Today, I want to write a story about love. But not the love we think we know—because trauma often tricks us. When you’ve grown up in a household shaped by abuse, addiction, or mental illness, you may learn to love out of survival, not understanding what love truly means.
We believe we know love because we love people. But that’s not always enough. Sometimes, what we call “love” is just the ache to be loved in return. Trauma teaches us to perform love, to give too easily, hoping someone—anyone—will love us back. It creates a false version of ourselves: insecure, eager, desperate. Loving to be loved. And that’s the mistake.
Let me tell you the story of Maria—one of the most important stories of my life.
It was through Maria that I learned what love is not. Because of her, Mexico will always be close to my heart.
Maria’s Story
Maria was a Mexican dressmaker—young, beautiful, with black curly hair and always a big, colorful flower pinned to her hair. She was poor, but full of life, talent, and determination. She met an American man with a disability, and she married him, hoping to build a better life.
Maria worked tirelessly. She sold dresses, skirts, bedsheets—anything she could make with her hands. She had one baby. Then another. Then a third. And still, she handled everything: the household, the kids, and a husband with mental health issues who refused to work.
She didn’t have citizenship. She had almost nothing but her hands, her smile, her babies—and her dignity.
I remember meeting her on the street one day. I was with my partner, and he made fun of me in front of her—mocking my English and education to feel superior. I felt so humiliated.
But Maria stood up. With a naked baby on her hip, she looked him in the eye and said:
“A man is only as good as the way he treats his woman. And if you can’t lift her up, or worse—you try to put her down—you deserve to be alone.”
That day, Maria taught me what dignity looks like. And she showed me what love is not.
The Silent Sisterhood
My mother didn’t speak English. Maria didn’t speak my mother’s language either. But they always understood each other—through signs, gestures, glances. Because abused women always understand each other.
On the bus, Mama would always greet Maria, and Maria would always respond. Two women, broken but resilient, recognizing something familiar in one another.
Maria eventually left her husband. She took her three kids, found a job, and chose freedom. She is alive. She is free.
My mother didn’t get that chance. She went back to our home country, where she lived a life of abuse. She died in the same bed with her abuser—left to die, by the one who broke her.
This Mother’s Day
As Mother’s Day arrives, I think of Maria.
I think of the strength of women.
I think of freedom.
I think of the importance of knowing what love is not—so we can finally recognize what it is.
Love isn’t control.
Love isn’t humiliation.
Love isn’t earned through suffering.
Love is freedom. Love is dignity. Love is normal.
If someone’s mind cannot understand the normality of love because of their own trauma or mental illness, we must leave them.
We must protect our life, peace, and protect those we love.
Maria is free. My mother is gone.
And I am here—still learning, still healing, still remembering.
Happy Mother’s Day to every woman who loved through pain.
And to those who had the courage to walk away from what love is not.
Thank you, Maria.
Thank you, Mama.
Thank you, Mexico.
