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There’s this idea that motherhood begins the day your child is born. For me, it didn’t. Motherhood began in early December 2017, the moment I found out I was pregnant with Abigail. That was the exact moment my brain rewired itself forever. Not because I suddenly became loving or nurturing overnight. I had always been that person. I have spent my entire life giving pieces of myself away to people I love. I have always been the caretaker. The helper. The one who worries. The on

Hoy escribí sobre algo pesado. Algo que se me queda en el pecho y me dificulta respirar. Algo que me recuerda que el mundo puede ser cruel, injusto y aterrador, especialmente para personas que se ven como yo, aman como yo y crían hijos como los míos. Pero hoy también es el cumpleaños de mi mamá. Y me niego a dejar que el peso del mundo opaque la bondad de su vida. Porque ambas cosas pueden existir al mismo tiempo. Duelo y gratitud. Rabia y amor. Decir la verdad y celebrar. Si

Today, I wrote about something heavy. Something that sits in my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Something that reminds me that the world can be cruel, unjust, and frightening, especially for people who look like me, love like me, and raise children like mine. But today is also my mom’s birthday. And I refuse to let the weight of the world eclipse the goodness of her life. Because both things can exist at once. Grief and gratitude. Anger and love. Truth-telling and celebra

I’ve been sitting with a heaviness that’s hard to name. Not the everyday tiredness of motherhood, the world-shaking kind of sorrow that comes when you watch humanity treated as collateral in a system that should protect it. This month has been devastating to witness. It’s used to be hard for me to imagine a thing like this happening in the United States, especially to children, to families, to people who are just trying to work, live, and belong . But here we are. Even now,

There was a moment — sitting in my car, engine off, keys still in my hand — when I realized how tired I was. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. Not the kind a weekend off solves. The kind that comes from waiting. Waiting for reassurance. Waiting for consistency. Waiting for someone else to meet you where you’ve already been standing. I didn’t cry dramatically. I didn’t collapse into some movie-worthy breakdown. I just sat there and thought, Oh. This is what exhaustion feels l

I’ve always been the kind of person who plans ahead. Not in a rigid, color-coded, every-minute-accounted-for way — but in a “let’s pause, reflect, and name what we’re actually moving toward” kind of way. The kind of planning that isn’t about control, but about clarity. That’s probably why my cousin Laura and I get each other so well. She’s one of those people who believes deeply in reflection, intention, and naming seasons — and she’s also one of the people who gently but fir

As I step into 2026, I’m not chasing reinvention. I’m choosing alignment. After years of growth, healing, rebuilding, and learning (sometimes the hard way), I’ve realized something simple but profound: I don’t need a louder life. I need a steadier one. This year, my guiding words are steady, slow, and kind — not because I’m settling, but because I’m finally honoring what actually sustains me. Faith as My Anchor In 2026, I choose to live rooted in faith — not as an emergency r