The Weight of Love
4 days ago my mom was here.
From the moment I got that first reminder to pick my mom up from the airport, I knew this visit was going to be different. It wasn’t just her coming to town; it was also the constant presence of my dad through endless phone calls, each one a reminder of that familiar pressure to be more than enough. It’s a quiet battle I often find myself fighting, wondering if I’m ever truly enough.
But behind these actions, there’s love. My mom’s intentions have always been rooted in care, even if they come layered with her own struggles, her own projections, her own way of showing up. This visit was a mix of warmth and weight—a balancing act between gratitude for her presence and the heaviness of carrying our history together.
One of the highlights of our time was visiting Casa Bonita. It’s more than just a quirky Colorado landmark for me—it’s a time capsule. That visit brought me back to my childhood, to moments spent with my grandma, the joy of simpler times. It was bittersweet. Reliving those moments reminded me of what I’ve lost, but also what I still carry forward. It’s funny how spaces can hold onto people, how even years later, you can step inside and be wrapped up in a memory so vivid it almost feels like time hasn’t moved at all.
This trip left me reflecting on what it means to be both a daughter and, sometimes, a caretaker. It left me thinking about how love can feel like a weight and a gift all at once.
And maybe that’s the real work of adulthood—learning that we can grow from our parents’ experiences, their faults, and still love them deeply. That it’s okay to hold both gratitude and grief in the same breath. That it’s okay to be angry about what happened to us as children, even when we understand the people who raised us did the best they could with what they had.
I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means looking at it with open eyes, holding it tenderly, and letting it shape me without letting it define me.
