A Mom’s Unscripted Life

Tag: #mypast

  • Facing Fear

    It’s crazy how fear can be the biggest roadblock in your life. Whether it’s the fear of speaking up, of standing your ground, of hurting others, of meeting new people, or just the fear of change—it can all hold you back. But here’s the thing: if you can just rip off that proverbial band-aid and face your fears, you might end up surprising yourself with what you can achieve.

    People often ask me what keeps me going. Truthfully, it’s the determination not to let fear dictate my life. I want to teach my kids not to back down just because they feel afraid, just as I wanted my nieces to know there are no excuses for staying in your comfort zone only to end up miserable later on. Believe me, it hasn’t always been smooth sailing; my journey has had more bumps than a country road. Each challenge was a lesson I had to confront and learn from.

    Perfection isn’t the goal here. It’s about striving for improvement and giving yourself grace when things don’t go perfectly. For me, prayer plays a crucial role. Though I’m not always in church on Sundays—life happens—prayer is a constant. I make it a point to pray during my morning drives, thanking God for the amazing things in my life. A lot of folks might not know this, but I was once in a very dark place and even attempted to take my own life. Being able to thank God for this second chance and for my beautiful, healthy family is something I’ll forever be grateful for.

    Whenever uncertainty creeps in, I pray for guidance to stay on His path and for the courage not to sweat the small stuff. I’m not naïve—I know decisions must be made to get results. I just believe those results often come with a nudge in the right direction from above. Plus, if nothing else, figuring life out one prayer at a time offers fewer calories than stress-eating an entire cheesecake, right?

    So what I’m trying to get to is this: my hope for you and for everyone is to have faith that you’ll conquer your biggest fears, as long as you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Just think of it as an epic journey—like Frodo’s, but with less jewelry and hopefully fewer orcs!

  • Childhood memories

    As far back as I can remember, I’ve always felt as though everyone’s upbringing was the same. In my youthful innocence, I believed we all followed a similar path. I imagined that when people looked at me, they could see the struggles and joy that shaped my childhood, the experiences that made me who I am today. But as I’ve grown into a woman, I’ve come to realize how mistaken I was.

    Growing up in a small town had its unique charm. From 1st through 7th grade, my classes held only about 15 to 30 students each. The school, accommodating preschool to 7th grade, was a tapestry of Hispanic, Native American, and Caucasian cultures. Each morning, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance first in English and then in Spanish, embracing the rich cultures of New Mexico.

    The school playground was modest, bordered by a wide field and a line of trees along the fence. My friends and I cherished one particular tree that was both huge and easy to climb. It became our little sanctuary, a place where we could let our imaginations run free, crafting a world of our own.

    I can still remember making homemade pizza in the adobe brick fireplace just outside the main building, its warmth and aroma creating a sense of community and delight. In second grade, we even made homemade ice cream, and our teacher, who resembled Mrs. Frizzle, infused her classroom with the same magical atmosphere. I loved everything about my elementary school, including a memorable field trip in the upper grades. We ventured up the hill across the street, where we learned to make a fire and study various types of bugs, exploring what we could survive on in nature.

    That field at school was our haven, where my friends and I played countless games of softball and flag football. It was also where we launched our fashion designer club, eagerly exchanging the folder where we kept all our cherished designs. In that same field, we held our whimsical ‘weddings’ with our boyfriends and lay on the grass, gazing up at the sky, discovering who we were in a world that seemed boundless.

    I can only hope that someday my sons will be able to build the same kind of memories that he can cherish for a lifetime.

  • Grandma

    There’s a certain kind of magic that lingers in the tales of those who have come before us—a delicate thread connecting generations, woven from laughter, sorrow, and the steady pulse of perseverance. My grandmother’s life is a tapestry of such magic: a story both singular and universal, shaped by the tides of history and the quiet heroism of everyday acts.
    She was born in a time when the world seemed to shift beneath people’s feet—a period of both promises and hardship. She often told me about her summers, when she and her sister would help their mother prepare dinner while their father and brother worked in the garden. Their house, built of logs, had settled into the earth so that the back portion was almost buried. It could only be warmed by the wood-burning oven, which the whole family took turns tending. That same oven was used to heat water for their weekly baths. She laughed when recalling how everyone would fight to be the first in the tub.
    When school was in session, they would all ride together on horseback until they reached the river. There, her brother would ferry her and her sister across one at a time before continuing to school. Every day, the household relied on her and her siblings to complete their chores, as it was the only way their home could run smoothly.
    As she recalled her childhood, I noticed a flicker of sadness in her eyes—a quiet reflection on what once was and how life has changed. The woman I have grown to know rarely shared these memories with me before, or perhaps she did, and I simply never listened as closely as I do now. She was once a young girl, just like me, navigating life’s uncertainties, enduring hardships, and creating cherished memories with her siblings and family. Now, at 86 years old, she has lived an extraordinary life—raising four children, nurturing twelve grandchildren, and delighting in the laughter of many great-grandchildren.
    She told me stories of her and my grandfather, and how they spent countless weekends working hard on their land, shaping their yard into the beautiful place it is today. Their front yard features a charming fountain that flows into a small stone-lined ditch, set in concrete, with a wooden bridge my grandfather built connecting the back porch to the wide grassy area on the other side. Stone bordered the road leading to the house, and rose bushes lined the grass along the left-hand side. The spacious back patio became the heart of family gatherings; a place filled with laughter and love.
    I can still remember running across that bridge, back and forth, playing tag with my brother and cousins, and chasing frogs late into the summer evenings. My grandmother always kept pigeons and peacocks, their calls echoing across the yard, and her house was filled with the warm, comforting scent of homemade tortillas and beans. I loved that smell—and even more, I loved sitting down to her incredible meals of red chili, beans, and soft sopapillas and tortillas.
    She told me how my grandfather would sometimes feel guilty about drinking a beer while they worked in the yard, and how she would reassure him that he had earned it—that he worked hard to buy that beer and deserved to enjoy it. She remembered how he would come home after a long day’s work, always with a new joke to share, his humor as much a part of him as his quiet strength.
    I try to hold on to the memories I have of my grandpa, who passed away when I was seventeen. It might seem like I had plenty of time to know him, but the truth is, I didn’t. Back then, I was self-absorbed, caught up in my own world and my own problems. When he became sick, I wasn’t there for him the way I should have been because I was too focused on myself. Still, I remember his constant smile and the kisses he always wanted whenever we came to visit.
    I can picture him watching his old westerns, laughing softly to himself, or the time he handed me a snake and told me to go show my mom—just to make her scream. Of course, I screamed too and ended up tossing the poor snake. I remember their enormous garden stretching across the land below the house, and the hours I spent outside helping shell peas in the warm sun. My grandpa loved his cigarettes and always carried a small lunch cooler with a six-pack of Budweiser tucked inside—one of the many little things that made him who he was.
    I asked my uncles and aunts to share some of their favorite memories, and my Uncle F told me a story that stood out to him. He recalled when the family was building the house, and Grandma M would tell Grandpa J, “This is what I want,” then start dragging her right foot along the ground to outline her vision. Grandpa J would look over at Uncle F with a grin that clearly meant, oh no, here we go. She’d zigzag her foot through the dirt, stop to evaluate, then zigzag some more. Uncle F and Grandpa would glance at each other, knowing what came next. Grandpa would say, “Okay then,” because no matter how ambitious the request was, it would be done—usually before the weekend was over.
    My mom added that Grandpa used to tell Grandma, “Veja, you’re a wantin’ woman,” teasing her with that familiar smirk. That smirk still brings smiles to their faces, just like the sound of his whistle as he worked—a sound they can still hear in their hearts.

  • Fateful Encounter

    I’m not sure if many people know the charming tale of how I met my husband, but it’s a story of faith and serendipity. Back in 2019, I had a bit of a “party girl” phase—yes, those who knew me back then might remember the social whirlwind. I loved my weekday outings, and at the time, I was seeing someone else. It was during a weeknight escapade at a Tampa bar on SoHo Street that things took a divine, albeit slightly tipsy, turn.

    That night, my phone decided to pursue a solo adventure, much to my dismay. I kept insisting to my then-boyfriend that it was “God’s will” for my phone to disappear, which, in hindsight, ties in perfectly with my husband’s current ribbing about my penchant for divine intervention.

    Fast forward to the next day—hello, Friday! Sans phone, I asked my friend, A, via iPad (thank you, technology!) if we could hit up St. Pete. He was game, but as the universe would have it, plans took a detour. Amidst the jiving and imbibing, I bumped into an old work acquaintance at the bar. As I inquired about his new job, he introduced me to a charming savior, T.

    T and I bonded over a bathroom break—the sacred ground where many lifelong female friendships are forged. Upon returning, I realized my friends had pulled a disappearing act, stranding me. My work acquaintance kindly offered a ride, albeit with an itinerary that was less than appealing. Luckily, T overheard and, during our second bathroom interlude, offered salvation with a ride home. Bless her, because I promptly passed out in her car.

    Little did I know, my future husband was in the back seat that night. However, I was far too inebriated to notice. Fast forward 6-7 months to Oktoberfest, where T reintroduced us. She was his supervisor, and when we met again, it was like that magical moment when the puzzle pieces click into place. We chatted and laughed the night away, and from that moment, we were inseparable.

    Oh, and remember my AWOL phone? The day after that fateful night, my parents tracked it down via Life360. T, being the gem she is, left her contact on a napkin on my fridge after escorting me safely into my apartment. Life has a funny way of unfolding, and I genuinely believe that none of it would’ve happened without a little divine choreography.