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.

Breathing Through the Weight of Depression

Depression has been an ongoing struggle in my life—one that does not simply disappear no matter how much effort I pour into healing. Lately, it feels heavier than usual. Getting out of bed has become a battle, and being present in my own life feels nearly impossible.

I am doing all the “right” things. I go to therapy, I show up to work, I try to keep up with self-care. Yet it often feels like everything I have repressed for years has finally risen to the surface, pressing down on my chest so hard I can barely breathe.

What makes this moment even more difficult is that I have been here before. This is not the first time depression has consumed me. Yet now, I am juggling even more: my internship, a demanding dual master’s program, the dream of starting a business, and the possibility of stepping into new professional roles. On the outside, it may look like I am thriving. Inside, it often feels like I am barely keeping my head above water.

At the same time, I am moving forward on paper. I am showing up for job interviews. I am holding a 4.0 GPA in my MSW/MPA program. I keep chugging along, doing what I am “supposed” to do. But that does not erase the deep exhaustion that comes with wearing the mask of strength while inside you feel like you are drowning.

In the middle of this struggle, I remind myself that we do not just live in reality—we create it. Our thoughts, emotions, and beliefs shape how we move through the world. Donald Hoffman, a cognitive scientist, argues that what we see is not reality itself but more like a user interface, a set of symbols that help us survive, not necessarily the truth of existence. In other words, the world as we experience it is not fixed; it is filtered through the lens of our minds.

This means that even in the midst of depression, there is space—however small—for me to shift how I engage with what I see and feel. I may not be able to change the weight that presses on me overnight, but I can slowly shape my own interface: choosing compassion when I want to be harsh with myself, choosing hope when despair feels louder, choosing small acts of presence when escape feels easier.

I often find myself wishing money and bills did not dictate the pace of life. I wish I could take a real break—one that allows me to stop, breathe, and heal without the pressure of survival looming over me.

Depression is not about weakness. It is about carrying invisible weights every single day while still moving forward in whatever ways we can. Some days, survival itself is an achievement.

I do not have all the answers. What I do know is that continuing to show up for myself, even imperfectly, matters. Even on the days I cannot breathe easily. Even on the days when the weight feels unbearable. Because beneath the heaviness, I still hold onto hope that one day I will not just be surviving, but truly living.

The Quiet That Found Me

For most of my life, silence felt like a threat. Growing up, it often meant tension was in the air—something unspoken, something waiting to erupt. I learned to fill every empty space with conversation, movement, and noise. It was easier to stay busy than to sit still with whatever the quiet might reveal.

I carried that habit for years, across countries, jobs, and chapters of my life. Honduras, the U.S., Nicaragua, Costa Rica, China—wherever I landed, I surrounded myself with people, tasks, and responsibilities. My mind was a constant loop of “what’s next?” I spoke when I didn’t need to. I agreed to things I didn’t want. I moved so fast I barely noticed the days passing.

But life has a way of forcing you to pause. Loss, grief, and healing stripped me down to the essentials. I faced the conversations I had avoided, let go of the people who no longer walked beside me, and allowed myself to feel the years of pain I had kept tucked away. I burned through anger, hurt, and longing until there was nothing left to spill.

Now, silence feels different.

It is no longer an empty space to fill but a rich, steady presence. I crave it—not to hide from life, but to watch it unfold without the need to control every piece. In the quiet, I see the light shift in my home as the day moves on. I hear my own breath. I feel my shoulders loosen. I notice that life keeps going whether I push or simply let it be.

And here is the unexpected gift: I am happy.

Not because life turned out exactly as I planned—far from it—but because it turned out in a way that feels right. The chaos has softened into something livable, even beautiful. I have work I care about, relationships that matter, and a deep trust that I can handle what comes next.

Silence no longer swallows me. It holds me. It reminds me that I have survived, that I have grown, and that I am exactly where I am meant to be. 

Where Life Ends and Begins: Reflections at a Baptism

Today, I am sitting in a church pew, watching my cousin’s baby being baptized. A new life is being celebrated—welcomed, blessed, and embraced by family and faith. And as I sit here, surrounded by the coos of a newborn and the quiet murmurs of prayers, tears begin to pour from my eyes.

They are not tears of sadness alone, nor joy alone. They are something more complex—something sacred.

Because while I witness this beautiful beginning, I cannot help but think about one of the most defining endings of my life: my father's death. The months leading to his passing, the caregiving from afar, the grief, the unresolved truths—all of it still lives in me. Life ended, but it didn’t just leave a void. It left a storm, a reckoning, and a transformation.

And now I watch new life begin. I wonder, Will I ever create life? Will I ever be granted the privilege of building a healthy family—one rooted in love, healing, and truth?

There is something powerful about witnessing both ends of life’s spectrum so closely. It humbles you. It sharpens your awareness of time, of relationships, of what truly matters.

Today, I am also overwhelmed with gratitude. My maternal cousins—some of whom I have not always treated with the tenderness they deserved—have stood firmly by my side. Through my father's death and all that followed, they have shown up. No grand gestures, just consistent love. They have been a source of strength when I needed it most.

In contrast, I have felt a haunting silence from my paternal side. Not a single call. Not a word of comfort. I understand why—it is easier to stay silent than to confront the truth I dared to speak. I challenged the narrative, broke the unspoken code, and rejected the manipulation that still runs deep in the hearts of my father’s sisters. And for that, I have been cut off. But I feel no regret. I know my truth. And I know their silence speaks volumes.

Still, this moment is not about bitterness. It is about clarity. It is about honoring the people who show up, and releasing those who cannot. It is about marveling at the cycle of life—how it breaks us, heals us, and sometimes surprises us with grace in the most unexpected places.

As I hold back another wave of tears, I know this much: I am alive. I am feeling. I am reflecting. And I am moving forward—with hope, with pain, and with the unwavering desire to live fully and truthfully.