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. 

Wings of Gratitude: A Reflection at 30,000 Feet

There is something sacred about boarding a plane. No matter how many times I’ve flown—whether across oceans, over mountains, or just a few states away—I always find myself pausing to reflect. Maybe it’s the liminal space that exists between takeoff and landing, or the fact that flying demands a kind of surrender. You’re literally not in control, and yet somehow, it always feels like a reset button for my soul.

As I sit here waiting for departure, I’m overwhelmed with a mix of gratitude, disbelief, and a quiet resolve. I think about the life I’ve lived so far—how often I’ve packed bags not just with clothes but with memories, hopes, grief, and sometimes heartbreak. I’ve lived in countries most people only dream of visiting. I’ve loved, lost, stumbled, rebuilt. Some moments have been beautiful, others have been complete shit. But still—this life? It’s been mine. And I wouldn’t trade it.

For so long, I feel like I was just reacting—surviving one chapter after another. I let circumstances shape me, mold me, and sometimes derail me. But now, something is shifting. I’m not just boarding planes—I’m boarding intention. I’m no longer reacting. I’m choosing.

I’m choosing to live with purpose. With presence. With my eyes wide open and my heart—while still bruised in places—beating strong and clear.

Maybe the last 40 years were for becoming. Maybe the next chapter is for being. And if that means letting go of everything I thought I was supposed to be, or all the expectations that were never really mine, then so be it.

Here’s to flying forward—not just in the air, but in life.

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.