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.

I just realized I still carry so much anger toward my paternal side of the family. Acabo de darme cuenta de que todavía guardo tanto enojo hacia el lado paterno de mi familia.

It has taken me decades to say that out loud—even just to myself. I have walked through life trying to be understanding, trying to see people with compassion, trying to forgive before fully acknowledging how deeply I was hurt.

Me ha tomado décadas poder decir eso en voz alta, incluso solo para mí misma. He caminado por la vida tratando de comprender, de ver a los demás con compasión, de perdonar antes de aceptar lo profundo de las heridas que me dejaron.

There is so much that was never said, never explained. So much silence wrapped in expectation, in tradition, in pride. I grew up sensing that I was both too much and not enough—too loud, too sensitive, too American, not Honduran enough, not obedient enough, not grateful enough.

Hay tantas cosas que nunca se dijeron, nunca se explicaron. Tanto silencio disfrazado de expectativa, de tradición, de orgullo. Crecí sintiendo que era demasiado y, al mismo tiempo, insuficiente—muy ruidosa, muy sensible, muy americana, no lo suficientemente hondureña, no lo suficientemente obediente, no lo suficientemente agradecida.

And yet, so much of my identity is tied to them.

Y sin embargo, tanto de mi identidad está enlazada con ellos.

My roots are theirs. My language, my rhythm, my sense of humor, the way I tell stories—so much of it comes from them. But I also inherited their shame, their emotional restraint, their silence, and the invisible rules about what you can and cannot talk about.

Mis raíces son de ellos. Mi idioma, mi ritmo, mi sentido del humor, la manera en que cuento historias—mucho de eso viene de ellos. Pero también heredé su vergüenza, su contención emocional, su silencio, y esas reglas invisibles sobre lo que se puede y no se puede decir.

I learned to swallow my questions. I learned to make myself small. I learned to accept things as they were, even when they hurt.

Aprendí a tragarme las preguntas. Aprendí a hacerme pequeña. Aprendí a aceptar las cosas tal como eran, aunque dolieran.

But now, I am unlearning.

Pero ahora, estoy desaprendiendo.

I am starting to name the pain. To call out the abandonment. To recognize that the disconnection I felt was not my fault. That the love I craved was not wrong to want. That I did not deserve the silence, the distance, the coldness.

Estoy empezando a nombrar el dolor. A reconocer el abandono. A entender que la desconexión que sentía no fue culpa mía. Que el amor que anhelaba no era un error. Que no merecía el silencio, la distancia, la frialdad.

And still, part of me longs for them.

Y aun así, una parte de mí los sigue anhelando.

I do not know what healing fully looks like yet. But I know it starts here—with truth, with anger, with grief, with love.

No sé todavía cómo se ve la sanación completa. Pero sé que comienza aquí—con la verdad, con el enojo, con el duelo, con el amor.

Because reclaiming my identity means I no longer let others define it for me.

Porque reclamar mi identidad significa que ya no dejo que otros la definan por mí.

It means I choose what I carry forward—and what I finally get to lay down.

Significa que yo elijo qué llevar conmigo… y qué por fin puedo soltar.

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To my grandfather, Coronel:

A mi abuelo, el Coronel:

I do not know why you made the choices you did. Maybe you thought you were protecting something. Maybe you believed you were doing what was best. But your choices failed your son—and because of that, they failed me and my siblings.

No sé por qué tomaste las decisiones que tomaste. Tal vez pensabas que estabas protegiendo algo. Tal vez creías que hacías lo correcto. Pero tus decisiones fallaron a tu hijo—y por eso, también nos fallaron a mí y a mis hermanos.

We are your only bloodline.

Somos tu única línea de sangre.

And yet, you chose to uplift a man—a German—who has destroyed everything you ever worked for. You put your faith in people who only knew how to take, not how to build. You placed your trust in daughters who did not have the strength or vision to become more, only the instinct to survive.

Y aun así, decidiste apoyar a un hombre—un alemán—que ha destruido todo por lo que trabajaste. Pusiste tu fe en personas que solo supieron tomar, no construir. Confiaste en hijas que no tenían la fuerza ni la visión para convertirse en algo más, solo el instinto de sobrevivir.

What you built with discipline and pride was handed over to those who squandered it. What you could have preserved through us—through love, guidance, and legacy—you abandoned.

Lo que construiste con disciplina y orgullo fue entregado a quienes lo desperdiciaron. Lo que pudiste haber preservado a través de nosotros—con amor, guía y legado—lo abandonaste.

So we carry what is left. The stories. The silence. The pain. And the responsibility to make something better from it.

Así que cargamos con lo que queda. Las historias. El silencio. El dolor. Y la responsabilidad de hacer algo mejor con ello.

Whether you meant to or not, you made us the afterthought.

Quisieras o no, nos dejaste como un pensamiento secundario.

But we will be the legacy.

Pero nosotros seremos el legado.

Call Me by My Name: Shedding Dani

For most of my life, I loved being called Dani. It was a name that felt warm, familiar, soft—wrapped in the voices of family, childhood, and those fleeting moments when I felt seen. I held onto it tightly, maybe because in some ways, it felt like a tether to love, to belonging, to the idea of being part of something or someone. My family called me Dani. My friends did too. And for a long time, that felt good. It felt safe.

But I have changed.

I am no longer that version of myself who needed to be chosen, called, or softened by a nickname. I am no longer that girl who waited for her American papers with the hope that love would come attached to approval or assimilation. I used to crave community so badly that I let almost anyone call me Dani, whether they saw me or not.

Today, I no longer want to be called Dani by just anyone.

That name is now reserved. A privilege. A whisper only allowed in the mouths of people who truly see me—who have walked with me through pain, healing, and truth. People who love without condition, who do not just glance but witness.

I am protecting my spirit the way a country guards its borders. I am in a season of becoming—of retreat and regeneration. Like the U.S. closing its borders, I too am closing access to parts of myself until the new me is ready. Not hidden. Just sacred. Quietly preparing to rise.

This is not rejection. This is reclamation.

And until then, please call me Daniela. 

An Open Letter to My Future Husband

To the man I have not yet met—but somehow already love,

Thank you.

Thank you for being patient with me—truly patient, not just in the easy moments, but in the messy ones too. For standing beside me when life gets heavy, when the weight of the world feels like too much. Thank you for taking up arms with me—not against me, not to rescue me, but to stand with me as an equal, a partner, a witness, and a fighter.

You saved me in ways no one else could—by seeing me, calming me, not trying to fix me, but holding me through the storm. When I feel like I might fall apart, thank you for being the calm in the chaos. The steady voice, the quiet touch, the reminder that I am safe.

I want you to know how much I admire you—not just for who you are, but for all the work you have done to become him. I see the discipline, the self-awareness, the growth. I know it has not been easy. I know you have fought your own battles in silence, healed in places no one applauded, and still chose to show up with your heart open. That is no small thing.

I cannot wait to meet you—to laugh with you, build with you, dream with you. To share not just the highlights but the ordinary moments: my lemon honey water in the morning, grocery store runs, road trips with the windows down, prayers whispered in the dark.

Until then, I will keep growing into the woman you deserve. I will keep making space in my life and my heart for you. Because even if I do not know your name yet, I know the kind of love we will create. And it will be worth every second of the wait.

With love,

Your future wife