Book - Hole to Whole

I had a dream I was swimming with stingrays. I was snorkeling and saw them, it was beautiful. But, they sting. I have been thinking a lot about getting hurt. I am terrified of getting hurt romantically. I just want someone who likes me back. Not uneven. I either don't like the, or they don't like me. When they don't like me it stings. I know this is about whatever trauma or issues I had in the past that seem to be surfacing now. I was woken up with the dating on bumble. I was triggered. I was doing so good at keeping myself hidden from men. Not dating. Talking to Justin with a. distance. But, then I got feelings. I have feelings and I am scared. That's why I saw the stingrays in the water. I was at peace, I was in water feeling my emotions, I saw them from a distance. But, they still sting.  Then, I was hit by a gut in a motorcycle. This is too real. Of course it was Sergio. He hit me and I was hurt, but not too bad. he was kind and convinced me I didn't need to go ...

It's almost April. Time flies. But, I am taking advantage of the time. I am riding. I am hiking. I am meeting people. I am connecting. I am challenging myself. It's ok. I think about Samoa still, probably because I said no. It's the unknown that's intriguing. My tarot reader said to stay put so that's what I'm doing. I talked to Justin yesterday. He is comforting. He makes me laugh. He's a friend. Sergio was cute yesterday. He was without signal all day and sent me a me a voice note saying he's been thinking about me even though he hasn't written. I need that in my life. Someone who knows I'm wondering. Someone who takes communication seriously. I know it may not work out with him, but I do need that. Someone who really cares about how I might be feeling. Not like Sebas who just dropped me like a hot potato. If you are interested you show it. Period. Just keep moving. Keep trying. It's almost April. Don't let time fly.  I'm grateful f...

Patty told me she dreamed about Poppy the other night—said it was good, peaceful even. I can’t remember the last time mine felt anything like that. In my dreams, he’s always the same. Distant. Angry. Sick in a way that seeps into everything. Sometimes he doesn’t even speak—just stands there, quiet—but somehow that silence is louder than anything he ever said. It’s the kind of quiet that presses in on your chest until you can’t breathe. I wish it were different.  But maybe the truth is buried in that darkness—that I’m not as healed as I pretend to be. That forgiveness is still this jagged thing I can’t quite hold without bleeding. Because I don’t forgive him. Not really. I don’t forgive him for teaching me that I’m unlovable. That I’ll never be enough. That there’s always something wrong with me, something to fix, something to prove. I don’t forgive him for making worth feel like something I have to earn instead of something I’m allowed to have. And maybe the worst part? I still car...

Elizabeth told me to think about what I said in our last session. Jenny also flagged it—something I need to figure out. And honestly? I’ve been trying. But all I keep feeling is this gnawing ache inside—less than, smaller than, not enough. That’s it. Not enough. I know who I am. I am beautiful in my own way. I am smart. I am kind. I am successful in my career, making my way in a world that doesn’t always want to see me win. I’m a good person. I’ve seen the world, and I’ve loved the hell out of it. I’m a good sister. But even knowing all that, even feeling proud of the person I’ve become—there’s this voice. Quiet but persistent. No, I’m not enough. Not yet. I can always be more. Prettier. Funnier. Thinner. Because that’s what I learned to believe—what I was conditioned to think. Why do I feel this way? Easy answer. Papi. His criticisms—the way he watched mommy, tearing her down behind her back, and how he’d judge everyone around him. His comments about my weight, like that was all he ca...

Sometimes, I catch myself wanting to jump ship—more often than I’d like to admit. A misstep, boredom creeping in, someone’s words cutting deeper than they should, friendships unraveling, or accidentally hurting someone I care about. All of it. Any of it. The instinct is there: leave. Just go. No roots, no anchor—what difference would it make? But now I see differently. That pull to run, to escape—it’s not just about avoiding discomfort. It’s about losing something vital: community. Resilience. The strength forged in staying, in facing what’s hard, and showing up even when it’s easier to walk away. Papi did it without an anchor—more than once. When things got rough at work, he’d say, “Let’s move to Chile.” When Chile got tough, it was Florida. No confrontation, no working through the pain—just run. It’s easier, he’d say. And I took that with me. But I don’t do that anymore. I don’t run. I sit with it. That feeling, that urge to bolt—it’s familiar, rooted deep. I know where it comes from...

I dream of Papi more nights than I don’t. It’s always the same. He’s back. Not in some miracle kind of way. Just…back. He’s been sick—he always has been in the dream, but he survived it. The house smells like pine again. He's not in the greatest mood. His frustration echoes down the hallway like nothing ever tried to steal him from us. He’s not dying. That’s the strangest part. In the dream, we all know he’s sick. We see it in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the way he presses a hand to his ribs and looks angry at the mirror when he thinks no one’s looking. We worry in silence. But we treat him like he’s fine. Because he is. He’s here. Sitting at the head of the table. Teasing me about the way I eat like a rabbit. Telling me to toughen up. He’s not dead. And he’s not dying. I wake up every time with that truth clutched tight in my chest like a lifeline, until the ceiling in the apartment that's too big for me above me comes into focus and the quiet is too quiet. Reality rushes...