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.