Ashes, Closure, and the Fire That Carries Me Forward

There are moments in life that change you forever. Picking up my father’s ashes in Honduras was one of them. It is, without a doubt, one of the most difficult things I have ever done. Nothing could have prepared me for the emotional weight of holding what remained of the man who raised me, who shaped so much of who I am, and who, in many ways, left this world before ever fully arriving in it.

The box was small—too small. How can a whole life fit into something you can hold in both hands? His laughter, his contradictions, his stubbornness, his pain—compressed into ash. It hit me like a wave: there is no coming back from this. No second chances. No more time.

But something unexpected happened in that moment of deep sorrow—a spark lit inside me. A burning fire. Fierce, unrelenting, sacred. Out of grief came clarity. I carry not only his ashes now, but his story, his struggles, and the strength I inherited from watching him fight—even when it was messy and misguided. I feel an impulso para seguir adelante—a push to keep going, to fight for something more, to live fully, and to build a life rooted in truth.

Spending time with my best friend while I was there grounded me in ways I did not even know I needed. With him, I felt safe, seen, known. There was no need to explain myself or mask my emotions. He just got it—got me. Being in his presence felt like returning home to a version of myself I had not felt in a long time. It reminded me of what it is to feel whole again.

In many ways, being reunited with my father’s ashes filled a void I had been carrying for months. The dread I could not name finally had a resting place. Not because the pain disappeared, but because something shifted. I was no longer holding on to absence—I was holding what remained, and it gave me the space to begin releasing.

And then there was the other part of this journey: closure I did not even know I needed. My ex. I got my keys back—but not from his hands. He left them at the front desk of the hotel, without a word. That simple, cold gesture said everything. It hurt. Somewhere deep down, I think I was still hoping he might come back. That maybe he would say what I needed to hear. That maybe he would show up.

But instead, I got silence. And in that silence, I heard the truth. That door is closed. That chapter is over. Taking the keys back was not just about a set of metal and plastic—it was about reclaiming a piece of myself I had left behind, waiting. And with that quiet act of retrieval, I moved forward, alone but whole.

As more time passes, I continue to see my father—and myself—with sharper eyes. He lived much of his life in survival mode. He lied often, and he lived like a beggar—not because he lacked worth, but because he never truly believed he deserved more. That truth is heavy. It hurts to name. But I have to. Because I will not carry that silence any longer. I want to break patterns, not repeat them.

I also know that I have more work to do—especially when it comes to regulating my emotions. My passion can spill out messy and hot. But I am learning. And what I know for sure is that the fire inside me will never be silenced. Especially not in the face of injustice. That fire is sacred. It is the same fire that keeps me fighting for my communities, for my peace, for something better.

Coming back to the U.S., I am facing another truth: I do not know if this country is home for me in the long run. My nervous system rejects this pace, this grind, this disconnection. My body feels it. The push to always produce, the pressure to survive—it drains something vital. Honduras reminded me of slowness, of presence, of the kind of life that does not consume you just for existing. I do not know what the future holds, but I know I want something different. Something softer. Something mine.

This grief has been my teacher. It has stripped me down but revealed what matters most. I do not know exactly what comes next, but I know this: I am not the same woman who got on that plane. I am moving forward—with fire in my belly, keys in my hand, my father’s ashes in my heart, and the unshakable belief that I deserve a life that feels like home.

Ashes, Truth, and the Space I Take With Me

I am a day away from leaving Honduras.

This country, once the backdrop of my childhood, has now become the place where I came to gather what was left of my father. On the first night here, after dinner, our cousin handed us the box holding his ashes. No ceremony. No words. Just the quiet thud of finality. The kind of silence that carries more weight than any speech could.

Seven months have passed since he died. Seven months of navigating the raw, unpredictable terrain of grief. I have cried in airports and at banks, laughed at old stories, and sat in silence with people who did not have the language or the willingness to meet the pain honestly.

I called one of his sisters to come say goodbye to him. Watching her, I saw our father in her—the tilt of her head, her stillness, her presence. We did not say much. We just let the grief sit with us, and for once, that was enough.

But grief was only one part of this trip. I have also been grieving the living—letting go of my ex-fiancé in the quiet way that real heartbreak often happens. Not with fireworks, but with the slow realization that the story we wrote together is over. There were no dramatic endings, just truth showing up again and again, until I could not ignore it anymore.

As if that were not enough, my body joined the grieving too. My period arrived like clockwork, layering physical pain on top of emotional exhaustion. It felt like everything—my body, my heart, my soul—was purging at once.

And while I walked through these losses, I saw clearly what I could no longer unsee: who shows up and who simply does not. What family really means. Which friends hold space without needing explanations. And which people wear the title of family but do not carry the spirit of it.

Even some of the people my father loved most failed him. That realization is still sitting heavy with me, but I know it is not mine to carry forever. What is mine is the truth. The closure. The right to remember him with clarity—and on my terms.

We have spent days closing his accounts, visiting properties, meeting with lawyers, making decisions. But beneath all the logistics has been something deeper—my own reckoning with legacy, loss, and liberation.

I came here to pick up ashes, but I am leaving with something more:

A clearer understanding of what love looks like when it is real.

A deeper trust in myself.

And a fierce commitment to honor my father in ways that no paperwork ever could.

Tomorrow I board a plane. I will carry my dad’s ashes with me, but more than that, I will carry his stories, his mistakes, his dreams, and the unspoken love between us. I will carry the tears I shed, the boundaries I strengthened, the healing I began.

I am not leaving empty. I am leaving full of truth.

For my father, José Ricardo Serra —

May the parts of you that live in me continue forward with dignity and fire.

Outgrowing the Past: On Endings, Discipline, and Choosing Myself

Lately, I have been sitting with quiet truths—the kind that take time to rise to the surface. One of those truths is this: I have outgrown certain relationships, certain patterns, and certain parts of myself. And as hard as that is to accept, it is also freeing.


Recently, I ended a friendship that had lasted since middle school. We had a deep history—years of shared experiences, laughter, mistakes, and growing up. I always imagined we would be in each other’s lives forever. But the truth is, we grew in different directions. I kept making room in my life for someone who no longer made space for me. And over time, I realized that holding on was hurting more than letting go.


This decision did not come from anger. It came from clarity. From the understanding that honoring your peace sometimes means walking away from what once felt familiar.


At the same time, my youngest brother has been deployed to Qatar for over a month now. Watching him step into that level of service and responsibility has shifted something in me. His courage, discipline, and quiet strength have made me reflect on how I want to show up in my own life. What am I committed to? What do I need to let go of in order to grow?


That reflection has led me to make my social media private again—not because I am hiding, but because I am protecting. My peace. My healing. My boundaries. I am no longer interested in being visible to everyone. I want to be present with myself.


This is a season of shedding: old roles, old friendships, old versions of myself. I am not who I used to be, and that is something I am learning to celebrate instead of mourn.


To the people and parts of my past I have outgrown: thank you. You were necessary. And now, I am choosing something new—something grounded, disciplined, and aligned with who I am becoming.

What Are We Really Doing? The Cost of Misinformation and the Dehumanization of Immigrants

 Lately, watching the news feels like reopening a wound that never fully healed. I see headlines, protests, and soundbites—and buried beneath it all, I see lives being manipulated, discarded, and politicized. The recent increase in ICE enforcement, the media coverage around deportations, and the confusion surrounding immigration monitoring programs have stirred something deep in me—not just as a Honduran immigrant, but as someone who knows the system from the inside.

Let me be clear: ICE agents have a job to do. But a badge and authority should never give someone the right to humiliate, traumatize, or dehumanize others. What we are witnessing—again—is the abuse of power disguised as enforcement. And it hurts. Because immigrants are not just numbers on a report or faces on a screen. We are people. We are families. We are dreams interrupted.

What angers me the most is how immigrants are once again being used as pawns for political and societal manipulation. Fear-mongering headlines. Misleading soundbites. Social media campaigns twisting narratives to stoke fear. The media is playing a key role in misinforming the public, and it is working. Too many people in the United States do not understand how immigration policy actually functions—or how deeply broken and inequitable it truly is.

Here’s what many people do not know: The "monitoring programs" being praised as a more humane solution are often misunderstood. These are not programs helping immigrants go through a legal process. They are surveillance programs applied to immigrants who have already been issued final orders of removal. That means their case has already been denied. They are not “waiting their turn” legally—they are under supervision while ICE prepares for their deportation.

Meanwhile, people like me who tried to do things the “right way” faced endless delays, legal hurdles, and separation from family. I spent 13 years outside of the United States waiting to re-enter lawfully. Thirteen years of missed birthdays, milestones, and grief. I followed the law. I waited. I paid thousands of dollars in legal fees. I did not jump the line. But the truth is: there is no single “line.” Immigration policy is a maze, and its rules change depending on your country of origin, your political context, and even your race.

Let us be honest about asylum. Yes, asylum is a legal right under U.S. and international law for those who fear persecution based on race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion. But deteriorating conditions or economic hardship do not qualify on their own. Asylum has a very specific legal definition—and we have to stop confusing humanitarian empathy with legal eligibility.

When we blur the line between compassion and legality, we do more harm than good. We create false hope. We deepen public mistrust. And we make it harder for real reform to happen.

Here are a few facts to ground this conversation:

• The Alternatives to Detention (ATD) program, which includes electronic monitoring, has grown significantly under both Republican and Democratic administrations. As of 2024, over 200,000 people are enrolled. But again, most are already under deportation orders (TRAC Immigration, 2024).

• Immigrants from countries like Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador often wait 10–15 years for lawful permanent residency through family-based petitions due to visa backlogs (U.S. Department of State, 2024).

• Asylum approval rates vary greatly by nationality, legal representation, and location of the court. In 2023, the national average was around 30%, with much lower success rates for Central American applicants (TRAC Immigration, 2023).

• Title 42 and other emergency measures disrupted the asylum process for years, leading many to try irregular crossings or face expedited removal—yet most Americans are unaware of how U.S. policies actively created bottlenecks.

So, what message are we sending? We reward irregular entry with faster access and vilify those who wait. We flood the airwaves with fear instead of facts. And we allow social media and cable news to shape public opinion more than legal frameworks and lived experiences.

I am not saying we should lack compassion. But compassion without clarity is dangerous. We owe it to ourselves—and to every immigrant past and present—to be informed, honest, and courageous enough to demand a better system. One rooted in fairness, dignity, and accountability.

Because when we do not understand the process, we become complicit in the very system that continues to break so many of us.

So, what do we do now?

We start by getting informed, amplifying the truth, and supporting real reform. Here are a few ways you can take action today:

📚 Educate Yourself and Others

Understanding immigration policy is not just for lawyers or politicians. It is for anyone who cares about justice and truth.

• TRAC Immigration – https://trac.syr.edu: Nonpartisan data on immigration enforcement, courts, and ICE practices.

• American Immigration Council – https://www.americanimmigrationcouncil.org: Explains immigration laws, myths, and facts.

• National Immigrant Justice Center – https://immigrantjustice.org: Offers legal advocacy and policy updates.

🧭 Know the Legal Process

Understanding what asylum actually means and how long it takes to migrate legally helps us challenge misinformation:

• USCIS Immigration Process Overview – https://www.uscis.gov: Official source on legal pathways and backlogs.

• Asylum Eligibility (USCIS) – https://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-and-asylum/asylum

🗣️ Speak Up, Even When It Is Uncomfortable

Correct misinformation when you hear it. Share your story or elevate others who have lived it. Do not let social media be the only source of “truth.”

• Talk to your community.

• Challenge bias in your workplace or schools.

• Write to your elected officials.

🤝 Support Immigrant-Led Organizations

These groups offer legal support, shelter, and advocacy for immigrants navigating a broken system:

• RAICES (Texas-based legal and advocacy services) – https://www.raicestexas.org

• Alianza Americas (Latino immigrant advocacy network) – https://www.alianzaamericas.org

• Centro Romero (Chicago-area support for Latinx immigrants) – https://centroromero.org

This is personal. It is systemic. It is political. And it is human.

Let us stop being manipulated. Let us stop staying silent.
Let us start demanding more—because we deserve better.

The Myth of the Melting Pot: Why It’s Time to Embrace the Salad Bowl

For generations, the United States has proudly clung to the metaphor of the melting pot—a symbol meant to suggest unity, inclusion, and harmony. At its surface, it paints a picture of a nation where diverse cultures blend together to create something stronger, more unified. But let’s be honest: who exactly is doing the melting here? And at what cost?

The concept of the melting pot has not fostered cohesion. It has demanded assimilation. It has asked immigrants and marginalized groups to shed their languages, customs, and ways of being to conform to an imagined version of “American identity”—one that is overwhelmingly white, English-speaking, and Eurocentric. This narrative does not celebrate multiculturalism; it neutralizes it.

If this country were truly a melting pot that valued all ingredients equally, we would see white Americans regularly integrating traditions, values, and perspectives from other cultures into their daily lives—not just as cuisine or entertainment, but as meaningful, transformative practices. But how often does that happen? Unless someone is in an interracial or interethnic relationship, or works in a deeply diverse environment, the exchange tends to be one-directional. Cultural richness is often consumed, commodified, or appropriated, not truly honored or lived.

The melting pot metaphor is not just outdated—it is dishonest. It suggests that we are all equally participating in a cultural fusion, when in reality, many are pressured to melt down their identity to fit into a dominant mold. That is not unity. That is erasure.

It is time to move toward a more honest and respectful metaphor: the salad bowl. In a salad, every ingredient retains its unique flavor and texture. And yet, together, the components complement one another, creating a vibrant, nourishing experience. This is the kind of multicultural society we should aspire to—a place where differences are not only tolerated, but welcomed, tasted, and celebrated.

In a salad, cilantro is still cilantro. Tomatoes do not become lettuce. You taste the crunch of the cucumber, the zing of the dressing, and the richness of the avocado. Each ingredient is essential. None needs to disappear for the whole to work.

A true multicultural society does not demand sameness. It values co-existence. It challenges the dominant culture to open itself to change, to learn from others, and to grow. That takes humility. That takes effort. But it also brings the kind of beauty, innovation, and authenticity that cannot be achieved by watering everyone down into a single, bland substance.

So let us retire the melting pot. Let us instead prepare something more flavorful, more inclusive, and more honest. A salad where all of us—our stories, our identities, our roots—can be part of the dish without losing what makes us whole.

Devoted to the Moment: A Dream, a Breakdown, and a Song Called Del Fuego

Last night I had a dream—one of those rare ones that feel more like memory than imagination.

I was with my dad. He was walking—not frail or fading, but strong enough to move beside us. Andrea, Isaiah, Dad, and I were all headed to Tegucigalpa, the city that cradles so much of who I am. The car broke down. Two flat tires. Overheated. No plan B.

The pressure of getting there weighed on me like the sun overhead. So I did what I always do—I got out. I walked. Looking for help. Carrying the problem on my shoulders because that’s how I’ve survived: walk ahead, fix it, figure it out. I ended up in a hotel on the road, far from the car, far from Tegus. But somehow, they showed up. My dad, my people, found their way to me. The car was left behind, but we were together again.

That morning haze of the dream stayed with me. Then Del Fuego by Fat Freddy’s Drop played on my phone. And suddenly, the dream didn’t feel random—it felt like a soundtrack.


Longing makes the day seem twice as long,
Like an endless summer haze...
Hearts without home, searching for a place...

That is what grief feels like. A kind of roaming. A journey without a map. And like the lyrics say—“we can only watch and learn.” Sometimes the ash is cold. Sometimes we break down. Sometimes we do not make it all the way to the city or the closure or the finish line. But we’re still devoted to the moment. We’re still walking.

There was a line in the song that broke me:


Don’t let your pride feed the fire—
It was never within your control.

So much of this last year has felt like trying to hold the universe together with my bare hands. Caring for my dad across borders, carrying the emotional weight of being the oldest, the caretaker, the one who goes ahead to figure things out.

This dream was my dad showing up to remind me: you do not have to fix everything to be loved.

So maybe we never made it to Tegus in the dream. Maybe that is okay.
Maybe the car stays broken. Maybe the journey continues.

But I woke up knowing:
I am not lost. I am just roaming—with purpose. Devoted to the moment.

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.

When Protecting Your Peace Means Letting Go (for Now)

This week, I made a hard but necessary decision: I blocked my aunts on my phone. Not out of anger, not out of spite—but out of self-preservation.

Grief has a way of stripping everything down to the truth. And the truth is, I am doing the best I can. I am adjusting to a new internship, working two jobs, grieving my father, and trying to show up for myself and others in the midst of it all. The weight is real, and I am human.

Yesterday, I had a moment of emotional overflow. I felt seen and supported by my siblings, and that mattered more than I can explain. Just having someone listen when your heart is tired can make all the difference.

Family conflict—especially in the wake of loss—can feel like a thousand sharp edges. But I have learned that I do not have to keep touching the knife to prove I care. Sometimes love looks like space. Sometimes peace looks like silence. And sometimes, growth means stepping back, even when others do not understand.

I am not shutting the door forever. I am simply choosing not to stand in the crossfire while trying to heal. Until we receive more clarity, I am letting this situation sit where it is. No more chasing closure. No more explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me.

To anyone else navigating family tensions while grieving, let me say this:

You are allowed to protect your peace.

You are allowed to pause conversations that hurt more than they help.

And you are allowed to take care of you, even if others think that makes you selfish.

I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—that boundaries are not walls. They are doors I get to open when and if I feel safe.

And right now, mine is closed.

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.

---

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

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.