Hello from California! It’s been a whirlwind stretch of days! Prepping my home in Salt Lake for sublease, navigating a breakup, and driving to LA with a heart that’s both cracked and open. I’m writing this now from a tiny cabin in the Muir Woods, catching my breath. I’ll share more below! x Flor

I’ve never bargained with life to find my mom’s replacement. That would be absurd, not to mention, futile. I know that the full extent of her essence is irreplaceable.

I know that.

I knooooow that she’s gone. I want you to know that I’m not living in some fantasy.

Which is why I asked life to give me the next best thing: people who could offer different facets of the mother I had.

I like to think of my mom (and most people, really) as a prism, with all its different sides. You could turn her in any light and catch something new: tenderness, mischief, protectiveness, humor that bordered on irreverent…

She held so many colors; I’m still catching up to them. A single person could ever reflect all of that, and I don’t expect them to.

I’m not asking for her back. Not fully, at least. What I have hoped for (even clung to at times) are glimpses of her. Shards of her light refracted through other people— a voice with her same quick wit, a presence with her cariño, warmth, a turn of phrase that feels like one of her dichos, her wise sayings…

I’ve looked for mother energy in others— and with MIGHTY high expectations of finding it, mind you! But more often than not, that hope doesn’t land anywhere.

Even still, when I see an older woman, I hope she’ll call me sweetie or mija.

When I see a female family member, I hope she’ll hug me.

When someone talks about their daughters, I hope (maybe foolishly) that they see some small reflection of that love in me, too.

But more often than not, it’s a miss. It’s nobody’s fault, really. It’s just... nothing. Parts of her feel unreachable now. Like the world has no idea how to offer what she once gave so freely.

And even though I’ve named this to my brothers, my dad, close friends (thank you, thank you, thank you), the ache remains. It hums underneath everything.

I’ve been craving the kind of care my mom once gave so easily.

In her final months, at the height of her pain, she would cry out, “¡Quiero a mi mamá!” I want my mom.

It startled me every time. And if I’m honest, it hurt. I was right there, her daughter! One of the people feeding her, bathing her, offering comfort. I loved her so much it swallowed me. And still—STILL—she wanted her mom.

It felt like rejection. Her mother had been gone for decades. How could she still need her like that? I couldn’t understand it.

But now I do. Now I know what that ache is. It lives in me, too!

I don’t just miss my mom. I miss being mothered. I miss the way she could see through me and steady me. She loved me with a force that sometimes overwhelmed me, to the point where I’d pull away, meet her intensity with irritation or indifference.

Still, she kept showing up. Her love didn’t shrink or wait to be convenient. It just kept being loud and generous. And now that she’s gone, I feel the weight of knowing how much she gave, even when I couldn’t take it all in.

In Mexican Spanish, we call this tenderness, this yearning to be cared for like a child again, being chipil. It’s hard to admit that as a woman in her thirties. I should know how to self-mother by now. I should know how to stay in one piece.

Or so I thought.

What I’ve needed most was someone who could be with me, truly with me, in the present. Not through a screen. Not just to laugh or pass the time. I haven’t wanted entertainment as a distraction. I’ve mainly wanted to not be the one holding everything together.

Though I was no longer searching for my mother, I was reaching for the feeling of being cared for with steady, loving presence.

That’s what brought me to Los Angeles.

I came to visit my best friend Moni in March, needing a kind of company that felt calm and close to the bone. Moni didn’t replace what I lost. She couldn’t. But on that trip, her closeness gave me something I’ve needed deeply: care without performance, presence without pressure.

One afternoon, she half-jokingly asked, “Oh my God, what if you lived here?” and I smiled and said something like, “Yeah, that’d be nice,” knowing full well it felt impossible with my obligations at home.

In April, I went to Nashville with my other best friend, and Moni’s twin sister, Steph, and again, I felt the relief of sisterhood and friendship so nearby. Getting to stay connected with my friends from afar is wonderful, but nothing replaces having them close by.

A few days after returning from Nashville, a place opened up right next door to Moni’s. It shouldn’t have worked out, but somehow everything lined up! I even got to see my sister friend Tara and her kids the day before the drive to LA, as if life was giving me one last nudge: Go. You’re allowed to want this.

And now here I am, relishing in what I’ve needed: attention, the generosity of time, and one of my best friends as a neighbor. The chipil in me that has been aching for love feels so held right now, not only by Moni, but by the land itself.

If today is tender for you, for any reason, I'm sending love. To the mothers, to those who mother, and to anyone carrying longing or complexity on this day: I see you. Happy Mother’s Day.

For now, I’ll be relishing in the woods and the coast with my dear Moni. The land is so special here.

Con amor (with love),

Flor

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