Spend a lot of time alone? You’re not broken, and you’re not the only one. What really shapes those hours is the story you tell yourself.
Psychologist Ethan Kross, speaking on Big Think, makes a simple point: time by yourself can lift you and help you grow. Not something to fear or dodge. The rub is how we frame it. Read More →
This letter is a promise to my 85-year-old self. Choose safety over pride. Say yes to help. Don’t make life difficult for the kids or caregivers.
Dearest me, at 85,
Hello from an earlier chapter—less experienced, still full of plans. I can see you now with that playful twinkle, a little glam as always, baby bangs and all.
A small request from your younger self: when the kids offer advice, really listen. They love us fiercely. Sometimes their ideas feel inconvenient or a bit pushy toward our independence, but they come from care. They notice things we might miss. That perspective is gold.
Same with our doctors. We spent years building a strong body and a steady mind; this is when we honor that work. Take their guidance on medicine, food, movement, and daily habits. Treat them like partners in our health. Listening is a form of self-love. Read More →
Dear 16-year-old me,
You’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking, “What could my old self possibly tell me?” Fair enough. I am you, only 52 years older, and there are certain matters you truly need to hear.
First, the tough part: the word “negra” your uncles sometimes use. I know how it feels every time they say it. It makes your morena skin and thick, beautiful hair seem like flaws. It makes you feel ugly.
Stop right there. They’re wrong. You are not ugly. Read More →
I have been thinking about death lately, and then I stumbled on an old post of mine on “Death and Dying” with this line from Norman Cousins: “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live.”
What dies inside me is not always the big stuff. It is often the quiet things: curiosity, courage, tenderness, and the habit of noticing small joys. Sometimes faith. Sometimes trust. Sometimes just the willingness to try again.
Grief can do that to me. So can my chronic ailments or a long season of stress. I keep moving, do the errands, show up. But the inner lights dim. Numb helps for a while. Stay there too long, and parts of me forget the way back.
The house is quiet in a way I don’t quite know what to do with. My chest feels heavy. Missy, my Siamese with those bright, curious blue eyes, has crossed the Rainbow Bridge after seventeen years by my side. She wasn’t just a pet. She was company, comic relief, and a calm old soul wrapped in soft cream fur.
I’ve heard it said, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” People say Queen Elizabeth II said it. Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is the words are true.
When I first heard it, I thought, that sounds harsh. Like love is some cruel deal, happiness traded for pain. But it’s not that. It’s just the truth no one wants to face.
Because when we love, we don’t think about the end. We laugh, we sit at the table together, we hold our kids close. We don’t stop and say, one day this will be gone. We can’t. We just live. And then, when loss comes, that’s when we realize. This is the cost.
Just so we’re clear—the story below is fictional. All the characters and events in the story are purely imaginary. But the themes—those came from something personal. I’d just finished reading the first draft of my sister’s novel, and it floored me. Beautiful, heartbreaking. She wrote about the quiet weight of intergenerational trauma, about how families carry wounds forward, and about what it takes to heal.
This piece is my way of wrestling with those same ideas. I’ve long wondered how the past holds on to us and how a little compassion can sometimes ease its grip. For me, it isn’t really about pointing fingers. It’s about noticing the patterns and slowly finding a different rhythm, one that opens the door to a new kind of future.
Email me at noemidado @ gmail.com for the password.
By Rob Anderson
Should I still feel so bad, should I still cry so often? I see other
parents smiling, why can’t I? I thought if I did my grief work, it
was supposed to get easier.
Grieving is hard work. Expectations of ourselves, and those that others
place on us, can confuse and make us think we should be in a certain
place at a certain time with our grief. Sometimes we hear, “Your child
died five years ago, aren’t you over it yet?” Or, “It’s been a long
time, why are you still crying?” Those comments hurt and push us
away. Early in my grief, I read the following which helped me
understand that I was fine where I was on my journey: Wherever you
are in your grief is exactly where you should be. To that I would add;
as long as you’re not abusing yourself or others, and not living in
chronic grief.
The idea of a Camino journey had been with us for years, quietly tucked away in our hearts, waiting for the right time. When that time finally came, the journey unfolded in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
May 21: Vigo to Redondela (15 kms)
From May 21 to 27, we walked the 100 kilometers of the Camino Portugués—but more than that, we walked through memories, through grief, through hope, and love. This journey was for our son Luijoe, who left us 25 years ago. It was also our way of sending quiet prayers for our two daughters and the people they hold close. Reaching the cathedral on the exact day we lost him didn’t feel like chance. It felt like grace.A circle, gently closed. Read More →