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.
