On A Late December Day

12/29/2017 - 

Seven years and here we are. 

Today signifies growth; at times painful, awkward, yet all beautiful.

Today signifies our devotion. Our unity. To each other and, as importantly, to our individual selves that we refuse to lose sight of.

I'd say that is one of the many things that I appreciate about you most. The way you encourage me to do and be whatever and whoever it is that I deem.  

You grant me so much liberty to evolve and contradict myself as many times as this life enables me to without any judgment.

You never constrain me.

You love me enough to let me be and to let me wander, because you know it always leads me back to you. 

I looked in the mirror today and the reflection of my 14-year-old self shows face, and she holds this "I knew it" grin that transcends through my being right now.   

I am grinning and I am whole. 

And on this day, this living memorable day,  I cannot recall a single moment my heart did not belong to you. 

So nevermind seven, ten or thirty years. You've already given me an infinite number of moments coated with so much meaning. 

You give me meaning. And I vow to never lose sight of that. 

Thank you universe, God and whatever almighty presence, for this love.  

Grace & Laughs '16

My Used-To Be Father

Originally published on the Huffington Post.  

I hardly noticed the sun had completely set below the horizon while I sat in solitary darkness in my living room. The only light giving life to the room was from the incessant scrolling on my phone. Shifting my thumb up the screen, then down and up again in hopes to find some unlikely-of-animal-friends videos to distract me enough so I can forget about calling him.

My palpitating heart thumped harder as I stood, feeling more doubtful with every step made; every step signifying I was closer to dialing that number.

I went outside and as I paced the patio, I began reciting my introduction to the fully exposed moon.

Hi, Andrew. It’s me Sofia. Scratch that. What if it’s not his number anymore? What if I can’t recognize his voice? Cigarette abuse is notorious for cracking the voice. Assuming he still smokes a pack a day. OK, Ok - how about: Hi, may I speak to Andrew?

No rehearsed speech could persuade my anxiety to simmer down. I just had to get it over with. Get over the first slump and this stomach-pit of fear, and just go for it.

What’s the worst thing he can do? Hang up? Reject my call? Tell me to go fuck myself? Okay.

I’m prepared for whatever outcome. Time forces you to be prepared by a default. To be prepared for the rejection. To be prepared for the silence.

Silence is a comfortable space. Or, at least it evolves into comfort with time. Six years of time approximately. I’ve found that when there’s a disparity of connection and time, it relieves people from having to face the music, to face the grim realities of the situation at hand.

Coddled in the safety net of silence and repression.

I apprehensively hit the call button. The first dial ring felt like it dragged as long as a thriving river that I wished would just shrivel up. The second ring felt like a rat race to the voicemail. Half a second after the third ring, there was a sudden answer of a man grunting out a hello.

My assumptions were wrong. I recognized his solemn, gargled voice immediately.

“Hey, Andrew? It’s Sofia.”

“Who?” he asked.

Without any hesitation or time to process the small blow of this void, I responded:

“Sofia. Your ex-stepdaughter.”

###

I was six years old when I met the man who would not only end up breaking my mother’s heart, but would go on to create delusion in the hearts of both her kids.

My stepfather was a man of his word. He was loyal, hardworking, and Cuban-American. My mother, a stern, wise and virtuous woman, met him in the direst of situations that some people find themselves in on U.S. soil.

She was a recently divorced single mother, whom had recently migrated to Florida from Italy with her baby boy and girl.

With little means and a great desire to find solace, their encounter at a measly bar she worked at, along with their several ventures thereafter, manifested the possibility of The American Dream.

The idea that her kids didn’t have to grow up at the only expense of her blood, sweat and tears with no reward. The idea that she could be happy again.

The idea that my mother could start a life with someone who genuinely needed her guidance just as much as she needed his.

It was the prime transaction of both deep devotion and resources. But, was it love? I’ll get to that.

As time progressed, they married and began to synchronize their lives as one. My mother had finally found consolation and he had found a reason to live again after his beloved mother’s long battle with cancer.

My stepfather took the physical role of being a father figure for most of my brother’s adolescence — and mine. My dad lived in England during this time with his wife and though he was still a part of our lives, the distance created much static in our relationship with him.

For the next thirteen years, my stepfather would attend every dance rehearsal, every soccer game, and every school ceremony.

He taught my brother how to build and repair things. He would take him to work with him on the weekends, show him the ropes, and compensate an allowance so he learns value.

He taught me how to be generous. Anytime I’d see the homeless rummaging the streets of Miami, he would encourage my compassion by giving me a dollar or two to give, or run to the nearest café and purchase them a meal.

He was a man of his word. He was devoted to my mother. He was devoted to her kids.

Until one day he wasn’t. Until one day my mother could no longer guide his inner demons to their death. Until the stench of beer and sweet liquor consumed his integrity.

Until one day his supposed love became an infatuation. An obsession with control.

An obsession to control and demonize my mother.

###

My reason for calling was simple. I’m graduating with my bachelor’s degree in English next month, and this milestone has urged much retrospect.

At least that’s what I told him. Though this was true, my urge stemmed much deeper than that. Though I’ve known nothing about him or his life for the past six years, his presence would continuously appear within the remnants of my mind.

I was desperate to know if he was okay. If he had moved on, or if he was in fact the man I admired for so long.

If he was regretful over the vile things he had committed towards the end of our time together. If he had regretted not saying goodbye to my brother and I – never bothering to look back.

Our call was over in exactly three minutes.

Through the awkward chuckles and repetition of overused adjectives, he mentioned what a surprise this call was and how genuinely happy he was to hear from me.

I asked if he would meet with me so we could properly catch up. I couldn’t say what I needed to say to him, what I never got to say to him, over the phone. It was far too important to be lost in translation and not be rightly emoted through the eyes.

He accepted my invite with unfamiliar optimism, and we then scheduled a day favorable for the two of us. Thursday afternoon, it was set. He couldn’t give me an exact time, but “we’d play it by ear” he said.

Before hanging up, we exchanged our excitement in seeing each other again and my heart did not jump or skip a beat.

Instead, it was in state of reconciliation. The regret and resentment that had built over the years had momentarily dissipated.

I immediately called my mother to update her on the successful call. Though she had her reservations about me getting back in touch with him, she was supportive in my intentions to gain closure. She understood how important this was not just for me, but even more for my younger brother.

My brother’s last memory of our stepfather was at the courthouse. His sixteen-year old self sat outside of the courtroom and once deliberations had adjourned, Andrew steps out without a single acknowledgement of him, wearing a grin that represented a win in taking one last stab at my mother’s decision to divorce.

So naturally, my mother advised me to keep my guards up and not allow my excitement to fog my intuitions.

I went about the rest of my night, invoking pride and enthusiasm into the pasta dish I was preparing for dinner.

Mid onion peel, I received a call back from my mother. She tends to do this, call repetitively to overcompensate for any given situation and reiterate her motherly convictions.

The tone of her voice had changed from our previous call. I know this tone far too well. The soft and mellow pitch of disappointment with a hint of pity. The Spanish language tends to make everything sound much more dramatic.

She starts with a prelude on courage and strength to set me up for whatever she’s about to share with me. I respectfully interrupt and ask her to get to the point. My nerves had outdone themselves by now so a pep-talk was far from what I needed.

“Mami, what is it?” I asked, again.

She quickly relays how Andrew’s coworker is also a childhood friend of hers. He’s also the one who helped facilitate this process by sending my mom the number so I can call. This friend was present when I called, and tells my mother that Andrew has expressed that he’s in a good place in his life right now and feels that I may result in opening unhealed wounds.

She gets to her final point:

“Andrew isn’t going to meet with you.”

A long pause of silence makes its debut again, and I return to peeling back the skin of the onion.

###

People from the past always have a way to shift the present into perspective.

I truly felt that I needed to pay grace to him. To show gratitude as my life and accomplishments come into full circle. I truly made myself believe that I wouldn’t have been able to reap the opportunities of academia this country has offered me if it wasn’t for him.

Despite the wrongdoings, despite the foul comments that were shouted, I made myself believe they were forgivable because I succeeded through, despite it all.

It goes without saying that I’m no longer the seventeen year old girl who felt crippled witnessing my mother suffer because of a man who I regarded as a father. Perhaps by virtue of being well into my nearly mid-20s now, I have gained a deeper understanding of his own suffering as well.

I did learn something more valuable though: forgiveness is earned, not gained out of mere compensation — Or worse, out of pity.

I fixed my eyes around my home, looking for any representation of him. Any glimpse of the impact he’s made on my life. I found nothing. Not a single photo, not a single reminiscent object that portrayed his existence in my life.

I had nothing to feel regretful about. He gave up on us. He was the adult. Heshould’ve done the mending. But he didn’t, and I guess that’s okay too.

We paid our dues in double, found pain and struggle, and made it out with humble hearts.

I lit the candles throughout my home, flicked on all of the light switches. I stood in clarity, as the lights illuminated every crevice and saturated the darkness of the shadows.

Why I Went Vegan

As a young girl, I remember constantly finding myself internally conflicted over our earth and all it’s inhabitants. I remember thinking that there was always such a divide, not just between people themselves, but more or so between different sources of life – animals, nature. Earth marginalized and bridged as a whole. I felt this divide and disconnect, but I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t make sense of these thoughts because I was in no position to. “That’s just the way the world works.” I imagine thinking. 

I remember intently having these thoughts specifically over the animals we generally regard as food.  The first time I ever saw a pig, or some version of it, was on a frigid night before Christmas. My stepfather would begin to delicately unfold the foils of our catered homemade food prepared for Noche Buena; seafood paella, perfectly boiled yucca, tender rice and beans. And what lay under the one propped over a large oven rack was a guttered corpse of what was seemingly a pig, or what was left of it at least; perhaps only the bits favorable enough for consumption (or safe enough that is).

The giveaway was in the face. I couldn’t recognize it’s expression, as it was much more nonchalant and lifeless than those of my pop-up animal books. But I knew with some degree of certainty that its pudgy, distinguishable, now pale-pinkish nose was that of a pig.

About two weeks later, my second grade class was taken to a farm on a school field trip. Next to the chicken coop was a pig, as big as the one I witnessed roasting over the coal, laying on a bed of honey-brown haystack. Pinker in color and grunting loudly this time. 

Through my juvenile eyes, I garnered that the farm animals were breathing specimens, just like me, but were somehow still inferior to my life by virtue of what is taught through every multi-colored food pyramid --and even more understandably, my parents and elders; my homage and culture.

Within my juvenile heart, without any imposition to convince me otherwise, this idea of my life or human life, valuing more than those who were deemed divergent was never digested adequately. In fact, if I may be embarrassingly more explicit, the inner-workings of my digestive system seemed to also *literally* be in disfavor. Without completely expelling my tract (or yours) ~pun-unintended~, I suffered for most of my youth from gastritis to ulcers and whatever stomach-churning side-effects you can imagine that result in between. 

Cue in medication after medication to aid in my discomforts. Only succeeding in relieving my condition, which soon became a lifestyle–ranging from days to months–until it would eventually wear off during my next ~limited to non-acidic~ meal.

I believed I was just fragile and that this would just be the challenge I would grow to feel as my normal. The growling pains and burning debilitations became my normal. 

During my first semester of college, I enrolled in a nutritional course on a whim in hopes to better understand my body and to perhaps discover any nuances to better facilitate its impaired functions. To my surprise, the gawky yet insanely knowledgeable professor was a vegetarian and though a bit bias in her approach, she would begin to uncover unfathomable facts that both enraged and enlightened me. She established her stance with the showing of the documentary Food, Inc.

Gripping the edge of my seat, I thought: "This can't be. These barbarian acts committed by leaders of animal agriculture operations, in which is then rendered as food, our food, cannot be taking place in esteemed America." In what I hoped would be doubtful, I would then relentlessly begin discovering what I feared would be true and it became impossible for me to ignore. 

The charging river of information syncing with vigorous currents of research flooding my mind was impacting me so profoundly that it led me back to my roots. The unsaturated ideals I had rooted as a little girl were increasingly growing into full ~fruit~ion. And my tummy seemed to pleasantly agree.

Though my own validations of plant-based eating were founded on ethics and health, there was another and perhaps more important layer that I hadn’t yet scoped out. When becoming plant-based, it's like your mind renders 20/20 resolution and your perception of the world around you becomes crystalized. It is the strangest and most overwhelming vampire-like effect, which actually takes some time adjusting to because it feels like your sensibilities are on full-throttle all the time.

Now, this may be about the time where some of you pitifully laugh (if you haven’t already) or think how grossly farfetched it may be to believe that a mundane human habit that we've committed for centuries and centuries, such as eating a piece of meat, is in direct correspondence to the environmental catastrophes happening all over the world. If you did, just know I don't blame you. In fact, I got a few chuckles out of it myself -- It sounds otherworldly and just bonkers.

It is fair to say, though, that we as humans have developed pretty nasty habits over time; from littering our garbage all over our beaches and thus endangering ocean life, letting the sink or bath water run while California reaps a drought, and even a habit that has become as necessary as driving which has been proven to continuously pollute our air. Not to mention a great degree of social and political habits we've become desensitized to over time due to their constant reoccurrence.

So, I believe at this point, it’s safe to say that just because something has been committed time after time, doesn’t automatically deem it right or grant it any validity. As time continues to progress and our population grows tenfold, our habits, but particularly our habits of eating – have become so climactically influential that it can no longer be overlooked.

We are currently growing enough food to feed 10 billion people  

2,500 gallons of water are needed to produce 1 pound of beef

Animal agriculture is the leading cause of species extinction, ocean dead zones, water pollution, and habitat destruction.

130 times more animal waste than human waste is produced in the US – 1.4 billion tons from the meat industry annually. 5 tons of animal waste is produced per person in the US.

3/4 of the world’s fisheries are exploited or depleted.

We could see fishless oceans by 2048.

Each day, a person who eats a vegan diet saves 1,100 gallons of water, 45 pounds of grain, 30 sq ft of forested land, 20 lbs CO2 equivalent, and one animal’s life.

[Sources listed on: Cowspiracy]

I’m not good with numbers, but I don’t believe it takes a mathematician of any sort to understand the heavy burden these facts carry. 

I know it can be difficult to make the correlation between diet and the environment because then it would mean we would have to take a look at our own lives and enlist changes. And changes of embedded habits and ideals are the most daunting kind. It’s a damn scary thing. But, for earth’s sake, if the consequences of lifeless seas, water depletion and animal extinctions don’t frighten you even more, then let me ask you this: What comes next?

The bare resemblances and truth of every story lies in the details. It unfolds between every line, guiding us through pieces of information that are essential before reaching the conclusion.  As we continue to endure these abnormal natural climaxes, our planet is trying to tell us something. Something bigger than each and every one of us.

A revolution. A world where animal-protein is no longer humanity's only method of thriving, thus allowing our egos and archaic beliefs to be set aside. To become wholehearted again, the way we used to feel as kids. For your sake. For your kids and their kids sake. For earth’s sake.


Featured on The Huffington Post. 

What My Mother Taught Me About Strength

When I was younger, I would firmly protest to never become like my mother. She was always yelling. Always dictating what I can and can't do. She feared nothing and no one. In fact, our friends and family feared her.

She was at best, a 5'4" spunky and still ever-serious general.

I always claimed she never could fully understand me because of our contrasting traits. She was always ready for battle, while I felt myself being devoured as soon as things would get tough. She was always firm in her decisions, while I'd take the time to analyze the circumstances of each possible outcome. She never resorted to shedding tears, while I was an emotional wreck. 

Anytime I'd weep, she would encourage me to stop by saying, "This is reality. Reality requires strength over tears. As bad as it may hurt, tears won't do you or the situation any good. You have that inner-strength because you are my daughter. You are my sun. You are the light of my burning strength." 

When my mother was a child, she wasn't presented with a close bond to her birth-mother which we all desperately yearn for almost as soon as we withdraw from the womb. She was instead, raised in the home of her aunt and uncle. Whom in turn, became her safe haven. Her guardians. Her everything.

Living in a crowded home of cousins whom soon became brothers and sisters, I'd imagine it was difficult to have attention be evenly distributed - And yet knowing this reality, my mother still deems her upbringing was a blessing and rightfully so. She has never allowed the conventional sense of family to divert her from constantly aspiring to live a virtuous life. 

As she got older, however, her understanding of love became harder and harder to fathom. Though her parents gave her all that she could ever want and more, she still felt a relentless and underlying urgency to feel a part of someone. To feel a closeness of love and an unequivocal connection that could never adequately amount to any set of words or phrases. 

Then she bared two children. Two children that would manifest a devotion so overwhelming, she'd question how she ever truly lived prior to them.

In tribute to finding the stability she's always desired outside of a small commune in the province of Rome and the communism intervention evolving in Venezuela, my mother decided to immigrate into the States seeking prosperous opportunities.

Through the eminent strive of a single mother, she taught them how to highly respect regulations, even when they may not always feel fair. She'd show them how to be courageous by letting them fend for themselves amongst a pool of doubt (Often times, literally). She nurtured and protected them without completely shielding them from both the wondrous and harsh realities of life - This was important to her.

She wanted them to obtain a tough exterior and to take on the world right alongside her. To be her tribe and to always be united as such. 

One of the countless things that I failed to recognize as a child is though my mother is exceptionally flawed, she is as close to perfection as a human can possibly be. She is perfect because she never hinders herself from her imperfections. She is neither shallow nor pretentious, yet she emanates an undeniable elegance. She isn't always exuding happiness, but she'll show it tenfold when she feels it. She is true. She is pure and fearless of this daunting world that can sometimes make us feel otherwise. 

I could fight myself everyday to not become like her. Yet if I tried, I would undoubtedly fail miserably. I'd fail because everything I claim to know about life or myself- the burdens, struggles, triumphs, losses, love - I completely and wholly owe to her. 

I sometimes unknowingly emulate my mothers tendencies. I find myself mirroring the way she vigorously cleans and tends to her home. I find her "can do" and "all-knowing" attitude reflected among the edge of my grin. 

I naturally aspire to be like my mother because I am so damn proud of her. 

She is perfect because she holds the prime balance of both light and darkness. Good and bad. She is human. She is my perfect, perfect human.

The light of my burning strength. 

featured on Thought Catalog

Learning to Love

The subject of love has become quite the spiel of conversation through almost all medians of communication. We hear about. Read about it. Sing about it. Feel about it. But do we really know anything about it?

I don't doubt that we do. But perhaps, even our general understanding of it is misdirected and miscued.

Though this may sound speculative, I'll be the first to admit that I've never particularly thought I was naturally 'good' or 'productive', sort of speak, at loving.

I suppose it's easy to idealistically write and proclaim the ins and outs of its dynamics, especially when you have some baggage to use as ample resource - But it's all essentially baseless. There is never an ultimate one-fits-all resolution when dealing with the matters of the heart. No matter how inexperienced or experienced one may be, it is nevertheless a daunting road.

Even now, four bountiful years into a partnership, I have found myself confounded in figuring out what is the best way to love, or how to adequately immerse in a love so deep without caving myself in all together.

How do I know if I'm failing at love, or what if I'm not loving enough?

I have never been one to completely and wholly surrender myself to someone because it's never seemed necessary to me. The inward workings of attributes and traits that generate my being insist I do otherwise.

I like having my own space. I like hearing myself think. I yearn for distance. I need time by my lonesome to fully understand myself and to therefore, understand anyone else.

I... I.. I.. That's all you've read so far. For the first time in what felt like a suffocating century, that is what I am delighted to read and embody too - Myself. And I refuse all mandates that shame for it.

I am finally tending to my wants, and urging that vitality in which viscerally requites all other aspects of my life. These self-serving engagements are what stimulate my love. The love for my family. The love for my craft. The love for him.

The love for myself.

This has to be important. Myself. Yourself. That love above all else matters.

Is it wrong to find time with yourself more valuable than time with anyone else? Selfish? 

Perhaps. I guess we're expected to disengage with our inflictions in order to rid ourselves of this despicable trait along with these desires. That expectation, however, comes with the price of disengaging with yourself all together.

If we cannot be upfront and honest about those very desires that fuel our capabilities of love, not only would we be manicuring ourselves to the universal standards and directives on how to love, but we would also be deceiving those who construct our very love. Which in turn, deceives and demeans the love we have for ourselves - For our needs. For our desires.

This desperate endeavor to find meaning and direction in love doesn't always end up as gratifying as we expect it to. Mostly because, well, we're not allowing love, in its most natural and instinctual form, to be liberated. To primarily feel it inwards, versus outwards.

It's difficult to not get caught up within supposed romanticized ideals and cookie-cutter templates our relationships are insisted to emulate. However, some of these fables which tell us how to properly operate in a relationship and project love are overarching - And in some ways, they desensitize the purity of it.

These rubrics are right about one thing though: a relationship of love does take a hell of a lot of effort bearing time and patience. Lot and lots of it. That very same vigorious effort should then be distributed evenly in a relationship with yourself.

An even bigger concealed truth is that there is no better find than to find that love within yourself. For yourself. Dismantle what you may think you know about love, and revitalize the love you once knew. The love that has always resided within you, and has never and will never flee from you. Give yourself to yourself.

What a beautiful surrender, indeed.

His Love For Her

His love for her is something I can't shake. 

It's a partnership a lot like our own but in so many ways much, much greater. 

Greater because it is so very clear that his love for her will never fully amount to the love he has for me. 

Their love is the kind that makes me question the perks and quirks of the world - how a love like that can preserve to survive and surpass it all.

It makes me question my own capabilities of love, and whether they are as grandeur. 

And somehow, somewhere between their gentle touches and 

doting gazes, it has made my solidified love for him as unimaginably greater. Isn't that just utterly insane? My guy's love for another woman has embedded so much more significance of my own love than I could ever fully comprehend - And I don't really think I care to. 

I would prefer to just observe their tender worship of one another from afar, and fall deeper into their warmth that caves into my heart. 

The way he tends to her needs, and makes sure her delicate body is comfortable at whatever means. The way he sits with her for hours and hours, just talking about anything and nothing at all. The way it is so naturally inclined within him to just inherently know when she's aching with pain, or when she's boasting of energy. Both of which, he shows up ready to devote. 

To devote time. To devote attention. To devote love. 

I am familiar with this kind of dedication because he so generously emulates it to every one of his beloveds; including me. 

Yet this love for her is boundless. 

Like an ocean. Always ready to stream and collide. 

And I’m at the shore, feeling elevated and engaged at such a marvelous sight. It is marvelous, and it is so, so, so deserved. 

I’m not the perfect lover, but she is.

So I watch them, synchronized in laugh and in love, as I too, fall completely dazzled and engrossed in their everything. 

Wholeheartedly knowing that he is my man, and he is wholeheartedly his mother's son. 

-signed, S

*Featured on Thought Catalog 

You Do Not Need To Be Beautiful To Be Loved

I awoke today with a certain built-up angst because of a picture my dad sent me earlier this week. It was an image of a young girl, who due to an interior disease has a loss of pigmentation throughout her exterior. 

Her skin is saturated brownish-white and her eyes are contrasting with both colors of brown and green. She is divinely majestic. 

I could easily just expose her picture, but I'd rather you imagine her. 

Imagine her being your daughter. Imagine her being your sister.

Imagine her being you. 

Now imagine your noteworthy features being ridiculed and bashed. Imagine feeling like you're ready to stream tears every time someone gives you a precarious look because you can't possibly blend in - where no amount of make-up can fully conceal what you look like to them. You unwillingly stand out because you are not the norm. 

Imagine feeling the urge to constantly compare yourself to others, and then further execrate yourself for not matching up because you diverge from all societal expectations of what we consider 'beautiful', or more commonly now 'sexy'. 

And when you aren't being scorned, you are being pitied. You are put on some forsaken pedestal because they feel you've somehow earned it solely by the virtue of your peculiar looks. 

Instead of accepting our differences, we marginalize them. Instead of embracing all of our imperfections, we mask them. We are so caught up within ideals that are frivolously out of this world, that we belittle all purpose - our individual purposes as a species. 

We demean our value as people.

I'm not about to get on a some self-righteous rampage because I've only now started to throughly develop an awareness at how much foolish emphasis we put on our exteriors amongst this generation and now sadly, more prominently among the upcoming one.

I do strongly believe we must love ourselves and that it is ultimately in our own will to fully commit to a self-love, whether interior or exterior. 

However, it seems as though our self-love is repressed when we are rejected by societal ideologies. Yet, loving ourselves will never come from how much validation we get from others who don't know or even come close to understanding you in the way you do and who more often than not, put an over-emphasis on how pretty, handsome, or unappealing you look on whatever given day. 

Truly loving oneself begins with you and ends with only you. It comes from the deepest, most precious parts about yourself; even the not-so nice ones. 

Now let's imagine a world where everything you've learned over-time to consider is beautiful becomes non-existent. What if beauty, real authentic beauty, had nothing to do with how 'perfectly' put together one is, or how many squats we must dedicate in order to amplify our given body features. 

What if we lived in a world where beauty wasn't solely a staple of appearance? It was merely an attribute that enhanced all the other rad parts about ourselves.

I know I'm only kidding myself to think that this kind of world will exist in its entirety, but we can at least begin to be attentive and suggestive about all the implications of beauty that we witness. 

If being beautiful nowadays is based solely on exterior credentials, then you know what? Fuck being beautiful. I want no part in it. 

I am not beautiful, I am me. And you, are you - distinctive and damn proud of it. Please know that this is enough. In fact, it's more than just enough. It's more than most of us are. 

You are not just some doppelgänger, and should never wish to be. 

Let's teach our kids and peers the importance of what self-value actually is. 

So when others approach him/her and calls them cute or pretty - they can respond, "I'm smart, too".

And when they get older and begin to be burdened with the realities of life, they don't choose who to date or marry sparingly. They are dealt with someone where they don't just tolerate each others quirks, but actually kind of like them. 

Let's learn to love in its entirety.

Featured on Thought Catalog. 

4 Years & Not Counting

Here we are. Hand in hand, and more motivated than ever before. 

Today, we celebrate us. Our four years, and (not) counting.

We celebrate our synchronizing efforts of who we've become as partners; as a unit, as a team.

We celebrate our devotion. Our unity. To each other and as vitally, to our individual selves that we refuse to lose sight of.

I'd say that is one of the many, many things that I appreciate about you most. The way you encourage me to do and be whatever, and whoever it is that I deem.  

You grant me so much liberty to evolve and/or contradict myself as many times as this life enables me to without any foul judgement.

You never constrain me.

You love me enough to let me be, and to let me go. To let me wander, because you know it always leads me back to you. 

That is the upmost gift within the unpredictable realms of my world and you will never truly understand how thankful I am for it - For you. 

It's okay because it is something only my heart can exclusively fathom.

You nor I will ever fully grasp the dynamics of such esteem, but it doesn't matter. I know we both amply feel it. 

Venturing and growing through life with you thus far, has been nothing short of empowering.

I look in the mirror today and the reflection of my 14-year-old self shows face, and she holds this "I knew it" grin that transcends through my being now.   

I am grinning, and I am whole. 

And on this day, this living memorable day, beyond every shadow of juvenile doubt - I cannot recall a single moment that my heart did not belong to you.  

So never mind four, seven, or ten years. You've given me an infinite number of moments coated with so much meaning. 

You give me meaning. 

Thank you universe, God and whatever almighty presence, for this love.  

signed, -S

To sum it up. 

You Don't Know What You Have 'Till It's Gone

It is a difficult era in which to know anything with any certainty. In these youthful days of glory, we become reluctant to commit to anything due to the predisposed notion that something or someone better may come along.

There may be some validity in that, and it can be an admirable quality to think that we won’t settle for anything until we’ve personally experienced what else is out there for us.

That urge is most especially understandable for deciphering who is right for us, or more importantly, who “the one” is. This seems to be intensified when we find ourselves convinced that we have found someone quite special, but then, the classic devil and angel analogy slowly creeps into our subconscious minds.

The gnawing predictions and inquiries of what you might lose if you decide to indefinitely commit to that special someone will begin to manifest and cloud your intuition:

"Is this what I really want? I’m still so young, what do I know about what I want? I don’t even know what I want to eat in the next hour. If I can’t make a decision as simple as what I want to eat, how can I decide with whom I can potentially spend the rest of my life? That’s a long freaking time. What if I commit too soon, and then the person I think is my soul mate will screw me over in a really traumatizing way, leaving me woefully alone with requited baggage. Forever."

While you continue to freak yourself out and ultimately shun yourself away from this person, you’ll do what you set out to do. Live your life and decide to explore the greener horizons with the preconceived certainty that when another special person comes along, you’ll be ready.

With time, if another notable person does, in fact, waltz into your life and pull at your heartstrings, you’ll know your initial doubts were plausible. The real risk, however, is the prospect that the other special person, whom you were certain would come, never does.

What if, after all of that time, you go to consider what else is out there, only to realize that "special" or even a glimmer of it only comes by rarely?

Then, all too suddenly, the retrospects of your life begin to render in your mind, and you struggle with a new understanding of what you repressed. It’s now probable that someone else took your given opportunity without any cruel hesitation because, well, how could someone not?

That kind of special quality you once held dear is inimitable. This painful revelation is like no other, and it is difficult to accept. I mean, you blatantly disregarded what this person was worth to you, and now, you’re left with no choice but to own up to your losses and then move on.

While this loss may feel like you’re a total failure when it comes to matters of love, for a moment, consider what you gained. I know it might sound a little foolish, but sometimes, these losses will enable you to be even more conscious or interconnected with yourself and the world around you.

You will learn to recognize the difference between petty doubts, which are natural when considering any life-altering decisions, and the burdening doubts, which are definitely the ones you need to address.

The realities and lessons of this experience, however, would have never transcended, had you not allowed yourself to go with your fear of failure rather than your hope for success. No matter how right or regretful the decision will ultimately turn out to be, it is your decision, which will help you learn for the next go-around.

Even if it takes what may feel like a lifetime to find someone as exceedingly special as that one person, and you spend a good amount of time dwelling on what could have been, surely, you’ll someday be able to value someone the way you once valued your special someone.

You just have to be willing to go there. Trust that you’ll be able to make a better decision in the future and that all is not lost. 

(Originally published & edited on Elite Daily)