Outgrowing the Past: On Endings, Discipline, and Choosing Myself

Lately, I have been sitting with quiet truths—the kind that take time to rise to the surface. One of those truths is this: I have outgrown certain relationships, certain patterns, and certain parts of myself. And as hard as that is to accept, it is also freeing.


Recently, I ended a friendship that had lasted since middle school. We had a deep history—years of shared experiences, laughter, mistakes, and growing up. I always imagined we would be in each other’s lives forever. But the truth is, we grew in different directions. I kept making room in my life for someone who no longer made space for me. And over time, I realized that holding on was hurting more than letting go.


This decision did not come from anger. It came from clarity. From the understanding that honoring your peace sometimes means walking away from what once felt familiar.


At the same time, my youngest brother has been deployed to Qatar for over a month now. Watching him step into that level of service and responsibility has shifted something in me. His courage, discipline, and quiet strength have made me reflect on how I want to show up in my own life. What am I committed to? What do I need to let go of in order to grow?


That reflection has led me to make my social media private again—not because I am hiding, but because I am protecting. My peace. My healing. My boundaries. I am no longer interested in being visible to everyone. I want to be present with myself.


This is a season of shedding: old roles, old friendships, old versions of myself. I am not who I used to be, and that is something I am learning to celebrate instead of mourn.


To the people and parts of my past I have outgrown: thank you. You were necessary. And now, I am choosing something new—something grounded, disciplined, and aligned with who I am becoming.

What Are We Really Doing? The Cost of Misinformation and the Dehumanization of Immigrants

 Lately, watching the news feels like reopening a wound that never fully healed. I see headlines, protests, and soundbites—and buried beneath it all, I see lives being manipulated, discarded, and politicized. The recent increase in ICE enforcement, the media coverage around deportations, and the confusion surrounding immigration monitoring programs have stirred something deep in me—not just as a Honduran immigrant, but as someone who knows the system from the inside.

Let me be clear: ICE agents have a job to do. But a badge and authority should never give someone the right to humiliate, traumatize, or dehumanize others. What we are witnessing—again—is the abuse of power disguised as enforcement. And it hurts. Because immigrants are not just numbers on a report or faces on a screen. We are people. We are families. We are dreams interrupted.

What angers me the most is how immigrants are once again being used as pawns for political and societal manipulation. Fear-mongering headlines. Misleading soundbites. Social media campaigns twisting narratives to stoke fear. The media is playing a key role in misinforming the public, and it is working. Too many people in the United States do not understand how immigration policy actually functions—or how deeply broken and inequitable it truly is.

Here’s what many people do not know: The "monitoring programs" being praised as a more humane solution are often misunderstood. These are not programs helping immigrants go through a legal process. They are surveillance programs applied to immigrants who have already been issued final orders of removal. That means their case has already been denied. They are not “waiting their turn” legally—they are under supervision while ICE prepares for their deportation.

Meanwhile, people like me who tried to do things the “right way” faced endless delays, legal hurdles, and separation from family. I spent 13 years outside of the United States waiting to re-enter lawfully. Thirteen years of missed birthdays, milestones, and grief. I followed the law. I waited. I paid thousands of dollars in legal fees. I did not jump the line. But the truth is: there is no single “line.” Immigration policy is a maze, and its rules change depending on your country of origin, your political context, and even your race.

Let us be honest about asylum. Yes, asylum is a legal right under U.S. and international law for those who fear persecution based on race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion. But deteriorating conditions or economic hardship do not qualify on their own. Asylum has a very specific legal definition—and we have to stop confusing humanitarian empathy with legal eligibility.

When we blur the line between compassion and legality, we do more harm than good. We create false hope. We deepen public mistrust. And we make it harder for real reform to happen.

Here are a few facts to ground this conversation:

• The Alternatives to Detention (ATD) program, which includes electronic monitoring, has grown significantly under both Republican and Democratic administrations. As of 2024, over 200,000 people are enrolled. But again, most are already under deportation orders (TRAC Immigration, 2024).

• Immigrants from countries like Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador often wait 10–15 years for lawful permanent residency through family-based petitions due to visa backlogs (U.S. Department of State, 2024).

• Asylum approval rates vary greatly by nationality, legal representation, and location of the court. In 2023, the national average was around 30%, with much lower success rates for Central American applicants (TRAC Immigration, 2023).

• Title 42 and other emergency measures disrupted the asylum process for years, leading many to try irregular crossings or face expedited removal—yet most Americans are unaware of how U.S. policies actively created bottlenecks.

So, what message are we sending? We reward irregular entry with faster access and vilify those who wait. We flood the airwaves with fear instead of facts. And we allow social media and cable news to shape public opinion more than legal frameworks and lived experiences.

I am not saying we should lack compassion. But compassion without clarity is dangerous. We owe it to ourselves—and to every immigrant past and present—to be informed, honest, and courageous enough to demand a better system. One rooted in fairness, dignity, and accountability.

Because when we do not understand the process, we become complicit in the very system that continues to break so many of us.

So, what do we do now?

We start by getting informed, amplifying the truth, and supporting real reform. Here are a few ways you can take action today:

📚 Educate Yourself and Others

Understanding immigration policy is not just for lawyers or politicians. It is for anyone who cares about justice and truth.

• TRAC Immigration – https://trac.syr.edu: Nonpartisan data on immigration enforcement, courts, and ICE practices.

• American Immigration Council – https://www.americanimmigrationcouncil.org: Explains immigration laws, myths, and facts.

• National Immigrant Justice Center – https://immigrantjustice.org: Offers legal advocacy and policy updates.

🧭 Know the Legal Process

Understanding what asylum actually means and how long it takes to migrate legally helps us challenge misinformation:

• USCIS Immigration Process Overview – https://www.uscis.gov: Official source on legal pathways and backlogs.

• Asylum Eligibility (USCIS) – https://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-and-asylum/asylum

🗣️ Speak Up, Even When It Is Uncomfortable

Correct misinformation when you hear it. Share your story or elevate others who have lived it. Do not let social media be the only source of “truth.”

• Talk to your community.

• Challenge bias in your workplace or schools.

• Write to your elected officials.

🤝 Support Immigrant-Led Organizations

These groups offer legal support, shelter, and advocacy for immigrants navigating a broken system:

• RAICES (Texas-based legal and advocacy services) – https://www.raicestexas.org

• Alianza Americas (Latino immigrant advocacy network) – https://www.alianzaamericas.org

• Centro Romero (Chicago-area support for Latinx immigrants) – https://centroromero.org

This is personal. It is systemic. It is political. And it is human.

Let us stop being manipulated. Let us stop staying silent.
Let us start demanding more—because we deserve better.

The Myth of the Melting Pot: Why It’s Time to Embrace the Salad Bowl

For generations, the United States has proudly clung to the metaphor of the melting pot—a symbol meant to suggest unity, inclusion, and harmony. At its surface, it paints a picture of a nation where diverse cultures blend together to create something stronger, more unified. But let’s be honest: who exactly is doing the melting here? And at what cost?

The concept of the melting pot has not fostered cohesion. It has demanded assimilation. It has asked immigrants and marginalized groups to shed their languages, customs, and ways of being to conform to an imagined version of “American identity”—one that is overwhelmingly white, English-speaking, and Eurocentric. This narrative does not celebrate multiculturalism; it neutralizes it.

If this country were truly a melting pot that valued all ingredients equally, we would see white Americans regularly integrating traditions, values, and perspectives from other cultures into their daily lives—not just as cuisine or entertainment, but as meaningful, transformative practices. But how often does that happen? Unless someone is in an interracial or interethnic relationship, or works in a deeply diverse environment, the exchange tends to be one-directional. Cultural richness is often consumed, commodified, or appropriated, not truly honored or lived.

The melting pot metaphor is not just outdated—it is dishonest. It suggests that we are all equally participating in a cultural fusion, when in reality, many are pressured to melt down their identity to fit into a dominant mold. That is not unity. That is erasure.

It is time to move toward a more honest and respectful metaphor: the salad bowl. In a salad, every ingredient retains its unique flavor and texture. And yet, together, the components complement one another, creating a vibrant, nourishing experience. This is the kind of multicultural society we should aspire to—a place where differences are not only tolerated, but welcomed, tasted, and celebrated.

In a salad, cilantro is still cilantro. Tomatoes do not become lettuce. You taste the crunch of the cucumber, the zing of the dressing, and the richness of the avocado. Each ingredient is essential. None needs to disappear for the whole to work.

A true multicultural society does not demand sameness. It values co-existence. It challenges the dominant culture to open itself to change, to learn from others, and to grow. That takes humility. That takes effort. But it also brings the kind of beauty, innovation, and authenticity that cannot be achieved by watering everyone down into a single, bland substance.

So let us retire the melting pot. Let us instead prepare something more flavorful, more inclusive, and more honest. A salad where all of us—our stories, our identities, our roots—can be part of the dish without losing what makes us whole.

Devoted to the Moment: A Dream, a Breakdown, and a Song Called Del Fuego

Last night I had a dream—one of those rare ones that feel more like memory than imagination.

I was with my dad. He was walking—not frail or fading, but strong enough to move beside us. Andrea, Isaiah, Dad, and I were all headed to Tegucigalpa, the city that cradles so much of who I am. The car broke down. Two flat tires. Overheated. No plan B.

The pressure of getting there weighed on me like the sun overhead. So I did what I always do—I got out. I walked. Looking for help. Carrying the problem on my shoulders because that’s how I’ve survived: walk ahead, fix it, figure it out. I ended up in a hotel on the road, far from the car, far from Tegus. But somehow, they showed up. My dad, my people, found their way to me. The car was left behind, but we were together again.

That morning haze of the dream stayed with me. Then Del Fuego by Fat Freddy’s Drop played on my phone. And suddenly, the dream didn’t feel random—it felt like a soundtrack.


Longing makes the day seem twice as long,
Like an endless summer haze...
Hearts without home, searching for a place...

That is what grief feels like. A kind of roaming. A journey without a map. And like the lyrics say—“we can only watch and learn.” Sometimes the ash is cold. Sometimes we break down. Sometimes we do not make it all the way to the city or the closure or the finish line. But we’re still devoted to the moment. We’re still walking.

There was a line in the song that broke me:


Don’t let your pride feed the fire—
It was never within your control.

So much of this last year has felt like trying to hold the universe together with my bare hands. Caring for my dad across borders, carrying the emotional weight of being the oldest, the caretaker, the one who goes ahead to figure things out.

This dream was my dad showing up to remind me: you do not have to fix everything to be loved.

So maybe we never made it to Tegus in the dream. Maybe that is okay.
Maybe the car stays broken. Maybe the journey continues.

But I woke up knowing:
I am not lost. I am just roaming—with purpose. Devoted to the moment.

Balancing Acts: Life, Loss, and Becoming

I do not even know how to start this post other than to say—I am in it. In the middle of life, in the middle of grief, in the middle of becoming someone I have fought hard to be.

Right now, I wear many hats. I am a Clinical Research Associate, working in the radiology department of a hospital—coordinating MRI studies, juggling regulatory documents, and navigating the bureaucracies of research. I am also a graduate student in a dual MSW/MPA program, a part-time team member at Family Service Center, and a social work intern supporting bilingual families in my community. I am a daughter who just lost her father a few months ago, and I am trying to grieve that loss while holding up every other part of my life with both hands.

Some days, it feels manageable. Other days, the grief blindsides me mid-sentence or in the middle of reviewing a research invoice. I was a long-distance caregiver for my dad while he was terminally ill in Honduras. I worked two jobs to support him, sent medications, paid for care, and held my breath every time the phone rang. Now, I am learning what it means to keep living after your role as a caregiver ends and the silence of absence takes its place.

What keeps me grounded is purpose. The work I do with FSC reminds me that communities can heal together. That language, culture, and understanding matter. That every intake form I help a client complete is an act of trust. That advocacy and systems work are not abstract—they are personal.

Graduate school has tested me—emotionally, intellectually, and physically. There are moments where I question if I can keep going. But every assignment, every discussion post, every late-night reflection is another step forward. I am not just earning a degree. I am building the kind of future where my voice matters, where my story becomes a tool for change, where I can open doors for others who have walked through fire.

This season of my life is messy. It is overloaded with Google calendars, unread emails, and overlapping Zoom links. But it is also rich—with meaning, with growth, with glimpses of healing I did not think I would feel again.

If you are in the middle of your own “becoming,” I see you. It is not always graceful. Sometimes it looks like crying on the bathroom floor, or laughing too hard at something just to keep from falling apart. But it counts. You count.

Here is to showing up anyway.

When Protecting Your Peace Means Letting Go (for Now)

This week, I made a hard but necessary decision: I blocked my aunts on my phone. Not out of anger, not out of spite—but out of self-preservation.

Grief has a way of stripping everything down to the truth. And the truth is, I am doing the best I can. I am adjusting to a new internship, working two jobs, grieving my father, and trying to show up for myself and others in the midst of it all. The weight is real, and I am human.

Yesterday, I had a moment of emotional overflow. I felt seen and supported by my siblings, and that mattered more than I can explain. Just having someone listen when your heart is tired can make all the difference.

Family conflict—especially in the wake of loss—can feel like a thousand sharp edges. But I have learned that I do not have to keep touching the knife to prove I care. Sometimes love looks like space. Sometimes peace looks like silence. And sometimes, growth means stepping back, even when others do not understand.

I am not shutting the door forever. I am simply choosing not to stand in the crossfire while trying to heal. Until we receive more clarity, I am letting this situation sit where it is. No more chasing closure. No more explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me.

To anyone else navigating family tensions while grieving, let me say this:

You are allowed to protect your peace.

You are allowed to pause conversations that hurt more than they help.

And you are allowed to take care of you, even if others think that makes you selfish.

I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—that boundaries are not walls. They are doors I get to open when and if I feel safe.

And right now, mine is closed.

A Lighter Soul

Lately, I’ve been releasing so much that my soul feels lighter—almost as if I’m finally exhaling after holding my breath for years. There’s a clarity rising in me, a calm that is no longer momentary but stretching itself out like the morning sun across my days. I’m remembering what peace feels like—not the performative kind we convince ourselves we have, but the kind that wraps itself around you quietly and lets you rest.

I wonder if part of this shift has to do with how my body is beginning to stabilize. Since focusing on regulating my insulin, there’s been less anxiety buzzing in my chest. My mind is quieter, and in that silence, I’ve found space for hope again. It’s not loud or dramatic—just a quiet hum, steady and promising.

There’s this blanket of gratefulness I’ve been feeling lately, and I can’t quite explain it. It doesn’t come from one big event or resolution—it’s just there. In the small moments. In my breath. In the way I’ve started to show up for myself again.

And maybe I’m just being dramatic, or maybe it’s my intuition whispering truths I haven’t caught up to yet—but I feel like something is coming. Something new. Something good. A change. And for once, I’m not scared. I’m curious. I’m open. I’m ready.

If you’re feeling something stir in you too—some unnamable shift or quiet anticipation—I hope you honor it. I hope you stay open to the unfolding. Because sometimes, peace isn’t a destination. It’s the soft road back to yourself.