Grief doesn’t just take the person you love.
It takes the person you used to be.

Because you don’t only grieve who you lost,
you grieve who you were when they were here.

Today, Venezuela rose as the best baseball team in the world. They beat the United States 3–2 in the World Baseball Classic… for the first time in history.

And yes… I felt it.
I sweated it.
My nerves were on edge.
I celebrated it.
I got goosebumps.

Like Shakira and Karol G say in their song TQG:

“The one who told you that a void can be filled with another person lied to you. It’s like covering a wound with makeup—you can’t see it, but you still feel it.”

Recently someone came to visit my house. I offered them some snacks and brought them to the couch where they were sitting. When I handed them the plate, they looked at me and said, almost surprised:

“You don’t have to serve me.”

And in that moment, I felt something deeper than the comment itself.

I felt the world we live in.

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

There is something powerful about daring.
About standing at the edge of your own life and saying, This is not where I belong.

I look around at the world,

at people,

and I hear the word respect everywhere.

It used to mean something simple—

treating others with dignity,

with kindness,

with fairness.

But lately, I find myself wondering if we’ve started to confuse what respect really is.

Sometimes, it feels like we use the word “respect” to create distance

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?