I no longer strive to be a Superwoman

I no longer strive to be a Superwoman. Before, I didn’t want to be mediocre, and I tried to excel in everything until I got exhausted. Now, what I desire is just to exist here and now. It is depleting to want to be someone— I already am. Now, I crave to exist wherever life places me: on my couch, between the photo of my mother, who watches me from heaven, and a mountain of memories, diaries, letters, and books. To sit with the pen in my hand and the notebook on the table. I am a writer because I am writing, feeling, crying, and flowing on the paper. Wanting to be someone other than who I am now is nonsense, and wanting to be a Superwoman is even worse. It’s a suicide, a denial of my delicate and fragile nature, my femininity.

Yesterday, I was thinking about how hard it is to want to be and do everything well: mother, woman, wife, professional, friend... In need of compassion, I cried to my mother: “Mom, comfort me, sit next to my bed and caress my head, give me your compassion as you always did, and I never valued enough.” I understood in a sob that a mother is a source of compassion. Without me knowing it, she gave me a fountain of love and kindness from the very first moment. It took me a long time to realize this. Then I said to her: “Forgive me, mom, for not being compassionate, for asking you to be a superwoman and not letting you be sad every time we left the doctor's office with a negative medical diagnosis. Forgive me for pressuring you to look for alternatives instead of caressing your head, hugging you, and allowing you to cry at the news. Forgive me for trying to be strong and cover up reality with phrases: ‘We already knew, the doctor has been saying that, it’s nothing new…’. How much I needed you to be a superwoman and cure yourself of cancer with medicine or shamans, with herbs or prayers. Forgive me, mom, I lacked compassion. I failed to be present with you, without talking, without planning, without wanting to be or do anything.

I find comfort in knowing I can still be with you, not in the earthly realm but in the universal subtlety. I can still go out to the garden as you used to and feel your presence, and be myself for both of us. I can still sit on my couch next to your portrait and exist under the compassion of your gaze and smile. I can still be with your energy and memory, with your words in my heart.

Let me tell you, mom. I spent several weeks feeling stuck and directionless, without visiting you either in your portrait or in my heart, without visiting my writing corner or my plants, and without going out to breathe nature and sun. Then, during a school event for Felipe in a beautiful park, I approached a tree, placed my hand on its trunk, and said: “Where are my roots? Where is my mom? Where am I? I feel disconnected from myself. Help me.” And it answered: “In your hands. Your roots are in your hands.” I thanked it and walked along a path while Felipe attended his event.

My hands are my roots; they connect me. With each word, I submerge myself into a network that connects me with everything and everyone. No wonder I write my letters by hand. The living roots of my ecosystem intertwine with an endless network of words in a universal language. I knew that messages, ideas, and stories flow from the universe and that memories find refuge in the body, but I didn’t know that it was through my hands and the strokes of my designs that these messages connected to the energy of the Earth. They come to me like invisible magic, delicate energy that I return by drawing words on paper, materializing whispers. In each letter, my earthly bonds are renewed.

I loved sharing these discoveries with you, Mom. You always listened to me and said, “I want to experience that too.” You didn't see me as crazy; you understood me. It comforts me to know that I gave you a bit of that experience by sharing my anecdotes, learnings, and ever-changing way of seeing life.

But I also feel sad, mom, for not having missed you more while you were alive. I feel the pain of not eagerly awaiting your visits from Nicaragua to San Francisco because I was certain I would always see you. I feel sad for not wanting to share more things with you, call you, or answer the phone with more enthusiasm. I feel the bitter taste of not wanting to listen to your advice when I knew you would give it. Now I do everything you told me. I wash my face and dry it with a Kleenex, not with the hand towel, which, although I changed it daily, was always dirty. Just as you recommended, thanks to that, those little red spots I had on my cheeks have disappeared, although for years I said I wouldn't do it, that you were stubborn, that it was your thing, and other excuses, spending money on creams that didn't work because the problem was the dirty towel. All for not wanting to listen to you. Now, every morning, I thank you silently for the Kleenex tip.

Why didn't I do it before? It hurts to accept that I contradicted you so much, and, unlike you, I really saw you as crazy and let you know. Like with the bread in the freezer. I never accepted that it was the best way to preserve it and that it tasted even better once heated. Now I have my stiff bread in the freezer. I put it in the toaster for a few minutes, and it tastes great. I no longer have to throw away moldy bread for leaving it outside. I wish I had done it when you could see me, and although I know that now you are proud of me for learning and of yourself for teaching me, I wish I had shared it when I could hear your voice. Surely you would have said: “See, I told you so, little girl.”

I wish I had missed you more while you were alive, to surprise myself and be moved daily by you and for you. I wish I had found more joy in your presence, your words, and your advice. To miss you when, due to distance, I didn’t see you for months. I have learned to miss Ricardo when he goes shopping, when he goes for a walk, and when I don’t see him all day. And the kids, when they go to school, I think about them. What are they doing? How do they feel? I have learned to miss them and to want them to come back soon. I have learned to think more about and feel connected to the people I love who are not close at the moment, to be aware that life is fragile and they might not return

Mom, now I talk to you as before, but I listen to you more. Can you believe it, mom, that we are entering the first year of your death and the month in which my third child is going to be born? June, for me, is a month of life and death. And of life and life. His soul is about to enter the earthly plane, which is the path to the eternal life you already enjoy, and it's not a coincidence. This past year, I learned to hug more, to be kind with joy, to wait with enthusiasm, to love unconditionally, and to miss those I love in life.