So, L.A. was a bust. Well, okay, not necessarily. Basically, I came to the conclusion that moving was an error. It was a decision based on emotions felt at a low point in my life. And after giving up my apartment, job prospects and personal relationships, I felt that the move was something I HAD to go through with. Something that was expected of me. Which is obviously where I went wrong. Oh, and going for absolutely no reason other than wanting to “wing it” was also not the brightest idea. My delusions of grandeur got way too big, even for me.
I guess I came to my LOST-esque WE HAVE TO GO BACK moment on day four of my 10-day road trip. I was emotional, crying every hour on the hour and not at all excited for what was ahead. My anxiety was the opposite of “on fleek.” I was miserable. My uncle (aka my road trip partner) was extremely concerned and even offered to turn around once we hit Austin. But I’m a stubborn baby bitch and I decided to forge ahead. After driving through the New Mexico desert with no service or other voices clouding my judgment, I realized that I belonged back in Miami.
Now, it’s a matter of starting over. Rebuilding. Getting back to “the old me.” Pero like a way better version of the old me. One that doesn’t make impulsive decisions. One that doesn’t pay attention to other people’s expectations. One that doesn’t drown in negative feels.
But, every experience comes with a major lesson. And this faux move made me so damn thankful for everything I have. For friends and family that ride or die with me and my unique brand of cray cray. And for this magical, beautiful city that is more than just my home. It’s my heart.
I realize that I’m a few days removed from Mother’s Day for a post dedicated to the baddest bitch I know, but I find that holiday to be un poquito bootleg anyhow. Don’t think that I’m not utterly obsessed with the woman that birthed and raised me. Quite the opposite, actually. EVERY day should be one in which she is celebrated, played only the finest Pitbull songs and treated to Miami’s best croquetas.
So, when one of my favorite writers/women/humans wrote an ode to her “vieja” on Tumblr, I had to follow suit with a dedication of my own.
My original ride or die, Momma Duarte had me eight days after her 18th birthday. It’s an important fact to note since being a teen mom is no easy feat. Even less when you have to raise the kid on your own. The absence of my father never bothered me though. To me, it was normal. Sure, other kids had two parents, but I felt like I did too. Because moms kept me swagged out in the hottest Disney gear. Sent me on every single school field trip with the most enviable Lunchable. Bought me that fancy hot pink Motorola Razr. And never let me feel like I was going without.
Aside from material things, I got so much more from my mom. For starters, my sick dance moves (although, her attempts to teach me salsa and bachata have failed throughout the years). My sass, class… and ass. My hustle. My appreciation for Willy Chirino’s greatest hits. But, most importantly, she has given me her blind support. I want to move to L.A.? She’s there cheering me on (and calling dibs on almost all my possessions). I want a 305 tattoo to ~stay close to my roots~? She’s asking if she can come with. I have an improv show that I know she won’t fully understand? She’s sitting there and laughing at everything I say. She’s kinda sorta the best freaking person I know.
So, if you’re lucky enough to have a mom like mine, don’t just give her flowers on some random day out of the year. Smother her with affection, ALWAYS. At least call her once a day. Cook HER some empanadas for a change. After all, this woman deserves it. She’s been dealing with some form of your bitchassness for years.