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.