What Does Belonging Really Mean?

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.

What Kind of God Do You Believe In?This morning I woke up thinking about something an old mentor, someone who felt more like a spiritual mother once told me.It was during a deeply sensitive season of my life: the first time I came out of the closet. At the time, I was part of a modern Christian denominational church in South Florida. I was maybe two or three years into being actively involved—serving, holding leadership positions, participating in programs.Somewhere along the way, I met a girl at college. We became friends. And over a few months, I fell in love with her. The problem? I had a boyfriend at the time. The “ideal Christian couple” boyfriend. The one who made sense in that world. Ending things with him was difficult—not because I didn’t know what I wanted, but because I knew what choosing her would mean.The church I was in was not inclusive. This was going to be controversial, problematic, and costly. Still, I decided to come out.One of the first people I told was my mentor. We weren’t far apart in age, but she had played a huge role in my life. She was “discipling” me: meeting with me regularly, teaching me “the ways of Jesus” according to her understanding.I told her I was in love with this girl. That I was going to be with her.Her response marked me forever:God would still love me… but I would no longer be blessed.Because I was “disobedient,” I would no longer be under God’s umbrella of protection.And because of that disobedience, she no longer wanted to disciple me. “What’s the point of investing in you in other areas,” she said, “if you’re going to be disobedient in this one?”In that moment, I lost her. I lost the relationship. And I absorbed her words deep into my nervous system, my body, my soul.Now, 12 years later, part of me wishes I could go back and rescue that 19-year-old girl from believing them. But I have no regrets—because every moment, even the painful ones, led me here.Still, I’ve asked myself over and over: Why was it so easy for me to accept what she said? Why did it make sense to me at the time that God could love me, yet choose not to bless or protect me?I think I know the answer now.A Conditional God Feels FamiliarWhen I came into Christianity, I went deep. In many ways, it saved my life. I still believe that. But the version of God I was introduced to in that environment was conditional and transactional.Every Sunday, I’d hear about God’s unconditional love… and then, minutes later, I’d hear about the conditions that must be met to receive it. The “do this or else” clauses. The blessing withheld until obedience was proven.It was a constant tension inside me.And then, a few years ago, I had this thought:It actually takes more faith to believe in an unconditionally loving God than it does to believe in the transactional God I learned about in church.Why? Because a conditional God is familiar.The First Blueprint for LoveMost of us grew up with parents who, in their own way, practiced conditional love. They loved us, yes. They wanted the best for us. But when we behaved, we were rewarded; when we disobeyed, we were punished. Love became tied to performance.Our parents were our first gods before we knew God. They set the blueprint. So of course it was easy to adopt a view of God that looked like theirs—because it matched what we already knew.I can give my parents grace for that. I can honor that they did their best. But I can also acknowledge: their best was still human. And human love, even at its most beautiful, still falls short of divine love.The Unconditional GodWhat I’m learning now is that God—however you understand God—remains connected to humanity and understands the human experience… yet still loves without condition. Still extends grace. Still forgives without hesitation.A love so vast we can’t truly comprehend it.A love that doesn’t wait for us to get it right.A love that asks only that we receive.But receiving without earning? That’s the part we struggle with. We’ve been conditioned—by childhood, by culture—to believe everything must be attached to performance.Side note: I’m not saying life is passive or without responsibility. Human life is full of responsibility, sacrifice, and choice. But none of those are prerequisites for God’s love.A Question for YouSo here’s my question for you today:Does your view of God actually require faith?Or have you chosen a view that’s easy to believe because it feels familiar?If your God’s love looks and feels exactly like the conditional love you first learned from your parents or authority figures… maybe that’s not God at all.I want to believe mine is beyond my comprehension. Beyond my understanding. Beyond what I could imagine I’m worthy of. Beyond what I could dream.That’s the God I’ll put my faith in.

I once heard a quote that said:“Don’t take advice from someone whose life you don’t want.”I don’t know who said it, or where I first heard it, but it stuck with me. It slapped me across the face—in the best way—because it made me realize just how many of the thoughts I carry around in my mind aren’t even mine. So many of the opinions I hold, the beliefs I’ve operated from, the truths I’ve clung to… they were inherited. Passed down. Imprinted. Spoken into me. And for some reason, my brain said, “Yeah, let’s keep that one.” Without question.That quote helped me start sorting through the weeds of what I’ve allowed myself to absorb as truth. It gave me permission to pause and ask:“Wait—who told me that?”“Does the fruit of their life align with what they said?”Whether it was about relationships, religion, marriage, business, or how to treat people—if I look at your life and it’s not something I’d want for myself, why would I let your voice hold weight in mine?And honestly, that filter has served me really well. It’s helped me protect my peace. It’s helped me reclaim my mind. I’m grateful for it.But here’s the tension I’ve been sitting with lately: It’s also a core value of mine not to throw people away.You know that phrase, “Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater?”Yeah. That one.If we only listen to people who sound like us, think like us, agree with us, or make us feel good, we end up living in an echo chamber. We get spiritually bloated—consuming only what affirms us—and slowly start believing everyone else should be just like us. And I don’t think that’s what it means to be a truly conscious, evolved human being.I think the most amazing kind of human is the one who can sit in difference.The one who can live alongside people who are nothing like them—and still choose relationship.Still choose communion.Still break bread.Even in disagreement.So then the question becomes:How do I hold both?How do I honor the wisdom of “Don’t take advice from someone whose life you don’t want,” while also staying open to the small golden nuggets others might still carry?Even if I think they’re a little out there.Even if their life doesn’t fully resonate.Even if I don’t want to become them—can I still let one small truth from them shape me?That, I think, is the real work.It takes maturity.It takes discernment.It takes soul.So today, I say:Don’t take advice from someone whose life you don’t want… unless you’re open to the possibility that even they might be carrying a tiny piece of wisdom meant for you.Let it enter.Let it surprise you.See what magic unfoldswhen you become someone who can hold multiple truths,carry contradiction,and welcome duality.Honestly?I can’t think of a more powerful way to evolve than that.

I haven’t returned to Mexico yet. But my body, my mind… they already feel it.After Venezuela, Mexico was my first stop.My first real attempt at starting over.It didn’t belong to me by passport, but it did by experience.I lived there for nearly ten years.I worked. I grew.I learned to navigate life with what I had.I learned to survive, to defend myself, to stay alert.And while those years were meaningful, they were also hard.When I left, I did it quietly.No closure. No looking back.I left with the conviction that there had to be something more for me.And I found it.Today, I’m building a new life.I have stability—one I’ve created through effort, through love.I even have peace.And still… now I’m going back.Just for a few days.To renew my passport.To finalize a process.But something deeper is already moving.I’m not going alone.The version of me who once was… she’s coming too.That young, brave woman who crossed the city with fear but also with dreams.The one who didn’t know if she’d make it, but tried anyway.That woman, full of joy, is returning too.And so is the woman I am now.The one who no longer hides.The one who can make peace with her mistakes,with a life built in another language,with love by her side.The one who loves out loud,and still wonders if her soul remains split between who she was and who she is.Mexico wasn’t a stopover.It was a whole chapter.One I never fully processed.And now that I’m about to return, I don’t know what I’ll feel.Maybe relief. Maybe discomfort.Maybe all of it at once.How do you return to a place that was both home and wound?How do you walk the same streets, when you no longer walk the same?This trip hasn’t happened yet.But it’s already begun within me.Because sometimes, the hardest part of going backis everything that wakes up before you even arrive.