Hoy me desperté con un mensaje de mi amiga amadísima, Adriana Rodríguez, hermana que me regaló la vida.

I saw this in an Instagram reel, and it stayed with me.
So much that I felt the need to bring it here.

Dejarse querer sin miedo.
To let yourself be loved—without fear.

To dare to say things out loud.
To say:
“Che, me gustás.”
“Che, me importás.”
I love you.
I want to see you.

44 years ago, a person with a beautiful soul came into this world.
A beautiful energy. A beautiful aura.
He came to make people’s lives better—happier, lighter, easier.
He was a lover. A giver. A source of energy and laughter.
An example of kindness in human form.

There are so many husbands alive.
So many dads alive.
And yet… they don’t even realize they are.

Grief in children is a roller coaster.
No brakes.
No seatbelt.
No warning.

And that is not just a nationality.
It is an open wound.
It is memory.
It is grief.
It is exile.

Sometimes, family isn’t close by.
Sometimes, the people who love you most are separated by borders, time zones, and years apart.

For Sean—who wanted nothing more than to be there, and somehow still is.
Always, Mi Amor.

One of the most beautiful things Sean ever taught me was how to love myself.

There are people who stay close, even when they’re no longer physically here. They leave traces everywhere—little echoes in our routines, in our memories, in the things they once loved. Sean is one of those people.

There’s a saying: “Behind every great man, there’s a great woman.”
But today, I see it the other way around.

Today Gab went to a hockey game with his school. He texted me and sent me photos without me even asking — in fact, I didn’t even remember the game was today — and I got so excited. Just seeing his smile, the way he captured the moment… it made my entire day.

And that’s when it hit me.
That right there — that’s why I moved here.

Every day, I get a message — sometimes from someone who knew Sean, other times from someone who knows me.

The silent pause behind every “How are you?.” When you ask a grieving person “How are you?” — are you really prepared for the answer?

Most days, when someone asks me that question, I take a small breath and quickly assess how much truth the other person can handle. In a fraction of a second, I ask myself: What level of grief or honesty can this person carry today?

When people talk about grief, they often say things like “life goes on” or “you’ll find your new normal.”

But the truth is, life never really goes back. There is no before and after that you can separate neatly. There’s only with.

“Beautiful, big-titty, butt-naked women just don't fall out the sky, you know?”

Sean used to say I took too many photos.
And Gab would laugh and tell me, “Mom, you don’t have to take pictures of everything.”

But deep down, I knew I was going to need them — every single one.

Sometimes, I just need to stop.

Disconnect.

Walk it out.

Breathe.

Recharge.

And then… somehow, do it all again.

Carry the weight again.

“Mom, not everything has to be perfect.” Gab tells me this often. My preteen, with his quiet wisdom, reminding me of something I still struggle to believe. I smile when he says it—because he’s right. And because it feels like life has flipped: the child teaching the mother.

When someone dies, everyone reaches out. Everyone is sorry. Everyone cries with you. You get hundreds of messages and you learn who’s really there for you.

You discover who your true friends are. You see who you can count on. Grief teaches you what matters and what doesn’t, who matters and who doesn’t. Who you want in your life, and who you don’t.