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It is with great pride that we bring you the inaugural issue of Panocha Zine. This is the labor of love, not only by our team but by our amazing collaborators, so we thank you for the bottom of our hearts.

The past year, 2020, was not an easy one, a lot of us lost loved ones, some of us lost our jobs, all of us lost our sense of direction. Although this brought us fear, it also brought us a new perspective. It helped us redefined a lot of things in our lives, among those things, it helped us redefine love.

Social distancing and quarantining forced us to put distance between us and those we love. Suddenly, physical touch wasn’t available to us, a simple hug was out of the question. So, what is LOVE, really? If is not presence, if is not touch, what is it?

This is the question that brings us here. In these pages we explore the meaning of love, from the voices and lenses of those who, like us, are trying to redefine love to fit our realities and not adhere to a pre-fabricated notion that doesn’t always include us.

We hope these pages bring you joy, pero sobre todo (como diría Walter Mercado) mucho, mucho amor.

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When I sat down to think about the topic of love, I kept thinking of two things: my love for my daughter and myself. Shaping self-love in my daughter through my journey is one of the many things I felt I needed to do early on and the hardest. It took me years to feel self-love. Growing up from being “muy flaca” to “gorda” made me feel like I was never enough. I was too skinny because I was just an active kid. And I never ate enough.  And when I got bigger, well, that wasn’t the right way to be as well. In some ways, I know words came from a loving place from the family; it just never made me feel better. 

The height of my self-loathing had to be puberty. I developed early and disliked it so much. It was embarrassing when my pad fell out of my backpack in 5th grade, and my classmate behind me picked it up and asked what it was. I had these two huge “chichonas” growing out in front too! Family members told me not to slouch because I had beautiful breasts and should show them off.  I despised the attention I got from men (creepy, really) because all I wanted to do was be a kid.

Looking back at it, I was still a kid, but my body wanted to rush me into womanhood sooner than I wanted to. Fast forward to today. Thoughts continuously fill my head on whether I’m teaching (my soon-to-be 10-year-old) daughter everything she needs to move forward to the next chapter of her life.  I have this mental checklist that I go over and ask myself what I have covered so far about self-love and what I still need to go through.  It’s an ongoing thing, and I always tend to check-in with her.  Here are just a few answers I got from her. 

On the definition of self-love

P: “Self-love is loving yourself for who you are and not wanting to change it.”

Me: “Is there anything else?”

P: “For me, it’s to respect myself and say positive thoughts during the hardest times.” 

On showing self-love

P: “Sometimes I tell myself compliments in my head. Like, you can do this.  Don’t be afraid. You’re awesome. Or try your best, and it’s okay if you don’t get it the first time. I take care of my armpits too. I make sure I put on deodorant.“

On the importance of self-love

P: “If you love yourself, you can learn to love others. You have to love yourself before loving anyone else too. It’s very important because if you don’t love yourself you’ll keep trying to hide and that’s not good. You can’t be your true self. You’ll be super shy and get picked on by bullies. Trust me, that happened to me, and it’s terrible.”

What do you love about yourself?

P: “I love my glasses because they are super awesome. I love my unibrow because it reminds me of Frida Kahlo. And in some ways, I feel like her. I love that I’m not obsessed with unicorns like other girls. And I’m glad I like different music. I love writing and my art. I love that I’m different.”

Me: “Why do you love to be different?”

P: “If everyone was the same, the world would be boring.”

I do feel a sigh of relief when I hear her words. I only hope she reminds herself during those low moments. And learns to love herself so much more than I did at her age. For now, I think I’m doing okay.

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Ey,
Sé que no tengo que decir, pero I’ll tell you anyway.

I love you. Ayer. Hoy. Siempre. our connection isn’t friendship or sisterhood. It’s something more that people say they can’t place it. Anything beyond platonic standards MUST be romantic for them, because they lack the vocabulary in their colonized dictionaries. Like it has to be dressed in bows and ribbons to be understood with their rigid definitions.
Like my love for you can’t be as essential, or more important than any love for you from a romantic partner. That being queer or actively poly automatically muddles what we HAVE to be. This society tries to colonize our love, as if has to fit in their boxes to be valid. You are my person always and forever. Above any them. Above any her. Above any him. Hoy. Siempre.

Con todo mi amor,
Sueitko Zamorano-Chavez

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In my grandmother's arms
The dreams of a nation are carried
In my grandmother’s arms
The world could be made

She nourished a whole family like the sun feeds the moon
All of her light, her blood, her soul
Same as water
All around her
Grows

Then lived the life of a mother
With joy but with sadness too
Lighting up children
Creating homes

“When you’re born,” she says, looking at me
“The stars were even brighter”
While I hugged her, kissing goodbye
“Te amo tanto, minha querida”
Her eyes shining like gold

Almost a year ago
Was the last time I saw my grandmother
A year collecting all the things I have to tell her
Hoping for the day I will hold her again

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in the fields and in the barrios
of the central valley  
there is a place where all the woman go
a place that only we can see 

where women glow 
behind brown skin and yellow undertones
gold hoops and painted nails 
half-closed eyes and sun kissed hands
two brown pounds and one fist bump
nameplates shining bright
xicana and a little bit hood
still rocking our khakis with a cuff in the crease
como siempre

keeping it real and holding it down 
with each other
the way no man can 
and always reppin it hard
in remembrance of our ancestors 
straight thuggin and side eyeing everyone 
between fresno sidewalks

sometimes waiting for our lovers to fall out of the sky
my energy matching your energy
kicking up dust and greeting the sun every morning 

while saying yes to love

and no to courtroom injustice
and hello to the lover from my poems
weeping way too many times for our relatives
never forgetting but always forgiving
and sipping the bottle clean to cleanse our broken hearts
one by one
to the rhythm of poverty to beats we never knew we loved

no longer stuck in the past 
but in the cosmic conversation
where we are suddenly ourselves again

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As a child, Luna marveled at her ability to cultivate a crush on any of the boys in her class. She looked around the playground and identified the personality trait that could attract her to each boy. Arthur for his humor and kindness, Scott for his intensity, George for his passion for chess. These traits easily impressed her as an eight-year-old, but she usually shook it off and narrowed it down to one or two boys to have a crush on, as kids do. Because she went to a K-12 small school, her crush on the most popular, most charismatic, and the smartest boy in her class Simon lasted her entire school career and beyond. 

She maintained this adolescent infatuation, but in high school, she realized this ability to cultivate a crush on anyone was not limited to gender. This came about when Luna met Violet. Violet’s spontaneity and uniqueness in the wave of milquetoast personalities attracted Luna. So Luna became Violet’s best friend. Luna consistently asked herself the age-old question, “Do I like her or do I want to be her” with no answers. She copied Violet’s taste in books, music, hobbies, and ambitions. When she found herself fantasizing about Violet, dreaming about touching each other in the shadowy corners of school hallways, Luna admitted her attraction to girls to herself and her parents, coming out as bisexual to a perplexed father and knowing mother. Luna never told her friend, especially not after witnessing Violet’s easy attraction to and from boys, but also due to their close friendship.

Luna first kissed a boy at sixteen outside of a club in Spain. She traveled with Violet and their mutual friend Michelle to Michelle’s parent’s house in the Southern Spanish mountains. There they stayed out late drinking and dancing. One night, having met a few boys, Luna’s friends encouraged her to go off with a boy who had shown a clear interest in her. She had wanted to get her first kiss out of the way and she did. Who wants to be sixteen and unkissed, and therefore undesirable? The boy and girl found a secluded area overlooking the white-walled, clay-tile roofed town, smoked his cigarettes, and made out. Nothing special, nothing horrid. When they pulled apart, she could see his own name tattooed in big capital letters along the length of his left forearm: F R A N C I S C O. Told in a certain light, the story has its romantic charm.

Afterwards, Luna could not explain the shame burning in her. She decided she hated Francisco for kissing her, and scrubbed her hands and teeth raw to get rid of his cigarette stench. She hated herself for kissing him. She hated that she had wanted to get some sexuality milestone out of the way. Thinking of the story still brings her shame.

Inevitably, Luna felt this same shame in the first semester of college. She had not engaged in any sexual or romantic relationships in high school. She only fostered these long-term crushes on two people whose personalities she esteemed, but never made her admiration known. As a freshman, with an entirely new set of classmates for the first time in eleven years, she didn’t understand why she couldn’t fall into the much-lauded hook-up culture. Like Francisco, she found herself going off with a boy at her friends’ urging, and made out with him. Nothing special, nothing horrid. Once again, she left feeling ashamed and confused. Was she a prude, despite her mother’s gentle sex positivity? 

She finds it funny now, all the things she’s explained away just to fit into a compulsively hetero and allosexual worldview. In her college years, her anxiety and depression fully manifested. Luna, and her mother, reasoned; her anxiety keeps her from approaching or having a serious sexual interest in boys. Because she was surrounded by (at the time) majority heterosexual friends who discussed not having any same-sex attraction, she reasoned that her attraction to Violet was a one-time thing. She dismissed her attraction to other girls, too, with, “I want to be them,” or “I want to be their friend.” Purely platonic. Sometimes.

In college, Luna kissed so many different people for so many different reasons. She had sex with a boy she liked and eventually loved. She felt her shame dissipate. She finally felt normal. 

But then, the shame grew. She graduated from undergrad four years ago and she has had no romantic interests. Any that may have arisen reminded her of those early childhood ruminations—she could like this person because they have a warm smile and good humor—but she felt no reason to pursue this interest. No spark, no flame, no pull. Nothing of the sexual attraction that her friends describe when they met their romantic partners. 

She tried. In between undergrad and grad school, Luna lived in San Antonio, in her childhood home with her parents, just down the street from her grandparents. As her friends quickly coupled, making lifelong commitments to their partners in their mid-twenties, Luna lamented at her inability to find someone. Her mother blamed Luna’s anxiety disorder. Luna blamed her anxiety. Luna’s Mexican-American grandmother tried to set her up with her friends’ sons. Her grandmother spoke longingly of her long-term high school crush Arthur, whom of course her grandmother adored. She wanted Luna to marry him. (Having gone to a small K-12 school, everyone knew everyone, as well as their achievements). He had gone to Columbia for pre-Law and Law School. He was raised Catholic. In a phone conversation, her grandmother would ask, “How is my favorite person? How is Arthur?” Sure, he and Luna kept in touch through social media, but definitely did not have the foundation that her grandmother hoped they’d have.

Once at their house, during lunch, they discussed a family friend who had come out as gay. Her grandparents were staunch democrats, and her mother had pushed them even further left. But. Luna knew it would different if it was their own grandchild. Out of the blue, her grandmother asked, “But you’re straight, right?” and Luna lied and said yes. It felt easier than admitting to the confusion Luna felt. With all the attraction she felt and did not feel towards other people. Above it all, Luna wanted to have a wedding, a family, and kids.

But what did a romantic relationship for her look like?

An answer arose from an expectedly unexpected place. Fanfiction. Browsing through Archive of Our Own, she found an AU: Soulmate within her favorite genre. The main character, a celebrity, facilitated his image of a playboy, knowing he identified as asexual or ace. He had never experienced sexual attraction to anyone, until he met his best friend and developed a sexual interest, leading him to discover he was demisexual. 

The internet, for those on the asexuality spectrum, offers networks to bring us out of isolation. Author of Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex, Angela Chen, points to the knowledge-making found in asexuality discussion boards and blogs. Because our society centers itself on sex, those of us who do not feel sexual attraction, or a dimmer version of it, must find alternative ways to connect. More importantly, Chen identifies different types of attraction—romantic, aesthetic, sexual—and the different reasons we have sex. All to say, we too often simplify attraction and physical intimacy, underestimating the ambiguity between the attraction that forms friendships and romantic partners. 

Luna discovered asexuality and demisexuality.

She didn’t write on discussion boards but researched demisexuality wherever she could. The next few years, she sat on this knowledge, and its growing familiarity. Meditating on her attraction towards people, she either mistook friendly attraction for romantic. Or she projected what she thought others felt towards a person–such as the hottest, and thus most aesthetically attractive, person. No wonder she’d had a crush on a girl she desperately wanted to befriend and the most popular boy in school. 

This past week, she finished Aminatou Sow and Ann Friedman’s book Big Friendship: How We Keep Each Other Close, in which the two women discuss the importance of friendship. They cite Chen’s Ace, paralleling the type of attraction we might feel to a potential friend and partner. Luna thinks of her closest friend, who she considers family, with whom she hopes to spend the rest of her life. What does she need a partner for if she has her? She has known Luna intimately for so long, through the hardest years of their lives and the most trying experiences. They have lived across the world from each other. They have lived next door to each other. They write letters and text each other multiple times a day. She understands Luna better than anyone ever has. 

And Luna has incredible friends. The people she has allowed into her life leave an irreversible impression on her. She finds herself easily attracted to people she wants to befriend, but still does not understand romantic relationships, or even necessarily her place on the asexuality spectrum. The only long-lasting romantic relationship in her life crumpled under her own expectations, owing to her limited understanding of her own sexuality. Ironically, she feels freer to embrace her attractions as they are rather than twisting them into something they are not. A pressure valve has released and she can just be in love and like with the people close to her. Luna can define her sexuality for herself.

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Once in a conversation with a guy I had a mega crush on, mi amor pasajero, we spoke about love and different relationships that form from love.

Someone had mentioned that your first love is your best and greatest love. No love will ever be as great as your first love. I thought differently.

I mentioned that in life we have many loves. Tu primer amor, un gran amor, amores pasajeros, un amor imposible y el amor de tu vida. Tu primer amor is always fun, its the first time we experience strong feelings for another individual.

All of these experiences are new and exciting. It’s kinda of like your first car. It may not be the best, in reality its a junker since the beginning, and it is not meant to last.

But like that old hoopty, it takes you places and allows you to experience excitement and joy. It takes you to places you have never been or seen. You experience it wish a fresh set of eyes and although it is short lived and will soon be replaced, it is a lot of fun.

Un gran amor is a good love, a love that understands you, it feels right. It’s cozy and you invest in it and put effort towards it. With time it doesn’t last but it was definitely a good one. One that you will always remember as one of the greatest.

Amores  pasajeros, de esos llegan muchos. Pero esos amores son cortos, no duran lo suficiente. It’s just a short lived love that served its purpose and ended. Maybe it teaches you a lesson, or fulfills a much desired experience. Pero igual como llega de pasada rápido se va.

Un amor imposible, el amor que es lindo. Ese cariño que es orgánico and effortless. It’s a love that isn’t forced, a love with true meaning. Pero por alguna razón nunca se se convierte en algo mas. Hay mucho sentimiento pero nunca sale una relación seria de el. Es imposible ese amor.

Y el amor de tu vida, el amor que te cambia. Tu forma de sentir, the way you look at the world. The love that makes you feel like you can change the world for the greater good. Si tienes muchísima suerte tu primer amor can very likely be el amor de tu vida.

No two loves are the same. They shouldn’t be compared to one another. If they can be seen and experienced for the individual loves that they are and the purpose that they served, we can all experience many different loves.

In a later occasion at a party I met with mi amor pasajero again. We danced and he asked, “Que dijiste esa vez sobre amores? Was I ever considered in any of those categories?”

As I swayed in his arms while we danced, the only truth I could speak was, “you are mi amor imposible, just let me have my dance.”

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Siento como me he drenado yo misma por la falta de un entendimiento de mi propio ser. Desde un tecnicismo lógico y espiritual, soy aquella persona que siente mucho - de más diría yo- tanto que me limita y me lleva a mi ruina, buscando ser alguien que no soy; dejando todo lo que me representa para encajar entre todos. El intensear se borra de mi lenguaje, lo pasional lo dejo de un lado y caigo en un camino tan difícil de atravesar, porque simplemente no soy yo. 

Es interesante el lograr entender el amor y el temor que le tenemos como una entidad independiente, no somos más con ella pero si sentimos un vacío sin ella. Es lo más intenso que podemos sentir, porque de él se derivan todas las emociones. Todo se mueve por amor y al mismo tiempo, es un limitante muy grande entre todos; se cree que el amor solo puede ser finito y seguro. 

Será por un miedo irracional querer evitar un acercamiento más íntimo que la realidad porque expresar amor es expresar todo el ser. Sentir el amor por cada parte de mi cuerpo, la anticipación, el dolor, la caída, el rush, el rubor, la calidez, el dolor… todo es tan complicado de explicar que el solamente pensarlo me hace sentir sensaciones tan fuera de lo normal. me da felicidad y me hace sentir más vivo que nunca. 

La vida está llena de ironías, la vida con amor es libre, dolorosa, meticulosa, bella, consciente, difícil y simple; mientras que ia vida sin smo es exactamente una copia; porque realmente nunca se puede estar sin amor, todo nuestra vida se detonan de éste, aunque no se quiera admitir. Ambos te llevan lejos pero te dejan estancado en un momento, bueno o malo. 

¿Es posible vivir sin amor? no lo creo. 

El añoramiento por los demás, una nostalgia, un odio, una incertidumbre… todas nacen de una necesidad de amar, no por la ausencia de él. Intensamente es una palabra que define el amor por todos lados, negativo o positivo y yo no conozco ninguna manera de amar que no sea intensa. 

Intenso decía yo al describir a mi novio de años, mientras lo amaba y quería ser todo lo que era y daba; me daba tanto amor que me saturaba mi ser y no sabía cómo corresponderle de la misma manera, aunque sintiera lo mismo o más que él - no sé si por miedo, por sorpresa o porque era algo tan ajeno a mí que no lograba entender cómo funcionaba. INTENSA me decía a mi cuando le decía un simple te quiero y veía en su cara como todo se desmoronaba, como yo lo estaba desmoronando. Intenso dije que era cuando me dijo que nos veía con un futuro, esperanzada yo al ver un final feliz le dije que no. 

Vehemente creí que lo que hacía era correcto para mí tranquilidad y estar sin dolor ni complicaciones, tontamente pensé todo eso y yo misma sepulte mi vida y mi amor hacia él. Yo era el limitante que tanto cuestiona y buscaba la respuesta de porque no nos dejamos amar al intenso, si es la manera más limpia y simple de amar, y siempre regresaba a las lecciones de vida que tanto he querido borrar de mi mente. El amor es vulnerable y eso es algo que no quiero ser, porque es debilidad y no es inteligente poner mi debilidades enfrente de alguien que con un simple roce puede romper, delicado como una vida propia. 

La falta de valentía de levantarme y expresar como el amor me envuelve, me moldea, me hace mejor, me completa y me arma de valor… me hizo caer bajo tierra, una caída lenta y larga que me marcará de por vida. No soy capaz de concebir quien soy sin mis emociones a su total potencia, vivirlas a todo su esplendor y más que todo, decirle al mundo, en voz alta sin temor a lo que será o a quienes escuchará. De esta manera, regreso a quien soy yo, siento como mi cuerpo se envuelve y me recuerda que siempre sere yo.

Sin esta intensidad, no sería capaz de ser quien soy, de tener mis amistades, de estar rodeada de amor siempre, de ser amor y estar en amor. No sería aquella persona que camina más lejos de lo que le piden ni la que da la mano antes de se lo digan, simplemente no sería yo, alguien que ha sido amado por toda su vida y todavía no he conocido a todas las personas que me amaran. El amor me ha forjado como soy, me ha obligado mirar más allá de mi realidad, me ha puesto en duda pero más que todo, me ha hecho vulnerable y he entendido que no es lo peor que nos puede pasar; sino que he entendido que uno -yo- no puede coexistir sin el otro -amor-. 

Puedo llegar a ser yo sin amor, no, en ninguna dimensión estaría completa, sería la mitad de lo que soy, mi cuerpo y mente dividida entre dos realidades que son difíciles de separar. Me siento sin amor en cada momento que me niego a sentir más de lo que “debería” - una regla tonta difícil de quitarme- pero el miedo es un constructo que me hago para aparentar algo que no soy para no ver la realidad de la vida, de los sentimientos y el propio alcance de entenderme como persona y ver lo que mas amo- a los demás.

Llegue a sentir un amor tan completo y no replicable, sin entender lo suertuda que era al ser delicado

duradero

constante

intenso

intenso en toda la palabra y el sentimiento, sin miedo a las consecuencias de esto. Intenso en la manera de sentir, tocar, hablar, llamarnos, querernos, escucharnos y de vivir.

Por esto, me perdí en las ideas y pautas de cómo debía de comportarme, el miedo que sentir de ser vulnerable, estar con alguien que decidió amarme arriba de todo, que buscaba solucionar antes de romper, que veía y por dos y nunca logró entender mi miedo tan irracional de aparentar mucho para él, sabiendo que eso era lo que sentía. 

Sin amor nunca esto pero el no expresarlo, tenerle miedo porque es algo nuevo y extraño; me ha limitado tanto en mi vida. En un mundo donde todos te

dicen que el ser intenso te hará mal, claramente soy el ejemplo de que el ser intenso no te daña sino el ser miedoso e indiferente. 

Al final de los tiempos, puedo asegurar que todos vamos a quedar como intensos en los ojos de los demás pero nunca enfrente de la persona que te entiende. El amor es todo o nada, sea correspondido o no; es un sentimiento tan delicado, finito y efímero que es inexplicable el solo; es imposible ponerle palabras a lo que nos produce en el cuerpo. 

Me estoy viendo y los únicos ojos que me devuelven la mirada son los míos. El miedo y la irracionalidad me dejo sola pero no abandonada, es un camino largo entender que siempre seré mucho y que está bien; la culminación de mis sentimientos con la realidad es un proceso pero es algo que tomó paso por paso. Es inesperado y tenebroso adentrarme a una realidad donde mis sentimientos eran reales y fuertes, donde no pienso parar para no asustar a nadie y mucho menos callarme. El primer sin amor que tuve fue con mi novio pero realmente nunca estaré sin amor porque el amor que siempre me darán y que se quedará conmigo sobre todo es el mío.

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 When I was 19, I thought love was staying in an abusive relationship because I didn’t deserve anything better. 

When I was 21, I thought love was continuing a shitty relationship because we’d known each other since we were kids. 

At 23, love is letting each other rest on our bad days while the other takes care of the chores for the day. 

At 23, love is chismeando con mi hermana on a regular basis. 

At 23, love is watching mi hermanita become a lil me. 

At 23, love is picking up a caffeine addiction because mi ma has one too. 

At 23, love is realizing how much I emotionally have in common with mi pa. 

At 23, love is my dog cuddling up with me when I’m having a rough time. 

At 23, love is feeling pure joy as I watch my best friend grow a whole baby inside her. 

At 23, love is being proud of myself. 

At almost 24, love is what has brought me to who I am becoming. 

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“A Cuban fortune-teller told me when I was going to die.” I froze. As a wave of anxiety hit me I tried to stay casual, like I’m above those things. But given that I have a plan to live forever that is currently working out great, my boyfriend dumping this news was a detour out of my blissful ignorance. I didn’t want to know exactly when, but at the same time, I did. So I asked something that came close to that question, a query to let me know exactly what timeframe I was working with. “Are you dying young or old?” My voice had a little shiver when I asked, I know he noticed. He was facing away from me when he chuckled and replied, “Young”.

I didn’t say anything but I was just wondering in my head, could she be the real deal? “Why would people want to tell you when you’re going to die?” I said completely disgusted with the idea, but at the core, the question was, “how does this strange woman dare to rain on our parade?” “Morbidity attracts customers,” he answered. He has always been protected by his anti-belief shield. Whereas I find solace in faith, he doesn’t. I believe in God. He believes in a higher power. I occasionally read horoscopes to entertain myself. He couldn’t care less about what those stars have to say. He loves astronomy and constellations and documentaries. I remember how happy he was when I bought him a book, from a museum in San Francisco, about how the universe expanded. His life is science-proof, mine is a little bit more mixed. 

My anxiety-prone brain went into overdrive: What does it mean he’s going to die young? What is young? 30? 40? 50? What if he dies riding that damn bike he loves so much because he’s not wearing a helmet? What if we die together in an airplane? I hate flying! What if I’m also meant to die young? Is that why I feel like I don’t have a calling? Or a tremendous maternal instinct at 32? But maybe the lady was wrong, I mean, a lot of fortune-tellers are phonies and she was just a lady on the street.

Then, I became a big softy for a couple of days. Everything he did was suddenly sort of magical because, the way I saw it, the time for me to enjoy it was getting shorter and shorter. Suddenly, I welled up when he made coffee and his “bad” habits were not bothersome. The words of this fortune-teller lingered over my head day and night. After a string of bad relationships, and our ups and downs, my boyfriend felt like the most delicious warm shower, like reading a book under the covers on a rainy day, and I felt angry that he could be taken away from me. Then, I moved on to bargaining. I prayed that nothing would happen to him. I made promises about going to church and stopping drinking–you know, the usual things you bargain with. I went through the full grief process before anything ever happened. 

Then, a year later, death came unexpectedly. We sat down to talk on a balmy summer Sunday, and an hour later our relationship had died. We talked about our problems, but there was this quietness. I wanted to be in the relationship and made it clear, but he was just silent. Maybe waiting, like before, for me to chart the route into the waters. But I needed to see the will in him. In complete desperation, I said, “It all boils down to this: do you want to be with me?” His response was silence followed by a very timid, “Yes.” It wasn’t enough for me, so I asked, “Aren’t you afraid to lose me?” Deep silence. For 5 years I tried to teach this man how to love me, without a second thought. And here, his doubts were showing like tattoos on his skin. He spoke about his insecurities, his worries, both connected and disconnected from our relationship, but there was never an ‘us.’ My heart was broken for me, but also for him. 

It is way more difficult when there aren’t any villains to hate. There’s a weird mix of love and gratitude when a relationship that just couldn’t work dies. It’s maybe even more heartbreaking. 

We thanked each other for everything, and then we hugged. I kissed his shoulder and his cheeks as some sort of protection for his future. He gave me back the money I’d set aside for an apartment we had planned on moving into. As it tends to happen, I didn’t want my relationship to end, but it seems like he didn’t want to stay, and through the transformation, I put into focus things I wanted before his needs.

The fortune–teller was somehow right. For me, he died young. A handsome, sweet 30-year-old man. No longer mine. About to explore the world even further with all that he had learned with me. 

For five years, we shared our lives–and his dog Max. We traveled from Florida to New Orleans in an RV, went to 100-year-old movie theaters, traveled through Italy, hiked a vineyard, played tennis, made short films together, and meshed our lives. We built a life, but we also built walls and disappointments that we couldn’t demolish.

Then, grief came knocking. I would cry for 10 seconds, would be okay, and then start crying again. I buried my dreams and expectations, our future children’s names, the places we were going to go, the “plus one” events we would no longer attend. But there’s something I wasn’t expecting at all. When my life got turned inside out that Sunday afternoon, it felt like everything was left suspended in mid air, stuck but still somewhat there. A few months later, it felt like everything came crashing at lightning speed to the ground.

I’ve always been good at knowing when to take a bow and say goodbye. I believe in looking out for the signs. During my last Christmas working at the company where he and I met, a glitch in a system left me out of Secret Santa. I didn’t receive a gift. I knew my time there was over. It was the same as the undoing of this five-year relationship. First, I lost the tennis balls he gave me. Then, an eager player decided it was time to change the grip tape he had so lovingly wrapped. I went for Thanksgiving to my aunt’s house and left the jacket I bought on the last trip we ever took together. The restaurant where we met closed. We used to go have #whiskeywednesdays there to talk and get to know each other better. We were friends before one of those Wednesdays he kissed me. Just another sign of things wrapping up, whether I liked it or not. All those little loving gestures are lost to time and our memory.

As I sip on the last bottle of wine I bought when we were in Cinque Terre (one last thing we were supposed to do together when we moved into our new place, but ran out of time), I still believe it was the right choice. Love alone can not uphold a relationship. It needs more. A reliable language for when things aren’t right, a strong foundation for life's earthquakes, and a willingness to push for goals as a unit and individually. Chris Rock said it best: Sometimes you’ll be the lead singer and sometimes you’ll play the tambourine. And when you play that tambourine, you better be the best tambourine player there is (paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it).

Still, I wish him all the good fortune in the world. I know deep within me that the way I’ve been changed by his mere existence in my life is undeniable. He’s a part of me as much as I am a part of him. I pray that his life is long and full of joy that he can share with whomever he chooses, even if he simply chooses himself. I hope that the fortune teller got it wrong. If not about us, at least about him.

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Las lenguas se hablan

la mía se tensa

la tuya la anuda

y la desnuda

para volverla a tensar

Las lenguas se atrapan

la mía se congela

la tuya la calienta

juntas se complementan

Las lenguas se prueban

La tuya se quema

Y la mía lo siente

Babean entre sí

Las lenguas son dos

Pero hablan en una

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For years you’ve danced among the Ocean swells, chasing them down so you could ride one ashore. Sometimes, you’d make it back safely. Other times you’d get pulled under and find yourself clawing at something you’d never be able to grasp.

In some ways, you became addicted to the give and take. Even though the thrill and joy were fleeting, unpredictable, and could very well end in a wipeout, you still yearned for them. Because at least they were something.

For years you’ve been ashamed of the anger and resentment you carry in your chest, so you shoved it down in hopes that it would make you stronger, but all it did was chip away at your life force. All it did was weigh you down.

Don’t get me wrong. I am so proud of how brave you’ve been through all your traumas. Every time the tides washed you ashore, you got back up. You kept pushing for something else, for something more.

You’ve struggled to accept that your feelings are valid, and you’ve battled with co-dependency for many years. So, I’m sure it’s quite shocking to learn that true freedom can be found in the swells of your chest, in the curve of your hips, in the strength of your lips, and in the resilience of your womb, from where life has literally sprung.

You are the tide, my sweet girl.

You are the waves as they kiss the shore, as they fiercely crash against the rocks, as it stills in the dead of night.

Love is not a passing wave along the shore—it’s the Ocean itself, vast, ever-present, and nourishing. It demands respect with ease

and confidence. It does not apologize for existing, and neither should you.

Because not only are you the waves but the Ocean, too.
Because you are love, and love is you.

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