TBT- Yet, here we are again...
Today, I offer a return, a TBT to something I wrote on June 3, 2020—words that feel eerily relevant today, "Let us heal"
This week, I find myself in a familiar ache—a weight that echoes across years, movements, and the deep, tender places in our collective body. The fear of funding cuts, though not fully realized, is a chilling reminder of how fragile care, dignity, and survival are in systems that prioritize power over people. Meanwhile, fires rage in LA, ICE continues its violence, and the world grieves the unthinkable brutality in Gaza. It is a time of unraveling, a time where suffering and unsustainable leadership are on full display, revealing how deeply our wounds are connected.
As we enter the Year of the Snake—a time of shedding, renewal, and transformation—I find myself wondering: how do we shed when our bodies are bracing against so much? How do we heal when harm is ongoing? The snake asks us to release what no longer serves, to transcend old patterns, and to step into who we are meant to be. But how do we rise when the weight of it all keeps pulling us under?
Today, I offer a return, a TBT to something I wrote on June 3, 2020—words that feel eerily relevant today. In that moment, as now, the world was crying out for justice, for breath, for liberation. And yet, there was something else present, too: the knowing that we are more than what we endure. We are capable of breaking cycles, of tending to each other, of demanding more.
So I ask again: What can change? What must change?
We are still here—still crying out to heal, still watching systems fail the people they were never built to hold. Still witnessing the burning—of land, of lives, of possibility. Still bearing witness to the weight of grief and injustice, to the aching gap between those who deny these wounds and those who give everything to heal them.
When will these two ends meet? When will we come together instead of apart?
As we step deeper into the Year of the Snake, we enter a time that calls us to release what no longer serves and to rise into something new. The snake teaches us to shed the skins that bind us, to embrace transformation, and to live with greater wisdom. But how do we shed when the wounds keep opening? How do we rise when the weight of it all feels unbearable?
There is no single answer. But we begin by naming it. By feeling it. By refusing to turn away.
So, here it is—an offering from then, for now. May it be a mirror. May it be a light. May it be a reminder that nothing will change until we choose to change it.
—June 3, 2020 / January 2025
Let Us Heal, originally written on June 3rd, 2020:
Sitting here, doing my best to keep my head and heart steady and aligned—a gentle reminder that this practice of simply being with it all allows what once seemed impossible to become within reach, one deep, steady breath at a time.
Yesterday, I detached from social media to honor the blackout for justice in the name of George Floyd, and all those lost to violence and injustice. Yet, my mind swirled with anger, ideas, and a constant voice chanting in my head and heart:
Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Oh, please, let us heal.
We cannot heal when we are not heard.
So many of us live our entire lives without ever being given the opportunity to speak, let alone be heard.
My head, heart, and soul cannot take this anymore.
We must be heard.
We must heal.
We must hold space for the stories that live within our bodies and for the stories that reach beyond our skin, expanding into another.
Each one valid.
Each one necessary.
Each one crucial.
So we can heal.
For if we do not, the cycles of destruction, disconnection, and delusion will prevail.
We have been here too long—longer than most are willing to admit. Enough is enough. Let us heal. Let us feel. Let us move this sacred rage into purpose, creation, and truth. Let us transcend discomfort into something purposeful, so we can do the one thing we are truly here to do: heal humanity by healing ourselves and sharing that with everyone who lives and breathes.
I am angry.
I am frustrated.
I am sad.
People are dying.
In the mix of it all, my throat contracts with silence, and my sacred rage swallows itself in shame.
As someone with both color and privilege in my blood, I feel conflicted—unsure where I can stand, questioning how loudly I can speak my truth.
Where do I fit? Where do I belong? How do I express my truth?
I am the daughter of a white woman and a Hispanic-Indigenous man.
I am a blend of many colors and shades, and I’ve often been asked, “What are you?”
The sacred rage I feel after hearing that question is another story for another time. But know that this baggage was with me long before I understood it. It takes me back to my 2nd-grade self—when I first learned the hard lesson that I do not belong.
I grew up in a small, predominantly white agricultural village, where, up until second grade, I had no idea that I was different. At seven or eight years old, I learned that I did not fit in the suffocating boxes society and culture have created. I became the outsider, the outlier, the outraged.
I still remember the terror I felt in my small body when the teacher asked us to raise our hands for a census or a test. I raised mine, proudly, identifying myself as Hispanic. But when I looked around, I realized that I was the only one with my arm raised. All eyes were on me.
There was a pause.
In that pause, a realization: I am different.
At that age, I didn’t have the words to express what I was feeling—the discomfort in my belly and chest. So, like many of us do, I swallowed it. I buried that feeling deep inside me, and in doing so, I allowed that seed of difference to take root in my psyche. It grew, and it led me to pick on myself with my hands and nails, creating anxiety and fear—things I didn’t understand at the time, but now recognize as self-preservation, an attempt to conform to the town's culture.
As a child, I didn’t know I was experiencing prejudice, even if it was subtle. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. But I felt it. And today, my hope is that by sharing this, I can begin to uproot that toxic seed of separation and heal.
Being a blend of brown and white has always been confusing.
It breaks my heart to admit that, for much of my life, I distanced myself from my Garcia roots, dimming the brilliance of my light because of the shame that surrounded my identity.
Before big tests, when it came time to fill in those little bubbles on a scantron, I would ask my mom, "Do I really have to check the Hispanic box?"
In those moments, I felt a deep panic, an overwhelming sense of shame—why? Because society labeled it that way? Because I labeled it that way? We start to believe we are wrong, bad, or unworthy because of the damaging idea of not belonging.
This baggage has stayed with me. And only recently, in the wake of another black life lost, did I connect my present self to that second-grade self. I realized I’ve been picking at myself ever since—the hands, the nails, the self-doubt, the shame.
I am ready to stop doing that. I can finally dig up the pain and let it go—not just for me, but for every child who has ever felt the weight of not belonging, every adult who still carries that wound.
Let us heal.
For most of my life, I ran from my Garcia side.
And now, at 33, after losing both of my parents and learning about their lives, I feel the pull to disconnect from my whiteness, to run far away from the harm and hate it carries. One part of me has been harming the other, and I see how that disconnect has played out in my life.
This is the work of healing.
I come from two people who had to fight to survive, regardless of the color of their skin. I come from two people whose hearts, souls, and immense capacity for love and forgiveness allowed them to endure their stories and give birth to mine.
I am their dream. And they are mine.
They are here with me, and together, we get to heal.
So as much as I want to hide from one half of me and embrace the other, I cannot.
I am the blend of beauty, possibility, and potential—along with toxicity, harm, and hate. My work is in nurturing the beauty, transcending the darkness.
I think about my second-grade self and all the second graders out there suffering in silence. The adults who are still struggling to align head and heart because society has misaligned us.
I think about the second graders today, watching the news, hearing stories of black and brown bodies being murdered, seeing people harmed because of the color of their skin, and witnessing the ones who should care turning away or perpetuating harm.
I think about my parents as their second-grade selves, wondering what they were processing and whether their reality ever hindered their imagination of something better.
I look back only to heal what pulls me back. I cannot stay there. I walk forward with purpose, asking that wisdom meets me where I am.
I walk through these flames of transcendence and transformation, my pain as my purpose, my wounds as my service. I exist as I am—perfectly imperfect in my blend of all that is and all that I can be.
I call on my ancestors, asking for healing to be placed upon them as well.
Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Let us heal.
Harmed people harm people.
Destruction feeds destruction.
Illusion leads to illusion.
We are the ones who must break the bondage of separation and judgment. We can only do it one way—softly, sweetly, swiftly cutting the cords that pull us apart.
This is the work of love and yoga in action.
I ask, so kindly: May we be the ones to dig up the bondage and hold space for the stories that await to be heard.
For who we are today.
For who we want to be tomorrow.
I am ready.
I am willing.
Let us heal
Let us heal.
Let us heal.
How Will We Do This Work—and Do It Together?
If this is the work—of healing, of dismantling harm, of reclaiming wholeness in our bodies, hearts, and communities—then the first step is simply to show up. We must show up for ourselves, each other, and the world we long to see.
To do this work, we need to listen deeply—both to the pain and to the hope that exists within and around us. We need to create spaces where vulnerability isn’t feared but embraced, where love is the driving force, and where justice is more than an ideal—it is an active, embodied practice.
We must be willing to witness the pain, but not let it define us. We must stand in solidarity with those who are marginalized and oppressed, choosing empathy and collective care over division and fear. We are not separate in this—we are all woven into the same fabric of existence. The healing of one is the healing of all.
And what if the courage to do this work is within us all? The root of the word "courage" comes from the Latin cor, meaning "heart." In its earliest form, courage meant to speak one's mind by telling all of one's heart. This is what the work asks of us—to speak from the truth of our hearts, from the depths of our souls, even when the world feels overwhelming, even when we feel the weight of it all.
The heaviness, the cracks, the grief—what if these are not signs of defeat but invitations? What if all that we carry is an offering to crack us open and lead us back to our own corazón, to our heart’s center, to our courage? Perhaps the cries of this lifetime—the ones that stir us deeply, that weigh us down—are also calling us into a deeper truth, a deeper understanding, a deeper healing.
Healing requires us to allow this courage to be spoken, to be shared, to be shed, and to be healed. In the same way that the Year of the Snake beckons us to shed our old skins, we too are invited to release what no longer serves us—our fears, our wounds, our walls—and step into the fullness of who we are. To speak from the heart, to speak with courage, is to embrace the possibility of transformation, not just for ourselves, but for the collective.
Together, we must speak up, stand firm, and offer each other the grace of learning and unlearning. We must teach and lead with love, acknowledging our shared history of pain while daring to dream of a world where every heart is seen, valued, and free.
So let’s start where we are—with ourselves, with each other. Let’s heal, not in isolation, but together, with intention, commitment, and unwavering faith in the power of collective transformation. This is our call to action—this is the work. And it’s the work we must do, not tomorrow, but today. It’s the courage of our hearts that will light the way.
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