Honest storytelling as a form of healing.

Tag: reflections

  • Lessons learned

    Lessons learned

    April tried to humble me. It worked. But here’s what else happened.


    April came in with punches I wasn’t ready for. The PDF I’ve been pouring into for two months is still sitting quiet with no sales. Writing slowed down in a way that scared me a little.

    Friendships I thought were solid started showing cracks. Unexpected situations landed one after another and I had to just absorb them.
    But April also gave me things I didn’t expect to need as much as I did.
    I saw Naika live.

    I walked into an Edgar Allan Poe themed speakeasy and let that be everything it was. I got to go to BookCon.

    I stood under the cherry blossoms and let that mean something.

    I started documenting what I’m building in a way that feels real. Those moments carried weight. They reminded me I’m still someone who shows up for beauty even when things are hard.
    So here’s what May is going to be about for me.
    Getting back to the page. Even if it’s one paragraph. Even one line on a hard day, that counts.

    Getting back to moving my body, even if it’s just half a mile. Submitting my poetry. Exploring. Traveling somewhere. Actually being in spring before it disappears.


    And this May I turn three years. Three years since a moment that should have ended me and didn’t. I don’t always understand why I’m still here.

    Some days I’m still looking for the answer. But I am here. And that means I have to keep going, keep creating, keep finding the light even when I have to squint to see it.
    April was a teacher.

    May is going to be a celebration.

  • A Whole New World

    A Whole New World

    I woke up early and I was excited. Doors opened at 10 but I knew better than to show up at 10. This was a convention people had been talking about for months. So I got there early, and sure enough, when I turned the corner to find the entrance, the line was already wrapped around the block.

    I waited at least 45 minutes before they let us in.
    And when they did, it was a massive amount of people spread across four floors. All I could think was: we are all here for the same reason. We love books. That was it. That was the thread connecting every single person in that building.
    Later I found out that while I was inside in awe, absorbing everything, studying the room, people were online complaining that it was too crowded. And I understand that. But that’s not what this is about.
    This is about what it felt like to be in the room.
    I didn’t go as a fan this year. I went as a writer doing her homework.

    I walked those floors with my eyes wide open, asking myself: what does this feel like from the other side of the table?

    Because that’s where I’m headed. I told myself right there, out loud: next year, I’m coming back as an author.


    I met some incredible people. I picked up books that called to me. I picked up a little Edgar Allan Poe magnet and now he lives on my writing wall, staring at me every time I sit down to write.

    Only a matter of time

    I sat on a Naturepedic mattress at a booth, held up a book, and let someone take my picture like it was the most natural thing in the world, because it was.

    I stood in front of a backdrop that said I See Books In My Future and I believed it.


    Con mucho amor. That’s what one of the authors wrote in my book. With much love. That’s the energy of BookCon, underneath all the crowds and the chaos. People who made things, sharing them with people who needed them.
    I needed this day more than I knew.
    The floor was packed. My feet hurt. I was tired before I even got there. And still, I left full.
    That’s the writer’s life, isn’t it? You show up tired. You find something that feeds you anyway. You go home and you write about it.
    See you next year. On the other side of the table.

    Manifesting where I will be coming next year w my book
  • Go Bloom: A Love Letter to the First Day of Spring

    Go Bloom: A Love Letter to the First Day of Spring

    There is something almost magical about the way the earth just decides to shift.

    No announcements. No countdown. Just one morning you step outside and something in the air feels different. Lighter. Like the world exhaled.

    Today is the first day of spring, and I need you to feel the full weight of what that means.

    The spring equinox is the moment when light and dark are perfectly balanced, and then, just like that, the light starts to win. Day by day, little by little, there is more brightness than shadow. That is not just science. That is a message.

    Whatever you have been carrying through the winter, whatever felt heavy, stuck, frozen in place, the season is literally changing around you. The ground that looked like it had nothing left in it is already doing the quiet work of becoming something new. That is what seeds do. That is what we do.

    New beginnings do not always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes they arrive on an ordinary Friday, with a cup of something warm in your hand, and a feeling in your chest that says this is it. Something good is coming.

    I believe that feeling. I am choosing to believe it today.

    If you have been waiting for a sign to start again, to try again, to hope again, let this be it. The first day of spring on a Friday, the end of one week and the start of everything new.

    Happy Spring. Happy Friday. Happy new chapter.

    Go bloom.

  • Why Share Anyway

    Why Share Anyway

    I want to talk about something that I think a lot of creators sit with but don’t always say out loud.
    Sometimes you put something into the world not because you know it’s going to land, but because you believe it’s important. Because something in you said this needs to exist. And that reason that one is enough.
    I didn’t create what I created because I was chasing numbers. I created it because I thought it could help someone.

    Because it meant something to me. And that meaning doesn’t disappear just because the response was quiet.
    We live in a world that measures worth in metrics. Likes, views, shares. And it’s easy to let that math talk you out of your own conviction.

    But I keep coming back to this: if you share something true, something you genuinely believe in, you’ve already done the thing. The reach is secondary. The intention is the foundation.
    Not everyone will want what you have. That’s not failure. That’s just how it works. Your people are specific. Your message is specific. And specificity takes time to find its audience.
    So keep sharing what matters to you.

    Not for the validation. Because it’s important. Because you think it’s important. And that’s the only reason you ever needed.

  • When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    Funny how it feels like time is slowly shifting, but still moving slow.

    Not gonna lie at first I thought it was just the season. All that glum, grey cold weather. The seasonal heaviness that was becoming a storm I couldn’t escape. I told myself that if we could finally get some warm sunshine, it would solve everything.

    Finally, March arrived. The trip I’d planned with my youngest to the Botanical Garden to kick off the month was a go. Color, warmth, making memories with my little girl. It was gonna be a win-win.

    But life had other plans.

    Friday night I had a slight cough but I also have asthma, and my body was achy from a long hard work week, so I brushed it off. Saturday arrived with a headache and that same cough still hanging around. I said nope, took a vitamin C, and even went for a run. Had to stop midway. I told myself I just hadn’t run in a bit and the cough wasn’t helping, so I went and got a pedicure instead. At least I’d do something good for myself to set the mood for the fun time ahead.

    But once I was done, I felt my body say: are you done?

    I’ll admit it, I’m stubborn. I took some cold meds and more fluids and kept the plan alive in my head. I got up early Sunday after doing asthma treatments through the night. That should’ve been my sign right there. Maybe going into the city wasn’t a good idea.

    But I mustered on, got dressed, and we headed out only to turn back midway because I got sick on the train.

    From there it snowballed into a whole week of missing work. I was that sick.

    And I still couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see that my body was trying to tell me to slow down.

    That is when we need to stop and listen. Or at least that’s when I need to stop and listen.

    You see, I have a lot of things on my plate. I admit I want them all done ASAP. But that’s the thing about life it doesn’t care about your timeline.

    Again, we are not in control no matter how much we plan. Sure, sometimes that works. But when it won’t, it won’t.

    You can have everything mapped out, color-coded, scheduled down to the hour, and life will still walk in, pull the tablecloth, and watch everything slide. Not to destroy you. Maybe just to remind you that you are not in charge of the pace.

    Sometimes the pause is the plan. And your only job is to rest inside it until it’s time to move again.

    I’m learning that no matter how carefully I plan, life will always have its own version of events. And maybe that’s okay. One moment at a time is still forward motion.

  • Just another day or was it

    Just another day or was it

    Opened on time.

    Lights on.

    Music playing.

    Everything with its usual humming.

    Members walked in like any other day.

    What they didn’t see?

    I couldn’t find my keys.

    The chunky keychain with all the charms.

    The one that’s impossible to miss until it’s missing.

    I called coworkers.

    No answer.

    I swallowed my pride and called to make .

    Drove to get a backup key.

    Watched the clock like it was a countdown to disaster.

    Adrenaline before sunrise.

    And still the doors opened.

    No one knew the scramble.

    No one felt the panic.

    No one noticed the recalculating, the rerouting, the quiet “figure it out.”

    They just saw access.

    And that’s the part that stayed with me.

    How much of life is held together by people who are internally sprinting while externally steady?

    Last night my coat snagged and fell apart.

    This morning my keys disappeared.

    For a moment, it felt like everything was unraveling.

    But nothing unraveled.

    The doors opened.

    Sometimes resilience doesn’t look glamorous.

    Sometimes it looks like solving a problem before anyone knows there was one.

    Sometimes strength is quiet.

  • Before Resentment, There Was Expectation

    Before Resentment, There Was Expectation

    All right, we’re going to talk about something people usually suppress.

    Resentment.

    What’s interesting is that resentment rarely starts as anger.

    I say this not from theory, but from practice.

    I’ve had to learn how to catch expectation before it turns into resentment, and journal therapy gave me the tools to do that.

    It usually starts as an unspoken expectation.

    A quiet hope.

    A mental script.

    A version of events we never say out loud.

    And when reality doesn’t match that internal script, disappointment hardens quickly into irritation.

    But irritation isn’t the first emotion.

    It’s the second.

    The first emotion was expectation.

    When we don’t name it, the spiral begins.

    3 Ways the Spiral Typically Happens

    1. We Assume They Should Have Known.

    We expect others to intuit what we never expressed.

    2. We Attach Meaning to the Outcome.

    “If this didn’t happen, it must mean I’m not valued.”

    3. We React Instead of Reflect.

    Withdrawal.

    Sharp tone.

    Cold distance.

    Not because we’re cruel but because we feel let down.

    But there is another way.

    3 Different Decisions That Change the Outcome

    1. Name the Hope Before It Turns Into a Story.

    Ask yourself: What was I actually hoping would happen?

    Clarity interrupts resentment.

    2. Separate Fact From Interpretation.

    Something didn’t occur.

    That does not automatically define your worth.

    Pause before attaching narrative.

    3. Choose Conscious Action.

    Communicate the desire clearly.

    Or meet the need yourself without punishment.

    Expectation is human.

    Resentment grows when expectation goes unnamed.

    Journal Prompt:

    What small, unspoken expectation shifts your mood the fastest?

  • Matters of the Four Chambered Organ

    Matters of the Four Chambered Organ

    A couple of months ago, after watching a rom-com of all things, this poem arrived.

    It reminded me that inspiration doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t care if the source is high art or a late-night movie. It simply taps you on the shoulder and says, pay attention.

    With a weekend that centers everything around love, this feels like the right moment to share

    Love is a chamber
    already loaded.
    One wrong trigger
    and something vital ends.
    They tell us it lives in the heart
    this soft red symbol
    we never see working
    until it fails.
    love can be known as euphoria,
    as breathless light.
    It’s also been known as being
    collapsed on a bathroom floor,
    tiles cold against the cheek,
    trying to remember how to breathe.
    From there love lives
    inside a clear bubble.
    Visible.
    Watched.
    Marked do not touch.
    Strong enough to exist.
    Fragile enough to shatter.
    Maybe one day
    it will swell with courage
    and burst.
    For now,
    it stays still
    beating carefully,
    on purpose    .

    Love isn’t always roses and violins. Sometimes it’s courage. Sometimes it’s caution. Sometimes it’s survival.

  • When Everything Feels Amplified

    When Everything Feels Amplified

    There are days when nothing catastrophic happens,

    yet everything inside me feels louder.

    The thoughts move faster.

    The body feels heavier.

    Ordinary moments carry more weight than they should.

    I’ve learned not to panic when this happens.

    Emotional intensity doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong.

    It doesn’t mean I’m unstable.

    It doesn’t mean I’m failing.

    Sometimes it just means I’m aware.

    Intensity is what happens when I stop numbing.

    When I’m no longer distracting myself enough to avoid what’s stirring underneath.

    When something in me is outgrowing the version of life I’m currently living.

    It shows up as restlessness.

    As heat in the chest.

    As a quiet refusal to keep settling.

    I used to interpret this feeling as a problem to solve.

    Now I see it as information.

    It’s asking questions.

    Where are you misaligned?

    What are you tolerating that you’ve already outgrown?

    What would it look like to choose yourself here?

    I’m learning that I don’t need to escape intensity.

    I need to hold it long enough to understand what it’s pointing toward.

    Not every strong feeling is a crisis.

    Sometimes it’s a compass.

  • Thank you Benito

    Thank you Benito

    I want to take a moment to say thank you to Bad Bunny to Benito, really.

    The Super Bowl halftime show was layered. It wasn’t loud just to be loud. It wasn’t spectacle for the sake of spectacle. It was intentional. Cultural. Personal. And full of messages that landed differently depending on who you are and where you’re standing in your life.

    There were messages for the youth. Messages for people who come from somewhere and had to fight to be seen. Messages about pride, language, roots, and refusing to dilute yourself to be accepted. All of that mattered. Deeply.

    But one moment stayed with me more than anything else.

    When he said, believe in yourself.

    And then without overexplaining, without drama he handed the Grammy to his younger self.

    That moment stopped me.

    Because that wasn’t performance. That was acknowledgment. That was healing. That was a grown man looking back at the version of himself who probably doubted, struggled, felt unseen, and saying: We did it. I didn’t abandon you.

    Make your inner child proud

    There was something so powerful about watching someone honor not just their success, but the work it took to get there. The quiet nights. The moments of being misunderstood. The choice to keep going without losing who you are.

    And the pride in his heritage unapologetic, woven into the fabric of the performance, not explained or translated was beautiful. Not because it needed validation, but because it never asked for it.

    Ironically, or maybe not ironically at all, that message felt like it was meant for me.

    Where I am right now in my life, I’m doing a lot of looking back. A lot of reconciling with earlier versions of myself. A lot of asking whether I believed enough, trusted enough, stayed true enough. Seeing that exchange between present self and younger self felt like permission to be proud of how far I’ve come, even if I’m not “done” yet.

    So thank you, Benito.

    For reminding people especially the ones still becoming that believing in yourself isn’t arrogance. It’s survival. It’s continuity. It’s how you make it back to yourself without losing the thread.

    And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is turn around, look your younger self in the eyes, and say: I carried you with me the whole time.