Episode 6: The Ache of Acceptance

In this episode of The Beautiful Ache, I talk about a kind of grief I never expected: grieving people who are still alive.

Growing up, I was taught that family was everything. But as I've gotten older, I've had to learn that loving someone and having a healthy relationship with them aren't always the same thing.

This episode is about family, boundaries, acceptance, and the difficult process of letting go of what we hoped a relationship would be. It's about choosing yourself without guilt and learning that sometimes healing begins when we stop chasing what isn't being freely given.

If you've ever loved someone deeply while needing distance, this conversation is for you.

Songs used:

Song: Leaving
Composer: AERØHEAD
Website: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoZbM1a4PKQ6haa2Ap4TSdg
License: Creative Commons (BY-NC 3.0) https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/
Music powered by BreakingCopyright: https://breakingcopyright.com

Song: Shine
Composer: Onycs
Website: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNQ6vKZ5ogEZ0tM2TvxLhQA
License: Free To Use YouTube license youtube-free
Music powered by BreakingCopyright: https://breakingcopyright.com

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:15

Hi, I'm Ulysses, and this is The Beautiful Ache, a space for the feelings we don't always know how to hold, the words we struggle to say out loud, and the stories that shape who we become. Before I get into the storytelling or how I write, um, this one is really near and dear to my heart because it talks on a topic that most immigrant Mexican households we really don't talk about, and it's the survival instinct in there. Where growing up, at least for me, my mother did the best she could. She truly did. It wasn't that she didn't teach us how to communicate or how to show our emotions. We didn't have time for that. That wasn't in our reach. And as I got older and I learned and I found the woman I've become, I think I started understanding so much more and questioning things. And there's a question that lingered so much in the back of my mind these last few weeks that I didn't know how to put into words. But most and most of all, it's very hard to accept. And when I finally understood that question, the question that a lot of Mexican households always tell us, La familia es todo. Is it really everything though? And here we go. Or maybe more specific, I want to talk about what happens when you realize you're grieving people who are still alive. Because I don't think anyone prepared me for that kind of grief. Growing up in a Mexican immigrant household, family wasn't just important, it was everything. La familia es todo is what we were taught, is what we were told, is what we watched our parents sacrifice for, my mother sacrificed for it, my family survived because of it. And when survival is a language spoken in its household, there isn't always room for emotions. There isn't always room to ask, how do you feel? There isn't always room to process hurt, to heal, to communicate, to understand. When surviving is the priority, feelings become luxury. And I don't say that with anger. I say that with understanding. Because as I've gotten older, I've realized something that has been incredibly difficult to admit. I understand my family. I understand why they became who they became. I understand the wounds they carry, I understand the burdens they were handled. I understand the things they never healed from. I understand it all. But understanding someone doesn't mean their actions don't hurt you. And I think that has been one of the most hardest lessons of my life because for the longest time I thought if I could just understand them enough, then maybe the pain wouldn't exist. Maybe if I loved harder, maybe if I gave more, maybe if I showed up more, maybe if I stayed quieter, maybe if I become smaller, maybe if I became easier, maybe then I would finally realize the love I was asking for. Maybe then I will finally receive the love I was asking for. And I spent years doing exactly that. Especially with my siblings. I loved them without boundaries, without conditions, without limits. I showed up again and again and again. I made excuses, I extended grace, I told myself they were busy, I told myself they were struggling, I told myself they loved me in their own way, and maybe they do, but somehow along the way I realized something heartbreaking. I was working harder to be a part of their lives than they were in mine, and that realization shattered me. Not because I stopped loving them, but because I finally had to admit that love cannot survive on one person carrying the entire relationship. It just can't. And if I'm being completely honest, I think a lot of that came from my brother. For a long time I wanted his approval. Not because he's a bad person, not because he intentionally hurt me, but because somewhere in my heart he filled a space that belonged to my father. And I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to look at my life and say, I'm proud of you. I wanted him to see my value. I wanted him to see that I mattered. And I kept chasing that for years. Till one day I got tired, not angry, not bitter, just tired. Tired of proving myself, tired of auditioning for a role I already earned, tired of trying to convince people that I was worthy of being love. Because the truth is, I was worthy the entire time. And maybe that's what changed in me these last few months. I stopped asking for permission to matter. I stopped asking people to validate my existence. I stopped begging for a seat at a table where no one was making room for me. And for the first time, I looked at myself and thought, what if I stopped chasing the family I wish I had? What if I stopped mourning a vision of us that only existed in my imagination? What if I accepted what is instead of constantly grieving what could have been? And honestly, that realization broke me. Because accepting sounds beautiful until you realize it requires letting go. And letting go is painful, especially when it's family, especially when you still love them. Because that's the thing. I still love them deeply, fiercely. I don't hate them, I don't resent them, I don't wish anything bad. I hope they heal, I hope they find happiness, I hope they find peace. I hope one day we can sit across from each other and have the conversation we have waited for years. I generally do. But I can no longer sacrifice myself waiting for that day. I can't. Because somewhere during this journey I became a woman. This version of me deserves protection. This version of me deserves peace. This version of me deserves boundaries. And I think that's something many of us struggle with, especially in our culture. We're taught that family comes before everything, before ourselves, before our needs, before healing, before our boundaries. And maybe that's what so many of us carry guilt when we finally choose ourselves. Because lately I've been asking myself a question that feels almost forbidden. Is family everything or is a healthy family everything? Because those are not the same. And maybe loving someone doesn't always mean giving them ultimate access to you. Maybe sometimes love looks like distance. Maybe sometimes love looks like boundaries. Maybe sometimes love looks like saying, I love you deeply, but I need to step back until we can meet each other in a healthier place. And that's where I am. Not angry, not a resentment, just in truth. I'm no longer trying to force myself into anyone else's version of a family. I'm building my own. Maybe that's me and Teddy. Maybe that's my friendships that have stayed beside me. Maybe that's people who choose me constantly. Maybe that's just me learning how to choose myself. But whatever it looks like, I'm building it. And for the first time in my life, I think I'm allowing myself to believe that family can be something we create and it's just something we're born into. And maybe that's the ache today. The ache of letting go, the ache of acceptance, the ache of realizing that loving people doesn't always mean staying exactly where they left you. But maybe that's also where healing begins, in the space between love and truth, in the space between grief and growth, in the space where we finally choose ourselves. If you're listening to this and you're grieving a family that still exists, if you're mourning a relationship that never became what you hoped they would, if you're struggling with grief, if you're struggling with guilt because you chose boundaries for the first time, I want you to know you're not alone. I want you to know that choosing yourself isn't betrayal, it's surviving of its own kind, the kind our parents may not have known how to teach us, but the kind we're learning for ourselves, one boundary, one conversation, one heartbreak, one healing at a time. Thank you for sitting with me in this ache. Thank you for letting me share this piece of my heart. And maybe, just maybe, if you're carrying a similar ache tonight, I hope you give yourself permission to put it down for a moment. You carried it long enough. This has been the beautiful ache for the heart still healing and the ones trying to stay soft in a world that's asking them to harden. Till next time.