Messy and Worthy

Sunday. I sit in my comfy bed, afraid that getting up will mean facing the long list of chores I’ve ignored all week—laundry to be done, bathrooms to be cleaned, Halloween decorations waiting to be packed away. But what I really want to do is make a cup of coffee and sit outside, enjoying the morning quietly with the birds and trees as my companions.

Almost instantly, I criticize myself for wanting to rest when there’s so much to do and never enough time. I was raised to believe that worth is tied to work, that rest is a luxury for the rich, and that a woman’s value is reflected in the cleanliness of her home. My mom still can’t stand to see a messy house, and living with her again in midlife often feels like a fight between old, unhealthy programming and a newer, more compassionate mindset.

I’m messy. Life is messy. My house is messy. My children are messy. My dogs are messy. Everything around me is messy—and I’m learning to truly be okay with that, not just say that I am. There’s a difference. Being really okay with life’s mess means my body no longer tenses when I see laundry piled on the floor, because I know my worth isn’t tied to external order. It means that when my mom comments on the dog hair drifting across the floor, I take a deep breath and choose not to let those words awaken old feelings of shame and unworthiness.

My messy house isn’t proof of laziness or neglect—it’s evidence that six people live here, and five of us spend our weekdays working and studying outside the home. We pour ourselves out in the world, and when we come home, the mess is simply a reminder that we are living. If I prioritized a spotless, perfect home, I’d have to sacrifice connection—with my husband, my kids, and with myself. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for everything, and I choose connection over perfection.

Our mess is life itself—vibrant, imperfect, full.

So today, I choose rest and restoration over chores and shoulds. I choose joy over judgment. I’ll sip my coffee, feel the November sun on my skin, and let go of old patterns that no longer serve me. I will simply be and I truly hope I inspired you to do the same!

Morenasa

At the age of 14, my maternal grandmother told me that when I was born, I was so dark compared to my brother—who was a blonde baby—that my Tia, dad’s sister, started a rumor that my mother had an affair with my father’s Ecuadorian friend, Eddy. My grandmother ended this snapshot by saying, “And then I was so relieved when you got freckles and strands of red hair like your dad, because it proved you were his daughter.”

Last year, my cousins’ father passed away. While going through his belongings, they found photos of us as kids. The timing felt divinely orchestrated, as it coincided with a period when I had begun allowing myself to truly feel the impact of my childhood experiences, memories, and traumas.

Some childhood wounds are so prominent I don’t need to work to remember them. They surface without consent. The more insidious ones lie beneath, constantly threatening my sense of worthiness. Most of the time they rest quietly, unknowingly shaping and influencing my thoughts. But sometimes they grow restless and maladaptive, and I find myself reenacting a scene from my past I don’t remember living.

As a little girl, the messages I received about my worth were often unkind and confusing. My birth caused my mother pain. Even though she says it brought her peace, it actually trapped her in an abusive marriage.

Looking at that photo of us — reminded me of all the things I subconsciously learned as a little girl in our Mexican family that influenced the woman I became. My brother was the güerito—the blond one—and I was the morena-the brown one. I always wished I was lighter like my brother.

My grandpa, who loved me unconditionally, nicknamed me “Morenasa”. He had nicknames for all of us based on our most prominent physical traits. I didn’t mind because he always said it with a smile and greeted me with giant outstretched arms that made me feel safe. He was the only man in my early life I trusted. I think my grandmother resented how much I loved him, and during my teen years filled my head with stories of his infidelity to even her playing field.

I also remember the time when my red-haired, freckled-faced dad yelled at my mom for buying me a red shirt. We had gone shopping with my Tía Rosa, mom's sister, and cousin Letty, and my aunt bought us matching shirts. I was so excited to match with Letty. But when we got home, my dad had a meltdown. He said the shirt made me look even darker than I already was, and he refused to have his daughter looking like a “negra.” My mom returned the shirt.

On both sides, my family was very white. My mom told me the story of her maternal grandmother who refused to take a portrait with her darker-skinned grandchildren. She was a fair, European woman who would only be photographed with her “white” grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder why my mom told me that story.

My abuelita (grandmother), an educated woman with a passion for poetry and flair for oration, once told me she loved me in spite of my skin color because I was smart like her. She explained it like this: in life, you sometimes get bad qualities—in my case, the color of my skin. But then God also gives you gifts. Even though he made me dark, he made me smarter than most, and that was his way of making up for it. My grandmother died praying to her white God.

And then the pendulum swung the other way. My Mexican friends labeled me white, whitewashed, a coconut. People I know and many I don't often ask, “What are you?” 

My mom compared me to a white swan born dusky-brown. I, too, got lighter with age, to her relief.

Maybe I'm just too sensitive and an over thinker. Maybe it’s just a bunch of bullshit. After all, most Mexican kids are teased by their families about their appearance - you just can't take these things personally - is what I'm told.

I do know that the humans that raised me did the very best they could.

I just sometimes wish that as a child when I was a "feelings" sponge without the capacity for reflection or analysis, someone had tended to my heart.

So You Wanna Write

I sat down this morning to edit my book. My goal is to have it published by the end of the year—and today is October 4th. The truth? Writing this week has kicked my ass. Between work and the thousand little things I had to accomplish this week, I’ve chosen sleep over writing.

My intention was to write for at least two hours today and edit a nonfiction piece that’s due Wednesday. But here I am, 1:45 pm, finally sitting down to do it.

Every morning I wake up full of optimism. Today’s the day, I tell myself. I’m refreshed, motivated, ready to dive in. And yet, life always finds a way to creep in—the dishes, the laundry, the chores that “can’t wait.” -  But the truth is, they can.

If I really want to hit my writing goals, I have to create the time—lock it in, protect it, and show up even when I don’t feel like it. Writing doesn’t happen when inspiration strikes. It happens when I sit my ass in the chair and do it anyway.

Because here’s the thing: once I finally sit down, something magical happens. The fog lifts. The ideas start to flow. My characters step forward, eager to be heard. The sentences start connecting, the rhythm returns, and suddenly hours have passed. I remember exactly why I love writing in the first place.

So—you wanna write? Me too. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m tired. Because this struggle, this resistance, it’s part of the process. It’s proof that we care deeply about what we’re doing.

And if you’ve got a project staring you down right now—a task you’ve been avoiding—take a deep breath and begin. Maybe you can’t do it all today, but do something. Even a small start matters.

Try the Swiss Cheese Method:

When I’m stuck, I grab a piece of paper and draw a bunch of circles—like slices of Swiss cheese. In each circle, I write one small task I need to finish for the project. Then I pick the one that feels the least horrible and start there. Once it’s done, I highlight it and move on to the next. Before I know it, I’m working again.

Progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes it’s messy, uneven, full of holes—but it’s still progress.

So here’s to Saturday. Here’s to showing up, doing what you love, and giving yourself grace when it feels impossible. May you find a little time today to do what  you love—and a little time to rest, too.

Sending all of you LOVE!