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

When Stability Feels Like a Cage: Navigating an Existential Crossroads

For much of my life, I was in motion. Moving, changing jobs, traveling, adapting—each shift felt like a fresh start, a new challenge, a way to keep the fire inside me burning. There was a thrill in the instability, an energy in the uncertainty. But then life shifted. I came back to the U.S., found a stable job, built a career, and pursued higher education. By all conventional measures, I succeeded.

And yet, something feels missing.

Lately, I have felt… lifeless. Like I am moving through my days, checking off boxes, but without that sense of vitality that once propelled me forward. I have spent years proving to myself and others that I could be stable, that I could build a life without constant movement. But in doing so, I wonder if I lost something essential.

I do not think I am alone in this feeling. So many of us spend years striving—climbing the career ladder, accumulating degrees, building relationships—only to wake up one day questioning whether we were climbing in the right direction at all. We are told that success looks like security, that stability is the goal. But what happens when stability starts to feel like a cage instead of a comfort?

The Weight of Grief and Change

Maybe part of this feeling comes from loss. Watching my dad deteriorate over the past two years reshaped something in me. Grief has a way of forcing you to reevaluate everything. It makes you ask, What really matters? What am I doing with my time? Am I living a life that feels like my own?

Maybe it is not just about grief, though. Maybe it is the realization that the future I once envisioned no longer feels possible—or even desirable. I do not have children. I am not in a relationship. And while I have made peace with that, it still leaves a big, open-ended question: What comes next?

And honestly? I do not even want to work on relationships. I know that so many people try to be my friend, and I genuinely appreciate them, but I do not have the bandwidth for all of that. I am sorry, truly, but right now, I just do not have the energy to invest in building or maintaining connections. It is not personal—it is just where I am. And I think that has to be okay.

When "I Don't Know" Is the Only Answer

The hardest thing about an existential crisis is that there is no immediate solution. No checklist to complete. No clear next step. And that is terrifying.

But maybe the goal is not to have an answer right now. Maybe the goal is to sit with the uncertainty and allow it to guide me, rather than trying to force my way through it.

If you are feeling this too—if life feels stagnant, if you are questioning everything, if you are exhausted by the weight of expectations—then let me say this: You do not have to figure it all out today. You are allowed to feel lost. You are allowed to not know what comes next.

Maybe the only thing to do right now is focus on what you need in this moment. Not the big, life-altering decisions—just the next small thing. Maybe that means taking a break. Maybe it means reaching out to someone who will listen. Maybe it means allowing yourself to dream again, even if you do not know what those dreams look like yet.

You are not broken for feeling this way. You are human. And sometimes, being human means standing at a crossroads with no clear direction—just the knowledge that, somehow, you will find your way.

Laying Down the Swords: Choosing Growth Over Pain

For a long time, I held onto my childhood memories as an anchor, a reminder of when I was "happy." But as I have come to learn, those memories were tainted with half-truths and illusions. They were the fuel that once kept my anger burning, a fire that protected me but also consumed me.

Losing my father forced me to confront something I had long avoided: I no longer want to be led by childhood memories and traumas. I no longer want to be defined by what happened to me, by the pain that shaped me. I want to be an adult—not just in age, but in responsibility.

That responsibility means owning my actions, my healing, and even the echoes of my upbringing. It means making peace with the past, not by erasing it but by integrating it into a new way of being. I still have much to learn, much to unlearn, and much to correct. But I am ready.

As I explore my family’s history, I see a pattern: generations of people who lacked self-love. The pain I carry is not just mine; it is inherited. And I refuse to pass it down any further. I choose to break that cycle because so much is at stake.

It feels good to put the swords down. To stop fighting battles that were never mine to begin with. To release anger that has outlived its purpose. This is not defeat—it is growth. It is stepping into a new consciousness, allowing myself to be reborn into love, for myself and those who came before me.

It will not be easy, but it will be worth it.

A Day I’ll Never Forget: Losing My Dad the Day Before His Birthday

Life has a way of throwing us into storms we didn’t see coming, and for me, the loss of my father the day before his birthday was the kind of storm I’m still navigating. It wasn’t just the end of his life—it was a shift in mine that I’m still learning to understand.

The weeks before his passing were a whirlwind. Between balancing my demanding schedule as a part time bilingual intake coordinator, holding a full-time job as a Clinical Research Associate (CRA) in the radiology department, and pursuing a dual master's degree, I barely had time to breathe. But nothing could have prepared me for the emotional and mental toll that followed his death.

His passing wasn’t just heartbreaking—it was compounded by an ongoing battle with his sisters for his rights. The stress of fighting for his rights left me emotionally and mentally depleted. A lawsuit against Monica Valeria, someone who failed him in ways that still hurt to think about, came too late. By the time the legal action gained momentum, my dad was already gone. Now I’m left grappling with an overwhelming need for justice—not for revenge, but to honor his memory and the life he worked so hard to build.

Yet, even as this ache for justice burns in me, I remind myself to leave it in God’s hands. His justice is greater than anything I could achieve on my own. This belief has become my anchor, keeping me grounded when bitterness threatens to take over. I’ve leaned into my faith in ways I never thought I’d need to, praying not just for peace but for the strength to let go and trust that God’s plan will prevail.

Grieving during such a busy season of life is like carrying a heavy weight while running uphill. Some days, I wanted to drop everything—school, work, even my healing journey—and retreat into the sadness. But I knew my dad wouldn’t want that for me. He always believed in my ability to persevere, even when I doubted myself.

His absence has reshaped how I view life. I’ve learned to slow down, to make space for grief rather than rushing through it. I’ve become more intentional with my time, prioritizing what truly matters. I’ve also realized the importance of seeking support—whether it’s from friends, family, or therapy—because grief isn’t something you conquer alone.

The day before his birthday will always carry a heaviness, but it also serves as a reminder of the man he was and the legacy he left behind. He taught me resilience, love, and the importance of standing firm in my faith. Those lessons guide me now more than ever.

To anyone reading this who’s navigating loss, know this: It’s okay to feel broken, to lean on others, and to cry out to God. Healing doesn’t come in a straight line, but it does come. For me, it’s in the quiet moments of reflection, the prayers whispered late at night, and the courage to keep going even when it feels impossible.

Dad, I miss you every day. Your memory fuels my determination to live a life that honors your love and guidance. I know you’re watching over me, and I hope you’re proud of the woman I’m becoming.

Walking the Line Between Righteous Anger and Divine Peace: A Journey Through Family Conflict and Faith

There are few things more painful than feeling betrayed or abandoned by those we expect to stand by us—especially when those people are family. When the ones who should show compassion instead show cruelty or apathy, the hurt cuts deep. It stirs up a powerful and often confusing sense of anger, and as a person of faith, that anger feels especially complex. In these moments, I find myself wondering: How do I handle this? How do I honor my faith while still standing up for what is right?


The Bible is full of stories of righteous anger, a kind of holy fire that propels people to take action in the face of injustice. I’ve found strength in the story of Joshua, who courageously followed God's commands to take the Promised Land, despite the overwhelming odds and the moral weight of the mission. In my life, my family has been a constant source of tension and frustration as I try to care for my father in his time of need. Watching some of my family members turn their backs on him and treat him poorly feels not only wrong but profoundly unjust.

This isn’t just anger—it's a deep, relentless feeling that cries out for justice. It makes me want to lash out and force them to see the pain they’re causing. And yet, my faith reminds me that there's a line between justice and vengeance, one that is easy to blur when our hearts are hurting.


One of the most challenging aspects of faith is the call to leave ultimate justice to God. It’s hard to feel such strong emotions, knowing that God promises to deal with those who act with cruelty, but also requires us to forgive and find peace. This isn’t a passive peace, nor does it mean we ignore wrongdoing. Instead, it means that while we work toward justice, we release the bitterness and allow God to guide our actions.

In Romans 12:19, we’re told, "Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath." It’s a call to let go of the need to personally deliver judgment, to trust that God sees and that His justice will prevail. But this doesn’t mean silence; it doesn’t mean ignoring the pain or accepting mistreatment. Instead, it’s an invitation to choose our battles carefully, guided by love and truth.


What I’ve learned in this journey is that faith doesn’t call us to be passive or weak; it calls us to be strong in ways that often seem contradictory to the world. Choosing to trust God’s justice requires us to walk with integrity, to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, and to defend the dignity of our loved ones. But it also requires humility, the willingness to say, "I’ll do my part, and I’ll let God handle the rest."

This doesn’t mean the anger simply fades away—it may not. Instead, I’m learning to channel that anger into action, to ensure that my father’s needs are met, and to draw boundaries that protect him. Rather than being consumed by bitterness, I’m using my energy to create change, letting God guide me through each step of this challenging path.


Just as Joshua led his people with unwavering courage, I feel called to stand up for what is right. But the weapons of this battle aren’t ones of vengeance or cruelty; they’re ones of prayer, patience, and perseverance. They’re found in creating space for honest conversations and, if necessary, separating myself from those who choose pettiness over love.

This journey isn’t about winning against those who hurt us, but about finding peace within ourselves, knowing that we’ve acted with integrity. Forgiveness, when it comes, will be a gift from God, a reflection of His grace working through me. Until then, I’ll keep praying, keep acting, and keep trusting that God’s justice will prevail.

If you’re going through something similar, know that your anger isn’t wrong. It’s a natural response to injustice and cruelty. But remember, as I’m trying to remind myself, that our faith gives us a choice. We can either let that anger consume us, or we can turn it into a force for good, a force that stands up for what is right without losing sight of God’s love and ultimate justice.

When "Not Enough" Feels Like Too Much: A Reflection on Grace and Growth

Lately, I’ve been caught in a cycle of thinking I’m not doing enough. It’s a recurring thought, a nagging voice that tells me I should be doing more, achieving more, managing better. But every time I sit down and really take stock of my life, I realize something: I am doing enough, more than enough.

I’m working a full-time job while also balancing a part-time one. I have a dog who depends on me for care and love, and tomorrow, I’ll be starting my dual master's program—a journey that will demand even more of my time and energy. On top of all that, I’m helping coordinate my dad’s care, even though he’s all the way in Honduras.

Still, that voice sneaks in, whispering, “It’s not enough.” I’ve come to realize that these lies are seeds planted by the enemy, trying to steal my peace and make me feel inadequate. The truth is, I’ve bought into those lies for too long. But there’s another truth—one that’s stronger, deeper, and more powerful.

Through all of this, Jesus has never left my side. Even when I feel overwhelmed or like I’m falling short, He carries me through. In moments of doubt, He reminds me of His grace. He’s the constant presence lifting me up when I think I can’t keep going.

As I prepare to dive into this next chapter—balancing work, school, family, and personal responsibilities—I’m learning to let go of the need to be perfect. I’m learning to trust that where I am right now is exactly where I need to be. I don’t have to strive endlessly or carry the weight of "never enough."

I am enough. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because of who I am in Him. And for that, I am grateful.