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I have always viewed myself as someone who can express herself well, both in writing and speaking.

While I may not have been trained scholastically in writing, I have been writing since I was young, through letters to my parents when I was six to keeping diaries well into my high school years. I have burned those diaries, something I have truly regretted up to this day.

While I have not been trained to deliver speeches, I have sat with adults when I was young as my parents encouraged conversations and discussions during dinners. This is something that has helped me a lot when I started speaking publicly – in school, contests and forums. I have never shied away from stage.

Words have never failed me.

Until now.

In my head, I have written a hundred memoirs about my life, a thousand reflective essays on what is now and a million one-liners for thoughts that I want to pass down to my kids.

We have lived in six houses when I was single, the first and last was just beside each other. Starting and ending in a street called Becerra.

I first saw Edil on a Sunday night, April 29, 1993.
I never forget these things.

God first, said my Dad.

The last three weeks of Dad’s life was the shortest and longest times of my life.
It was also the darkest and brightest.
Love & Hope. Grief & Joy. Sorrow & Gratitude.

I love you, kids.

I could say the muse has left me, I have been uninspired. Or use the ever-excusable phrase, “Life has been busy.”

Busy.

Busy.

Busy.


I’m getting rusty these days. I feel that every word has to be wrenched out from me, and yet each time I’ve completed some writing, it turns out that this isn’t what I have been wanting to let out.

This one is no exception.

I initially wanted to write how I’m good at words and yet my words seem to be misunderstood the most by people I love. How one line typed is viewed as hurtful, sarcastic, mean when all I did was deliver one line.

One line.

Words fail me sometimes.

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