Hi friends,
It’s been a while.
I know I kind of disappeared for a bit. When you reached out, I kept saying I was going through something and just needed time—and that I’d reach out when I was ready.
I think I’m ready now.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no knot in my stomach.
Not yesterday. Not today.
Just… peace.
These past few months were heavy. My body and mind were reacting in ways I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. And because it had been so long since I felt that kind of darkness, I didn’t know how to handle it. I panicked. All I wanted was to fix it—fast. So I doubled down. Medication. Therapy. Exercise. Diet. I threw everything at the knot in my stomach, desperate to make it go away.
And sometimes, it worked—for a moment. I’d be on the row machine and everything would feel okay. But the second I stopped, that knot would come back. Tight. Loud. Unrelenting. I didn’t know what else to do, and everyone kept saying, Keep going, it gets better. And there was some truth in that. Therapy helped. Medication took the edge off. Exercise gave me a few breaths of relief. But it still wasn’t clear. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t enough.
So I turned to something more.
I went back to my spiritual roots—brujería. Not the aesthetic kind, but the kind that lives in bloodlines and whispers, in dreams and signs I’d been ignoring for too long. The kind that connects me to something deeper than logic. The moment I started listening again, everything changed. My mind quieted. The knot loosened. I started to feel like myself again.
With that clarity, I could finally see what I hadn’t wanted to admit: Someone had been treating me with disrespect. They were making decisions that affected me without my input—despite our agreements to work together. And I kept adjusting. Silently. I was so used to swallowing my discomfort that I didn’t even recognize it as a boundary being crossed.
But I’m not doing that anymore.
I’m not stewing or second-guessing myself. I’m calling it what it is. I’m standing up for myself. Whether I’m finally being respected or simply being left alone, I’ve reclaimed my peace—and I won’t give it up again.
I’ve also been writing. A book. It came out of all of this—the mess, the reflection, the healing. It’s raw and still forming, and I’m giving it space to breathe. But even in this unfinished stage, it’s teaching me things. Watching it grow is like watching myself grow, too.
I turned 40 recently. And something about this season of life has pushed me to want more. More meaning. More creativity. More courage. I’ve always been scared—scared of failure, scared of being seen. But now? Forget that. I have stories. I have truth. Whether it’s this book, or something else entirely, I’m ready to share it.
And I’m doing it for me.
And for my daughter.
That’s another layer of this blooming: figuring out how to love and guide her without losing myself in the process. It’s not easy, and it’s not linear. But I’m showing up—honestly, fully, and with as much compassion as I can hold. I’ve made mistakes, but I’m learning. And I’m proud of that.
So yes, my life is blossoming. Not in a picture-perfect, social-media-ready kind of way. More like a wild bloom in the desert—tough, slow, sacred, and real. Rooted in survival. Rooted in spirit. Rooted in brujería. Rooted in me.
Thank you for waiting on me.
I’m still here. And I’m coming back.

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