let me tell you a story...

let's start this story with a chubby, weenie of a girl that gets shoved to the floor by her best friend in the world. said girl sits, deflated, and begins to cry once the shock wears off, which likely equates to 5 seconds or less. her parents witness this situation from the sidelines, quietly observing the interaction and, upon seeing their only child is wounded, albeit emotionally, they advise what most parents in that situation would recommend - "Go on! Push her back! - only half in jest.

the girl, still wailing from what innocently started as play, continues to cry and fight back, responding the way most children would - "No, I can't! I feel bad doing that!"

no joke.

now. let me clear up a couple of details regarding this situation: spanish was my first language, as my parents do not speak English, so words have been changed as to be more accurate to you, the non-spanish-speaker (yes. i'm talking to YOU). next, this did actually happen, only the girls in the scenario are approximately a year old. how many children have begun carrying empathy and consciousness by age one?


welcome to my life.


let me introduce myself. i was conceived the first time my mother had sex. that should set the tone. nine months later, i was subsequently born and adopted by Cuban immigrants at 12 days old. although my mother loved me dearly, she was the ninth of eleven children and was not on board with raising another child. understandable, really. so they tried to ensure i'd go to a spanish family since my father was Cuban as well. i'd love to say that i'd have been better off being raised by my biological family, but the truth is, i couldn't have asked for better parents. although i don't quite recall when i first realized that, i do remember somewhat always being aware of that.  perhaps it was the fact that they didn't go anywhere unless i was invited, or that i was constantly reminded of how their life was truly complete when i arrived. regardless, the message was clear:

i was special (unique?)

before you start wondering why you purchased an autobiography under the guise it was to motivate you to find your life's purpose, i assure you it was no illusion; we will get there. but you wouldn't take a girl to bed without buying her dinner first, would you? (don't answer that.)

the point is, in order to know where i was headed, i needed to look back on where i had been. not just where i had been; it was vital to recap to myself what i had experienced = perceived or not - what living my life had looked like over the last 34 years. without doing this, i was a collection of memories, experiences, one-offs that coincidentally fell between the birth and death of one individual.

nothing in life happens by chance. if you know one thing about me, know that i believe that.

looking at life this way keeps me digging, keeps me curious, keeps me peeling back layers - which, by the way, get thinner and thinner once you are well-versed at peeling - and turning up new reasons as to why certain things happen.

so back to where i was, before i was able to fully embrace my current place and endorse where i was going, i needed to comb through my experiences, my life, and find the common threads.