The Painful Task of Rekindling Dreams

When I was 13, I woke up one morning with a crystal-clear vision: I was born to be a writer. Books were my constant companions, and I spent hours writing short stories, mimicking the voices of my favorite authors like Jean M. Auel.

Then came high school. I discovered journalism, and it was love at first sight. I loved everything about reporting—and later, editing. I knew in my bones this was the path I was meant to follow.

In college, I stumbled into screenwriting. Holy shit—this was my imagination and writing colliding in the most perfect way. I could finally put all those daydreams and mental scenes, complete with dialogue, onto paper.

And then… reality set in. My writing dreams were pushed aside, buried under rent payments and college loans. Writing couldn’t pay the bills. So I traded who I wanted to be for financial survival, and my story took a different turn.

Fast forward 30 years, a marriage, three children—and here I am, asking myself: Am I too old for this dream now?

I know I’m not alone. So many middle-aged women feel this same tug. With children growing up and moving on, we’re left staring at the mirror, asking: Who am I now?

To my surprise—and relief—I’ve discovered that my 50-year-old self is still deeply connected to my 13-year-old self. She’s still here. I am her, she is me. Only now, I carry decades of experience, pain, love, and resilience that she could never have imagined.

I find myself sitting on a fence. On one side is the comfortable, safe life I’ve built with my husband and kids. We have a great life - I am grateful. On the other side is the scary unknown—my writing. It’s challenging, mysterious, and terrifying. To write honestly requires vulnerability, and that scares me to my core. Some people will support me. Others won’t. Most probably won’t care at all, so that’s kinda good news - right?

And then I realize—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I write my truth. That I hold space for myself, and for others who need it. It’s not my job to control how my words are received. It is my job to honor the writer I was born to be.

I am doing this for me.

I am doing this for my kids—because how can I tell them to chase their dreams if I abandon mine?

I am doing this for all the little brown girls whose voices are still whispers. I see you. Your ideas matter. Speak up.

And I dedicate this to my middle-aged friends who put their dreams on hold for family. What was your dream? Tell me. Let’s walk this path together, side by side, leaning on each other when we need help moving forward.

We can do it. I know we can.

Turning the Last Page - In the Room with Death and Love

Last night, I saw a woman die. Despite having lost many people I loved deeply, I had never been in the room when a soul transitioned before. This was my mom’s best friend, Lupe Diaz. They had been friends for over 55 years. Her passing wasn’t what I expected—it was calm and peaceful. She was embraced by her family’s love, sorrow, and even humor at the time of her passing. They held her and each other, and it was remarkable to witness.

This happened late last night, and I woke up still processing and reflecting on the experience. I feel grateful that they included my mom and me in those last precious moments. My mom had the opportunity to say goodbye to her best friend.

I wonder how my mom is feeling. What does it feel like to lose your best friend—the woman who has seen you through all the ups and downs of life and kept all your secrets sacred? The woman who held your heart through pain and never forgot your face, not even in her demented state.

I also keep thinking of her daughters and family. Loss is hard. Yesterday, I witnessed what felt like a magic shield that activates when someone dies—a suspended state of disbelief. We are eased into the suffering and pain hours, days, and weeks after the death itself. I see it now as a form of protection.

I can only imagine the unraveling that would occur if we allowed ourselves to fully feel everything in the moment. And yet, there are those who do. When my mom was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, I was struck by the raw howling of some people in the halls. Those cries can make us uncomfortable, because being so honest and transparent with one’s inner world is frightening to witness. Are those individuals more free—or more enchained?

I will end this reverie with a memory to honor Lupe’s life. She  loved to read and was an avid reader. She recognized the same passion for books in me at a very young age. Every summer, she would bring me a bag filled with books. She exposed me to so many writers and so many genres. I remember spending calm afternoons sitting on the family couch, reading until my mom finally forced me to stop. Thank you, Lupe, for giving me this gift. I will always be grateful.

Visit Japan With Open Eyes and an Open Heart

Arashiyama, Kyoto

I recently returned from a week-long journey through Japan, traveling from Tokyo to Osaka with a group of bright, eager high school students. We visited all the “Greatest Hits” — Asakusa, the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest, bustling Shibuya, and serene shrines tucked between modernity. But as I made my way through these places I had once known so intimately, I felt something stirring in me — a gentle ache for the Japan I first encountered many years ago. A Japan that felt mysterious, reverent, and deeply rooted in its spiritual identity.

That first trip was in 2003, when my husband and I brought our infant son to visit his family in Mito, Ibaraki. Everything was unfamiliar — the language, the toilets, the doors that opened the “wrong” way. I felt like I had stepped into a beautifully unfamiliar world. And yet, beneath the differences, I noticed something extraordinary: a society woven with kindness, order, and deep consideration for others.

What captivated me then — and still does today — is not just Japan’s outward beauty, but its inner grace. A kind of spiritual stillness. A collective consciousness. In the middle of crowded subways, people remained peaceful. On busy sidewalks, there was no shouting or pushing. Alcohol vending machines lined the streets, yet you didn’t see public drunkenness. There was, and is, something profoundly different about the way people coexist here. I came to believe that Japan wasn't just a country to visit — it was a way of life to learn from.

That’s why this recent trip left me unsettled. So many travelers seemed to be here not to engage with the culture, but to consume it. Students on our bus tuned out history lessons to scroll through phones. Popular tourist sites felt overwhelmed — not just by crowds, but by noise, trash, and a certain disconnection. I saw overflowing garbage cans at Meiji Shrine, dirty bathrooms in places once pristine, and a general lack of awareness from visitors who may not have known, or didn’t think to ask: What are the values of the culture I’m stepping into?

It’s easy to fall in love with Japan’s aesthetics — the cherry blossoms, the sushi, the fashion, the technology, the anime. But Japan is so much more than a place to shop and take selfies. It is a living, breathing culture shaped by centuries of tradition. A place where silence is sacred. Where harmony is honored. Where your presence in a space carries responsibility — to keep it clean, to move gently, to be aware of others.

My love for Japan began long before I ever visited, in the sixth grade, with a Japanese-American teacher named Mrs. Oda. She was graceful, wise, and kind — the embodiment of quiet strength. She taught me how to speak with purpose, how to listen with heart. Later, I met my husband, James — a second-generation Japanese-American whose family history reached back to a famous shogunate. In contrast, my own Mexican-American roots were a bit of a patchwork, hard to trace. His family's legacy inspired me to study, to seek understanding, to walk a path of curiosity and cultural humility.

And that’s what I hope for you, dear reader. I don’t want to shame anyone for wanting to visit Japan — quite the opposite. I want you to come. I want you to marvel at the temples, to eat the ramen, to lose yourself in the lantern-lit streets of Kyoto. But more than anything, I want you to see Japan — not just through your phone, but with your heart. I want you to observe the small details: how people queue patiently, how they bow to greet and thank, how they carry their own trash, and clean up without being asked.

Before you come, take time to learn — even a little. How to behave on a train. How to enter a shrine. Why it matters to whisper in sacred spaces. Why no one eats while walking. These aren’t rules meant to restrict you — they are gestures of respect. They are quiet ways of saying, I see you. I honor your way.

I understand that not everyone knows these things — I didn’t at first either. But once you do, you begin to understand that Japan doesn’t ask visitors to be perfect — just present. Just thoughtful. Just a little bit humble.

So, if you’re thinking of visiting Japan, I invite you — from the bottom of my heart — to do so not only as a tourist, but as a student. Come with reverence. Come with wonder. Come ready to absorb, not to interrupt.

Let Japan change you — and carry that change home.