In grief, there are triggers.

Moments, messages, memories, people, or situations that have the power to open a door you thought was closed for the day.

I always told you that I wanted to shout from the balcony that I loved you, because telling only you never felt like enough.

My husband was going to die. It was written. But God, in His infinite love and mercy, chose to take him in the place where I would be best supported to endure it.

Your pace and mine are different. And I’m not talking about music. I’m talking about life.

In life, opportunities show up, and when they do, you have to be ready to take them.

I was talking about this with a friend, and she told me something one of her professors used to say:

“The train passes at 10.”

There should be a license that protects me from getting sick.

A kind of exemption. A code. A quiet agreement with God.

Because after taking my husband, after leaving me here, raising our three children on my own when they are still so little, you would think I could be placed on a special list.

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.

Grief is not just something you feel in your heart.

It lives all over your body.

It changes your sleep.
Your appetite.
Your focus.
Your energy.
Your memory.

Everything.

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.