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Back in May 2025, I was sitting with a group of mom friends, gathered around a table with a pitcher of margaritas between us. We’ve built a tradition of getting together about once a quarter—to unwind, to connect, and to celebrate the work of being a mother. I always look forward to these nights. On this particular evening, the conversation moved easily between our kids, their sports teams, and the rhythms of everyday life. And then, in the middle of it, one of the women shared that she was raped when she was 12. There were five other women at the table.But in that moment, it felt like a spotlight had been turned directly on me. I felt exposed. Without thinking, I quickly shifted the conversation. I redirected us to something safer—something lighter. I started talking about the importance Jose and I place on having sex positive conversations with our children. The conversation moved on. But I didn’t. Even as we talked about other things, my mind stayed with what she had said—and more than that, how  she had said it. It didn’t feel like a confession. A confession carries shame. It’s something you admit when you believe you’ve done something wrong. It asks for forgiveness. This was different. She stated it as a fact. A truth about her life. Unfortunate, yes—but not something that held power over her in that moment. She said it with a kind of clarity and conviction that stayed with me long after the night ended. Driving home, I kept replaying the moment—her words, and my reaction. Why had I changed the subject so quickly? At first, I told myself I was protecting her. I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t it. I was protecting myself. And everyone else at the table. Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that as women, it is our job to keep the peace. To make others feel comfortable. To smooth over the hard edges of conversation. In my mind, topics like sexual assault (and especially the word rape) were not meant to be spoken about openly. They lived in a kind of invisible bubble—something to be discussed quietly, carefully, behind closed doors. But when she spoke those words out loud, she popped that bubble. She took the weight out of the silence. She opened a door. Because what that moment really said was: I’m here. All of me. And there is space here for all of you, too. At a table where we were sharing the realities of motherhood and womanhood, she made room for the full truth of our lives—not just the polished, comfortable parts. This is what feels so important about that moment to me. We are just beginning to teach our children—especially our daughters—the power of calling things by their name. We teach them the correct anatomical terms for their bodies. Not to be clinical—but to be clear. Because language creates ownership. And ownership creates power. When we stop whispering, avoiding, or hiding the hard parts of our stories, something shifts. We begin to say, collectively: We are not afraid to talk about this. We are not going to carry this in silence. And we are not going to leave people to hold these experiences alone. As parents, we often believe that keeping our children safe means watching them closely—monitoring, protecting, preventing. But I’m beginning to believe something else is just as important, if not more: We need to nurture their voices. We need to show them that their truth is allowed to be spoken—fully and without apology. We need to model that the comfort of others is not the sole responsibility of women. Our voices matter. That night in May stayed with me. In many ways, it became the beginning of a decision I would spend months sitting with. Because sharing my own story publicly didn’t happen on a whim. For most people, it may have felt sudden. For me, it was the result of nearly a year of reflection, questioning, and quiet preparation. I went back and forth. I asked myself why I would do something so personal, so public. And I needed to be clear on the answer. The answer is this: Our stories matter. All of them. Even the hard ones. Especially the hard ones. My hope in sharing my story is not to center the pain. It is to create a bridge. A bridge for someone else to feel less alone. A bridge for someone else to find their voice. A bridge that leads back to the truth that there is space for all of us—exactly as we are. There is a seat at the table for all of you. Con Amor, Elena

The other night I was looking for a new photo to post on my LinkedIn account, and before I knew it I had fallen down a familiar rabbit hole—scrolling through old photos and videos of my kids. My eyes filled with tears as I watched videos of my now-teenagers and tween toddling around the house with baby food smeared across their faces, riding their bikes for the first time, dancing wildly in our living room, or sleeping peacefully during long afternoon naps. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. In fact, it’s one of my favorite rituals at the end of the night—revisiting those warm memories of their childhood. Looking back makes me feel grateful for the life we’ve built together. But it also brings a deep sense of nostalgia. I sometimes long for those days when they were tiny and the world felt a little slower. As I kept scrolling, I came across a video I recorded in 2017 when I first started vlogging. In the video I was explaining why I needed to start recording my thoughts. With three young kids, I barely had time to sit down and write in my journal the way I used to before they were born. Then I kept scrolling. Video after video appeared—moments of me standing at the beginning of something new. Teaching my first Zumba class. Trying acting. Launching new ventures. Starting graduate school… twice. In every video I looked bright-eyed and hopeful. Excited about the journey ahead. Each video captured the same moment. Day one. And then, unexpectedly, I felt a wave of sadness. I started thinking about all the things I had begun but never carried all the way through. If you asked me now, I could probably give you a reasonable explanation for each one—why I stepped away, why I pivoted, why I chose a different direction. But there are no videos of those moments. No recordings of the quiet days when the excitement faded or the path changed. I found myself wondering why. Maybe it’s because the light doesn’t disappear all at once. It fades slowly, almost imperceptibly, until one day you realize you’ve moved on. But as I sat there with that mix of sadness and curiosity, another thought came to me. Here I am again. Day one. Standing at the beginning of another adventure. And that made me wonder: how many Day Ones do we get in a lifetime? That’s when something shifted in the way I was thinking about all those old videos. I couldn’t do the work I do today if I had never taught that first Zumba class. I couldn’t talk about rejection if I hadn’t gone to acting school. I couldn’t speak about pivoting in life if I hadn’t walked away from graduate school. What once looked like a collection of unfinished paths suddenly began to look like something else entirely. Pieces of a puzzle. At the time, each piece seemed separate and incomplete. But now I can see that they were always part of something larger—shaping who I am becoming and how I will serve in the world. And the truth is, we’re not finished with the puzzle until our very last days. We keep adding pieces. Rearranging them. Discovering new images hidden within the bigger picture. Looking back at all those videos—those moments where I dared to try something new, to imagine more for my life—I realized something important: I have never given up on myself. Every new attempt has helped me grow. Even the things I once labeled as failures gave me another piece of understanding about who I am and what matters to me. I wish more people could see their lives this way. Everything we try, everything we create, every risk we take becomes part of the larger picture of our lives. And even when we’re no longer here, that picture doesn’t disappear. It becomes woven into the stories of the people we touched and the world we helped shape. I think many women — especially mothers — experience more “Day Ones” than we talk about. Careers pause, identities shift, priorities evolve. We reinvent ourselves quietly while raising families, building businesses, and figuring out who we are becoming. Maybe those restarts aren’t signs that we failed. Maybe they’re signs that we’re growing. So my message to you is simple: Keep going. Keep growing.  Keep creating.  Keep making mistakes.  Keep telling your story. Because your story matters. And in more ways than you might realize, your story becomes part of mine too. I believe in you. Con Amor, Elena

Why is it so hard to be at the beginning of something? Maybe that’s why so many of us stay in jobs longer than we should. Or remain in routines, habits, or relationships that no longer feel right. The familiar—even when it’s uncomfortable—can feel easier than the vulnerability of starting over. Being new is awkward. Exposing. Humbling. And I should know. I’ve been new many, many times. Every time I walk into a new room—whether it’s a class, a professional space, or a community—I have the same instinct: sit in the back. Stay quiet. Hide a little so no one asks what I’m doing there. Because if they do, I might have to explain all the other times I’ve started something new. There’s something comforting about staying in one place long enough to become the expert. The person people come to for answers. The one who knows how things work. When I briefly worked in tech, I learned a term they used often: SME , pronounced “smee.” It stands for Subject Matter Expert. I never became an SME in tech—I realized quickly that the work wasn’t for me. But later, in real estate, I did. I spent more than six years in that profession. I became the person people called when they needed advice, guidance, or resources. I genuinely enjoyed that role. It felt good to be someone others could count on. But even as a real estate “SME,” something inside me kept whispering that I wasn’t fully aligned with what I was doing. So eventually, I did what I seem to do again and again in my life. I jumped ship. I stepped away from the familiar and walked straight back into the unknown. Which means… here I am again. At the beginning. Now, I’ve been here before, and one thing I know for sure is this: the discomfort of being new never fully goes away. But I’ve learned that I can survive it. I won’t die from being the least experienced person in the room. Recently, I had another reminder of what it feels like to be a beginner. A few weekends ago, I went skiing with my family. It was only the second time I had ever been on skis, so I spent the entire day on the bunny slopes. As I slid down the hill at what felt like lightning speed—doing my best to stay upright—I noticed something funny. Toddlers. Lots of them. Tiny little snow warriors confidently cruising down the same slope… sometimes even passing me. And there I was, a grown adult trying to remember which way to lean and how to stop without falling over. But the surprising thing was that I didn’t feel embarrassed. I didn’t feel discouraged. Instead, I felt something else entirely: the thrill of doing something new. It reminded me that being a beginner doesn’t always have to feel intimidating. Sometimes we’re so captivated by what we’re learning that it doesn’t even matter that we don’t fully know what we’re doing yet. And maybe that’s part of the magic. What I’ve also learned about being new is this: the fastest way to become less new is to surround yourself with two kinds of people—those who are learning alongside you and those who have already walked the path. In other words, you need both newbies and SMEs  in your life. But here’s the hard part. Walking into a room full of experts can be terrifying. More than once I’ve listened to someone talk about what they’re building or creating and felt a wave of intimidation wash over me. The kind that makes you want to quietly slip out of the room before anyone notices. As a mother, I’m used to being the expert. At home, I’m the one with answers. The one solving problems. The one everyone turns to. But in these new spaces—these rooms where I’m stretching myself—I’m the beginner again. I’m the one asking questions. I’m the one learning. And if I’m honest, that can be a blow to the ego. Watching people do the very things you hope to learn can make it feel like you’ll never get there. Like everyone else is miles ahead. But the truth is this: being bad at something is often the first step toward becoming good at it. No one loves that part. It’s uncomfortable. Humbling. Sometimes even discouraging. But it’s also how growth works. What makes the process easier—what makes it survivable—is finding the right kind of room. A room filled with people who are learning. A room filled with people who remember what it felt like to be new. A room where experts are generous with what they know. A room where encouragement is louder than comparison. The right room doesn’t make you feel small. It makes you feel possible. And if you’re standing at the beginning of something right now—feeling awkward, unsure, or intimidated—I hope you remember this: Everyone you admire was once the person sitting quietly in the back of the room. New. Learning. Wondering if they belonged there. And maybe the bravest thing we can do is stay in the room anyway. So if you’re at the beginning of something right now, take heart. Stay curious. Stay open. And keep going—you might just surprise yourself with what you’re capable of learning next.

I’ll be honest: I don’t always love the names of my podcast episodes. If I could go back, I probably would have named Episode 40 something different. I’ve gotten into the habit of naming the show only after I finish editing, hoping the title will “reveal” itself. But when I’m editing late at night and naming the episode is the one thing standing between me and finally hitting publish, sometimes I just grab the first halfway-decent idea that pops up. And so we ended up with the title: “Good Grief: Navigating grief with compassion and honesty.” The phrase good grief  stuck with me—not in a comforting way, but in a slightly ironic, almost satirical way. It felt too light for something so heavy. I kept asking myself: What is good about grief?  The obvious answer felt like: nothing. But then another truth surfaced: what if the point isn’t to judge our emotions as “good” or “bad” at all? Letting Emotions Be What They Are That, in many ways, is what this episode explores — the practice of letting emotions arise naturally and meeting them without judgment. Grief isn’t inherently good or bad; it just is . It’s the emotional imprint of a life event that shakes us, shapes us, and asks us to move through it with as much honesty as we can. And let me be clear: I’m not claiming to be an expert on grief or depression. In fact, I’m sure there’s more I need to learn from people far more knowledgeable than me. I’m simply sharing what I’m walking through in real time because I believe these conversations matter. For me, choosing not to judge my emotions has created more space for all of them — the heavy, the tender, the confusing, the beautiful. Instead of shutting down feelings the moment they appear, I’m learning to let them move through me. Letting Myself Be Human, Even When Others Are Watching The other day, a friend called me just before I was about to pick up my son and two of his friends. We talked about my recent loss, and I could feel that familiar tightness in my throat. For a split second, I thought about hitting the EXIT button and collecting myself before stepping into “mom mode.” But then something inside me said, It’s okay if they see you being human. So I stayed on the phone. I wrapped her warm words around my heart and wept. I wouldn’t have hesitated to cry if they had been tears of laughter or joy. But sadness? We tend to hide that one. Maybe it’s vulnerability. Maybe it’s conditioning. Maybe it’s wanting to look “together” for the people who rely on us. Truthfully, this wasn’t the first time I’ve tried to hide my sadness. I’ve done the quiet bathroom cry more than once. And sure, my family has seen me cry before — but usually at the “appropriate” moments: at a funeral, after a sad movie, during a meaningful goodbye. Somewhere along the line, my mommy training has taught me I that emotions should be compartmentalized, neatly tucked away until a socially acceptable window opens. But grief doesn’t care about scheduling. And as it turns out, when the boys climbed into the car, not one of them even noticed. They’re 14-year-old boys, after all. The Gift This Loss Has Given Me Strangely — and tenderly — the best gift this loss has given me is permission. Permission to cry when I need to. Permission to feel deeply without apologizing. Permission to show up as a full human being, not just the curated version of myself. I believe that’s a gift to my husband and especially to my children, too. The more I allow my emotions to be seen, the more I create space for theirs. I used to worry about overwhelming them with “adult emotions.” But if anyone is naturally connected to their feelings, it’s children. By hiding my sadness, I was hiding a part of myself — a part they deserve to know. I never want my children to think they must shrink or hide their own feelings to make others comfortable. Being honest about what I’m feeling helps them know me more. And in a way, it helps me know me more too. So, circling back to the title of Episode 40: while I still might rename it if I could, I’m seeing it differently now. This grief has, in its own complicated way, been good  for me. It has opened my heart, strengthened my relationships, and helped me understand myself more clearly. That’s what this season is teaching me. If You’re Moving Through Grief Too If you’re navigating loss — or simply navigating being human — I hope you’ll listen to the full conversation in this week’s episode. I recorded it with honesty, tenderness, and a desire to walk alongside anyone feeling something big right now. 💛 Listen to Episode 40: “Good Grief: Navigating grief with compassion and honesty” (click here) Thank you for being here. Truly.Feel what you feel. Let it move through you. And know that you’re not alone.

I honestly cannot remember the moment I thought - " Hey, I think I'm going to publish a podcast!"  If you've listened to any of my podcasts, specifically the one titled "Why I'm Such a Quitter", you may have learned that sometimes I get a brilliant idea (at least I think it's brilliant) and I go in guns blazing toward whatever project I'm envisioning, only to have it fizzle out a short time later. Despite the fact that I can't remember the exact moment this project came into my mind, I just can't stop thinking about it. I've been a writer for as long as I've been able to write and I started vlogging as a time saving way to stay on top of my ponderings after I had children. I guess from that view point, it makes sense that I would want to publish out into the world some of my curious musings. At first this really just started as a fun creative thing to do. I recorded episodes in my small home office and edited them in between the kids' bath times and school drop offs. When pandemic hit, I reprioritized my time and put away this fun "pastime" to focus on surviving the shelter in place. At the time I told myself, " well, this was just a for fun project anyway, I can put it away." The problem is, this podcast has lived in my mind and heart for the past five years. During this five year break, I have continued to write, journal, tell stories, and vlog, but I haven't published anything. This "fun project" started to feel less like a pastime, and more like a calling. What I've come to realize, perhaps from pandemic or the current mass illegal deportations, is the power of telling stories, highlighting truths, and breaking open silences about the human experience. This world feels so divided right now, and it has felt like that for so long. The divisions we create between one another, the huge chasms the exist between us are all illusions. The more silent we become about the truth of who we are; our struggles, our dreams, our lives, the more we perpetuate this illusion of separation. The truth is we are all so connected to one another. The simple truth of living on this planet together inextricably links us in ways that are hard to imagine, but impossible to deny. I feel called to tell my stories, the funny ones, the sad ones, the embarrassing ones, the hard ones. I feel called to learn more stories, because for me, learning other stories helps me to not only learn more about myself, but it helps me to learn more about the world. Looking out our windows it's not hard to find anger, hatred, and violence so fierce it can be overwhelming and hard to understand. A sense of community comes from stories about people who are like us and compassion and understanding lives within stories from people who are nothing like us. All of these delicate, and truthful stories told out loud become the threads that bring us together; challenging misconceptions, reinforcing values, and providing information that has the power to mobilize. That's what this space is. It's a space to listen, to learn, and to speak all of our truths Out Loud in the hopes that our colorful and diverse stories will shed light onto the darkest parts of the World. Here's to your stories and mine. Impact-Site-Verification: 97912a16-a48c-4845-a815-139c48294ef2 xoxox, Elena