When the sweetest person offered me the opportunity to share a little bit of my story with all of you, I felt both honored and terrified. Even though we are always full of thoughts, emotions, and sensations, we are not always fully aware of them. Therefore, we are often unaware of what our inner selves are trying to communicate to us. So, when we need to put together something that will make sense, it becomes a challenge—at least, it is for me. But oh well, here we go (fingers crossed).
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I’m a proud Salvadoran, born and raised in an extremely religious household. My parents were the pastors of an Apostles & Prophets Christian church, and as such, I remember them playing different roles, almost living two different lives, which made me so confused at the time.
Let me explain why. At church, my mom was the woman described in the Bible as the pastor’s wife: submissive, obedient to her husband, caring for him, their three children, and a congregation, always smiling, happy, looking pretty, and somehow always on time. (I know, mind-blowing!) At home, my mom was the same, but she had a little more freedom to show how she was the most loving and caring person I have ever met. She was one of those people who would fiercely love you but wouldn’t verbally express it. She was silent most of the time, and if she wasn’t, she was sad, crying, or fighting with my dad over something I couldn’t understand.
On the other hand, at church, my dad was the cool pastor—a great preacher, a knowledgeable teacher, “square-minded,” and severe with his family. It seemed like the ruder he was to my mom, my siblings, and me, the more respect he received from his loving congregation, especially from the men. But at home, he was the typical “macho Latino”: a womanizer, violent, physically abusive towards my sisters and me, always ignoring my mom’s sadness and tears. He would hit us with one of his leather belts 14 times, and the next day, he would come home crying, asking for forgiveness.
Wondering about me in the midst of all this? Well, looking back, I see a truly happy childhood. I guess that as children, we needed so little and understood so little. All I knew was that I was the baby in my family, the youngest of three girls, the spoiled one, the one who came to the family to be cherished. Little did I know I would end up carrying the world on my shoulders…
I was taught (always forced) to forgive my dad regardless of what he had done to me, which, as I grew older, made me a super challenging daughter. I barely talked to him, and when I did, I made sure to let him know how much I disagreed with him and the way he presented himself outside of our home. I rejected him every time he tried to show some sort of love toward me because I knew deep down that he was just feeling guilty and wasn’t going to change. At the same time, I behaved like a young woman described in the Bible—obedient, submissive, always having my act together—and I was so miserably failing at it.
Fast forward to when I was 14 years old, I started attending a different church where my dad wasn't, and I began my journey. For 10 years, I prayed, fasted, attended vigils, went to spiritual retreats, and did everything I could because, in my heart, I knew that I was the one who was going to bring change to my family. Unfortunately, I was only told to pray and pray without tiring. But hey, in all honesty, praying is powerful and beautiful, but it’s not a magic spell that changes everything in the way we want—it doesn’t work like that. By 24, I wasn’t tired; I was exhausted.
I was restless, knowing deep down that there was so much more than praying, going to church, and following someone else’s decisions. But every time I tried to talk about it with anyone in my family, I was mocked and called rebellious. They would call me the “daughter of Satan” and ask why I was always trying to disturb the peace by questioning everything around me. After all, my life was not about me; it was about the adults around me. (Haha)
One morning, I woke up to the sad news that one of my dearest friends had passed away after battling brain cancer for a few months. She was only 20 years old. All my friend wanted for the last nine years of her life was to be reunited with her father, but she left this world without seeing him again. For the following days, I kept replaying our last MSN chat conversation in my mind over and over again. In that conversation, she made me promise that I would live my life to the fullest and that I would find the answer to all of my questions, if not at church, then in another place. She asked me to allow myself the possibility of expanding and to be happy. I certainly didn’t know how to honor that promise, but I had to try.
A few weeks later, I was alone with my father in his office, and I decided to stop fighting and expecting more from him than he was able to give. So, I told him that I was never going to agree to live with double standards, but I wasn’t going to fight him or expect more than he could give. I was going to do my best to respect him no matter what—not because I was being forced by him, but because I wanted to. He didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t expecting an answer, so to me, that was the end of it and the beginning of a new season.
Several years passed, and my parents became grandparents to five beautiful children, which made our world bigger, better, brighter, and happier. My “bubus”—as I call my nieces and nephews—changed everything. I saw my dad unlearning his old ways and learning new ones out of love for his grandkids, often going out of his comfort zone. I saw my mom, after battling and overcoming cancer, finding her voice and becoming a stronger version of herself. Of course, as with any other Latino family, from time to time, we would fight and reconcile with each other, to the point where I could honestly say we were living our best life. And then Covid-19 hit us…
On June 17th, 2021, my mom made one of my dad’s favorite meals: Sopa de Res. I couldn’t join them for lunch, but I promised my dad I would have dinner with him, and I did. We fought again, but over food—we always wanted the same “huesitos” and veggies—but I remember him giving them to me. Haha. None of us knew that it would be our last dinner together. Three days later, he was taken to the doctor and diagnosed with COVID-19, but he also had pneumonia in both lungs. Two days later, he was taken to the hospital, where he died a week later. Due to the strict procedures in place for people dying of COVID-19, there was no funeral, just a big cement box carried by an excavator. It was traumatizing to see my dad’s coffin carried like a big cement block, and since I was also infected at the time, I wasn’t allowed to get closer when he was buried.
So, in just a couple of hours, this man who had been such a pain in my behind, but who had become my best friend in the whole world, was gone. No more arguing, no more fighting, but also no more dinners, no more Father’s Day celebrations… A few months went by, and I had no idea how to deal with my grief. I started seeing a therapist to help me, and do you remember that feeling in my gut about questioning everything? Well, it came back. One day, my therapist asked me to write a goodbye letter to my father, which I resisted for two months because I didn’t know how to say goodbye to one of the most important people in my life. But I did it, and when I started writing that letter, something powerful and unexpected happened—it was as if my father came to visit me, to have the best conversation we ever had. He talked to me in a way that allowed me to know him far better than I did when he was physically with us. He was free, he was full of love, and more importantly, he was no longer afraid of showing who he really was. He answered all the questions I had since I was a little girl and so much more. Knowing him better allowed me to understand him better, and as a result, I discovered a new part of myself. But it also opened my eyes, mind, and heart to something that would change the course of my life forever:
When someone we love dies, their love stays with us, and our love goes with them. Therefore, it is love that will set us free, even after death, because when we die, we are set free from the burdens of this world.
But of course, like any human, I will always prefer the gift of hugging the ones I love. So I started living with the fear of physically losing my mom or any other loved one. At the same time, I began searching for a place where I could learn more about death and life, and one day (Oh Happy Day), I was offered the opportunity to start working at Conscious Dying Collective (CDC). From the very moment I met Elizabeth, I knew I had found the place where, if not all, some of my questions would be answered. I had no idea that this was not about answering my questions but about starting my healing journey.
At CDC, one of the things I have the honor of doing is supporting the classes as their Zoom tech. So, indirectly, I’m learning and receiving these amazing messages that have confirmed what my conversation with my dad taught me: that death is a part of life, and talking about death shouldn’t be taboo, but should be (one step at a time) embraced as any other season of life.
So, on August 1st, 2024, my mom turned 77 years old, and once again, I was terrified by the idea of losing her. Why? Well, both of my grandmothers died at that age when I was little. I had a conversation with my mom and found out that she was also afraid for the same reason, but she wanted to celebrate her birthday. It took me a couple of days to let my fear sink in, and—terrified and all—I decided to celebrate her birthday in the best possible way, as she deserved, even with the possibility of losing her. Since my dad died, she hasn’t been the same, understandably, after spending 42 years together. So we had a dinner party, I brought her mariachis—my mom doesn’t like music, but she does love mariachis because my dad loved them and Pedro Infante too. They played for about an hour, and my mom sat there, holding my hand and trying not to cry. But for the first time in four years, she was smiling on her birthday night, and that night my dad visited us through music. It was such a beautiful moment and a special night for all of my family, and I know that night a lot of things were broken, and a lot more were born.
My friend's death meant so much to me when it happened, but it has a deeper meaning now in my late 30s, after all of this, because I know that every day I am doing my best to honor my promise and that she, along with my daddy and my G-mommas, are my guiding lights, always next to me, always whispering in my ears and loving me.
Have I stopped feeling afraid? Heck no! Do I have the answers to all of my questions? Not at all. But through the teachings at CDC, the company, and the love and care of my amazing team, I’m healing a bit more every day, answering my questions, breaking cycles, and talking about death more, even with my voice shaking. I’m hopeful that this is just the beginning of a new season, where in my family, my country, and my dear Latino America, we will be free to embrace death as much as we embrace life. And instead of being afraid of dying, we will be set free to live life to the fullest so that when that transition comes, we can be certain that love will go with us and stay with us forever.
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Here are two a songs that have brought me comfort on this journey:
