit so close together, showing me how life and death always walk hand in hand.

I think back to 2019, when I first stepped into healthcare as a patient access representative. I had no idea that within a year, the world would shut down in a pandemic. No idea that those first steps would lead me here—to working as a Clinical Research Associate in the same system. In just a few years, I have lived so many different lives: friendships ended, an engagement that became singleness again, a bachelor’s degree completed in 2022, my father’s death in 2024, and the start of my MSW/MPA program that same year. And now, the unexpected opportunity of a teaching job in Fengjie lingers in the background of it all.

Time does not pause for grief or for joy. It does not wait for us to be ready. It keeps moving—through pandemics, through degrees, through heartbreaks, through milestones.

Life and death, beginnings and endings, joy and sorrow—all are intertwined. All measured by time. And as I sit with these anniversaries, I am simply in awe of how fast it passes.