Every Sunday during my childhood until I turned 15, we had lunch at my paternal grandmother’s house, Abuela Rika. It was an obligation disguised as a tradition, and I enjoyed it. My grandmother was a great cook, and I usually got to choose the meal. Everyone in the family attended these lunches—all the aunts and uncles. Being the oldest grandchild living in Bogotá, I was the only child present for four years. We would all sit around a long, sturdy rectangular table made in Louis XVI style, topped with glass and covered by a beautiful embroidered tablecloth that we had to keep spotless—even when blackberry juice was the drink of the day. There was no separate table for adults and children, even when my siblings and cousins eventually joined these gatherings. I don’t recall what was discussed at the table; after the meal, we all took a siesta. Another great tradition. On one particular Sunday, when I was about 5 or 6, we were sitting in the living room after the siesta—all except my dad, who was still asleep in one of the rooms. I still remember where everyone was seated when he walked out, looking dapper and ready to go out.
Read MoreIt was after my divorce from my son’s father that the belief began to take root—the idea that marriage was the greatest blessing God could bestow upon a person. This belief started to influence my decisions, my relationships, and ultimately, my sense of self-worth. Looking back now, I see how this mindset formed and how it kept me trapped for years, compelling me to measure my value by what I lacked rather than embracing and celebrating the fullness of who I already was.
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