White Flag
It’s been a minute, eh?
Loads have happened these past two months with time to process it all. With the new job, my blogging has taken a bit of a back seat—weekends seem to be best to reach that right headspace.
Settling into this role, I’m starting to see everything that goes on beneath the surface at my job. Can’t complain too much though since still single, no kids, no pets—fewer responsibilities than most. Nonetheless, the past few days I’ve felt it: that mental exhaustion that makes daily errands feel a lot. Kept busy, even picking up some overtime to learn more about the process. The team has been great—supportive, patient, and always ready with a laugh when it’s needed. The other day, a colleague stopped by my cubicle and asked how I was doing. With a deep sigh, I mentioned that it’s been quite the load (with a somewhat facetious smile). He told me to reach out whenever I needed help, then he leaned in with: “You know, it’s okay to wave the white flag if you need to, nothing wrong with that”. This stuck with me that day and this weekend. Looking back at my progress, I wondered—em I putting too much on my shoulders? Em I giving myself space to recharge? Or just running on fumes? I’ll admit, there’s moments when I’ve wanted to raise that white flag—not to quit, but to ask for help, to pass something along to another colleague, to breathe.
“It’s okay to wave the white flag”.
Made me realize there’s things in my life to adjust. It's almost like trying to find a key to unlock a door that will re-align my feet back to a path which isn’t so unknown. I’ve traveled back and forth to California to see family. Mom has another procedure coming up, along with more medical exams. At the same time, I’m watching others around me face their own realities—aging, illness, retirement, health decline. With that said, my uncle isn’t doing well. The doctors say he may only have weeks left. This hit all of us hard. He was the first to introduce me los tacos de pastor—was around nine at the time. He ran a small taco stand on the corner of a street in Laredo TX. Him, his brothers, and my grandfather worked tirelessly while customers lined up. And somehow, he always made sure I had a taco in my hand. Unfortunately he’s now bedridden, his body worn down after years of smoking. He would always address me as: ‘quiubo, guey’, along with a loving smile that was endearing. Basically it’s along the lines of ‘What’s Up Dude’. Makes me want to bring him a few pastor tacos by his bedside as a remembrance before he leaves.
Being strong for mom, I can still hear it in her voice—she’s holding back tears every time we talk about her brother’s status. Death is part of life—I understand that—but knowing what to say, how to show up, how to support… that part isn’t easy. Sometimes I feel stuck. But maybe this is where I’m supposed to be right now. Not fixing, not solving—just being present. The words will come when they need to. The actions will follow when it’s time.
“It’s okay to wave the white flag…”
She’s currently in Texas with him and I’ll head back to California next week when she returns. Wish I could see him, but with my schedule and being new at work, it’s just not possible right now. He’s on a breathing machine—without it, that becomes a struggle. Mentioned to mom that maybe what he needs most isn’t anything complicated—just familiar faces. A sense of home, even if he can’t physically be there. If home can’t come to him, maybe we bring home to him. I’ll always remember that first taco from Tio Luis. Maybe one day I’ll make my own version and call it El Taquito Luis.
I recently finished watching Shrinking on Apple TV. It’s a great show—funny, but also deeply human. Even though the characters are therapists, they’re dealing with their own struggles, just like everyone else. The final episode of season three hit me. There’s a scene at the end where Paul (Harrison Ford) tells Jimmy (Jason Segel) that if he wants to move forward, he has to let go of the past. That by 42, it would be a shame not to have any scars—Its evidence of life fully lived. Then he gives him a choice: stay stuck or go out and make new scars. This also stuck with me. Saw a bit of myself in Jimmy actually—the urge to control things, thus picture how the outcome will playout in my head. Maybe I’ve been focusing more on trying to somehow someway erase them. But I’m starting to understand—they’re part of the journey.
Some scars run deep. Some are embarrassing. Some we keep hidden. If you need to wrestle with them, awesome—but don’t stay there forever. It’s easy to remain stagnant. But life moves on. So should we. I’m starting to understand that on another level.