A Letter from My Kitchen (Second Class Reflections)

I didn’t grow up wanting to cook.In fact, as a kid, I hated that my grandmother Ana ran a restaurant out of our house.The kitchen was always full. People came and went. Plates never stopped.But without knowing it, she planted something in me that’s now blooming.Ana wasn’t big on words.But her way of loving was clear: she cooked, she served, she paid attention.And without realizing it, I learned the same.That love doesn’t always have to be spoken. Sometimes, it’s a hot plate placed in front of someone.That’s why, even though I’ve worked in restaurants, I never enjoyed it.When it’s forced, something in me shuts down.When it’s natural, something in me lights up.On September 19th, I took my first real cooking class.It was a gift from my wife for our anniversary.We made Mexican churros and café de olla.That day something clicked.I realized that cooking doesn’t have to be a job.It can be joy.It can be mine.And on November 1st, I taught my first cooking class.Me.Sharing what I know.Not as a chef. Not as an expert.But as someone who loves to serve and create from the heart.I like to cook freely.I don’t need to follow exact recipes.All it takes is opening the fridge and seeing what’s there—and somehow, my mind starts to mix flavors.And more often than not, it turns out delicious.That makes me proud.Knowing I can create something from scratch, just with instinct and love.Today I know that cooking is my love language.It’s my way of being vulnerable without having to say everything out loud.It’s how I connect. How I care. How I show up.I don’t need titles.All I need is a kitchen, the people I love—and the desire to give a little piece of myself in every plate.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl in Venezuela who didn’t celebrate Halloween.Sure, every now and then she saw costumes on the street, maybe a school event here and there, but for her—and most people she knew—it wasn’t really a tradition.And Día de Muertos? That wasn’t even part of her world.It sounded strange.Foreign.Maybe even dark.Definitely something “other people did.”That little girl grew up.And years later, she moved to Mexico.Unknowingly, she stepped into a country where death meant something different.Where altars weren’t scary—they were sacred.Where flowers weren’t for mourning—they were invitations.Where death wasn’t denied—it was honored.At first, she—me—didn’t get it.How could people celebrate death?How could they sing, cook, laugh, light candles for people who were… gone?But year by year, something shifted.Not all at once.Slowly—like incense smoke rising through the air.It happened as I watched the ofrendas.Smelled the pan de muerto.Heard the songs people left for their abuelas.I started to understand that this wasn’t about death at all.It was about the life that keeps echoing.Today, I celebrate Día de Muertos like it’s always been mine.I celebrate with my wife, with close friends, with people who used to be as skeptical as I was.And I don’t do it because I have to.I do it because I want to.Because it heals me.Because it reminds me that love doesn’t disappear.And that some connections keep finding their way back.I don’t need a specific day to remember the people I’ve loved.I carry them with me all the time.But this day gives me a beautiful excuse to light a candle, play a song, set out a flower.To be present.To cry, yes—but also to smile.To say: I haven’t forgotten you.And just like in the movie Coco—which people often think is just for kids—I’ve learned that as long as there’s memory, there’s presence.And that’s not scary.That’s sacred.So yes, I used to be a skeptic.Now I build my altar with pride.Because I’ve learned that celebrating the dead…is just another way of honoring life.

I think it’s okay to miss something and not want it back.In my previous relationship, my partner and I almost had a baby together. We had a miscarriage. And years later, I guess I’m still working through it.There are days I go back to the imagination I had of what my baby was going to be like. His face. His hair. His eyes, like his father’s.I pictured him as a toddler.I pictured my dynamic with him.I pictured myself trying my best to create a life for him that I didn’t have, or maybe one I would have wanted.Years later, I’m no longer in that relationship. I don’t have my baby.I’m in another relationship now, and I’m very happy.And yet I still hold the tension.I still imagine what my life would have been like if my baby had been born. The trajectory it might have taken.I can’t say I know exactly why things happen. I have my ideas, my theories. Most of them are probably coping mechanisms. Maybe some of it is divine revelation. What do I know?But on days like today, it’s like my body remembers. It feels like something was meant to be and just chose not to be.And I say “meant to be” through my own filter. Because if it really was meant to be, then he would be here, right?This is the interesting part of the human experience. We like to think in all or nothing. But it’s not always all or nothing. Sometimes it’s a little bit of everything. And sometimes it’s a whole lot of nothing.So today, I don’t miss what I used to have.But I do miss what I imagined could have been.I still wonder what it would have looked like.Am I guilty for that? Am I wrong? Is it selfish?I don’t know.What I do know is this: it’s okay to grieve even something that didn’t happen. You can grieve what your imagination hoped for. You can grieve the story your mind thought was going to unfold.Because whether I admit it or not, my body knows grief.The moment I get quiet with myself, the tears come.Like my body has been waiting all this time for me to feel it.So yeah… that’s that.That’s where I’m at today.

Life After Deconstruction: Where Do We Go Next?Lately I’ve been thinking about the reality of life after deconstruction.So what do I mean by deconstruction?It’s the process of unlearning and relearning.Of questioning what you’ve been indoctrinated with, what you grew up with.Belief systems you held as true for so long suddenly cracked open.It’s not just challenging those beliefs.It’s opening yourself to the possibility that they might not be true.Or not true in the way you thought they were.⸻Life Before DeconstructionBefore my deconstruction, I was an extremely devout Christian.And when I say devout, I mean devout.I wasn’t just a “good church girl.”I was a full-time missionary.I lived on mission. Every day.I couldn’t leave the house without feeling the weight of it.Without needing to tell someone about the gospel,about Jesus,about the kingdom of God.Gas station. Restaurant. Grocery store.Living my “ordinary” life wasn’t enough.I had to proclaim. Always.I went to seminary.I was part of a house church.I lived and breathed Christianity as I knew it then.My whole life’s purpose was to make Jesus known.Expand the kingdom. Win souls. Give my life to the “cause.”And I did.I even lived for abroad for a year, in what we called at the time an “unreached people group.”Learning the language. Immersing in the culture.Doing the work.That year changed my life.In beautiful ways, encounters with people I’ll never forget.And in painful ways, because it was there that the seeds of deconstruction were planted.⸻When It Started CrackingLiving inside the machine of missions,I saw the other side of it too.The superiority.The domination.The subtle (and not-so-subtle) control.The imposition of “truth” at the expense of humanity.And I couldn’t unsee it.So when I came back, I started questioning.It wasn’t overnight. It was years.Years of unraveling.Years of pulling at threads.Years of stepping away.From church.From reading the Bible religiously (even though I’d read it cover to cover more than five times).I realized: the Word is in me.In my heart. In my body. In my nervous system.And church?It’s not bound to a building.Not even bound to a religion.Church is love in action.⸻What Deconstruction Cost MeAs I challenged what I once believed defined me, everything changed.My friends shifted.My environment shifted.My sense of self shifted.Because here’s the reality.We humans tend to only accept people who look, think, act, and believe like we do.We struggle to hold duality with compassion.To hold tension with grace.So when you stop fitting, whether consciously or unconsciously, you get pushed out.Or you isolate yourself.It’s not about blame.It’s just reality.⸻The “What Now?”So what’s the point of this blog?It’s that I’m here now, stuck in the what now?What do you do when you gave your whole life to something,and then realized you can’t give it the same way anymore?What do you do when your whole purpose was expanding the kingdom of God,and now you’re working a 9 to 5, paying bills,trying to care for yourself…but it doesn’t feel sufficient?For years I told myself, deny yourself, deny your flesh, care only about the kingdom.But the truth is: I care.I care about where I live.I care about my quality of life.I care about my health.I care about prosperity.I care about succeeding.And is God so narcissistic that He hates that I care?That He only wants me to care about Him?The answer is no.⸻A New WayIt’s taken me years to realize this.To love my neighbor, I must love myself.To care for others, I must care for myself.To have empathy and compassion for the world,I must first have empathy and compassion for me.It’s all connected.It’s not separate.⸻Still SearchingBut I’m still here.Asking: Where do I go next?Where do all of us go,the kids, the teens, the adults,who gave our whole fucking lives to the gospel?How do we live now?How do we carry purpose?How do we still feel like our lives matter beyond ourselves?Because that matters to me.My life mattering to humanity, it matters to me.⸻The Question I Can’t ShakeSo this is where I’m at.How can I live in balance?Not building God’s kingdom at the expense of having no kingdom for myself.Not building my kingdom at the expense of ignoring God.But both.Purposeful and prosperous.A life that is sacred and sustainable.How do I do that?I don’t have the answer.Maybe this is a cry for help.Maybe it’s just me venting.But maybe the answers will come simply because I’ve finally started asking.Where do I go next?

What Does Belonging Really Mean?Book club the other night.We were talking about Brené Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection.Shame.Perfectionism.The loops we get stuck in.And then—belonging.A prompt was given regarding belonging.And before I knew it, the words came out of my mouth:What is belonging?Who actually feels like they belong anywhere?I wasn’t saying it from pity.Not from victimhood.Just truth.The truth that most days—I don’t know if I belong anywhere.Not fully.I’ve had moments.Glimpses.Places, people, flashes of time—but not a steady, whole-bodied belonging.And here’s the wild part:it’s not even about rejection.No one’s pushing me out.Still, in the middle of the circle,I find myself feeling like I don’t belong.One of the women suddenly said:“Not feeling like you belong anywhere is a shame response.”And damn…I think she’s right.Because how many times have I felt awkward in a room,out of place in a conversation—and my immediate conclusion is:I don’t belong here.Who told me that belonging had to mean perfect ease?Who told me that the second discomfort shows up, belonging leaves the room?The more I think about it—maybe “I don’t belong” has been one of my protectors.A way to run before rejection has the chance to catch me.A shield I throw up when I’m uncomfortable,so I don’t have to risk the possibility of being unwanted.And yet—there’s another part of me.The part that believes belonging can be bliss.The part that whispers there is a placewhere connection doesn’t break,authenticity isn’t rationed,and relationship is the air you breathe.Call it heaven.Call it eternity.Call it whatever you want.But my spirit believes in a belonging that doesn’t fracture.A belonging that nothing can take away.So maybe both are true.Maybe shame convinces me I don’t belong here. Maybe Spirit reminds me I belong to something bigger.And maybe the work is learning how to hold both. To keep showing up in imperfect spaces, while still longing for the daywhen belonging will feel like bliss.So I’ll leave you with this:When you feel like you don’t belong, why is that?Who gave you your definition of belonging?Is it actually yours?And do you still want to carry it?Or is it time to rewrite what belonging means for you?With love,ADL

There was a time when I put anything and everything into my body.I ate whatever.Drank like crazy.Lived like my body had no limits.And when I migrated, it only got worse.Mexico was chaos—spicy food, processed meals, long nights, drugs, no routine.Then I came to the U.S.… and kept going.And we like to believe the body “gets used to it.”But the truth is: it doesn’t.The body just holds on—until it can’t anymore.Mine shut down.In the middle of all of it—immigration, emotional overload, stress, imbalance—I was diagnosed with lupus.And that’s when I was forced to stop.I had to face myself.And admit I’d been mistreating my body for years.That it’s not normal to be tired all the time.That it’s not normal to live inflamed, anxious, in pain.Now, I don’t lie to myself anymore.I don’t use chemicals.I choose clean products, intentional food.And yes—it’s more expensive.Yes—I miss the convenience sometimes.But I’d rather have the health I’m finally starting to reclaim.It hasn’t been easy.Since I was little, I’ve struggled with my body.Always feeling like I never quite got to where I wanted to be physically.Only once in my life did I hit what I thought was my “ideal weight.”The rest of the time, it’s been a war. With myself.Now? I’m choosing balance.Not extremes. Not excuses. Just awareness.Because caring for my body isn’t a trend.It’s how I stop hurting myself.And this… is the start of that commitment.