Que Onda is a Mexican Spanish phrase that literally translates to “what’s the wave” and is used to mean "what's up?" In this bi-monthly publication, I share the highs and lows through personal essays, guest interviews, and curated findings.

I took a bike ride downtown last night, hoping to forget the pain in my chest.

The pain is becoming familiar, but last night the throbbing ache was unbearable. My heart hurt as if was being compressed unrelentingly, and the natural release seemed to be to cry.

It started when I went to Hobby Lobby. I had bought myself a virtual painting class a few weeks back and was buying the supplies in preparation. As soon as I got in, she was everywhere. It’s not like she even loved the store that much—Savers and Home Depot were more her style. But something about the smell conjured her presence in my mind. I imagined her making some craft or sewing something in the kitchen.

I hushed the feeling, focusing on getting my supplies, but by the time I was walking back to the parking lot, I was in tears.

I played the first song that reminded me of her during my drive back: “La Bikina.” I could almost hear her singing it on karaoke. This time, I truly listened to the lyrics for the first time.

Solitaria camina la bikina
La gente se pone a murmurar
Dicen que tiene una pena
Dicen que tiene una pena que la hace llorar

Altanera, preciosa y orgullosa
No permite la quieran consolar
Pasa luciendo, su real majestad
Pasa, camina, los mira sin verlos jamás

Alone walks the viking woman
People start murmuring
They say she has a sadness
They say she has a sadness that makes her cry

Haughty, precious, and proud
Doesn’t allow others to console her
She goes by flaunting, her royal majesty
She goes by, sees them without ever looking at them.

I cried even harder. I was that viking woman today—uncomfortable in my own skin, wearing a suit of armor to hide my pain.

My dad recently asked me what my grief felt like. I told him it’s like life has lost its vibrancy. There are gorgeous, colorful moments, sure, but they have a dull tint to them that will never go away now, like sunglasses you can’t remove.

She’s been on my mind a lot lately. The more I think about her, the more I feel her absence. It’s barely been four months since she passed— a relatively a short time but it’s felt eternal. In some ways, it’s gotten easier to keep moving. I have wonderful moments! But when I stumble, the fall feels harder.

Recently, I stumbled when I thought of the word “loss.” We call it “losing a loved one,” as if it's a game of hide and seek and the person is waiting to be found. But this is more like that moment when the excitement of searching turns to panic, and you're frantically calling out, “OKAY IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE!”

In those moments, the hiding person will come out and yell, “Ha! Gotcha!”

But in this game, she isn’t going to jump out. She’s not lost. She’s gone. And that is the biggest gotcha of all.

Someone recently ran into me and asked, “Didn’t your mom pass away last year?” I felt indignant on the inside. “The nerve you have to not remember!” I wanted to respond, “How could you forget? Didn’t you feel the same jolt in the universe that I felt when she died?!” …But instead, I kindly corrected them and shrugged it off.

Because of course, it’s nobody’s responsibility to remember.

It’s not like others haven’t lost a mother, a cat, a sister, a job, or a home…

But I lost my mother, I pout. And it hurts a lot more than I thought it would.

OKAY, GOD, IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE.

Imagine if we were overly honest about our pains, bringing them up as casually as the weather or weekend plans. An image pops in my mind of me responding to the smiley Trader Joe’s cashier’s “How was your day?” with “Oh, you know, my mom died, how about yours?”

“No way! Well, my house just flooded,” he replies.

And someone else chimes in, “Well, funny you say that, my kid is in the hospital!”

And then we all just laugh because we realize, hey, we’re all in this weird mess together. We high-five and go on our merry ways, bonded by our shared catastrophes.

OKAY, GOD, MAYBE IT’S A LITTLE FUNNY.

… But more like laugh-cry funny.

But that’s the reality. We all have our struggles and want our pain acknowledged, yet somehow I want everyone to remember mine. What an egocentric thought!

I’m mothering myself hardcore now. But it’s been taking more energy as of late.

I could go a day without eating, but I nudge myself to eat at least two warm meals a day, even if I don’t have an appetite. I’d rather not clean my house, but I do it because hay que vivir bonito, we gotta live beautifully, mami would say.

I found a recording with her saying that earlier this week, and it’s really helped:

“What does beauty mean to you?” I ask her.

“Peace,” she responds. “When you have an organized home, or you’re dressed up, or you nourish yourself with beautiful things, or you eat well, you feel peace.”

Deep down, I crave new connections. Summer flings and light friendships… but my grief has made it challenging to be consistent with group activities like yoga or salsa, two things I adore. I trust this is temporary.

It’s on days like these that I miss her the most. After a hard day, she’d often have the right words or would send me a podcast that made her think of me.

“Share knowledge, share knowledge!” She’d tell me. We both loved sharing information and inspiration, a type of love language that I’ve always appreciated. I miss that.

I miss her—I miss a lot of things and people that I had last year that I don’t anymore.

Tienes que aprender a soltar, hija.

“You have to learn to let go, daughter,” she’d often tell me.

And so, I took a bike ride downtown last night, wanting to run away from it all.

I rode to my favorite ice cream shop downtown, seeking sweetness and the company of strangers.

I've always liked roaming at night, partly because I enjoyed it in the sleepy suburb where I grew up. But mostly, I love it because the night transforms the world. Different things come alive, and it lets me see things with new eyes. (For those concerned, I biked around well-lit neighborhoods).

I passed by a lit coffee shop, its owner hunched over some papers, perhaps catching up on some bookkeeping.

Two friends sitting on a bench entranced in conversation, as if having a heart to heart.

A homeless woman muttering unkind words to the space ahead of her, or maybe to someone in her mind.

A slouching man and his smiling dog— that always makes me smile.

I got home and realized the pain in my chest had subsided. I had finally tamed the grief, at least that day.

Un dia a la vez, mami would say. One day at a time.

Life is a gift, but lately, it seems to take more stamina than usual to engage with it daily. A social outing takes several days for me to recover. And by recover, I mean, I need to be alone.

Maybe because it takes too much energy to put on a face of being okay, when all I want is for someone to hold me and let me weep.

Now more than ever, I appreciate the people who let me wallow in sadness. Who are okay with just holding my hand or letting me talk about what is gone and what remains. Who don’t run away. Who don’t ask anything of me in that moment.

Ahhh.

Mainly, I get to learn to be that person for myself. It’s a process to learn to self-soothe these more intense emotions.

Today’s newsletter was a little all over the place, kind of like me.

But we showed up, and we celebrate that.

May you be tender with yourself no matter what you’re going through.

Con amor (with love),

Flor

• Bookmarking these surf retreats for one day— would you go?

• I, too, love falling down “etymological rabbit holes.”

• You might be a late bloomer.

• Tried this moisturizer this weekend and loved it. And almost finished with this divine-smelling conditioner. Also this face sunscreen is my favorite (I use Tint 1 and it blends smoothly).

Leave a comment

Thank you for reading. Feel free to subscribe or leave a comment. Means the world and I’ll respond to each one <3