“Qué Onda” is a Mexican Spanish phrase that translates to “what’s the wave” and is commonly used as a casual greeting meaning “what’s up?” It’s a bi-monthly publication packed with personal essays, guest chats, and curated findings.
English Voiceover:
Spanish Voiceover :
It’s been two weeks since I moved into my new place. Of all the things, it was the salmon-colored wall in my new bedroom that got to me most.
It had nothing to do with the color but rather, the daunting prospect of painting that dredged up a flood of memories of a similar scenario last year when I had just moved in with my then-partner. Back then, the walls were a stubborn dark green, and all I wanted was to feel settled, pronto.
Our clash over when to paint the apartment was, in many ways, the tipping point in a relationship that was teetering on the edge—one that eventually sank, leaving both of us scarred. Had it not been for the support of my family, close friends, and therapist during that tumultuous breakup and move-out, I would have surely drowned.
When I first faced the salmon wall at my new place, I was taken back to the night I first arrived at my parents’ house, a complete wreck. My mom had welcomed me into her arms as I came to her scared, confused, humiliated, and shattered. In that moment, I wanted nobody else’s comfort but hers.
Not long after that, as summer transitioned to autumn, her health began to decline. My losses unfolded alongside the changing seasons, as if reflecting the inevitability of things ending. As the leaves transitioned from vibrant greens to fiery oranges and reds before finally succumbing to the ground, I too was shedding in my life.
That experience is why painting my room feels less like a fresh start and more like a reminder of endings at this time. I realize now that painting was my attempt to control something—anything—in my life when everything else seemed beyond repair.
This time around, I feel invited to confront my discomfort with unfinished projects and my tendency to hastily resolve said discomfort (usually at the expense of my mental and emotional well-being).
Yeah, a salmon pink wall is bringing up all of this right now. I know, cray.
Soooo, as much as I’m tempted to just paint over it, I’m choosing to live with it. At least for now. And that decision feels right.
In a way, everything I’ve lost has sharpened my ability to pursue what truly merits my time and energy. This effort isn’t perfect, but now I’m taking more time to reflect before immediately acting, even if it means enduring discomfort for a bit longer than I’m used to.
So, though I feel the pressure to have my place fully settled, I’m shifting my focus to appreciate what I have right now—which, it turns out, is quite a lot and definitely worthy of celebration!
Living alone is a privilege that I don’t take for granted, especially given the rising cost of living. While it’s exhilarating, it’s also daunting to redefine what being alone means to me. I’m currently exploring the question: how do I sit in loneliness when I’m the only one to enjoy it?
In a way, I’m learning to fall in love with myself again. As Liz Gilbert beautifully put it, I’m practicing the art of not only tolerating my own presence but also ‘revering’ it. I’m awakening my curiosity about what I do, when I do it, and why.
So far, I’m enjoying this practice of self-discovery. It’s like coming home to myself after having ignored that inner calling for a long time.
New routines are taking shape—rollerblading a few evenings after work, going to bed early undisturbed, or practicing my singing without worrying about the noise. These are some of the joys I’m getting out living alone, and for this, I’m grateful.
The other evening, while sitting at a table at the park, I longed to call my mom and tell her that I was doing okay. Part of losing her is accepting that I may never have as big a cheerleader as my mami. I will never hear her on the other side of the phone. Never. What a harsh word in this context, isn’t it?
Overwhelmed by the reminder, I buried my face in my hands and burst into tears.
After a few minutes, I looked up. The sun was bathing the playground in warm light, and one of its rays highlighted a yellow tunnel in front of me that I hadn’t noticed before. As I stared closer, I realized that the frame around the tunnel formed the shape of wings—
It was a yellow butterfly(!), my personal symbol of reassurance. In that moment, I felt a wave of comfort amid my solitude and laughed. What a trip.
(Sigh)
So here I am, in a new place but still unpacking old memories alongside the new blossoms of spring. Grieving and celebrating. Taking it un dia a la vez, one day at a time, as my mom would say.
Next week, I’ll unpack more about living alone and introduce a special guest who knows a thing or two about life’s steep slopes—quite apropos as I gear up for a little procedure following my own downhill misadventure!
For now, here’s to being patient with the in-between (plot twist: we are always in the in-between).
Con amor (with love),
Flor
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Those little signs do make the biggest difference don’t they?